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Heavy water vapors clung tightly to the air. Humidity, blended with moisture fragments, formed a thin glassy layer of fog. The overwhelming variety of gray shades in the sky dominated the few remaining blue hues. Damp remnants of earth gripped James' shoe with every step through the gloomy streets of England. Each inhale released into his lungs was nectarous and alluring, as waves of dopamine coursed through his body. Every building he passed soaked him in a deeper wave of captivation. The individuality within the core of their foundation undeniably intrigued him about their origin. He took subtle notes on each passerby on the street, chatting amongst themselves in a way that stirred a deep sense of fascination within him. The only thing that piqued James's interest outside his field of Oncology was people-watching.
“Who are they?” He often found himself pondering. “Where are they from? What is their biggest regret? What do they desire most?” Perhaps it held no importance, as no one can truly know the inner turmoil of even the minds they hold closest. How in the world would he ever know the thoughts of strangers on the street? Yet, even after coming to this revelation, he still couldn’t help but question the wandering with their drooping eyes and heavy hearts. He saw the existence of those whom others couldn’t bear to acknowledge, eyes bouncing anywhere to avoid their gaze. But unlike most, James wasn’t afraid to smile at what others find easy to ignore or immediately judge.
He believed Black and white were merely concepts humans came up with over the years to simplify ethics and human morality to a two-dimensional viewpoint. It was easier to categorize actions into two sections than to recognize the 50 shades of gray hidden within. No one is inherently good or bad; at the end of the day, everyone is just human trying to navigate the complexities of life. And in the face of hardship, they often make impulsive, rash decisions that affect the people they love most. James, though he spent his life trying to help those around him, would be nothing short of a liar if he said that he was a good person. After all the hurt he’s caused, that would be nothing further from the truth.
His eyes shifted to the person who walked alongside him. He took a moment to note the others' deadpan expression. Thick eyebrows contorted in an immersed furrow, his piercing eyes vacant, as they loomed in the distance with no true direction. Quiet, unamused, intent. His thin lips were curled into a tight line.
To the untrained eye, his best friend often came across to others as apathetic and detached. However, after knowing him for the last 7 years, James quickly learned that the term “Apathetic” would be an understatement to describe his truly heartwarming demeanor.
“Please, do keep staring, as my understanding of your thoughts increases with every passing second,” Gregory commented, his gaze finally meeting James's. “Tell me, Jimmy, why do people waste hours of their lives with the fundamental form of communication known as speech, when clearly this charade of Oculesics is so much more efficient?”
“Well, I’d have to presume that most people don’t analyze every aspect of their life as some grand puzzle they need to solve in order to feel competent.” Gregory brushed off James’ remark, leaning on his cane as he changed the subject. “Why did you take me here? I should be in the Medical department saving lives right now, not eating ' fish and chips’ in London."
“Have you ever heard of the term, relaxing before?”
“No, what does it mean?”
The oncologist took a slow breath before he suddenly cut in front of his friend. “Look, Greg, you’re one of the most dedicated, efficient, hard-working people out there—and I know that you always feel like you need to be the one to solve the next case, but you don’t.” His eyes sharpened as his features hardened into an expression of obstinacy. His hand flew to Gregory’s shoulder as he spoke.
“What, did you think it was easy working out a week that aligned with both of our schedules? No, of course not, I wouldn't have even attempted to arrange such a thing if I didn’t think it was necessary. But I know you, and I can tell when you need a break. So just try to have a good vacation—okay? If not for your sake, for mine. And don’t be insulting to any staff at these places, no matter how boring you think it might be.”
A slight softness flickered on Gregory's face. But as quickly as it came, it was gone, going back to his usual demeanor. “Okay, mommy! I promise. Do you think we can get ice cream after if I’m really, really good?” His sarcastic comment quickly earned him a glare with no true bite and a light shove.
—
“Out of all of the places you could have prebooked, of course, you chose a church.”
“What, you don't recognize this place?”
“Am I supposed to?”
James’s eyes widened, a smirk crossing his face. "It's Westminster Abbey. You seriously never heard of it?" He scanned his features, searching his face for any sign he was joking.
“I didn’t realize you were now a British connoisseur, Wilson. I’m curious, did you cry tears of glee when your history teacher taught the American Revolution? And in high school, instead of partying, did you absorb textbooks about British culture in your free time? Maybe when you felt mischievous, you threw on the Discovery Channel for background noise.”
Instinctually, James’s hands flew to his hips, as the muscles in his eyebrows scrunched in mild disdain. His eyes went on a 360-degree expedition before returning to his friends.
“We’re doctors. You have to be at least somewhat of a nerd to get through med school. Now, do you have any more smart comments, or can we go inside? Get it all out now, because when we go in there, you have to pretend to be somewhat of a functional human being.” Gregory raised a brow quizzically. “All-knowing British historian, please enlighten me on the everlasting importance of this obnoxiously large church.”
“The tour guide will be able to explain everything better than I could. I know you hate not being the smartest person in the room, but it’s good for you. Maybe if you actually care to listen, you’ll learn a thing or two.”
There was a split second when it appeared he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. Perhaps it was because he had a change of heart, or maybe it was the sight of the heavy curves under his friend's eyes. Either way, he found himself reluctantly walking to the entrance of the church without argument.
—
James was intrigued with what the Tour guide had to say as he directed everyone through the astonishing halls of Westminster Abbey. He said that the church had a thousand years of history, whether it be royal weddings, funerals, or the burial of the 18 monarchs. One of the young girls—probably around eleven or twelve–asked him what a Monarch was. He explained that England's government relied on both a ruler known as a monarch, and a small group called Parliament to draft the country's laws and regulations. He told her it was fairly similar to a presidency, except that power is passed down through the bloodline rather than through an election. It wasn't anything he didn't already know. It was primary school information, really, but he thought it was endearing to see a young kid learn something on their vacation.
But of course, the factious walking copy of Gray's anatomy he calls his best friend had to make the tour guide's life harder than it had to be.
“And how does this hold any importance, may I ask? Does the government type affect the United Kingdom's culture in any way? Or are you just talking about the government to this little girl because you're infatuated with hearing the obnoxious spew of your own stupidity?” Consequently, Heads turned to find the smart alec who made that statement in the back. Instantly, James shot him a look of disbelief. “What? If this is turning into a social studies crash course, we might as well go all the way with it.”
Instinctively, he was already picking up the broken pieces of Gregory's mistakes. James threw on the same apologetic charisma he usually used when the diagnostician said something to stir up conflict. He placed his hands on his friend’s shoulders slightly tighter than necessary, digging his nails into his skin. “Forgive him, he got hit over the head with a bat six times this week. It was all different people, too. Truly tragic.” Gregory instantly shrugged him off, a slight scoff rolling from his lips.
Much to his relief, the tour guide didn't seem affected by his friend's snarky behavior, which was delaying the tour. Instead, the man seemed to have a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. In fact, he almost looked amused by the situation.
“What an insightful and respectful way to ask a question. Well, I suppose the United Kingdom's parliamentary democracy reflects its cultural values and societal standards. The monarchy represents national pride and the confederacy, while parliament emphasizes laws and regulations, individual liberty, and respect from the people. Such values are engraved within the UK’s identity through its education and public interactions. The government's role in society is evident in its commitment to its democratic principles, the rule of law, and the protection of rights, everything vital to keeping the United Kingdom stable. But what do I know? I'm just a tour guide.”
And with an indifferent shrug, he redirected everyone's attention back to the church halls. From there, though he made the snarky comment once in a while, Gregory ultimately kept his mouth shut, allowing the others to enjoy the rest of the tour in peace. And James did. But, he couldn't ignore the slight rage that boiled in the pit of his stomach. Every attempt to subdue his unwanted feelings proved useless, as they always found their way back to the surface of his thoughts.
He could never truly escape Gregory House, after all. He could shut him out as much as he wanted, break off their dysfunctional friendship, or move across a sea to a whole other continent, but he would still somehow end up back at his side. The psychoanalytic ball of arrogance often theorized that his attraction to broken, needy people was due to an unconscious desire to fix them. Supposedly, the brain pathways in his mind would be rewarded every time he did something to help them improve, and the cycle would repeat until they became healthy. But when they no longer needed his nurturing, he’d lose interest. Apparently, that was the failing factor in all of his previous marriages, laced at the seams with infidelity. And the same reason his friendship with Greg held strong throughout the years, as he would never take the steps to grow and develop as a person.
Perhaps some of this was true. A lot of it, even. James wasn't going to say that his theory was completely off, because if it was, he would still have a wife to take to London. But it wasn't the entirety, either. It was much more than that. It was never just a ‘reward pathway’ to James Wilson. He was tired of his twisted mind games, like he was nothing more to him than a pawn in a chess game. Another one of his puzzles that he needed to solve. Believe it or not, he wanted his best friend to get better. He wanted him to improve. To be happy. He liked being with the grouchy man with the brown cane. But he would never understand that. He couldn't live with the idea that someone actually gives a damn about him without a logical explanation for it. If he did see past the puzzle, beyond patterns and behaviors–he never showed it. But that's just who he was. He would never change. Never try. He didn't even put in the effort to do something as simple as keep his mouth shut for an hour. So, he did the only thing he could; he swallowed the burning knot inside his stomach and tried to focus for the remainder of the tour.
—
It was about 5 in the evening when the two walked out of the church. The sun's flare began to sink below the cumulus clouds. The grey blended with the pink and lavender hues that began to form. The sound of his friend's complaints was a distant hum in the back of his mind. James only threw in a retort every once in a while to counter his offensive statements. He knew Greg would eventually grow bored of hearing his insults and surrender to the silence. The two were making their way to The Sanctuary House Hotel. It was only a two-minute walk from Westminster Abbey. They came by earlier to check in and have their luggage delivered. It was a struggle to organize due to Gregory’s inability to empathize with others and James’s overwhelming need to please everyone he met—but the two managed. They always did, somehow.
Upon entering the hotel, the aroma of various dishes wafted into James's nostrils. People all sat at tables chatting to one another, with either a drink or their dinner in front of them. He almost forgot the first floor was a restaurant, but it wasn’t an unwelcome surprise. It seemed like a warm atmosphere, with no one who looked inherently suspicious. Plus, his stomach was rumbling for something edible. That was all the convincing he needed, really.
“Hey, you want to grab dinner before we head to the room?”
His friends' features scrunched up on his face in response. “Oh, absolutely, I would undoubtedly love myself beans on toast. Hey, maybe I can even get myself a nice cup of tea while I'm at it.” He said before he stuck a finger inside his mouth and feigned a gag.
A couple of beats passed, and he just stared at Greg, a slow sigh escaping from his lungs. “You’re just saying that because you don't want to pay, aren't you?” He accused, pointing a finger at the other. He didn't get a response besides a slight raise of the eyebrows and a shrug. Heat rose to his face as his hand went up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Ah, of course it is. I’ll pay,” he said. “Like always..” He muttered under his breath as he pulled out his wallet and walked to the cash register.
__
“Sunday roast? What are you, sixty?” Gregory remarked with a smirk as he sat down at an empty table. The Oncologist's brown eyes narrowed as he sat down across from him.
“No. Actually, Sunday roast is a very common dish in the United Kingdom.”
His friend’s eyes squinted in suspicion at his statement, as his hand found its way to the surface of the table and began to tap rhythmically to the song that played quietly from the speakers. It was some Elton John song, but he wasn't paying much attention to it. “What? Do you read British cookbooks in your free time as well? Now I need to know, what is the importance of Sunday roast for London, wise one?”
James’s nostrils flared slightly as he picked a fuss off his button-up. “Well, I’d have to say that the meal likely represents tradition, family, and comfort for the United Kingdom. Symbolizes community and hospitality, whether through bringing people together at home or a pub after a long week. It originated with King Henry VII’s guards eating roast beef after mass, and over time it morphed into a long-standing ritual ingrained in the people. I'd even argue it is a part of the UK's cultural identity, representing their Comfort food, due to not only often showcasing local seasonal ingredients, but also due to the sense of nostalgia and stability it provides the people.”
“Wow, how insightful. Did you by any chance get this information from Chase?”
He blinked a few times, his expression shifting slightly. “Chase is Australian, not British,” James said slowly.
“Oh, right. never seemed important when it came to diagnosing patients.” A subtle taunt played in his words. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. This was another one of his tests—another one of his stupid games.
Just then, a waitress brought their food out and placed it on the table. She looked young–likely in her early twenties. Just before James could thank her for bringing out their food, Gregory beat him to it. “The food looks disgusting. I hope you cry yourself to sleep tonight.”
And that was it. Seeing that polite young girl, her face a mix of shock and hurt, he couldn't take it anymore. It was the friction against the match. Suddenly, his hands slammed down against the table. “What is wrong with you? What sick point are you trying to prove?!” He snapped, the Restaurant going quiet. His friend just blankly stared at him. Cold. Calculated. Focused. “Is this another one of your stupid experiments!? How long does it take for me to finally lose it?! How many stupid things can you get away with until I finally give up on you?!!” he hissed. “I'm just another one of your puzzles, aren't I?”
“Oh shut up! Stop playing victim. You know damn well that I feed into your savior complex. I'm just another one of your patients you so desperately need to nurture and manipulate. You know what I think? As much as you try to convince yourself you do, I think deep down you know you don't want me to get better. To grow. To improve. Because the moment I do, I would no longer make you feel good about yourself, would I? And you'd leave. So don't even start thinking you're any better than me. It's pathetic. You know you thirst on others' neediness like a bloodsucking leech.”
He barked back, his voice sharp and analytical. Each word hit him where it hurt the most. Because as much as he hated it, he knew it was all true. At this point, almost everyone was looking at them, but James, for once in his life, didn't care. “You're just deflecting because you're a sad, crippled, broken man who has no other stable relationship in his life besides his best friend!”
“It's actually funny you say that, as last time I checked, you were the one with 3 ex-wives—not me.” He shot back, pulling out a bottle from his pocket and popping a mint. “You push everyone who loves you away, you complain when they're around, when they need you the most, but the moment they have the opportunity to leave, you sabotage it because you're terrified of being alone.”
“And you're the one who needs to fix other people in order to feel like you're enough. Your self-worth depends on saving people to feed your ego. You might think you're some saint for curing other people's cancer, but you're just as selfish as the rest of us. You can put all the blame of our dysfunctional friendship on me, but you know well that it's not only my fault that you have no one else to spend Tuesdays with besides me, watching Monster trucks. It's not my fault that you can't hold a stable marriage. It's not my fault that you held your relationship with me longer than any woman. In fact, I'm starting to think that maybe there's something deeper behind it you're not telling me.”
Those words clearly seemed to hit a nerve, as James was completely done with the conversation. He didn't even touch his Sunday roast. He stood from his chair and shoved 10 dollars on the table. “I'm going back to the room. I suddenly lost my appetite. Do me a favor and try not to drown in the stew of your own misery.” And before he could say a word, his best friend was already gone.
Gregory lazily picked at his food, inspecting it as if he were discovering a new specimen. How could he fix this? It seemed he had forgotten his best friend was capable of losing his temper with enough prodding. In this moment, he silently mourned over the fact that he forgot to bring a ball with him to throw around. It often helped him focus and develop his ideas and theories. He couldn't Lose his best friend Afterall, not only because he's the most vital asset to his life, but also the fact that he’d be basically unavoidable due to the fact they work together. Yet His ideas still drew a blank. People finally started to mind their own business, which helped a bit, but not enough to come up with any worthwhile ideas. Sure, he could theoretically go buy him a gift, but he could also theoretically go to church every Sunday. Just because something is physically possible doesn't mean you’d catch him dead doing it. He pondered the idea of taking him somewhere, but then it dawned on him that he had no clue where anything was in Westminster. A pang of doom formed a knot in the pit of his stomach at the realization that for once in his life, he wouldn't be able to solve his most important case.
But then, suddenly, a little girl appeared in the seat in front of him. She was tiny, about 4 or 5 years old, fiddling with a paper in her hand. In any other situation, he probably would have told the kid to get lost. But he didn't have it in him to deal with two whining toddlers today.
“What? Do kids just not have present parents anymore? Why don't we just let all the rabid animals of the world run loose, see how that works out?” He muttered, crossing his arms with a sigh. “I don't have any candy for you. Or are you here to try and sell me Girl Scout cookies?”
Apparently, she found that to be the funniest thing, immediately bursting into giggles. “What- No! I’m not a Girl Scout!”
“Then what do you want, kid?” He said with a raised eyebrow.
“I saw your friend. He looked sad. Is he okay?” the girl pointed in the direction he stormed off to.
“We got into a fight. Ever hear of it? Or are you still in La La Land?”
“What happened?” She asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.
“Adult stuff. You wouldn't get it.”
“Yes, I would! I'm very smart! Tell me~!” The young girl whined, tugging on the tablecloth slightly.
“Fine–fine! Just stop whining, your voice bursts my eardrums.”
“Yay!” she smiled, feeling victorious. “This is a secret between you and me, we don't want to give him a high head, alright?”
The girl nodded eagerly. “I'm Maisie!”
“Alright, well, Maisie, I have this friend. He’s charismatic, empathetic, and intelligent. I enjoy having conversations with him; he challenges my views and perspective in a productive and respectful manner. But, lately, he's been going through some issues, and I haven't been…understanding. What would be the most efficient way to make it up to him?”
Maisie stared dumbly at him for a moment, and he realized just how ridiculous it was to vent to a child like this–the girl was six–
“My mummy and daddy took me here today! It made me happy. Maybe it will make your friend happy too?” She beamed as she handed him the map. It was to a place called God's own Junkhouse. It sounded stupid. It looked like a blinding neon art exhibit to him. But, maybe, just maybe, it could be the thing to save his collapsing friendship.
“Huh. I guess you're not that bad for an obnoxious snot-ridden toddler.” Then his head snapped toward the sound of two worried parents' yells. “MAISIE! There you are! What did we tell you about talking to strangers?!”
It sounded like he wasn't the only one who would get screamed at tonight. A small frown formed on his lips as he took a moment to allow his thumb to trace the surface of the map. The corners were crinkled and ripped, likely due to Maisie Fidgeting with its corners. What else did he have to lose? He might as well give this toddler's suggestion a shot; it was the best lead he had after all. With that, he stood up from his seat and abandoned the untouched dinner.
Every step he took was calculated and held an unconditional rhythm. Before he knew it, he had already made it to the door number and scanned the key card. It opened with a click, and he entered.
Upon entry, he was met with James mindlessly watching the new episode of How I Met Your Mother on one of the channels. His eyes never left the screen, making it quite clear of the tension that hung in the air. After a second or two of waiting, he limped over to the nightstand, took the remote in his hand and shut it off. Only when the screen went blank did he finally turn and look at his friend.
“I wouldn’t get too close. You know, just in case I latch on and suck all the neediness out of you.” James muttered, sarcasm drenched in his tone.
“Get your shoes on. I'd like to take you somewhere.” He stated, ignoring the others' jab. He poked the shoes with his cane.
“Ah, yes, let's spend the remainder of my money all in one night. What a brilliant idea. Sometimes I forget just how insightful you are, but then you open your mouth, and it all comes flooding back.” He grabbed the blanket and threw it over himself.
Gregory stayed quiet for a moment, afflicted. Just before James reached for the remote, he muttered as he leaned against the bed. “Oh, quit the mourning, you cheapscape. It’s on me. If you end up hating it, I’ll pay for your lunch back at the department for the entirety of next month. ”
After a beat of contemplation, a slow sigh escaped his friend's nose as his hand reached for his temple. He really was a pushover. “Fine...Let me get my shoes.”
__
The ride was about forty minutes on the bus, but upon entering God's Own Junkyard, it was worth it. The exhibit was truly mind-blowing. The senses were overwhelmed by an array of neon colors popping out in every direction. The place was packed with people, some chatting and laughing, while others simply took in their surroundings. James was left awestruck as he walked through the exhibit. At that moment, all of his previous annoyance melted away temporarily.
“I–How–When–” He tried to string together a proper sentence, only for words to fail him. Gregory simply shrugged. “A friend recommended it a while back when I told them I was going to Britain,” he said. Like a liar.
“It's…Amazing. You know, in a way, it reminds me of those places in malls teenage girls go to for picture shoots.” He quipped, His eyes hypnotized by each neon sign he passed. “Its bold neon colors with its unique architecture are both overwhelming and empowering. It makes its presence undeniably known whether wanted or not, and I think that's a powerful message of its own.”
“Is this gonna be another crash course? I'd better get my pen and paper out, just in case you decide to quiz me on it too,” he shot at him with no true bite.
“Well, since you asked so kindly, I would be glad to give you my hypothesis. Likely, God's Own Junkyard reflects not only the UK's neon city culture but also broader elements. From what I can tell, the neon signs and art pieces seem to be a celebration of the UK's artistic and creative spirit, often featuring symbols and themes that resonate with its history and values. Its unique setting and atmosphere create a space that is both a reflection of their cultural identity and a showcase of their artistic expression.”
“Wow. How very insightful.” Gregory retorted, glancing away from the neon lights for a moment. Suddenly, a wave of silence washed over the two as they made their way through the exhibit. A hundred thoughts piled up through the back of his mind, each one unique and overwhelming. Eventually, after a long few moments of silence, the sound of the other's voice cut through the built-up tension,
“You don't actually think I only care about myself, right?” he asked, his voice flat, but sincere. “..No.” He responded after a moment. “Do you actually think that the only reason I stick around is due to my own ego?”
“No.”
And, just like that, a small sense of peace between the two was restored. It wasn't perfect, not even close. But it was a start. It was enough for a small bud of feeling to sprout in his chest for the first time in months, and that feeling was hope.