Disclaimer: [H]ouse is not mine and never will be.
A/N:Written for Camp Sick!Wilson at LJ's sick_wilson community.
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The pain is not half as bad as it could be. He compromises with the emergency room nurse and swallows half the medication she hands him while looking at his cast.
He mulls over the afternoon's events. House's behavior had nothing to do with him. It was about Cuddy.
A few minutes later, after the pills dissolve and zip happily through his bloodstream, he feels sure of it.
A moment between appointments, he presses his cold palm against his eyelids. The grim reaper's role gnaws at him. His day is full of death sentences, some patients will leave sooner, some later.
If House were here he would curtly tell him that everybody dies. There would be no syrupy residue dripping from his words. House might blot at them by adding a gruff invitation to go out for a round of drinks. That is, if House were here.
With only the moon's silver light spilling onto the floor, he sits on his couch in silent acknowledgement that the night speaks louder to him than the day. Every night she claws and prods him awake, then whispers seductively like a jealous lover, Everybody leaves, but you can stay with me forever. At least something, if not a someone wants him.
His thumb nudges the cap's ridge on the golden vial. A souvenir from the emergency room on the last night he saw House. Unlike his friend, physical pain was never an issue and more than half the pills remain. More than enough.
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Thank you for reading.