donutsweeper (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
donutsweeper) wrote2008-03-31 03:38 pm
donutsweeper) wrote2008-03-31 03:38 pm
Entry tags:
Clarity of Thought
Title: Clarity of Thought
Pairing/Rating/Warning: House fandom, dark themes warning, spoilers for the Tritter arc, rated PG
Word Count: 596
Beta:jadesfire2808 *hugs*
Summary: Wilson comes to a solution for his current problem
Author's Note: Written for mypaliphrase 10 fandom challenge
Pairing/Rating/Warning: House fandom, dark themes warning, spoilers for the Tritter arc, rated PG
Word Count: 596
Beta:
jadesfire2808 *hugs*Summary: Wilson comes to a solution for his current problem
Author's Note: Written for my
paliphrase 10 fandom challengeIt was just a piece of paper. A small rectangular piece of paper. Unassuming. But, in this case, it was as powerful as a gun.
That Wilson had even found it had been an accident. Had he not been in the pharmacy at the right moment he’d never have even known it existed. In this case, ignorance would have been bliss. But, that was not to be. Now he was saddled with the knowledge of it.. How could House have done this to him? Again? Wilson had blamed himself last time; he hadn’t listened, hadn’t believed the ketamine treatment had failed. House had never apologized, of course Wilson hadn’t expected he would, even after all the fallout it had caused with Tritter. But he’d listened since then, as a doctor and as a friend.
He’d nearly lost everything, but apparently House hadn’t been fazed by that, didn’t care about the price Wilson had paid. Here was the proof. Wilson had to admit that at least the signature was closer this time. It was less likely someone would realize it was a forgery. But Wilson knew. He hadn’t written this. What could he do? Run to House, ranting and raving? That wouldn’t solve anything. There was no changing House, he knew that by now. If changes were to be made, he had to be the one to make them.
That’s why he was here, in his office, this late at night. First, he brought House’s file up to date, then those of the rest of his patients. Carefully documenting symptoms, treatments he’d considered, and those he’d disregarded. Backdating here and there, so it wouldn’t be ridiculously obvious he’d done it all in one sitting. No one needed to know that. House would figure it out of course, but that couldn’t be helped. It would be useless to try to hide anything from House.
It was liberating, now that the decision had been made. It was really the only way out of this downward cycle; the black hole that his relationship with House had become. He couldn’t stay here, not with House as both friend and patient, but Wilson didn’t see a way for him to remain one without the other. And he was just too tired, too damn tired, to start his practice from scratch somewhere else. He’d been lost until it came to him - like the bright light at the end of a long, dark tunnel, there it was. The answer to his conundrum. Sure, it was a bit more permanent than it could be, but quick fixes never worked, especially when House was involved.
It was kismet. The message left this morning by his mechanic reminding him, for the third time, about the worn brake pads combined with warnings about the black ice on the radio a few hours ago led to the perfect solution. A way out. And no one would suspect a thing, except for House of course. But even House probably wouldn’t guess the reason, not without a little help. A smile ghosted Wilson’s face as grabbed a piece of stationary and he jotted down a few lines. Then carefully folding the forged prescription, he slipped them into an envelope and addressed it to House. A stamp followed suit. He’d drop it in the outgoing mail on his way to the car. Whistling, he left his office, his step lighter and freer than it had been in a long time.
Bad brakes, an icy road, a sharp curve and a cement embankment awaited him. Today was going to be a good day.
That Wilson had even found it had been an accident. Had he not been in the pharmacy at the right moment he’d never have even known it existed. In this case, ignorance would have been bliss. But, that was not to be. Now he was saddled with the knowledge of it.. How could House have done this to him? Again? Wilson had blamed himself last time; he hadn’t listened, hadn’t believed the ketamine treatment had failed. House had never apologized, of course Wilson hadn’t expected he would, even after all the fallout it had caused with Tritter. But he’d listened since then, as a doctor and as a friend.
He’d nearly lost everything, but apparently House hadn’t been fazed by that, didn’t care about the price Wilson had paid. Here was the proof. Wilson had to admit that at least the signature was closer this time. It was less likely someone would realize it was a forgery. But Wilson knew. He hadn’t written this. What could he do? Run to House, ranting and raving? That wouldn’t solve anything. There was no changing House, he knew that by now. If changes were to be made, he had to be the one to make them.
That’s why he was here, in his office, this late at night. First, he brought House’s file up to date, then those of the rest of his patients. Carefully documenting symptoms, treatments he’d considered, and those he’d disregarded. Backdating here and there, so it wouldn’t be ridiculously obvious he’d done it all in one sitting. No one needed to know that. House would figure it out of course, but that couldn’t be helped. It would be useless to try to hide anything from House.
It was liberating, now that the decision had been made. It was really the only way out of this downward cycle; the black hole that his relationship with House had become. He couldn’t stay here, not with House as both friend and patient, but Wilson didn’t see a way for him to remain one without the other. And he was just too tired, too damn tired, to start his practice from scratch somewhere else. He’d been lost until it came to him - like the bright light at the end of a long, dark tunnel, there it was. The answer to his conundrum. Sure, it was a bit more permanent than it could be, but quick fixes never worked, especially when House was involved.
It was kismet. The message left this morning by his mechanic reminding him, for the third time, about the worn brake pads combined with warnings about the black ice on the radio a few hours ago led to the perfect solution. A way out. And no one would suspect a thing, except for House of course. But even House probably wouldn’t guess the reason, not without a little help. A smile ghosted Wilson’s face as grabbed a piece of stationary and he jotted down a few lines. Then carefully folding the forged prescription, he slipped them into an envelope and addressed it to House. A stamp followed suit. He’d drop it in the outgoing mail on his way to the car. Whistling, he left his office, his step lighter and freer than it had been in a long time.
Bad brakes, an icy road, a sharp curve and a cement embankment awaited him. Today was going to be a good day.
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