3 days, 7 Hours, 48 Minutes.

House tried to shift a little under the blankets, the rough cotton irritating his skin. The sheets had been washed one too many times; they felt stiff. Pushing his chest forward against them, House found they were tucked tightly around him. A harsh but familiar burst of claustrophobia shot through him then subsided into that weight he always carried around in the pit of his stomach. His stomach…something didn't feel right. He twisted his neck to the side, looking around for someone to help him, some clue of where he was, and realised he had yet to open his eyes.

His head felt fuzzy, like someone had wrapped a blanket around his brain as well. Tiny movements took infinite effort, and House gave up for the time being on opening his eyes. The sharp whiteness when his lids fluttered had discouraged him anyway. His senses were starting to come back. The scent of disinfectant filled his nose and he could taste the sterility in his mouth. The Hospital. Sounds kaleidoscoped until the shards made up a complete picture.

"House? You're awake?" A hand shook his shoulder. "You are, aren't you? Your nostrils have stopped flaring."

"Unghahg." House felt his bed shift as the weight balance changed and some of the warmth that had been pressing against his side disappeared.

"House? Can you open your eyes?"

"Yes."

"They aren't open." Panic sparked through Wilson.

"I know. You just asked if I could." House heard Wilson sigh in response, and gingerly blinked his eyes open to see him in a chair at his bedside, one hand clasping his own. Instinctively, he pulled it away but the sudden movement caused a flare of pain. He groaned.

Wilson jumped out of his seat, knocking his tie off the arm of the chair and onto the floor. Sweat had caused his shirt to stick to his body, and now dried held creases firmly in place.

House waved him back. "I'm ok."

Wilson nodded and settled back into his seat, trying to calm his heartbeat. Fussing would just get House angry; somebody else could be doctor, today he was needed as a friend. "Do you remember what happened? You were shot."

"I remember. I hit you. Sorry."

"You only just woke up." Wilson blinked, a perplexed expression drifting across his face.

"No, I…you…I was hallucinating."

"You lost a lot of blood, which probably had something to do with it." Wilson shot a glance at the monitor. Heart rate and blood pressure were stable. He snatched his gaze away, not wanting House to see him checking. He felt an extra pang for his friend's condition when he realised he hadn't noticed a thing.

"How long was I out?"

"3 days." 3 days, 7 hours, 48 minutes. He forced a smile, "I was actually telling the truth when I said you looked good unshaven."

House peered at Wilson, unnerved by the shakey attempt at humour. His eyes were rimmed with red, the lids were puffy. "What happened?"

"You were shot, I just told you. You said you remem-"

"No, what's wrong with me? Why are you so upset?"

"House, you got shot! You nearly died!" Wilson's voice cracked and he looked down, studying the floor as he had done countless times when nurses and doctors had entered over the past 3 days, 7 hours and 48 minutes. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"If I'm fine now, what's wrong with you?" House automatically ran his hand over his thigh, over the scar.

"You could have died! I could have lost you!" His shoulders shook violently as he heaved in gulps of air. Wilson pulled his arm up to cover his face, wiping salt water and mucus on his sleeve. Pain hooked underneath his ribcage and he felt as though he was going to throw up, despite having eaten nothing for 3 days, 7 hours and 48 minutes. Air clawed at his throat as he sucked it in, corroding the soft tissue.

When the tears stopped flowing and he gathered his breathing into a normal pattern, Wilson sat trembling, looking at House, who was staring right back at him. His eyes were glassy from morphine, but they still pierced in the same way they always did.

House's voice was barely as whisper as he said, "I'm sorry."

"You didn't hit me, you were hallucinating. I'm sure my hallucinatory self will forgive you anyway," he tried to pull back from the brink, to find some tone of normalcy.

"Not what I meant."

House clasped Wilson's hand in his own, holding on for dear life.