Chapter Text
The silence in Wilson's apartment was oppressive, feeling like a deep void that absorbed every last sound from the city at night. In the room, trapped in the curtains and the empty pillow beside him, he could still smell the faint scent of the perfume Amber used to wear. That smell, now mixed with the persistent and inescapable stench of hospital disinfectant that had permeated his clothes, brought back the nausea that had tormented him for the last few days. A toxic mixture of memory and loss.
The clock read just after 3 a.m. Wilson, his eyes fixed on the shadows on the ceiling, still couldn't sleep. How could he? His mind was a crazy carousel that kept spinning around the last few months. All his thoughts, all his endless analyses, inevitably boiled down to two names, a crash, and an unanswered question.
House and Amber.
Amber and House.
Finally, he had succumbed to a restless sleep, leaving the doctor alone with his thoughts and that damn question repeating itself over and over in his head: What really happened on that bus?
Even though he and House were “reconciled” again, he still had some—too many—questions about how the accident had happened.
House had been evasive and sarcastic as usual once they started working together again at the hospital, which was nothing new for James. But deep down, he knew that the truth was much more complex, though he couldn't imagine just how complex.
Finally, physical exhaustion overcame Wilson's unbridled mind. With a sigh that was almost a groan, he curled up tighter in bed, chasing away the cold he felt inside. Sleep immediately pulled him away, not toward rest, but toward the murky waters of his subconscious, toward an unexpected scene, reconstructed with brutal clarity.
He was on the bus.
But it wasn't the real bus, torn and twisted, that he had seen in the photos in the police report. This one was exaggeratedly illuminated by a cold, surgical white light that cast no shadows but bathed every surface in relentless harshness. The empty seats looked like rows of teeth in a giant jaw. And then his gaze focused on the impossible.
She.
She was here.
Amber.
But she didn't look like the pale Amber connected to multiple machines that he remembered. No, she was wearing one of the outfits that brought out that vibrant and intelligent personality, the same one that had captivated him from the beginning.
“James,” she said, her voice clear and firm, nothing like the weak tone she had used to say goodbye.
A-amber... is this...?" Wilson could barely utter her name. Emotion closed his throat, a mixture of hallucinatory joy and renewed pain.
“Mmm, a dream or probably a hallucination caused by guilt and extreme exhaustion. Choose the explanation that scares you the least,” he smiled sadly. “I know you're going a little crazy with all this. And I know he'll never tell you. He believes it's his cross to bear the guilt, that it's his penance.”
“What? What do you mean, guilt?” Wilson frowned, confusion clouding his astonishment for a moment. "House doesn't feel guilt. He feels... annoyance. Irritation.
“The accident...”
She felt a lump in her throat. “But... House?”
“Did House really feel guilty about what happened on the bus?”
“It's hard for you to believe, I know. But it is.” She raised her hand and placed it on his. Her touch was not warm, but a solid, real presence. She squeezed gently and looked him straight in the eye.
“Come with me...” she whispered in a tone that was too calm, as if she hadn't just revealed the first fragment of a truth that could destroy everything. She slowly pulled away and began to walk toward the back of the bus, where the white light was more intense.
“Hey, wait...” The other was still a little shocked by the information she had given him earlier.
He didn't know what to expect.
He really didn't know.