Elementary.
Title: Elementary
Author: silentsanctuary
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,154
Warnings: Slightly drabble-y.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Disclaimer: Not mine. Property of Fox, so on so forth.
Note: Dedicated to the dearest soralin, for forgiveness and assistance.
Miracle doctor, maverick, madman: These were the titles they had given him. They called him an addict, a legend, a genius diagnostician. There were no cases he could not solve, no illness without a cure. They turned to him, when all else failed, when other doctors despaired. It lay in the eyes, they said- those eyes could look past skin and bone and see the illness underneath. He was the man they groveled to: He was a demigod with a cane.
James Wilson knew the truth was a far cry from the belief.
Beyond the empty prayers and hollow words, beneath the sarcasm and the authority flaunting, past it all lay a man named Gregory House. People saw the deeds, and not the man; Wilson ignored the deeds. He saw only the man. He saw House’s humanity, behind all the facades, and knew he was fallible- human. Wilson had watched House make his mistakes, seen them cut House deeper than he showed. In House’s soul, there lurked a man who could weep, and laugh, and perhaps even love.
Sometimes, Wilson felt like he was the only one who knew that.
-
House had full use of both his legs when they first met. He’d been treating a rather dreary case- female patient, thirty-two, phantom tumor. All the boys from oncology had dismissed his diagnosis- except one. Only one boy accepted the crackpot theory of a complete stranger - House’s theory - where others scoffed. That boy based his treatment on that stranger’s theory - risking his medical reputation, his job, the patient’s life- on an outsider’s diagnosis. Together, they had saved that patient’s life.
House took the credit, of course: He enjoyed being a jerk. Victory was sweetest when waving it in the face of Cuddy, in proving her wrong once again. Everyone thought him a complete bastard, and a doctor to boot. They expected him to lose lives; House completed his day by proving them wrong. Yet that boy from oncology had been sickeningly self-serving: He hadn’t been envious, not even angry, at House’s grandstanding. No, James Wilson had just been happy for the patient.
House knew that woman would’ve been quite dead without Wilson’s help. “We have saved the day, loyal sidekick!” House had joked; it wouldn’t be till much later would he realize the underlying truth of those words. Wouldn’t realize how much he’d come to depend on Wilson, the Watson to his Sherlock Holmes. Without a listener, the greatest quips, they most astounding deductions- they were dry as dust. House knew this well. Without Wilson behind him, House would have truly been miserable.
Sometimes, House hoped like he was the only one who knew that.
-
Wilson had a vantage point in his office where, if he pressed his head against the window while standing on his chair, he could see House’s office. Where House’s office was, there was House, doing the things he did best. Researching, contemplating; what he was doing didn’t matter. Knowing he was there made Wilson feel safe. Logically, it was ludicrous; he should be protecting the cripple. The man with the cane shouldn’t be the one protecting him.
In the end, that was the way it had worked out. Wilson was the one who found intriguing cases for House, and House would solve them. Each case, Wilson would wait in his office, for that flicker of motion: a cane being spun. Where there was a cane, there was House; a cane in motion meant House in thought. It was what Wilson took solace in: Somehow, House would make things turn out okay. And perhaps, while House contemplated, House thought of him.
People often thought that the spinning begun with the cane. The spinning long predated the cane; Wilson did not come before the spinning. But he had seen House contemplate often enough to know the method of it by heart. House’s long pianist fingers would seize hospital pens, cafeteria forks, insulin needles, chopsticks from Chinese takeout forays- and spin them. Then his eyes - sky azure eyes - would stare into forever, seeking answers wherever they might lie amongst empty air. When his eyes returned to the present reality, the object would cease its rotation, and the problem would have found a solution.
Wilson loved and hated House’s habit. It meant that House would be looking- but never actually seeing. It meant he was somewhere else, in a place behind a wall that Wilson could never hope to breach. It was in those moments that Wilson would find himself fantasizing about ridiculous things. How warm would House’s fingers be, pressed against his skin? What would House’s stubble feel like against his chin? Were blue eyes truly clearer inches away? It was a delicious torment, watching House.
It was a facet of House that only he comprehended.
-
House had - before he knew it, and hell would freeze over first before he told you - grown fond of Wilson’s cereal habits. The way Wilson emphasized his point with his spoon, not realizing he had forgotten to drink from it first. How Wilson held his bowl precisely the same way every morning, as if four out of five doctors recommended that way as the best way. The time he waited - four minutes and thirty seconds - after pouring, just to get that right level of soggy cereal. There was purity about Wilson in those mornings, as he stood bowl in hand and doctor’s coat pristine.
That was the sole reason House came to work on time: just to watch Wilson eat breakfast. He didn’t know when Wilson had begun eating breakfast at work- just that he did. There was patently absurd elegance in the way Wilson ate cereal; a comfortable camaraderie in sharing the morning with him. It was innately peaceful to stand there, just Wilson and him. Whether patients lived or died didn’t matter then, only the banter and bond they shared.
It was a facet of Wilson that only he comprehended.
-
In House’s office - bookshelf closest the door, second shelf, second cubbyhole across, third book from the right - lay nestled the First Edition of Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. People assumed House had bought it himself; after all, who would actually give gifts to someone like House? Surely, nobody would care enough for him to buy House something of such value.
Wilson had given it to him.
-
In Wilson’s office, between Cancer: Principles and Practice of Oncology, and Manual of Clinical Oncology, there was stuck A Biography of Joseph Bell, almost as an afterthought. Wilson, who knew Sherlock Holmes backwards forwards and sideways, knew Joseph Bell to be the inspiration for Sherlock Holmes. He just didn’t know who had put that book there.
House had given it to him.
-
House hoped that someday, Wilson would ask him-
“However did you know, Holmes?”
And then House would reply,
“Why, my dear Dr. Watson, it was elementary.”
Author: silentsanctuary
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,154
Warnings: Slightly drabble-y.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Disclaimer: Not mine. Property of Fox, so on so forth.
Note: Dedicated to the dearest soralin, for forgiveness and assistance.
Miracle doctor, maverick, madman: These were the titles they had given him. They called him an addict, a legend, a genius diagnostician. There were no cases he could not solve, no illness without a cure. They turned to him, when all else failed, when other doctors despaired. It lay in the eyes, they said- those eyes could look past skin and bone and see the illness underneath. He was the man they groveled to: He was a demigod with a cane.
James Wilson knew the truth was a far cry from the belief.
Beyond the empty prayers and hollow words, beneath the sarcasm and the authority flaunting, past it all lay a man named Gregory House. People saw the deeds, and not the man; Wilson ignored the deeds. He saw only the man. He saw House’s humanity, behind all the facades, and knew he was fallible- human. Wilson had watched House make his mistakes, seen them cut House deeper than he showed. In House’s soul, there lurked a man who could weep, and laugh, and perhaps even love.
Sometimes, Wilson felt like he was the only one who knew that.
-
House had full use of both his legs when they first met. He’d been treating a rather dreary case- female patient, thirty-two, phantom tumor. All the boys from oncology had dismissed his diagnosis- except one. Only one boy accepted the crackpot theory of a complete stranger - House’s theory - where others scoffed. That boy based his treatment on that stranger’s theory - risking his medical reputation, his job, the patient’s life- on an outsider’s diagnosis. Together, they had saved that patient’s life.
House took the credit, of course: He enjoyed being a jerk. Victory was sweetest when waving it in the face of Cuddy, in proving her wrong once again. Everyone thought him a complete bastard, and a doctor to boot. They expected him to lose lives; House completed his day by proving them wrong. Yet that boy from oncology had been sickeningly self-serving: He hadn’t been envious, not even angry, at House’s grandstanding. No, James Wilson had just been happy for the patient.
House knew that woman would’ve been quite dead without Wilson’s help. “We have saved the day, loyal sidekick!” House had joked; it wouldn’t be till much later would he realize the underlying truth of those words. Wouldn’t realize how much he’d come to depend on Wilson, the Watson to his Sherlock Holmes. Without a listener, the greatest quips, they most astounding deductions- they were dry as dust. House knew this well. Without Wilson behind him, House would have truly been miserable.
Sometimes, House hoped like he was the only one who knew that.
-
Wilson had a vantage point in his office where, if he pressed his head against the window while standing on his chair, he could see House’s office. Where House’s office was, there was House, doing the things he did best. Researching, contemplating; what he was doing didn’t matter. Knowing he was there made Wilson feel safe. Logically, it was ludicrous; he should be protecting the cripple. The man with the cane shouldn’t be the one protecting him.
In the end, that was the way it had worked out. Wilson was the one who found intriguing cases for House, and House would solve them. Each case, Wilson would wait in his office, for that flicker of motion: a cane being spun. Where there was a cane, there was House; a cane in motion meant House in thought. It was what Wilson took solace in: Somehow, House would make things turn out okay. And perhaps, while House contemplated, House thought of him.
People often thought that the spinning begun with the cane. The spinning long predated the cane; Wilson did not come before the spinning. But he had seen House contemplate often enough to know the method of it by heart. House’s long pianist fingers would seize hospital pens, cafeteria forks, insulin needles, chopsticks from Chinese takeout forays- and spin them. Then his eyes - sky azure eyes - would stare into forever, seeking answers wherever they might lie amongst empty air. When his eyes returned to the present reality, the object would cease its rotation, and the problem would have found a solution.
Wilson loved and hated House’s habit. It meant that House would be looking- but never actually seeing. It meant he was somewhere else, in a place behind a wall that Wilson could never hope to breach. It was in those moments that Wilson would find himself fantasizing about ridiculous things. How warm would House’s fingers be, pressed against his skin? What would House’s stubble feel like against his chin? Were blue eyes truly clearer inches away? It was a delicious torment, watching House.
It was a facet of House that only he comprehended.
-
House had - before he knew it, and hell would freeze over first before he told you - grown fond of Wilson’s cereal habits. The way Wilson emphasized his point with his spoon, not realizing he had forgotten to drink from it first. How Wilson held his bowl precisely the same way every morning, as if four out of five doctors recommended that way as the best way. The time he waited - four minutes and thirty seconds - after pouring, just to get that right level of soggy cereal. There was purity about Wilson in those mornings, as he stood bowl in hand and doctor’s coat pristine.
That was the sole reason House came to work on time: just to watch Wilson eat breakfast. He didn’t know when Wilson had begun eating breakfast at work- just that he did. There was patently absurd elegance in the way Wilson ate cereal; a comfortable camaraderie in sharing the morning with him. It was innately peaceful to stand there, just Wilson and him. Whether patients lived or died didn’t matter then, only the banter and bond they shared.
It was a facet of Wilson that only he comprehended.
-
In House’s office - bookshelf closest the door, second shelf, second cubbyhole across, third book from the right - lay nestled the First Edition of Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. People assumed House had bought it himself; after all, who would actually give gifts to someone like House? Surely, nobody would care enough for him to buy House something of such value.
Wilson had given it to him.
-
In Wilson’s office, between Cancer: Principles and Practice of Oncology, and Manual of Clinical Oncology, there was stuck A Biography of Joseph Bell, almost as an afterthought. Wilson, who knew Sherlock Holmes backwards forwards and sideways, knew Joseph Bell to be the inspiration for Sherlock Holmes. He just didn’t know who had put that book there.
House had given it to him.
-
House hoped that someday, Wilson would ask him-
“However did you know, Holmes?”
And then House would reply,
“Why, my dear Dr. Watson, it was elementary.”