AN: I've never written a House fanfic before... I wonder if it'll show. I know that I probably don't have some of the characters down, but let's face it: House is a complicated guy. I tried my best, though, so I'm going to post regardless. :) Hopefully, they're IC enough that this'll be a pleasant read for you.

This is set after "Bombshells." (the episode where Cuddy breaks up with House) From the preview for the next episode, it's safe to say House is having some psychological problems. This story takes place after all of the messy stuff has been worked out, like if House turns back to excessively using vicodin and has suicidal thoughts. Let's assume it was a messy business, but all of the technical things have been worked out, like House has gone to rehab and Wilson has put him back on the right track. His relationship with Cuddy in the aftermath of splitting up is still very shaky. This story shows how Wilson would help House get through this mess without alienating him. I always liked the House/Wilson relationship (I like to support them as a real couple, but this particular fic has no slash) and I figured it would be interesting to see how they would react in this situation. No doubt we'll see the real outcome in the next episode.

I just really wanted to take a shot at what happens afterward. :D

Sharp pain pulsated to his temples in sync with the wailing cries of the infant in the waiting room. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dr. House looked down exasperatedly at the patient's health information in front of him, hardly paying attention to what he was reading. He did, after all, already know what was wrong with the man. He knew as soon as he set eyes on him.

"So, what's wrong with you?" he asked. It was routine to ask the patient first before rattling off the treatment. House never really saw the point in asking if the answer was obvious, though, but he held back for a few moments to allow the man to talk.

"I've been feeling very anxious lately, doctor. I'm normally a very levelheaded person, never let anything get to me. And there's no reason for it to start now. There've been no changes."

"No changes? You're sure?"

"Well, I've been staying away from meat lately; my wife made the switch to vegetarianism."

"Well, I'd call that a change worth mentioning," House muttered.

"Pardon me?"

"Nothing…"

House took a peek at the man's health charts, before returning to his expectant gaze.

"You have a protein shortage. It's not very severe, so don't freak out," he added quickly when the man's expression turned horrified. "Just eat some beans and tofu to make everybody happy."

"Are you sure that's all I have to do? Shouldn't you run some tests to make sure it's my protein levels?"

If there's one thing House hated more than clinic duty, its patients who thought they knew better than him. His nerves were already shot as it was.

"Yeah, I'm positive," he glared at the patient. He picked up his cane and used it as a pointer. "There's a deep gash right above your ankle; you move carefully around it without thought, as though it's been there for a while, and you unconsciously adjust to keep it from direct contact with anything you're walking around. If it's been there for so long, however, it should be a lot further along the healing process than it is. That tells me that your body's not healing naturally. This, along with the bedsores on your legs, the grizzled state of your hair, the lightness of your skin and the rashes and burns contrasting with it, points to a protein deficiency." House smirked at his patient's expression. "The fact that you have given up meat for your wife only made me more certain. Eat some tofu; you'll be fine."

The man stumbled down onto his feet, shuddering as he walked out the door. The second he was out of sight, House gave a heavy sigh and dropped his head into his hands. He reached one hand to his pocket for the vicodin bottle only to come up empty. Another louder sigh tumbled from his lips. Masters and Wilson had found him with it just two weeks ago. After the breakup with Cuddy, he'd returned to his drugs and required the assistance of Wilson and the not so well liked therapist to get him through the worst of it. His vicodin was the first thing to be confiscated. Wilson liked to think House came out of the ordeal stronger than when he went into it. House wasn't quite so sure.

He certainly felt like complete shit. And he also probably looked like it, if he was going by the disgusted stares of the elderly woman walking into the consulting room with the wailing child from before.

It was going to be a long day of clinic duty.

The following day didn't begin on a happy note, either. It certainly wasn't as upsetting as when Cuddy dumped him, but he definitely wouldn't count it among the best mornings he's ever had.

To start with, as soon as he walked into the building, a previous patient he'd been particularly nasty towards was being wheeled out of the building in a collapsible wheelchair. He had a cane waiting for use in his lap. It was the exact shade of fresh blood.

As he passed by his old doctor, he slipped his red cane out just enough to catch on House's as he was stepping with it. It slipped out from under him and, with a rustle of squeaking gym sneakers and flailing arms, he tripped over to the ground. His cane clattered noisily to the ground beside him. Metal canes against those hospital floors were embarrassingly loud. The patient was already out the door before House could get a good look. All he saw was a flash of malicious red.

By the time he reached his diagnostic team, anyone could tell with a glance that he was livid and tense to the point that the next word that ticked him off would snap his temper into action. He limped right past them to his office, fuming silently at the large stack of unblemished white paper on his desk. He felt the intense urge to scribble all over their pureness with a fat red sharpie. Screw the environment. He needed to destroy something…

He flopped down into his swivel chair and began doing just that. He fished out his thick red marker and scribbled out his frustrations in wide red slashes, thinking of that bloody cane from earlier. It was a sick kind of pleasure. Masters had probably carefully placed the paper in his office with the idea that he'd use them to take notes or something. With one hand still scribbling, he reached into a drawer of his desk, sifting through it for a lollipop. He quickly realized that he'd eaten his last one a few days ago and dropped his head into the wet sharpie ink on the paper with a frustrated groan.

A deep pang pierced his heart. He let nothing show.

When he felt the familiar rush of air that signaled the opening of his silent office door, he raised his head warily, automatically reaching up to wipe off the red ink off his forehead. Wilson gazed skeptically at him, still not completely inside House's office. He had one foot out and one in, his head craning around the glass door. The shadows from House's name imprinted on the door cast a shadow on Wilson's pristine white lab coat. House looked at the coat and back to the previously white paper in front of him. He raised the red sharpie in Wilson's direction with an innocent raised eyebrow and a suggestive curve in his small smirk.

Wilson scoffed, shaking his head when House beckoned him to enter.

"I've got too much work."

House looked dryly at him.

"Well, then there's no need to come in, is there? You know how I love to wave vigorously with both hands at you through the door; everybody walking by gets the most priceless expression." Sarcasm burned more strongly on his acid tongue that morning than usual.

"You looked a bit too busy to notice me there anyway." Wilson eyed the marker stained paper. "Releasing frustrations?"

House gave a noncommittal shrug. Wilson stared for a moment before shrugging as well.

"Anyway, your team needs you," Wilson said, gesturing behind him with a tilt of his head. "They've got a good case right now. It's complex, just how you like it." At House's silence, he continued, "It would do you good to get out of this office at least once today, you know?"

House glared and reached defiantly behind him to pull down the blinds, effectively cutting off the dim sunlight. He then made a show of getting comfortable in his chair, twiddling with the sharpie in his long, steady fingers. He gave Wilson a wolfish grin.

"Well, it doesn't matter to me if you go now. But try to get off your lazy ass and help them a bit; they're out of ideas."

House didn't respond, keeping up his indifferent expression. Only Wilson could see the spark of interest lighting his previously dull eyes.

"A case is just what you need right now," Wilson continued, "along with this."

He pulled something out of his pocket and tossed it to House. He caught it with a quick flip of his wrist and felt the familiar texture of a lollipop wrapper. He smirked up at Wilson.

"How'd you know?"

"You were complaining about having none left yesterday during lunch," Wilson replied, beginning to edge out the door. "I figured you'd forget so I picked one out of the emergency collection I've hidden in my office."

House let out a bark of laughter.

"You keep cherry lollipops in your office just for me?"

"Well, I have one too every once in a while," Wilson smirked. He gestured once more behind him to where Masters and Taub were listening to Foreman try to diagnose the illness with little success. He raised a suggestive eyebrow. House rolled his eyes and gave a barely perceptible nod, to which Wilson smiled and slipped out to work on his latest patient.

As soon as he was out of sight, House turned his gaze back to his team. With a sigh, he dropped the sharpie, picked up his cane, lumbered to his feet, and took the wrapper off the lollipop all in one swift movement. He slipped the candy in his mouth and sucked thoughtfully.

It was still painful, but his heart was feeling much calmer than before.

He smirked cruelly at his temporary sappiness before stepping out to his team.

House didn't expect his diagnostic team to be at such a loss for words around him. The atmosphere could have been sliced with his axe-cane.

Wilson was right; they needed his help desperately with their case. He could see that in the many diseases they'd listed on the board only to later cross out. Foreman looked as if he'd be pulling out his hair—that is, if he had any. Taub was massaging his temples in a feeble attempt to keep a migraine at bay. Masters just had an amusing constipated expression.

"What's up with the painful faces?" House asked nonchalantly as he walked in. He looked pointedly at Masters. "You're not having any trouble going to the bathroom, are you?"

He expected them to at least look disgusted or exasperated. Instead, all of their eyes snapped to him in apprehension, Masters actually having real fear in her eyes.

"What?" House demanded angrily. "Is there a huge, poisonous bug on my face? If so, I'd appreciate it if you told me now before it's too late."

"It's nothing," Foreman quickly assured him. His expression was back to normal, but his eyes were still restless.

There was an awkward pause, a quick silent, still moment before House realized the problem. Suddenly, this was as awkward for him as it was for them.

They were carefully picking their words as they explained the patient's condition, treatments they'd already put him on, and his symptoms from said treatments. House was only half listening. He couldn't believe they'd think he'd be so hung up about Cuddy leaving him.

Sure, his chest was experiencing piercing pain every other second and his mood was more lethargic and melancholy than usual, but besides that, he was perfectly fine. Maybe, he'd been feeling pretty lonely and not a little pissed off, but Wilson had remedied that with his visit. Why would his team be so concerned? They'd never acted like this before. And he'd certainly been in worse situations…

He forced himself to stay in the room and act casual, easily pointing out the solution and recommending what medications to put the patient on, but inside, he wanted nothing more than to bolt from the room. Their wary glances were very trying on his frayed nerves. As soon as the final words left his lips, everyone was picking up their things and heading for the doors, exactly what he felt like doing. Masters slowed down, though, and approached him with a pitying crease in her eyebrows. Her eyes shone with compassion fixed solely on him. He was about to be sick.

"Are you alright?" she murmured quietly to him, her eyes never wavering. "Is there anything I can do?"

If House was a blushing man, his face would have been blazing. But seeing as the color didn't regularly color his face, his temper just sparked.

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" he demanded hotly, frowning down his nose at her. She blanched.

"Oh, no reason," she squeaked out. "I'd better go get that treatment." She watched him the whole time she was retreating, as if waiting for him to strike at her like a wild animal. This only made him fume even more, and she wisely took off down the hall.

As soon as her white lab coat disappeared around the corner, House felt his irritation leave him. Tiredness settled deeply into his bones.

His therapist and Wilson's assistance had helped him out of the dark place the breakup with Cuddy had sent him spiraling into. He hadn't seen his diagnostic team during the length of his depression and subsequent recovery. To be honest, he hadn't thought much about them at all.

Apparently, they'd heard of his condition during those dark weeks either from Wilson or Cuddy, who Wilson had undoubtedly informed. She'd checked on him once during recovery. Her presence set him back a few days. He was disgusted to remember this weakness afterward.

The last thing he wanted was pity. The looks in their eyes only reminded him that he had a reason to be upset. Wilson once told him that the surest way to rid yourself of depression was to get your mind off it and allow your subconscious to work with the sadness on its own time. If he waited long enough, by the time he thought of it again, he'd be prepared and could confront it thoroughly.

When House didn't understand, Wilson described it as if his subconscious was creating antibodies and fighting off the disease AKA his depression. By the time House had contact with it again, his body would be prepared and could defend him properly. After Wilson stumblingly put it in medical terms, House was amazed at how easy he was able to comprehend. It was just further evidence about how different his brain was, not that he was complaining. He preferred to keep his distance from that romantic crap.

House sighed, dragging his thoughts back to the surface. Somehow, he'd led himself to a chair and wasted ten minutes. He stood up with a sigh and realized he'd sucked the lollipop down to the stick. He made his way slowly to the cafeteria, thoughts turned inward. He took the longer path only to avoid passing in front of Cuddy's office, resulting in an annoying aching thigh. He limped over to the doctors' fridges that held all of their lunches. He automatically reached out to pick up Wilson's container, not even bothering to look at his empty spot.

It was habit by now, and he really craved some familiarity.

House didn't bother knocking; he just pushed the door in with his good leg and a little pressure on the door knob. He definitely could've kicked it a little lighter; the crack of it slamming against the wall made Wilson leap up from his chair violently. House could have sworn he heard another baby start to cry down the hall. He hastily shut the door, examining the wall he'd hit for any marks from the doorknob. He heard Wilson sigh and settle back in his seat.

"I brought your lunch for you," House announced as an apology. Wilson just rolled his eyes.

"You only picked it up so you could convince me to give you some."

"I forgot mine."

House didn't look troubled. He settled down in one of the chairs in front of Wilson's desk, propping his gym sneakers up onto the paperwork his best friend had been working on. Wilson got that usual resigned, long-suffering expression before clearing his brow with an amused grin. He reached over into a drawer and took out two paper plates and plastic forks. He opened his lunch container, keeping it away from House's curious, child-like gaze, and quickly scooped a piece of lemon pie onto House's plate, shoving it in his direction.

"Not very healthy," House remarked with a raised eyebrow.

Wilson shrugged. "My mother sent some down for my father's birthday. I couldn't make it up this year; I had multiple vital cases on my hands."

House glanced up from his cool slice. "You're going to run yourself into the ground, you know."

"Yeah," Wilson scoffed, picking up his fork and cutting off a piece with the side, "you're one to talk."

House smirked and shrugged one shoulder, shoveling a jagged bite of pie into his mouth. "No whipped cream?"

Wilson sighed. "You know where I keep it."

House leaned over the arm of his chair, careful of his lunch and reached into a carefully concealed mini-fridge. Cuddy would kill anyone who was caught installing their own appliances. Plus, she'd know it was House who convinced Wilson to put it in. Then, there would be double the fun; angry Cuddy was the best kind of Cuddy.

It was pleasant surprise when House didn't feel the typical pain in his chest that accompanied thoughts of Cuddy. Pie will do that to you; it's the food of "super doctors" as Wilson once put it, when House added a bit too much sugar to his pie slice a few months ago and was bouncing off the walls (as much as he could with a cane) and correctly diagnosing patients left and right with a single glance. Having a friend with him was probably helping keep the pain away this time, too.

A conversation soon sparked between them, urged on at each of their prodding, until it had blown into a full-fledged discussion about the Chinese restaurant down the street that they'd both been craving. House shot a sly, suggestive wink at Wilson, who quickly turned back to his food, feigning ignorance. He liked to pretend that he wasn't interested, just like House, but his best friend could always easily see through him. This pleasant, yet incredibly annoying, insight worked both ways, of course.

When they were halfway through their second slice, there was a knock at the door and Masters' voice sounded from behind the wood.

"Wilson? Would you mind helping us a bit with this new case, if you're not too busy?"

Wilson quickly swallowed and opened his mouth to reply, but House beat him to it.

"What, don't you trust my conclusion?" House announced loudly, somewhat irked. "There's nothing cancerous about this patient; why would you need an oncologist?"

"Oh, House, you're here," Masters said, her voice becoming much quieter and more wary.

"We just wanted a second opinion," Taub, who was apparently with Masters, called out. "Even you have to admit not everything about your theory fits together."

House looked absolutely livid. Wilson quickly cut in with a short, "I'll come when we're done here," and a quick glance towards House. They heard Masters softly thank him and the sound of her shoes down the hall. Taub appeared to remain at the door.

"What are you two doing in there?" he asked incredulously.

"Pie-eating contest," House replied shortly.

Taub scoffed. "Yeah, like I'm going to believe that."

"Then open the door and see," Wilson's cool voice said.

Taub did and was greeting by a smug House with a slice of pie and his feet still on Wilson's work.

"Huh," Taub murmured. "It really is pie."

House's smirk became more pronounced. "It's my favorite kind."

"I call it 'Sarcasm Pie,'" Wilson drawled.

"It's very bitter, just like me," House added simply, turning back to his lunch.

Taub looked on wordlessly before shaking his head in bewilderment. "Well, check in with us after lunch, alright?" He looked at both Wilson and House. House just kept eating, completely undisturbed.

"We'll be there," Wilson answered quickly, sparing House a quick glare. Taub nodded and disappeared out the door.

"Don't you have a lot of paperwork to do?" House inquired curiously, eyeing the mud stained stack of paper under his sneakers. "Are you sure you have time for this case?" Internally, House was delighted.

"I'll pay some intern to do the work for me." House looked up with raised eyebrows. "Don't tell Cuddy, alright?"

"Scout's honor," House vowed. He reached for another piece of lemon pie and a large dollop of whipped cream. It was his best lunch that entire week.

Suffocating silence reigned heavily in the glass room just outside House's office as House, Wilson, Masters, Foreman, and Taub sat around the table. It turned out that cancer was in fact involved in the case so Wilson's visit ended up being a most productive one. Now that they had the illness all figured out and the treatment given, everyone found that there was nothing more to say. Everyone except Wilson was deliberately avoiding House's gaze, and House was doing his best to ignore it. Foreman and Taub could actually speak clearly and competently to him while Masters still remained a stuttering mess. Wilson pitied her and the rest of the team. House was just annoyed.

"Well, I'm heading home; obviously there's nothing more to be done here," House abruptly announced. One more second of silence would have killed them all.

"It looks like it's going to rain," Wilson remarked as he stood up and collected his stuff. The other members of House's team were already sparking up conversation with one another; House and Wilson were left on their own on the one side of the table.

"Oh, don't talk about crap like the weather," House snapped. "You'll become one of them." He jerked his head towards Masters, Taub and Foreman who were headed straight for the door, calling out their goodbyes over their shoulders. Wilson followed them with his steady gaze.

"I wouldn't worry about it," he responded to House's unspoken and unrecognized concern. "They'll soon be back to normal."

"What are you talking about?" House murmured lowly, pretending ignorance.

"They're just a bit confused about how bad of a state you're in," Wilson continued. "I would have expected Foreman and Taub to be a bit more composed, though."

"What do you mean, what 'state' I'm in?" House questioned angrily. "If this is about Cuddy, then they shouldn't worry about it. I feel fine!"

"I know that," Wilson replied calmly. "And soon they will too. Just be patient, House."

House stared blankly for a moment before making his way to the door with Wilson following wordlessly.

"When I asked about the weather," Wilson continued, "I meant that I was worried about you driving your motorcycle home in the rain. I was just wondering if you wanted a lift."

"Your concern is flattering," said House dryly as they walked into the elevator. He pushed the ground floor button with his cane. "I'll be fine on my own."

"I'll make pancakes for dinner," Wilson continued suggestively. House suddenly seemed much more inclined to join him.

"Do you have that really good homemade syrup you make?" he asked. "With fresh strawberries and really creamy, fatty butter?"

Wilson smiled. "Yeah, I think I've got it all."

"Then, I guess I could spare a night."

The elevator slid to a smooth stop and both men stepped out. House had only taken two steps before he froze. Wilson halted with him and followed his gaze.

Cuddy was making her way toward the exit as well and she was with a companion just like House. On her arm, laughing heartily was Lucas Douglas. Neither of them noticed House and Wilson, who had both retreated into the shadows noiselessly to avoid any confrontation. House's eyes were trained on the couple as they stepped out into the darkness outside, their laughter swirling around mockingly inside his head.

Wilson put a comforting hand on his shoulder which House strangely didn't shake off. Instead, he stayed silent for a few moments with a deep frown on his face. Suddenly, the creases cleared and he looked directly at Wilson.

"Well, come on, we don't have all night," he called over his shoulder as he limped after Cuddy and Lucas. Wilson followed warily.

"We are just going to my car, right?"

'We're not going to follow them, I hope,' he thought grimly.

"Where else would we be going?" House questioned, looking genuinely confused. Wilson just shook his head, skillfully hiding his relieved smile.

"My car's this way," Wilson said, leading House up to the fourth floor of the parking garage. "You might want to clean off your seat first before getting in. I've recently begun eating my breakfast on the way to work instead of at home, and I tend to be a really messy eater." House looked skeptically at him. "So, if you see a red stain on the seat, just remember that it's probably ketchup."

"'Probably'?"

The entire night was an endless blur of noise and images. They watched movie after movie, listening to music in between, and always eating Wilson's pancakes. Their soft, fluffy goodness, smothered in butter and coated with thick, sugary syrup, calmed House's nerves and let him relax into the couch, pushing the image of the recently reunited Cuddy and Lucas from his mind. Every hour, he'd pause whatever they were watching to make Wilson get up and make a new batch. Sometimes he'd even help, much to Wilson's delight. Making pancake after pancake could be very tedious if one was doing it solo. The pancakes did accomplish their goal, though, so Wilson couldn't complain too much. They served as just the right kind of comfort food for House after the encounter back at the hospital doors.

House was greatly amused at Wilson's saved TV programs.

"So, you're not learning Spanish anymore," House remarked, chuckling. He'd found Wilson's saved French programs.

"Well, after you deleted all of those episodes before, I couldn't get caught up."

"And so you just started a new language study entirely?"

"French actually is coming pretty easy to me. Plus it's one of the few languages you're not fluent in."

"Oh, so you just don't want me to be able to show off for you, n'est-ce pas?"

"…Shut up."

House only smirked and chose Parks and Recreation instead.

Both of them fell asleep on the couch that night, a fuzzy blanket flung over both of their laps, courtesy of Wilson. House's sticky pancake plate spent the night balancing on his full and satisfied stomach.

It was very late the next morning when Wilson finally roused himself from his deep sleep. His hair was pleasantly ruffled, with little pink markings on his cheek from where it had been resting against the arm of the couch. With his legs cramped and his stomach growling, he groaned deeply and staggered to his feet. He heard House belting out "Welcome to the Jungle" from the kitchen.

The first thing he smelled when he entered his kitchen was cheese. It took him a few minutes to realize that cheese wasn't typically a breakfast smell. It then took him another minute to open his eyes enough to realize that House wasn't making breakfast like he assumed.

He was making dinner.

"What the hell is this?" Wilson asked loudly, causing House to stop his singing mid-verse.

"It's food."

"Yes, but why isn't it breakfast food?"

House gave him a blank stare. He turned back to his grilled cheese and flipped one over. Another was resting on a plate beside him, half eaten, with tomato on it and a pile of French fries beside it. "We had breakfast last night. I had to balance it out somehow, you know?" He glanced back up at his best friend. "You don't have any beer around, do you? I know you always hide your stash from me, but I really feel like some alcohol this morning. Can we let the no booze rule slide this time?" Wilson glared fiercely. "Just this once?"

Wilson strolled over to the fridge and took out a bottle of Capri-Sun. He tossed it at House's aggravated face.

"Get wasted," he grumbled.

House quickly finished cooking Wilson's sandwich and plopped it down unceremoniously onto the counter. He stared hard into Wilson's face. "You sure are unpleasant this morning. You know, now, I'm really cheesed off."

They both fumed silently at each other for a few more seconds. But when House's words sunk into Wilson's mind, he couldn't stop the genuine laughter from bubbling up inside of him. And of course, when Wilson's amused, House is soon to follow. Their senses of humor were ridiculously similar.

Chuckling warmly together with his friend, House let his mind slip to Cuddy and his diagnostic team. Suddenly, it didn't hurt nearly so much. The pain was still there, certainly, but it was a dull twinge that could easily be pushed aside. It was just as Wilson had said: while he was preoccupied with other things, his subconscious had dealt with the problem. He knew then, with amusement dancing lightly in his heart, what Wilson had known all along.

He was healing. Slowly, the previous state of happiness he had before Cuddy dumped him was being restored. He found that the best part of falling into the numbing cavity of depression and the eternal abyss that was drug addiction was returning to find that you still had a friend by your side. And while he swore mentally at himself for entertaining these sentimental thoughts, House couldn't help but reach the logical conclusion, the one Wilson had comprehended all of those times where House had slipped into that dark trench he always precariously walked along the edge of.

'I'll be alright.'

And House smiled.

AN: When I was using my thesarus to find a synonym for annoyed, I got the phrase "cheesed off" and decided, "Why the hell not? They're already making grilled CHEESE." And yeah, I know I suck.

This isn't my best piece, but it's certainly not my worst. This was, however, my first try at a House fanfic so I'd really appreciate any feedback you have to offer. I loved writing about these two guys, but I know I could do better characterization wise. Maybe House could have been a little more reserved (though I'm a firm believer that he's much more open with Wilson then he ever was with anyone else, including Cuddy) or perhaps Wilson would have lost his patience a bit more with House instead of just with glares (though he does have remarkable tolerance with his friend). I don't think Foreman would turn from House at all, though it would probably be a bit awkward... But still, I'm content with the way this turned out. Could definitely be better though. And please tell me if there are any typos; it was over 5,000 words. It's very possible I missed some.

Reviews are love and we need much, much more of that in the world. :3