Disclaimer: I do not own House or Wilson.
A/N: I hope you all enjoyed this. This is my first one. I'm still working on my other fics.
The whole thing wasn't what he wanted.
He didn't like the situation at all. He hated the fact that House was too strung out. He hated that his best friend hit a coworker. He hated that the same best friend forged his signature to take more Vicodin.
The whole thing wasn't what he needed.
Everything was taken away from him: his car, his money, etc. He was about to lose everything. It was all because of what his friend did. But could he blame House for being – House? Yet it still hurt. He cared about himself. He had his own instinct for survival. Tritter was calling that instinct.
But he found himself doing it anyway.
He can't stop thinking. He can't stop thinking about the whole thing. He can't stop thinking about how he ended up there; in the enemy's office. He can't stop feeling the hurt and torment roll through his brain. He can't stop thinking that he just betrayed House. But is it a betrayal? He knows that his best friend needs help. But at what cost?
He found himself doing something he never thought he would do.
He never wanted it to end this way. He didn't want to say that he didn't write the prescriptions. He didn't want himself end up giving evidence to House's rival. He didn't want to do it. But he had to. It was the only way to help everyone. It was the only way to help House. But even as he thinks, he knows that somehow something won't go as planned.
He did something the other suspected him of capable of doing.
He found his friend on the floor. He found his friend with drugs from a patient. He found his friend on the floor. He gave his friend the look of pure disgust. He being who he was wanted to help House. But he didn't. He knew that House did it to himself. How could he help his friend when his friend couldn't even help himself? No, he couldn't stay.
Wilson already gave up House and left.