He was just sitting there, eyes shut, face set.
When the nurse had told Wilson that House had fallen, he had been expecting to find the worst–House curled up in pain, shame and anger at his body making him lash out at anybody who came near. But he was just sitting there, on the floor, doing his best to ignore the group of people around him, and the stabbing, throbbing pain in his thigh.
Wilson pushed through the group, knelt by his friend, and gently placed a hand on House's shoulder.
House yanked the hand away, blue eyes flashing, overbright, as he squeezed angrily, making Wilson gasp before getting himself under control and releasing his friend.
Looking around, Wilson saw that several on-lookers were sporting hand-print bruises from similar attempts to help.
Wilson sighed, shooed everyone away, then looked back at his friend.
House had closed his eyes again, but when Wilson reached out for a second time, it gave House no trouble to grab the hand and twist it away from himself, making Wilson cry out, then bite his lip.
"Ok, House. I won't touch you." he said, trying to keep the pain out of his voice.
House opened his eyes, looking at his friend.
He let go.
Wilson stifled the urge to hold his wrist.
"Do you want to move?"
House didn't reply.
Wilson sighed, eyes carefully checking House over.
House's right hand was on his thigh, there was the outline of a prescription bottle in his shirt pocket, there was no evidence of a cane anywhere. Hidden by his stubble, Wilson saw a little sparkle of wetness on the side of House's face. No wonder he hadn't wanted anyone to get too close.
Wilson got up, about to head off to find a cane, but stopped. Nothing had caused him to stop, he just had. He looked back at House. The older doctor was looking up at him, utterly and completely desperate.
Wilson knelt back down, reached out tentatively, and drew his friend close when no protest was made.
"Ok, House. Shhh, ok."
Of course House was this stressed out, he hadn't been snapping and yelling at everyone who had been watching him. That alone should have told Wilson to handle with caution.
He gently guided his friend to his feet, but had to catch him, as his bad leg went out again.
"Ok?" asked Wilson, as House leaned heavily against him, breathing quickly and grimacing.
House didn't answer, and Wilson shifted him, so House's arm was over his shoulders, and Wilson's was around House's back.
As Wilson tried to help House limp down the hall, back to his office or car, the answer to if he was ok revealed itself quite clearly–no.
House could barely put any weight on his bad leg, it was worse than usual before the ketamine.
"House, what happened?" asked Wilson, giving up as House cried out at the pain, shaking in his friend's grasp.
House didn't answer until he was sitting on the ground, leaning over his bad leg, tense and trembling.
"I... I put too much weight on it. I just took a step and now it's like this."
Wilson deflated, sitting next to his friend and watching him sadly.
"I'm sorry it wore off, House."
House shook his head, beginning to get his breath back a little.
"Don't. I don't want to think about it. If I think about it, I'll probably have a breakdown in the middle of the hallway, and I don't want that to happen, kay?"
Wilson nodded, "ok."
House sat there, rubbing steadily back and forth over his bad leg, grimacing.
"Wilson?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't like this."
"I know. I'm sorry."
House nodded tiredly.
"I want to go home now."
Wilson nodded.
"Ok."
House closed his eyes.
"Thanks."