Fix
The oncologist closed his eyes at that, raising a hand to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.
"Wilson, what's the big deal? I'm FINE." House laughed nervously, slightly alarmed by the way Wilson's fist was clenching and unclenching, the way his shoulders were visibly moving up and down with each forced, deep breath that flared his nostrils. "C'mon, Wilson, you're obviously overreacting."
There was a moment of stunned silence in which Wilson absorbed his words before his eyes snapped open, filled at once with all the emotion he had been trying to keep the diagnostician from seeing.
"OVERREACTING? OVERREACTING?! I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO DIE!" he screamed, no longer able to stop the tears from cascading down his face. "YOU FUCKING IDIOT! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'D DO THAT TO ME! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'D LEAVE ME BEHIND LIKE THAT! I CAN'T BELIEVE-" he choked and his voice broke. He buried his face in his hands and dissolved into uncontrollable sobs, his shoulders shaking violently with each heaving gasp.
House watched helplessly for a minute, two, before realising this wasn't just going to stop. He had really done it this time.
House knew how to deal with an angry Wilson, a self-righteous Wilson. A sad Wilson, a sarcastic Wilson. Even, at times, a hurt Wilson. But not this. No, this was beyond even his level of expertise. The only way to describe the man currently sitting before him was broken. And it was his fault. He wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole so he didn't have to deal with this.
But Wilson was broken because of him, so it was his job to fix him.
He slowly limped over and took a seat beside his friend, so close their shoulders brushed. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on a loose thread of carpet. "I wouldn't," he said softly, fingers drumming on his leg.
Wilson's breath hitched as he choked back another sob. "What?" he asked hoarsely.
House knocked his left knee against Wilson's right one. "I wouldn't do that to you," he said quietly.
The diagnostician risked a quick glance at his friend, who was now staring at him with wide, chocolate brown eyes. They were red and puffy and they hurt House to look at so he looked back down at the carpet instead.
Wilson drew in a ragged breath, and House tensed, ready for his friend to unleash a string of angry insults, but when he spoke, his voice was tired and flat and full of bitter truth, or at least what he thought was the truth. "Yes, you would. You'd get so caught up in it all that you wouldn't so much as remember to think of me. Then you'd do it and I'd get left behind and you wouldn't realise and then I'd be alone. You would leave me behind. You wouldn't mean to do it, but you still would, nevertheless."
He was crying again, silent tears that streamed down his cheeks and fell into his lap.
House didn't say anything. He didn't have a clever response to that. Any clever response he did have died on his tongue as he realised that his next words decided whether he lost Wilson or not. He hesitated briefly, before saying, "Wilson. I would never leave you behind. In fact, I'm going to go back up to my hotel room, pack my things, and come home. I'm going to show up to work next, every day, on time. I'm going to go back to Nolan."
When Wilson glanced up at him again, slightly shocked, and took in the determined set of his face, he realised that every word his friend had said was true. Wilson took a deep breath, nodded, and said carefully, "I think that's a very good idea."
House nodded, smiling slightly. Already pieces of the oncologist were reassembling.