Friday night, having no desire to watch SciFi's choice of SG-1 eps, took the kid to see The Brothers Grimm. You know, there's a good movie in there, but there's also a lot of pointless and distracting crap in the way. The visuals are good, and I adored the relationship between the brothers. There was even a scene that nearly made my little slashho heart squee. Let's just say that if I don't get to see Heath Ledger getting a little lip action in Brokeback Mountain, I'll be pissed.

Then I read a small bit from a recently published article in which Hugh Laurie is rather dismissive of the idea of *having* to ship two attractive people (which he says he isn't, but that's another story) just because they're there. In fact, he called it a death knell and wanted to know what idiot decided to go that route in Moonlighting ;-D I was most definitely loving Hugh. I realize he doesn't have artistic control on House, but he *gets* *it*. That and the fact that Sela was whining that she'd filmed 3 (of her ?seven?) eps and nothing much had happened made me more optimistic about S2 ;-)

So last night I gorged on House eps. Watched. Rewatched. Gazed at bits of House/Wilson slashiness. Did anyone else notice that Wilson is drinking from House's red mug in the champagne scene in Babies & Bathwater? Oh, don't look at me like that. We be slash ho's. We can create entire universes out of a detail like that ;-P

Watching in such concentrated form I was more aware of their canon problems. Sigh. It's sad that within only one season they can't even remember how long House has worked at PPTH.

And of course watching so intensely has bred numerous bunnies. Yeah, I *so* needed that :-0 Anyway, this is a little tag to Histories, because as much as I love that last scene, I was frustrated by what we don't know about Wilson and his missing brother. Actually, you won't know any more after reading this, but WTH, it made me feel better.



"Thanks."

Wilson shook hands with the shelter volunteer. Then he walked back through the rows of tables and benches, like pews in an empty church waiting to be filled by the hungry, the hurting, the lonely. He scrounged a few loose dollar bills from his pocket and shoved them into the donation jar just inside the front door of the shelter. Once outside, he saw House leaning against the barred window of a liquor store across the street. With barely a glance at the traffic, Wilson crossed.

"Struck out," House said, nodding at the store.

"Me, too," Wilson said. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets. "That should just about retire the side."

"Bottom of the ninth, two outs, full count." House glanced at his watch. "There's a free clinic at the end of the block. Want to take one last swing before we call it a day?"

"This…is probably hopeless." Nevertheless, Wilson started walking north, toward the clinic. House fell in at his side. His odd rolling gait attracted little attention on these dark, dirty streets. Everyone here had a handicap of some kind, even if they weren't all visible.

"He could be a thousand miles from here," House said.

"He could be dead."

"You said you checked every John Doe in the morgue records."

"He could be dead a thousand miles from here," Wilson said. He was resigned to a long and likely fruitless hunt for a man who might not really exist anymore, not in any form he would recognize as his brother. "I may never know what happened to him. I understand that. Doesn't mean I can stop looking."

"Wasn't St. James the patron saint of lost causes?" House asked.

"I'm Jewish. How the hell would I know?"

"No, you're right. It's St. Jude. And St. Gregory, if I remember correctly."

"Gregory was a patron saint of lost causes? That seems appropriate."

"No matter, we'll just call up the pope and get him to make a new saint: St. James of Princeton, patron saint of lost junkies," House continued as if Wilson hadn't spoken. He suddenly leaned into Wilson, nudging him toward the door of a small deli.

Inside the deli was dark and narrow, but it smelled good. The owner barely spoke English and Wilson spared a moment to hope that House wouldn't start anything. It wouldn't be deliberate--probably--but the two of them stood out enough in this neighborhood as it was, being reasonably clean and sober.

House left Wilson to pay for the coffee and got them a small round table in the corner. He didn't need to bother, they were the only customers in the place, but getting Wilson to pay was one of House's petty delights. As usual, Wilson indulged him.

"I can't figure out where that guy's from," Wilson said. He set the two cups on the table and sank into a metal backed chair with a sigh.

"From?" House asked as he sniffed at the coffee. Satisfied, he took a sip. "He's not from anywhere."

"He barely speaks English."

"Because he's poorly educated and too damn lazy to enunciate," House said. "Not because he's foreign."

"You think I'm an idiot," Wilson said. Not because he questioned the origins of their server, but because he'd spent every spare moment in the last month searching the worst parts of the city, places that would need a major beautification project before they'd rise to the level of ghetto.

"You're a sap," House said, and his tone wasn't unkind.

Unlike Julie's. She'd been outwardly supportive for about a week, until she realized James was serious. Then she'd become tight lipped, making demands on his time in an effort to make him choose between her and the search. That had slid quickly into questions and recriminations. Why? He's probably dead so what's the point? Can't you just forget him like the rest of the family has? And finally, Don't even think of bringing that diseased druggie brother of yours into our home.

Wilson had divorced her on the spot. Not officially, of course, it took time to dot all the I's and kiss all the appropriate judicial ass. But in his own mind, where it counted, he was divorced. Julie had never even met his brother, she had no right to condemn him. The bitter irony was, he thought that if she'd ever met his diseased druggie brother, she probably would've liked him better than she liked James.

"Why am I doing this?" Wilson asked, echoes of Julie in his ears.

"He's your brother?" House suggested.

"Sure, but even if I find him, what am I going to do with him?"

"There are good treatment programs."

"Been there, done that, have all the appropriate catch phrases memorized," Wilson said. He wrapped his hands around the coffee cup to warm them. "It never worked."

"It's been nine years." House looked out the window at a bag lady pushing her cart down the street. "It's a hard life. He might be ready now."

"If he was ready, if he wanted to quit, if he wanted to come home, all he had to do was call. I'm in the phone book."

"I'm guessing he doesn't have a phone. Or maybe the drugs affected his memory and he can't remember your name," House said. "Maybe it's pride."

"I'm his brother," Wilson snapped, furious at his brother for being such an unsolvable problem. Furious at his parents' blind refusal to admit there'd been a problem until it was too late. Furious at his other brother for not giving a crap. Furious at himself for ever having stopped giving a crap.

House raised an eyebrow and Wilson smothered the anger, damping it down to a controllable burn. After a moment, House nodded and leaned back in his chair. "Strange thing, genetics. Three brothers from the same gene pool: one is a wunderkind doctor, one an adequate investment banker. And one ends up on the streets."

"My uncle's a drunk," Wilson said.

"Both of mine are idiots," House said. "So what?"

"I guess I'm saying the Wilson gene pool might need a little extra chlorine."

"Find me one that doesn't and we'll talk."

"He was the baby of the family." Everyone, including Wilson, had doted on the charming, bright-eyed child his brother had been. "He had everything he needed."

"It's not personal," House said. "He didn't become a junkie to punish you."

"I almost wish he had. I might be able to fix that." Wilson frowned at his now empty coffee cup, then gave House an expectant look. House tilted his head back and drained the last of his drink before getting to his feet.

"Shall we?" House banked his cup off the rim of the garbage can.

"After you," Wilson agreed.

"As it should be." House turned slightly as he opened the door, a puzzled look on his face. "Why haven't you ever looked before?"

Wilson tossed his own empty cup in the trash before turning to House. "What makes you think I haven't?"