This is my first House fic. Potentially triggering. Please rate and review! Also, spoilers for the end of Season 4. Unfortunately for me, I do not own House. That beauty belongs to David Shore.
House limped down the corridor, his stomach growling audibly. He leant into his cane more than usual, gritting his teeth against the pain as he made a mental tally of the amount of pills in his pocket. Reaching his lunch buddy's office, he waited for a minute, listening to the heavy breathing of the office's occupant. Smirking at the thought of finding Wilson in a compromising situation, he raised his cane and tried to open the door, only for the rubber tip to bounce straight at him, almost making him lose his precious balance.
He cocked his head, confused. Wilson never locked his office door, unless he had a patient, and House had watched the office carefully for almost an hour to avoid clinic duty. No-one had gone in, no-one had gone out. So why was the door locked? Rapping of the door continually with the wooden end of his cane, House listened as Wilson scrabbled around, desk drawers banging like bombs. Suddenly, the door was opened like a pop-gun, and House practically fell into Wilson, only the young oncologist keeping him from face-planting the floor.
"What do you want, House?" Wilson said tiredly, tugging down the sleeve of his pristine white doctor's coat. He looked almost scared, eyes glancing down at the second desk drawer every few seconds.
"Jumpy, aren't we?" House replied instantly, winking mischievously. Wilson just rolled his chocolate brown eyes and put his hands on his hips.
"Seriously, if you're just here to screw around with me, piss off," the oncologist snapped, holding open his office door.
"You've got your lab coat on," House said suddenly, balancing his cane against the door, preventing either of them from escaping.
"So?" Wilson answered, his face remaining cool, but his eyes portraying the very essence of fear.
"Whenever you're in your office, you always take off your lab coat and roll up your sleeves, and you don't usually wear your suit jacket with the lab coat."
Wilson bit his lip.
"I-I just didn't have time to take it off," he stammered. "I just got here."
"I've been watching your office for an hour," the diagnostician countered. "You've been here the whole time." House took his orange bottle out of his pocket and popped a couple of pills, swallowing them dry. Wilson looked about ready to cry as he collapsed into his office chair, pulling down his sleeve again. Out of the blue, House leant over the desk and yanked Wilson's arm towards himself, making the younger doctor yelp.
"What the hell!?" Wilson yelled as House grabbed his cane and kicked the door closed. "What are you doing!?"
"Shut up," House mumbled, pulling up the coat and jacket sleeves. The shirt sleeve was spotted with dark crimson liquid, small patches spreading to cover the sky blue material. House looked up, shock written all over his face as Wilson hung his head, breathing shallowly. Cautiously. House rolled up the shirt sleeve, ignoring the still burning pain in his leg; Wilson was all that mattered right now.
Nothing, nothing in the entire world could have prepared him for what lay on his best friend's arm.
The pale skin was littered with neat lines of cuts, a gap left for the vein. There had to have been at least 50 cuts, running from the wrist right up to the elbow. The first two lines or so were older, beginning to scab over, but had clearly been picked at. The others were fresh, still oozing blood.
"Oh, Wilson..." House whispered, his electric blue eyes meeting Wilson's dark ones, which were overflowing with tears. The oncologist pressed his free hand to his mouth, suppressing a sob as House ran his hand over the cuts, staring at the blood that stained them.
"Sorry," said Wilson, his voice muffled.
"Give me your pager," House said shortly, letting go of Wilson's wrist and holding his hand out. "Cuddy doesn't answer my emergency pages."
"No!" Wilson practically shrieked, jumping up, re-covering his arm. "You can't, and I repeat, can't, tell Cuddy! I'll lose my job, I'll lose my house, I'll lose everything..."
Wilson paced his office, almost hyperventilating as tears continued to spill onto his cheeks.
"You won't lose anything, you idiot," House replied, sitting on the plush sofa, massaging his thigh. "Sit down and give me your pager, or I'll just go and steal Foreman's, or one of the ducklings', you know I will."
Wilson viciously threw his pager at his best friend, knowing that it would be fruitless to resist, but didn't sit down, loitering by the door, peeking out of the thin window.
"Sit down before you pass out," House repeated, typing quickly. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly in great shape to drag you across the floor."
Wilson's head snapped up, his chest still heaving.
"B-bad pain d-day?" he asked, stubbornly wiping his eyes.
"Never mind me, you're the one who could be potentially bleeding out."
Wilson's once-thoughtful eyes widened in shock.
"I-I-I didn't cut th-that deep," he stuttered, his eyes straying to the desk drawer. Curious, House sidled over and tried to open the drawer; of course, it was locked. Wilson shook his head dumbly, anticipating the question. House shrugged, and reached under the coffee cup, smirking at the small silver key. Unlocking the drawer, he retrieved a small scalpel, stained with blood. Wilson's blood.
"At least you had the sense to use a sterile instrument, I suppose," he mused as Cuddy burst through the door, looking rumpled.
"This had better be important, Wilson," she said, straightening her skirt, not yet having looked her head oncologist fully in the face.
"Actually, I wanted you here," House said, leaning on the desk. Cuddy sighed.
"If you want some crazy procedure authorised, at least drag your ass down to my office instead of-"
"Wilson's cutting himself."
Cuddy stopped in her tracks, mouth hanging open in shock.
"What?" she exclaimed disbelievingly, turning to the frozen Wilson. "Is this true?"
Wilson opened his mouth to speak, but House shushed him and simply held up the blood-stained scalpel.
"Is this enough proof?" he said.
Cuddy closed the door, gently taking Wilson's arm and rolling up the bloodied sleeve just as House had done, gasping.
"Amber?" she asked quietly. Wilson nodded and buried his face in Cuddy's shoulder, sobbing. Cuddy stroked his hair in a mother-like way, rubbing his back as he hiccuped and emerged, wiping his eyes.
"This is stupid, just go back to whatever you were doing," he mumbled, going to his desk chair and sitting down slowly in it, massaging his temples.
"You okay?" House said, concern creeping into his usually cold voice.
"Just got a little light-headed, that's all, I'll be fine in a minute," Wilson said, his voice muted. House reached into his blazer pocket and shone his penlight into Wilson's eyes, making the younger doctor squint and try to pull away.
"We've got to stitch these up before he goes into hypovolemic shock," House muttered. "Is there a sewing kit in here?"
House pulled the needle through the skin, tying it off to finally finish the last stitch.
"If you rip these out, I swear to God I'm going to personally kill you," he growled. Wilson let out a watery laugh, his thumb stroking the picture of his dead girlfriend he kept on his desk.
"I miss her," he said simply.
"We all miss her," replied Cuddy, rubbing his shoulder. House almost scoffed at the sentimentality of it all, but was silenced as a wave of loss hit him face-first. He looked down, gripping his cane. All of a sudden, his pager beeped madly. Looking at it, he sighed at the ducklings' ignorance. #
"I gotta go before a bitch fight breaks out between the ducklings," he said quickly, moving towards the door. "I'll drop by later, Wilson."
Wilson nodded, his attention focused on the grainy picture.
"I'll stay at his tonight," he whispered in Cuddy's ear. Cuddy nodded, smiling sadly, watching as her top diagnostician limped towards the elevator.
Both of them, she thought. They both have to be saved from themselves.