Belongs to David Shore etc etc...

Wilson had woken up in a cold sweat for the third night in a row. Again it had seemed so real. He pulled himself from the bed and staggered into the bathroom, flinching as he pulled on the light.

He ran the cold tap and splashed the water over his face, letting it trickle down among the crevices in his face. He leant against the sink and closed his eyes, allowing the images to come flooding back over him.

House had Wilson pressed up against the elevator wall, his hands lost somewhere around the oncologist's waist and his tongue was buried in the depths of the other man's mouth.

Wilson was tugging roughly at House's hair, his back buckling up against the panels as he tried to pull himself closer to the diagnostician.

Somewhere in the kafuffle Wilson's ugly purple tie had joined the cane that had clattered to the floor as soon as the doors had closed that morning.

Wilson snapped his eyes back open. He shouldn't be thinking these things; he shouldn't be wanting these things.

I'm going to hell, Wilson thought, with a groan. He closed his eyes again.

But damn, he added, does it feel good.