Author's Note: Hello again! I've decided to post another story, this is just a very short little piece but it was in my head rattling around and so now here it is for your reading pleasure! Spoilers for the episode "A Merry Little Christmas" as it takes place during and I guess a little after at the very end. I hope you'll tell me what you think of it, remember, reviews feed the hungry writer! So without further ado...
Restless Nights
He would often wake, sweating, in the night, left only with the vague sense that someone, or something, had been chasing him. Sometimes, he would wake with House's name on his lips, others Tritter's, and once, strangely enough, Cameron's.
Guilt, a rebellious part of his mind whispered, but no, he insisted to himself that he was just stressed, he'd been putting too many hours at the clinic, he was just a little over tired. That was all it was, he just needed one good night's sleep and these nightmares wouldn't plague him anymore. The trouble was that as long as he spent his nights shooting up in bed, gasping and pouring sweat, a good night's sleep was fairly impossible. The night he had betrayed House to Tritter was when it had started. He had gotten home very late that night, Tritter's satisfied smirk lingering in his mind's eye. That night he had woken with a yell for the first time since childhood when his older brother had told him stories of ghosts taking children away forever.
In the days that followed, as House detoxed while still providing the only major breakthroughs in the case the dreams and night sweats got even worse.
"You want to redeem yourself, give up now."
"And you'll go to jail."
"I've done nothing wrong."
"And you'll go to jail."
"Which makes this your last chance to do me a kindness before ruining my life forever!"
Wilson jerks up in bed, panting, House's name on his lips. Your fault, a nasty voice seems to whisper in his ear, all your fault. He desperately tries to shake it off; he only wanted to help House after all.
"I'm going to give you a moment to reconsider your answer, because if I find out you're lying, it will not be good for you, or for Dr. House."
The hated voice whispers in his mind, speaking in a venomously soft, low voice as he tosses restlessly in the bed.
"When you decided to talk to Tritter your life got a million times better. How do you separate that out? How do you pretend your windfall isn't relevant to this decision?"
He jerks up in bed yet again, panting as he holds his head in his hands, and he can still hear Cameron's accusing voice in his ears, still see her eyes glaring defiance at him. Then another pair of eyes appears, startlingly blue and shouting of betrayal, hurt, and broken trust.
"You need to believe that I've got a problem so that your betrayal has the illusion of nobility, but you're just selfish!"
Wilson shudders in quiet anguish, those eyes and that voice are infinitely more painful then the others. Your fault, the awful voice comes again, all your fault.
"I was trying to help! I just want him to be better!" he announces to the empty room, and he moans softly when he receives no answer, knowing that he feels so terribly guilty despite his insistences that it's just a little stress. No matter how stressed he is the demons that torment him are from his own guilty conscience. Noble intentions or no the facts remain clear and his guilt seems to have taken up a permanent residence.
"I can't testify," he informs Tritter the next day in the cop's car. "Statistically, House is a positive force in the universe," he tells the man sitting next to him, and he prays that he will be able to sleep this night. "I won't testify against him." Oh God please! He's trying so desperately to tip the scales and make it better now.
He sees House popping way to many of the unidentified mysterious pills that he shouldn't even have and he wonders if it is too late too make things better, too late to change the course of his actions. He knows that if he hadn't snitched to Tritter then Cuddy would never have completely taken away the Vicodin and his friend would not now have the suspiciously acquired new ones.
House wouldn't now be taking the dangerous number of pills he seems to be downing, with far too little time in between. Way too many, a warning voice sounds in his head, a growing suspicion forming as the alarm bells go off. Wilson doesn't know what to do, and he forgets all about a good night's sleep as he calls House's apartment to see if he is alright. No answer, and so he calls again. And then again. Still no answer.
The pit of ever present worry and dread in his gut increases steadily now and he decides to listen to it, heading over to House's apartment whether he'll be welcome or not. Banging on the door and shouting doesn't bring an answer though, no more than the phone had earlier, and so he lets himself in. He almost hopes that House will limp out of the other room and start yelling at him, that way at least he would know his is all right. No such luck though.
"House?" he calls worriedly, spotting the cane leaning against the couch, the next moment his heart has suddenly dropped to his stomach and without remembering the movements that bring him there he is leaning on the floor next to the alarmingly still form of Gregory House. At first he doesn't even notice the smell of the throw up as he turns his friend over, relief bubbling in him when he sees his eyes are open. Spotting the empty bottle of pills and the name on the prescription the relief quickly turns to intense anger. How could his friend do this? It was deliberate, how could it not be?
House's eyes are glazed but there is a level of lucidness as well as they focus on Wilson's face for a moment before moving away. He'll be okay, Wilson knows, and as this thought crosses his mind he stands up, taking the pill bottle with him before reconsidering and throwing it down in disgust and then turning on his heel and leaving. Leaving his friend dazed on the floor and stomping out the door into the night.
Once he is safely outside he stops, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath of the cool night air. He should have known in the hospital room when he'd taken the pills from House that it wouldn't be his friend's only attempt at them. Damnit, he knew House didn't give up that easily and yet he hadn't thought to take further precautions!
That night he tosses fitfully in his sleep once more, with what he now knows without a shadow of a doubt is guilt coursing through him.
"Thought you might prefer people over pills."
"Pfft," House brushes past him and strides out of his office.
Wilson gasps and jerks up in his bed for the millionth time, I've lost him, he thinks in utter despair, those icy blue eyes looming out of the darkness to stare accusingly at him again, this time looking dazed as their owner lies on the floor of his lonely apartment. There's no rest for the guilty tonight, he knows as he lies back on the sweat-drenched sheets. Guilty, forever guilty in those blue, blue eyes and so he is doomed to these restless nights.