Wilson left the hospital before he'd heard anything more from House. As far as he knew, he was still out at the site of the accident. He didn't have any reason to think that something could be wrong until Foreman called him. He told him everything that had happened, including the bad way in which House had left, and that he'd tried to call Cuddy but hadn't got through to her.
Wilson was prepared to leave it alone, but he knew it would play on his mind all night if he didn't find him. He left with a quick word to Sam about where he was going. At first she seemed confused and in disbelief that Wilson should feel the need to go and see him in the early hours of the morning. There were other people who could check on him. Cuddy for one. She'd been there with him. She could offer the support. And if he was going to make this relationship with Sam work then he knew he had to change. Part of that meant he had to stop being with House. Still, he saw this as something he had to do. She'd yet to realise that when it came down to it, he could never leave him, no matter how hard he tried to walk away.
It was little surprise to him that he found House at his apartment but he wasn't expecting to see him in this way. He stood in the bathroom doorway and looked at House. His head was bowed, hand out in front of him; two instantly recognisable pills resting in his palm.
How had it come to this?
House lifted his head slowly, his eyes glassy and bloodshot. They looked at each other.
Flashes of memory entered his mind of moments long gone; when he had been the only one left to help his friend through the toughest time in his life.
Wilson looked past that to the broken mirror, to the cavity in the wall. Here was the proof of a fragile situation, as much as Wilson wished it otherwise.
He heard a soft intake of breath and turned back to House, who was looking at the pills in his hand, lips parted.
"I've got nothing," he said. His voice was breathy, quiet. He sounded resigned to it; his final conclusion.
Wilson moved over to him and knelt down, waiting for House to look at him again. This had to be about more than the woman he'd tried to save. She was just the tipping point. Wilson was angry at him, angry for this self-pity.
Why?
Why - whenever Wilson finally seemed to be going in the right direction in life did House always start falling apart? Why did he start needing him more than ever? And why did he himself find that he could never say no, could never stay away. If House needed him then he'd be there. His relationships always suffered for it because he just couldn't say no. He wanted happiness for him just as he wanted it for himself but for House it always seemed out of reach. Where was the balance? What was wrong?
Without waiting for House to respond to him, Wilson took the Vicodin and its bottle from House's hands, and placed them aside.
Wilson looked back to him and saw that House now had his eyes trained on the bottle beside them. He finally lifted his head and Wilson made sure he could see the anger and hurt that he felt.
House blinked and narrowed his eyes, "What are you doing here?"
Good question. "I was worried about you."
House let out a short derisive laugh, looking around aimlessly, but not once at the bottle beside him.
House gave him the impression that he'd been waiting for a different answer but had undoubtedly got what he expected.
All this only frustrated Wilson even more. "Well it's true," Wilson insisted, a little harsher than he'd intended.
House turned back sharply, "Why?"
Wilson took a moment and sighed, "Why what, House? What do you mean?"
"Why now? You've decided to come and have a heart to heart with me while I'm sitting here about to go back to my old ways," he shrugged, "so either your guilty conscience is finally kicking in or you have to step in to fix this problem before it ruins all your plans. Another hurdle you have to take care of before you can get on with your life." House steadied him with intense eyes as he paused, "I don't know why you'd be so worried. I'm not living with you anymore and you and Sam are still together. You got what you want."
It was all there: a rare honesty that Wilson took from every pained word. It settled on him. With an unpleasant skip of his heart, he realised that he must be the one who put that idea in House's head. That he had nothing. That his self-worth was so low he felt his only possible solution was to turn back to the drugs he'd worked so hard to stay off.
The look in House's eyes was relentless, and it became too much. Wilson stood, and after a short hesitation, held his hand out for House to take. His gesture was met with the same amount of uncertainty before House reached for him and allowed Wilson to help him up.
Unsure of what to say, Wilson occupied himself by taking a look at the cut on his nose, while carefully avoiding looking at him. Then he turned his attention to the wound on his shoulder, quietly suggesting that he should have the bandage changed.
House cut across his rambling. "I tried, Wilson."
Wilson cupped his hand on House's forehead, shielding his eyes as he quickly swept his hand over his head, dusting off his hair. Wilson couldn't understand why House's voice – and why his words – suddenly caused the air around him to become seemingly ten times too thick.
Wilson nodded, "I know." He lowered his hands back to his sides.
They were talking about the patient, of course. Her situation must have hit home. But he could tell by the way House caught his eye and held it, that there was more to it than that. There was always more. This time, Wilson didn't look away from it.
There was an apology on the tip of his tongue from moments ago, but it was lost now, swallowed up by guilt and shame. So much harder to say when the fault lies with you.
So instead he moved closer.
He brought his arms up, wrapped them securely around House's shoulders and stood there, hoping that this was enough.
The thought occurred to him that he'd never done this before, had never really embraced his friend.
Being like this seemed important somehow.
When he felt House bring his arms around him in return, he was able to breathe easier.
It was how it always is: just… holding on.