i want happiness

"Things are going to change, my friend," House grinned, raising his glass.

"You mean you'll trade your addiction for alcoholism?" Wilson quipped, but still clinked his glass against House's. House frowned at him; it was the quickest way to reproach him for raining on his parade.

"Do you mind?" They were celebrating, in one of House's favorite but rarely visited bars, his renewed ability to walk on two legs. So far his bipedalism was limited to a mere two steps— left foot, right foot—before he collapsed in a heap and cried out bloody murder. But progress was progress, and House was just as proud of the movement as the fact that after the crash the only pain killer he wanted was paracetamol. It had been for the ache in his knee after he fell on it. Not for his thigh. "The one time in my life I try to be positive, you decide to take up the shackles of pessimism."

Wilson shrugged. "Just being realistic. It'll make the inevitable fall hurt less."

"I know you're out of practice, but could you, maybe, try being happy for me?"

"On the contrary, House. I'm thrilled." Wilson raised his glass again. "To House, misanthropic doctor extraordinaire, and to a better life for him." He downed a good half of his wine. "I just want… I want this stroke of luck to go right. In the right direction."

"You think the minute I get rid of the cane, I'll walk off a cliff?"

"It's more than just physical, House. Everything is going to change. And not necessarily in ways that you want."

"Stop fretting your eyebrows away! Enjoy the moment!"

Wilson raised one of said eyebrows. "If you insist."

The next victory, of walking from one end to the room to the other without falling, House celebrated alone.

Part I

but let me just stress we're both at our best in a tight spot

Oddly enough, the easiest part was getting him to the emergency room. Even through her shock she knew what to do: staunch the blood flow, call for a gurney, and attend to whatever complications arose. But once House was out of their hands, once there was nothing left to do but the waiting, they were at a loss.

They hung around the corridor, none of them wanting to look at each other, none of them knowing what to say. Chase, his hands in his pockets, stared intensely at the ground as if whatever it was he was he wanted could be found there. Foreman's arms were crossed and his eyes darted all around, trying to keep track of everything.

Cameron pulled off her bloody latex gloves. The wet sound they made as she peeled them off her fingers was a familiar one, but it still made her uncomfortable.

"Who was that guy?" Chase was the first to speak.

"He had to be some ex-patient of House's," Foreman said.

"Did you recognize him? I sure as hell didn't—"

"Does it matter?" Cameron interrupted. She was tried to keep the blood—there was so much of it— on the glove off her hands. Wasn't there anywhere she could throw them away?

Chase gaped at her. "Does it matter? I don't know, maybe, he only just shot House—"

"He's gone." Cameron found a trash can and threw out her gloves with relief. "And he won't be back."

"She has a point," Foreman said. "Even if he wanted to finish killing off House—" Cameron and Chase both winced—"he couldn't get in. Security's been hiked up, there's no way he's getting in now."

"What if he comes back later?" Chase asked defiantly. "What if he shows up months from now, here at the hospital or at House's place? What then, what's to keep him from doing it right the next time?"

"For now, we have other priorities." Cameron had wanted to say that the police would take care of the shooter, but she knew how Foreman felt about law enforcers and that bringing them up would only serve put him on Chase's side. "There's still that patient House admitted to the Diagnostics Department. We can't forget about him."

"The guy with a swollen tongue?" Foreman was incredulous. "The one House was abusing for his own amusement? That's not a real case."

"Maybe, but he's been admitted to the department and we can't just throw him aside. If it's not a real problem, like you say, then we'll be done with him before we know it."

"And if it is a problem?" Chase asked. "What then?"

"Then it's a real case and we better get on it quick, because we don't have House to solve it for us."

Neither Foreman nor Chase could disagree with that.

in times of crisis

Things, as Cuddy knew them, were coming apart at the seams. She was trying to sew it all back together when Wilson banged open her office door without so much as a knock, pale like he'd seen a ghost. But she knew it was no ghost he had seen; rather, he was fearful that he was about to see one.

She felt the same way.

"They're saying House was shot. Is it--?" His hands kept twisting one over the other as though they were devouring each other.

"It's true," she said as calmly as she could. "One shot to his neck and another to his abdomen." She marveled at how she could rattle off this information as if it had no relation to an infuriating but beloved colleague and friend. It had to be because of her years facing the worst as a doctor. "He went into surgery half an hour ago."

Wilson had been turning paler and paler up until that last part. He reddened suddenly. "Half—why didn't anybody tell me?"

"Bit busy," she explained, not without a trace of sarcasm. "It's been crazy ever since and I've been running all over the place. There's been the police wanting witness reports and —" she glanced nervously at the clock. "The press should come swarming in any moment now. They've been calling nonstop."

Wilson took a deep, shuddering breath, and then straightened his shoulders. "What can I do? Right now, I mean. Call his parents, juggle reporters—"

Cuddy had pulled out a mirror she kept in her desk and was making sure that nothing had to be reapplied. Her lipstick was slightly faded and she should brush her hair before the media arrived. What a crazy thing to have to do while, in another wing, someone else saved House's life. "His parents have been contacted and the fewer people who talk to the reporters, the better."

"So I'm useless?" Wilson asked, tone bitter and self-deprecating.

"We will need you," Cuddy said, applying the lipstick and pressing her lips against each other, "When House comes to. You can help him on a more personal level." She started to root through her drawers; where had her hairbrush gone?

Already thinking ahead of what she had to do next, she had half-forgotten Wilson, so was surprised to hear his cold, dry bark of a laugh. He asked, "Tell me, what good could I do him? What good have I I ever I done him? If I were capable of doing any good for him, do you think he'd have been I shot /I --"

This was unusual. Usually Wilson was level-headed, sensible, and steady, even in times of crisis. Cuddy eyed him critically. "How can you expect to protect him from other people's insanity?"

"He drew it! He practically begged for it!" Wilson ranted, gesticulating. "He might as well have painted on a bull's eye and handed out firearms! How many people have ever been shot in this hospital? None, absolutely none! This is no coincidence, it happened because House does this to people! He drives them to it." He stopped, having either run out of steam or become aware of himself. With another deep breath, he said quietly, "Anything I could have done for him, I've already tried. Look where it's gotten us."

This was going too far. "Oh, boo hoo," Cuddy snapped, and from Wilson's shocked expression she knew she was going in the right direction, "you're such a crappy friend, everything bad that ever happens to House is all your fault. Wilson, your best friend is dying and I sympathize, but I need you to get yourself together. I don't care how crappy you are, you're still the best caretaker we've got. Understand?"

"Y, yes," Wilson stuttered, and for a moment Cuddy thought that he was going to add a 'ma'aam.'

"Good."

He nodded and then left her, having finally realized that the last thing she needed was an emotional breakdown in her office. In the two or so minutes of peace before she had to face whatever came next, Cuddy buried her face in her hands careful not to smudge her makeup, and just stayed like that, as if that would give her a firmer grasp on this hell-sent day.

The phone rang, and she snapped back to her job of keeping the hospital in one piece.

i just can't sleep

Wilson wasn't there—as usual—when House finally awoke from his surgery, but, according to hear-say, his first words were: "Did I get the Ketamine?"

Wilson was paged the news at once. Though it was at an unspeakable hour on a Sunday, Wilson threw on some outfit or other, ran out the door, broke all speeding limits on the way over.

House was fading in and out of consciousness, doped up on morphine and needing as much rest as possible. But he stayed awake long enough to pester Wilson. "Why didn't I get Ketamine?" he half wheezed, half whined, and, because two halves weren't enough for House, half demanded.

Wilson was not new to illness. He had seen people in some of the worst physical conditions possible. But seeing House naked with only a blanket to cover him, swollen like a newborn baby, various tubes connected to insert and remove liquids from his body, Wilson could barely find the voice to speak. "That wasn't just death-bed ramblings?"

He didn't answer immediately and Wilson wondered if he hadn't fallen back asleep. "It was," House said laboriously, "But I meant it."

"We'll talk about this later," he promised, "when you're not in the ICU."

But the conversation only repeated itself when Cuddy rushed in. After more demands for Ketamine and promises to look into it, Cuddy and Wilson left to let House continue to recuperate.

"Do you know what he's talking about?" Wilson asked.

"I didn't, but I had Chase, Foreman, and Cameron look through his files. They found articles on how Ketamine-induced comas can reduce and, in some cases, eliminate chronic pain."

"What?" It was too unlikely, too wonderful, to be true. "Does it work?"

"The results aren't conclusive yet. Of course."

"No wonder he's fixated. This could change so much, Cuddy!"

"It might not do a thing! And what then? How much are you going to enjoy picking up the pieces?"

"You're right." He bit his lip. "If it went wrong, the consequences would be even worse. He'd be crushed—and even if it worked, what then? Would he still be addicted?"

Cuddy shook her head. "I don't know. I don't know. How can we know? There are too many possibilities."

"God." Wilson started to think about all the things that could happen. If it didn't work, House would become even more depressed, which was hard to imagine, but if anyone could do it, he was the one. And if it did work, would House necessarily be any happier? He'd find new reasons for misery, most likely. "The worst of it is, I don't think anything could change his mind."

"Yeah. There's no stopping this." She looked straight into his eyes. "These next few months are going to be hard, Wilson. Make no mistake about that."

-- To be Continued --