Okay, we all know House would never be bothered enough to keep something as sappy as a diary, however this is my take on what one may be like if he did.

WARNING: This complete and utter nonsense!

House is not, as I am constantly pointing out, mine.

Monday

Number of Vicodin Consumed:

Within the legal limit. Honest.

Status of Patient:

Alive, I believe. Quite possibly still conscious.

How Cute Was Wilson?:

Who put this question in here? Wilson is not cute at all. Not when he put his hands on his hips eight times today, or when he rubbed the back of his neck, or rested his fingers on the bridge of his nose.

Not when he looked at me with those big brown puppy-dog eyes. *sigh*

No, not cute at all.

Tuesday

Number of Vicodin Consumed:

I forget...so sue me.

Status of Patient:

I know the team mentioned something about the patient, but I was too fascinated by Chase's hair to take it in. Does it smell as good as it looks? Will he think it strange if I sniff it? Okay, yes, of course he will. If he notices that is; we all know he's not quite the brightest crayon in the box now don't we?

How Cute Was Wilson?:

He bought me lunch today. Well, he bought himself lunch and I nicked it, but it still amounts to the same thing really.

I looked at him and fluttered my eyelashes.

"What did I do before I met you?" I ask.

"Starved I think." He replied, pulling the plate back from under my nose.

Wednesday

Number of Vicodin Consumed:

Stop pestering me already!

Status of Patient:

Er...let's presume Foreman suggested Lupus, and Chase counteracted this, then Foreman got all obnoxious and Cameron rolled her eyes. Then I cut in with something genius and they all trouped off to do a series of, what would turn out to be pointless, tests.

How Cute Was Wilson?:

Why does he always have to wear stupid ties? He knows how much I cannot stand those ties!

What he doesn't know is how I sit there thinking about pulling him towards me with said tie. How I could remove said tie while trailing kisses down his neck.

Probably a good thing, really, I wouldn't want to freak him out too much.

The tie was green today; surprise, surprise.

Thursday

Number of Vicodin Consumed:

You know I'm never going to truthfully answer this question, right?

Status of Patient:

On the brink of death.

I went to go see him today at Cameron's insistence (if only she didn't whine so much, she really would be quite hot). Turns out our patient is an idiot. A big, fat, lying idiot. I mean, come on! Who knew?

How Cute Was Wilson?:

Okay, I'll admit it; he was adorable today. He had to tell some poor cancer kid's parents that she was dying. (Enter compulsory *sniff* here).

Anyway, he really wasn't in the mood for me, which is why I settled down on his couch.

He started up on this big rant, hand gestures and all, about how I never had any feelings. He looked so forlorn I nearly told him exactly who I had feelings for...but where would the fun have been in that?

Friday

Number of Vicodin Consumed:

I'm not listening.

Status of Patient:

Ready to be discharged over the weekend.

Turns out it was all thanks to an insect bit in his ear. If only one of my lackeys had bothered to actually examine him rather than just siphoning off half his blood, then maybe we could have gone home and got drunk ages ago.

How Cute Was Wilson?:

Very.

He is asleep on the couch, snoring slightly. The bottles of beer are scattered across the coffee table – he always was a light weight. I grab my permanent marker, hobble quietly over to where he is resting, and write 'GAY' on his forehead. He stirs but doesn't wake. I smirk.

Then I cover him up with a blanket. 'Cause I'm thoughtful like that.