As through Fire, a house, m.d. fanfic

Title: As Through Fire

Author: pgrabia

Characters/Pairing: J. Wilson, D. Nolan, mention of G. House; House/Wilson friendship.

A/N: This story is an alternate ending to the House M.D. Season seven finale. Written as an entry to Camp Sick!Wilson 2011 Challenge # 1—The Great Fix.

Genre: Drama, sick!Wilson, sick!House, hurt/comfort.

Spoiler Alert: This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 7x23 "Moving On".

Word Count: ~1300

Rating: PG for mention of violent behavior and injury.

As Through Fire

Dr. James Wilson looked up from the TV when there was a knock on his door. He turned the TV off with the remote control.

"Come in," he called hoarsely. His throat was still bothering him although the cough was improving. He hated being sick.

The door opened and his appointment walked into the room. The dark-complexioned man was heavy set and had a jovial face; he'd changed since Wilson last saw him. He had hoped it would have been later rather than sooner, but relapse did happen. House's Vicodin addiction was just one example of a disease with no cure that threatened flare-ups—acute ones at that.

"Hi," Wilson greeted with a smile, looking up at the man. "Have a seat. I'm glad you could come on such short notice. The sooner this is dealt with the better."

"I was surprised to hear from you," the other man told him, pulling up a chair before him. "I was concerned that something would go terribly wrong but when I didn't hear from you or anyone else for over a year I thought perhaps I had been wrong. Before we start though, do you mind telling me what happened to your arm? It looks painful."

"Well, I have a scaphoid fracture; the wrist was injured when I jumped out of the way of a speeding car and tried to stop myself from crashing to the ground by landing on the palm my hand to stop myself," Wilson told him with a sad smile, glancing down at the cast on his right forearm, wrist, and hand. "The left arm? It suffered second-and third-degree burns. The second degree ones are the painful ones but Morphine is a wonderful thing sometimes."

He received a smirk at that. "Did you receive the burns during the same incident?"

Wilson sighed silently and nodded; he hated recalling what had happened. It was too painful.

"Yes," he admitted. "My nurse will be in here shortly and after she helps me into the wheelchair we can be on our way. I'm warning you, this won't be pleasant for either one of us."

True to his word a pretty woman in her mid-twenties entered the room after a knock on the door and gave the oncologist a sunny smile. "Ready, Dr. Wilson?"

"As ready as I'll ever be, Evelyn."

They had this down to a science, the transferring him from his bed into the wheelchair and the transfer of the IV saline bag from the stand to the small pole on the back of his chair. Every time they had to do it, it was excruciatingly painful for him and they had done it a lot. Much to his doctor's chagrin Wilson refused to be tied to his bed all day. It was bad enough that he'd been forced to take sick leave and couldn't attend to his patients; he wasn't going to give up this, too. Cuddy had threatened to have him put into restraints if he didn't obey his doctor and behave himself but of course she hadn't; she'd respected the needs of his mental health even if she didn't approve of them.

The nurse took her place behind the chair to push it when she was replaced by Wilson's visitor.

"I'll take care of that, thanks."

She nodded and then flashed Wilson a smile before leaving. The men started off.

"Looks like you've still got it."

Wilson chuckled ruefully and shook his head. "Not really. She did a rotation in Oncology as a student so I got to know her. Just friends."

"Are you certain she knows that?" was the response. "The lady appears to be smitten and if I remember correctly you're said to have quite the reputation with the ladies."

"I've dated my share," Wilson admitted with a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and eyes. "We're headed for the third floor, unit 32 room 12."

His driver changed their vector slightly in response. When they reached the correct location they stopped.

"I have to warn you, he won't recognize you, Darryl," Wilson told him grimly. His eyes went from amused to sad instantly. "He doesn't even recognize me. He thinks he's somewhere in the Caribbean; his favorite 'haunt' is a seedy little bar on the beach. He thinks I'm the bartender and he keeps telling me stories of his life, his victories, and his woes. One thing about it—I've learned more about what makes House tick this past week as his bartender than I have in twenty years as his friend. I wonder what that means about our friendship."

"It means he cares enough about you to want to protect your opinion of him," Nolan told him reassuringly. "It's sometimes easier to talk to strangers about the deeper things than it is to the people we care about, especially if some of the topics of conversation concern those people."

Wilson nodded even though he wasn't completely convinced. "Anyway, when he drove the car into Cuddy's house he was knocked unconscious. The car started on fire with him still in it and then the house caught on fire. Cuddy's boyfriend herded her, her sister and her husband out of the building and left House in the car to burn to death, I guess. Cuddy wanted to go back to rescue House out but whomever that creep was he wouldn't let her. So I ran in and pulled him out. My sleeve caught on fire as I was doing so, as did House's jacket and shirt. I was so busy dragging him to safety and trying to put out the fire on him that I didn't realize that my arm was on fire until Cuddy was on me trying to bat it out.

"House only suffered minor burns to his back and a serious concussion but when he woke up in hospital he thought he was far away from here, having run away out of fear and shame. I need you to tell me that this is temporary, that he's going to come to his senses again."

Nolan shook his head slowly. "I can't do that James—I haven't even spoken with him yet. If this is some kind of Vicodin-induced psychosis then it's possible that he'll recover like he did last time. If it's a hysterical reaction to some kind of trauma…well, only time and therapy will tell."

"Are you certain that it's okay for me to sit in?" Wilson asked dubiously.

"House is obviously not of sound mind," Nolan told him. "He signed a waver with me back when he was attending therapy that gave me the permission to inform you of what was happening in his therapy should he lose all capacity to tell reality from delusion. He never rescinded it. Also, he still lists you as his medical proxy. It's covered legally. I believe, from what you've told me, he might be more willing to accept me as another bar patron and open up to me if you're there."

Nodding at that, Wilson sighed heavily then said, "Well…let's get started."

Nolan nodded, opened the door to House's room, and then pushed the wheelchair in with him.