Chapter 4.

"3 years.

It's been 3 years and I still don't understand it."

Wilson stood beside his best friend, taking in the cold fall air. He could feel the burn of tears behind his eyes but he fought them back.

"I know you were in pain, and you felt alone. But you could've said something House. Anything. I'd have come and listened and reasoned with you." He knew he wouldn't get a reply, but part of him still expected one.

"I tried, if you'd waited half an hour we could have been laughing together at the stupidness of it all. Eating chinese and getting drunk. Going into that apartment after you'd- I don't think I've ever cried that much. I know you see crying as a weakness but fuck you and fuck that. You broke me House, not just when you fell but over and over again when you were a- alive.

You were meant to be my best friend and you abandoned me with your stupid selfishness." The tears Wilson had been repressing broke through and he could feel them warming his cheeks as they fell.

"You know something? I think this'll make you laugh because, well, you're you. I hate walking past that side of the hospital. I can still smell that sickening copper smell, and the years of rain have washed it away but I swear I can still see the bloodstain. But you've heard this all before haven't you? I say this every year in some form…"

Wilson looked at the bottle of whisky, watching the liquid slosh around it's glass walls. He opened the cap slowly and took a short swig, before pouring some over the gravestone. He took the bottle of vicodin pills out of his pocket, shaking it to hear the familiar rattle and then placing it on the ground next to the flowers.

"...You sick bastard smiling at me and then… I miss you. God I miss you. Pissing people off left right and centre, but you were so sharp. You're brain was amazing and then it ended up splattered on the side of a wall and it's such a goddamn waste and I..

I just...I never wanted to be like you, but now?

That bottle of Vicodin is looking so very tempting."