His father is dying, he's pretty sure of that. Of course the doctors haven't confirmed it. They think that maybe there's a chance. He's read up though on all the stats on stroke victims and he can read the doctors' body language like an open book.

At the age of 69 his father is slowly dying.

He runs that thought through his mind again, unable to apply it to his Dad. It all seems so unreal: the panicked phone call from his mother four days before, the long drive to the hospital in the early hours of the morning... Not real. This is what happens to his patients. It's not supposed to happen to him.

The hard plastic chair he's sitting on is taking its toll on his body and he stretches, cracking joints. Underneath the crisp, white sheets that cover his bed his father doesn't stir. The endless pop and hiss noise of the respirator fills the otherwise silent room.

He really wants to scream.

On the other side of the bed his mother is perched on an identical chair. Leaning forward she's holding his father's hand, stroking it gently, occasionally whispering in his ear. They've been married for forty-five years and it's the only life she's known.

As he slides back down into the seat his body automatically moulds itself back into the shape of the plastic. Magazines and journals lie forgotten by his feet. There's a food container, brought by one of the nurses, but he's too exhausted to eat. Instead he contemplates his father - the pale skin, the hollow cheeks - and realizes he's aged ten years in the last four days.

Time passes. Not slowly or fast: it just passes. At some point he realizes his mother is watching him and he quirks his lips upwards in a shadow of smile.

"He'll be fine, Jimmy. He's a fighter, your father."

He nods, quirks his lips upwards again. During the first two days he'd tried to persuade her otherwise, attempting to prepare her for the worst. Now he just nods, not wanting to add to the fear and bewilderment in her eyes. Reaching across the bed he grasps her free hand and squeezes, and then reaches for his father's other hand, linking the three of them together. A tear s slowly slides down his mother's cheek. Biting his bottom lip, he looks away.

"I wish David was here."

His breath hitches and he swallows hard. Releasing his mother's hand, he pushes his chair back and stands. "I need some coffee. Do you want some?" Not looking at him she shakes her head. Leaning down to brush his lips across his father's forehead, he gives his hand another squeeze and leaves.

Out in the corridor he starts pacing. Hands flexing, he reminds himself that he really needs to breathe. His brother David keeps coming up in the conversation and his name is like acid on a raw wound.

Of course he wishes David was there as well. Having his younger brother, Peter, around would be useful too. But David made his choices years ago and Peter's young daughter has got chicken pox so he doesn't think he can come. Hiding from the truth has always been his younger brother's forte so it's just him and his mother who are waiting.

And he wishes he could stand in this corridor and scream.

The pacing does eventually calm him. Leaning against the wall he rubs his eyes then, reaching inside his jacket pocket, pulls out his PDA. He's got mail waiting. And he can guess who it's from.

Since he'd phoned House that first night, shortly after receiving his mother's phone call, his friend has been bombarding him with emails. The first few had been to check if he'd got there and made insinuations about Volvo drivers being annoyingly slow. He'd had several updates on Steve's cheese intake; apparently the rat was getting choosier in his old age. The majority of the emails had been medicine based.

During the first day he'd been too busy to care what House was doing. On day two, hiding out in the hospital parking lot for a few minutes, he'd understood. His father was dying but House wasn't going to let him go without a fight. Reading through the emails he could imagine his friend scribbling on the white board, stabbing questions into his computer and hitting 'send' with an impatient jab of his finger. His suspicions were confirmed when Chase sent him an apologetic mail asking for more details about the treatment his father had received in the Emergency Room. It was useless of course. But it was appreciated. And it was contact with the outside world.

There are three new emails and they're blinking at him, demanding his attention. Scrolling quickly through the titles he squints, the small text fuzzy to his tired eyes. There's a clock on the wall in front of him and he glances up at it, then looks again, surprised. It's early evening. Another day's gone by and he hadn't noticed. Straightening up he runs his fingers through his hair and over his face, reminding him that he needs a shave. No chance, his mind shouts back. That would take way too much energy.

He settles instead for a visit to the men's room and a cup of sludge from the coffee machine. He takes one for his mother as well. She won't drink it but it makes him feel useful and there's not much else he can do.

They fall back into their normal routine. Sitting on opposite sides of the bed they speak rarely, both lost in their own memories. Occasionally a member of the medical staff appears but then it falls quiet again. Eventually his eyelids grow heavy and the hiss and pop of the respirator fades away.

It's the sound of raised voices outside in the corridor that wakes him. With a grunt of surprise he opens his eyes, his gaze falling first on his father, then over to his mother who's staring back, her eyes wide with worry.

Struggling to his feet he gives her a reassuring hug then heads for the door. "I'll go and see what's happening."

Out in the corridor he's intercepted by a nurse. Red-cheeked, she looks flustered and she's waving a clip-board like a lethal weapon. "Dr Wilson! There's someone here to see you."

Sleep is still making his thought processes sluggish and it takes him a second to catch up. A quick glance at the wall clock and he's confused again: it's 4am.

"Yes, I know it's the middle of the night," the nurse confirms, taking pity on him. "He was very insistent. I couldn't stop him. He says his name is House."

"That's Dr House," a familiar voice yells, emphasizing the medical title.

The nurse steps aside to reveal his friend limping towards them. Limping very heavily, the doctor in him notes. But it's House in all his scruffy, flat-hatted glory. He's never been so grateful to see anyone in his life.

The nurse is still hovering and he waves her away with an apologetic smile. As House reaches him, flopping into a chair with a relieved sigh, he doesn't know whether to laugh, cry or hug his friend to death. Instead he takes the seat beside him and rubs the sleep out of his eyes while he waits for House to catch his breath.

"It's 4am," he offers eventually, waving vaguely at the empty corridor. "I think visiting hours finished a while ago."

House shuffles uncomfortably beside him then glares. "You didn't answer your mail today."

To his exhausted mind that sounds funny; he starts giggling, curling over double, his shoulders hitching up and down. Or maybe it's not that funny he thinks vaguely but he can't stop now, the giggles turning into hiccups as he struggles not to cry.

There's the light pressure of a hand on his shoulder and he leans into it. Dragging air into his lungs subdues the giggles and he slumps back, squeezing his eyes shut against the threat of tears.

"You look like crap," House informs him, his voice surprisingly gentle.

Another bout of giggling threatens and he stifles it with a cough, shaking his head as the grip on his shoulder tightens. Hysteria is still bubbling under the surface but strangely he does feel better.

For the first time in days he doesn't feel like screaming.