Hi all. This is me trying to get back into writing, so that my muses will forgive me and help me out with my original short stories.

So, I'm not fully happy with this - the style isn't one I usually use and it feels a bit closed in to me, but I figured I'd post it anyway and see what happens. Originally I just wanted it to be a one-shot but I could go further with it in the future. If you think I should continue it let me know and I'll see where it takes me. But at the moment, school comes first! (Accursed assignments...)

Oh, and I know bugger all about medicine, so don't get all uppity if I get something hideously wrong.

Pairing: House/Cam

Spoilers: None that I'm aware of. If there are any let me know.

Disclaimer: Oh great Creators of House, please do not sue me, for I do not own this and freely state that it is yours and yours alone. I make no money from this and use it for entertainment purposes only. So please don't sue. I don't have any money anyway.

Greg House leant back in his office chair, staring blankly at the wall. They'd lost another patient, a young man about Cameron's age. She had been acting oddly, and practically flew out of the office that evening. Probably looked like her dead husband or something.

"Greg!" A shout broke through his reverie, and he turned to see Wilson silhouetted against the lights of the hall, bright in contrast to the gloom of his office.

"There's no need to shout," House said in reproach, swinging his legs down off his desk. "I'm crippled, not deaf."

Wilson grinned to himself. "You could've fooled me: I've been calling you for five minutes." He sobered. "I hear you lost that patient."

"Yeah."

"I saw Cameron run out of here earlier… she took it pretty hard?"

House rolled his eyes. "It's Cameron; she always takes it hard. She really needs to grow up and become a real doctor."

Wilson arched a brow, well-used to House's moods after he'd lost a patient. "Well well, we're caustic today, aren't we? C'mon, I owe you a bourbon."

House sighed, thinking longingly of his piano. Still, Wilson was taking this divorce pretty hard, and probably wanted someone to talk at for a while. House wasn't one for comforting people, but he also knew that wasn't what Wilson needed; he just wanted someone to be there when he talked to himself. That job fell to his best friend: one Greg House.

House weighed desire against duty, and pulled himself to his feet with a sigh. "Alright, let's go."

They were quiet during the walk through the halls, House lost in his own reverie, Wilson knowing better than to talk. As they passed through the hospital's main doors, the oncologist watched an ambulance pull up with a vague professional concern.

Then he noticed who they were pulling out of the ambulance, and his eyes widened.

"Greg…"

House ignored him, more interested in mulling over what course of action he could have taken earlier to save his patient.

"Greg!"

Well, he definitely shouldn't have listened to Foreman, that guy was never right. If he'd ignored him they could have saved a few hours and –

"GREG!" Wilson grabbed his arm and shook him violently to get his attention.

House's head snapped 'round, irritation and anger snapping in his intense blue eyes. "What the hell, Jimmy?" he snarled. But Jimmy was staring at someone they were wheeling through the emergency room doors. House followed his gaze.

Oh god, no…

He stared at the doorway, stared at nothing, aware only of the heart-stopping fear clenching at his insides.

It couldn't be Cameron. It couldn't. It was just someone who looked a bit like her, right? Must be. Cameron would be home safe and sound by now.

Wilson was pulling at his arm again.

"Come on, Greg!"

House didn't move. Forehead creased with worry for both House and Cameron, Wilson snapped his fingers in front of the taller man's face.

"Come on, Greg!"

House blinked, stared at Wilson for a moment, and then pushed roughly past him, making for the hospital as fast as his crippled leg would allow.

Wilson watched him a moment before jogging to catch up, knowing gaze catching the well-hidden worry in House's eyes.

They caught up with Cameron just inside the door. The EMTs were saying something about a car crash to the ER resident. A few questioning eyes alighted on House's tall frame, but his reputation was fierce even down here. Each doctor or nurse instead redirected his or her gaze to Wilson beside him, questioning. Wilson's expression gave a clear reply: You really, really don't want to try to make him leave.

House noticed none of this. His well-trained gaze swept Cameron's small frame, searching for injury. Damn her, why was she so… so delicate? She really needed to eat more.

A cut on her cheek, maybe four stitches at most. Bruising on her collarbone, maybe a break. A neck brace, but that was standard – probably whiplash. He relaxed slightly. Vaguely he heard Wilson's voice in the background, "is she going to be okay?" He ignored it, hobbling after the gurney as the ER team pushed her down the hall.

Something was bugging him. Sure, they had to check her out, but why were there so many people? What was the rush? She just had a cut and a couple of broken bones… Something inside him clenched again, and he found himself feverishly praying that this was the case, his gaze locked on her face.

Her eyes opened suddenly, fear lining her features. She couldn't move her head and she was panicking, her eyes flickering all around her, before they locked on House's face.

Relief. There was relief in her eyes. Relief at seeing him there? No… not after he'd yelled at her that afternoon, she… But no, this was Allison Cameron. She forgave everyone everything. And now she needed reassurance.

He gave her a sharp nod and his chest tightened to see her face relax, to see her smile slightly in thanks.

And then she was through another door, and there was an intern telling him he couldn't follow. He blinked, eyes flicking from the disappearing form of Cameron to the insolent boy before him.

Apparently his reputation hadn't reached him. He would have to work harder in the future.

Wilson winced, his conversation with an EMT interrupted by a furious yelling from down the hall. With an apologetic look and a murmured "thanks" James Wilson went to calm his friend down.

"… stupidest intern to ever get out of medical school. Maybe you'd be better off raising chickens in the deep south, huh? Now GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY!"

"House, leave the poor kid alone! They're just doing their job!"

House turned, mouth open, ready to lay into Wilson as well, but the oncologist grabbed his arm and pulled him away down a hall.

"Come on. We could both do with a cup of coffee."

House fumed, but followed his friend as he led the way to the cafeteria.

"Well?" he said, after they had sat down with their cappuccinos.

"Well what?"

"What did they say had happened to Cameron?"

Wilson forbore to smile at what was to him an obvious attempt to hide concern. The image of Cameron being wheeled out of an ambulance sprang to mind, immediately quelling any humour.

"She was in a car crash." He sipped his coffee slowly, finding comfort in the taste and the warmth.

"Nice work, Sherlock. What's your next case going to be?"

Wilson smirked despite himself. "Funny, I always saw myself as the Watson of our crime-fighting duo. Drink your coffee, House." He sighed, and leant back in the hard plastic chair. "Apparently she was driving home and crossed the centre line when she was turning a corner."

House narrowed his eyes, taking a sip of his coffee. He would not admit feeling better for it, even to himself. "That doesn't sound like Cameron. She drives slower than you do."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Well, it's raining, maybe the road was slippery."

"I don't buy that."

Wilson blew air out his nose in frustration, leaning forward to smack his hand against the table. "What do you want me to say, House? You were yelling at her and made her cry and the tears blurred her vision and she crashed? You want me to blame you?"

Pain in those blue eyes, and a touch of the old self-hatred that was always ready to flair up again. Wilson sighed, running a hand across his face.

"You're not the only one who lost a patient today, okay? And I don't like seeing Cameron hurt any more than you do. It's been a long day. If you're going to self-destruct over this, can it wait until tomorrow?"

House almost smiled, one corner of his mouth tilting upwards in self-mockery. "I guess I can hold off on shooting myself for one more day – but only for you, Jimmy." His face fell, serious again. "Did they say what her injuries were? She didn't look to badly hurt, but…" He knew as well as anyone how looks could be deceiving.

Wilson sipped at his coffee again, crossing his leg over his left knee. "Whiplash, broken clavicle, cut to the face. But… Greg… the other car was travelling very fast… They had to use the jaws of life to get her out. Her midsection was crushed."

"She might have internal injuries." House nodded slightly, raising the cardboard cup to his lips again. She'd be okay, she'd be okay. She was tougher than she looked; he knew that better than anyone.

"Did –"

"I asked one of the nurses to page us."

Another nod.

Wilson leant back in his chair again, head tilted back so that he was looking at the florescent lights buzzing on the ceiling. It was a long day.

How long he'd been staring into his half-empty coffee cup, he didn't know. A normal person would have switched off, sat in a shocked silence. He knew that's what Wilson was doing: burnt out, tired, he had sat back and turned his brain off. Family members of patients did that in the cafeteria all the time… soul-weary, bleary-eyed, fuelled on coffee and cafeteria food, they would sit here for an hour at a time, staring off into space.

Greg House could not do this.

Of all the pains that plagued him, this was the worst, because it pulled all the others so sharply into view. He could not, try as he might, turn his brain off. Not without too many Vicodin, or too much booze. Or his piano… when he played, there was just the music. When he played he didn't think.

Here there were none of these things – save the Vicodin, and he didn't want to take too many for fear he'd zone out and not notice if he was paged.

Speak of the devil. His pager bleeped at his belt and he turned it to read the message: CAMERON AWAKE ROOM 214.

He looked up to catch Wilson's eye. His friend nodded to him.

"You go first; I have to take a leak. Tell her I'll be along in a moment."

House nodded, unsure whether or not to be grateful.

The trip to her room was ridiculously short, and he felt himself slow down before he reached her door. This was stupid. He wasn't any good at this sort of thing. What if she was awake? He'd have to sit there and… and make conversation, or something. An image of her prone body being wheeled into the ER sprang back to his mind and he suppressed a shudder.

Then he pushed open the door.

Allison Cameron was lying on her back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Her chestnut hair flowed out over her pillow, while her hands were at her sides, clenching at her mattress.

House noticed, as he noticed everything.

"You in pain?"

Green eyes flickered over to him. They had removed her neckbrace, but she hadn't moved her head.

"Cameron?"

"House." He could pick out every emotion that charged the word: fear, desperation, pleading, even hope.

"Are you in pain?" he asked again.

Her eyes flickered back to the ceiling. "Yes. But – but don't up my morphine. They… I want to be… to know what's going on." She swallowed.

She looked okay, didn't she? Stitches in her cheek, not much they could do about her collarbone at this point…

He dragged a chair over with his cane and sat down beside her.

"What happened?"

She turned her head this time, gazing at him for a while. In shock, probably. Only to be expected.

"I wasn't concentrating," she admitted. "The guy on the other side of the road… he was going to fast. We smashed into each other." Something seemed to occur to her; her eyes widened. "Is he okay?"

House had to do a mental double-take. "What?"

"The guy in the other car. Is he okay?"

He let out a bark of laughter. "You're lying here in a hospital bed, lucky to be alive, and you're worried about the other guy?"

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with –"

House waved a hand dismissively. "I don't know what happened to him. He wasn't brought here."

"Oh."

An uncomfortable silence. House pulled himself to his feet and hobbled towards the end of the bed.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to read your chart."

She wrinkled her nose in protest. "You're not my doctor!"

He rolled his eyes. "Indulge the poor cripple, huh?"

She closed her eyes, as if fighting against another onslaught of pain. House noticed, but said nothing. Then he picked up the chart, and knew why she had grimaced at his comment.

"…Oh."

He opened his mouth to say something. He closed it. He opened it again. Then he replaced the chart on the end of her bed and left the room.

Wilson was headed toward Cameron's room, having decided that he'd given her and House enough time to themselves. His eyes widened when he saw House sprint-limping towards him.

"Hey, is she –"

House pushed past him, his face a blank mask. Wilson watched him for a moment as he continued to race down the hall. He narrowed his eyes, shrugged, and made his way to Cameron's room.

"Hi, Dr. Cameron," he said in an attempt at cheer, pushing open her door.

"Dr. Wilson, hey," she replied weakly. "It's nice of you to come."

"No problem." He smiled warmly at her. "Are you okay? Anything I can do for you?"

Cameron grimaced. "I hate to ask, but can you call my family for me?"

"Sure, no problem." He coughed. "Uh, so, I saw House racing out of here. What did he say this time?"

She turned her face away from him. "Read the chart," she said softly.

Concern lining his features, Wilson picked the chart from the end of the bed and glanced at it.

"Oh."

"That's what he said." She was still staring at the wall. "Then he ran away."

Wilson read the chart again, willing the three fatal words to disappear.

Paralysis, likely permanent.

"Oh… god. Cameron. I…"

She made a noise which could have been a sob, and could have been a laugh. "You know what he said just before he read it? He said, 'indulge the poor cripple'. Who's the cripple now, huh?" She did laugh then, a soft chuckle, before sobering. She met Wilson's eyes. "Make sure he's okay?"

Wilson was taken aback. "You… You don't want to talk about this? Cam… You don't have to worry about him – "

"Someone has to."

Wilson was about to open his mouth to reply that someone had to look after her, when the door opened again.

House entered, his face half a shade paler than usual. To Wilson, veteran of drink-a-thons and subsequent hangovers, he looked like he had thrown up. He limped over to the chair as if nothing had happened and sat down in it, the expression on his face daring anyone to question him.

Wilson set the chart back on the end of the bed. "Hey, Dr. Cameron, take care, alright? I'm going to ring your family, and then I'm going to head home. I'll call in in the morning, is that okay?"

She smiled, and House felt a pang of unreasonable jealousy. "Yes, thank you, Dr. Wilson. See you tomorrow."

Wilson levelled a look at House that clearly said "Fuck this up and you're toast, best friend or not", and left.

House stared down at Cameron's hand, twisted in the sheets. He knew she was staring at him. He was reminded of her at his door, huge green eyes boring into him, her hand outstretched – and he not even able to look at her. She was just… how did she do it? Usually he could meet her gaze for gaze, but when he was weakened she had him on the ropes. Yet when she was weakened, her gaze became stronger.

It was unfair.

"You okay?" she asked, voice soft.

He almost laughed aloud. She could be paralysed for life, and she was asking him? He met her gaze then, surprised to see genuine concern there.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

She looked like she was about to say something, but changed her mind. She was learning… already she was approaching Wilson in her ability to read him. He wasn't sure he liked it.

"Are you okay?"

"No."

A simple answer, but, for some reason, not one he had been expecting.

"Well… are you going to be okay?"

The pause stretched. "Maybe. No. I don't know." Her eyes welled up with tears, and he couldn't look at her again.

"I can't dance anymore. I… I can't run anymore, or jump, or walk… or stand…" She was crying now, breath coming in sharp gasps.

House stared at his hands clutching the handle of his cane. This was the part he sucked at. Wilson should be here, comforting her. Saying the things he didn't know how to say.

He opened his mouth to say something like "I know what it's like" and stopped himself. He didn't know.

This was so supremely unfair.

"I think…" he said slowly, "that this is proof that a higher power does not exist."

Her eyes were on him again, and this time he looked up. She wasn't angry. She was sad, and hurting… but thankful somehow.

"Did I say the right thing?" he asked, eyebrows rising in mock astonishment. "Hey, maybe Hell froze over. Let's call Cuddy and ask what the weather's like down there."

The corner of her mouth twitched upward. Not a smile, but a start. A spark of hope twinged in his chest. Maybe she'd be okay.

They sat there for a while in silence, each trying not to think, and each failing. Finally House stretched, and checked his watch.

"It's almost midnight. Why aren't you sleeping?"

Cameron resisted the urge to shift in her bed: they had most of her body strapped down. "I don't know. Why are you still here? You should be sleeping too."

House shrugged. "That's insomnia for you." He tried to ignore the look of sympathy on her face, and dragged up another chair. He snagged a spare pillow from the empty bed next to her and tucked it behind him, propping his feet up on the other chair.

"You're staying."

An almost imperceptible nod.

She let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding. "Thank you, House."

He shrugged. "Hey, you know me, my bedside manner is legendary."

She smirked. "Yeah, for all the wrong reasons."

"Go to sleep, Dr. Cameron!"

He watched her until her breathing eased into a sleeping pattern. Then he reached out and touched her hand, carefully easing its grip on the sheets before taking it in his. He sat back in his chair, scrunching down until he was comfortable. Who knows, maybe he'd get some sleep.

From his vantage point at the window, Wilson smiled to himself.

Thoughts? Spelling mistakes I missed? Should I continue, or just leave it here? Reviews are much appreciated