Author's Note: You want to know why I'm writing this? Because I cannot find one stinkin' fanfiction on this entire site concerning Wilson that doesn't include him making out with House! I mean, my god, I can understand a little...but geez it's like you can't think of anything else!?

In response to some reviews, I'm sorry if I offended any of you with "unkind words" but as you've said, people have a right to write what they want to write (lol...that's a lot of right/write) and in case any of you haven't noticed, so do I, and I speak what I think and I'm not sorry for that. I am sorry if you people feel offended.

\Kind of short, I know...sorry\

"House? Are you okay? I called three times!"

Wilson jiggled the doorknob to see it had been left open. He pushed it open and stepped inside, shaking off the bitter cold. He inhaled the reeking scent of vomit through his nostrils, and scanned the expanse of the living room before taking a few steps forward. His stomach plummeted when he spotted his friend lying on the ground next to the couch in a pool of his own vomit. He hurried over pillows and around the coffee table where he rolled him over. House looked awful, his eyes were glassy and his face was pale; his expression dazed. Wilson's eyes darted over the limp form of his friend before he spotted an empty orange prescription bottle on the floor. He picked it up and closed his eyes in comprehension as he saw "Larry Zebalusky" in bold letters on the front. His hand dropped limply at his wrist as he shook his head in pity and disgust. House lifted his head slightly to see that Wilson had picked up the bottle and dropped his head with a thud on the floor after a few moments. Wilson tensed to help House up, but then thought better. He wasn't always going to be here for him, and this was House's fault. Wilson pushed himself up and tossed the bottle aside, not even bothering to watch as it clattered on the wood floor by House's head.

He rubbed his forehead in slight regret. He should've helped him up...he should have gotten him some tea and helped him into bed. No, he thought to himself firmly. Waking up with a splitting headache in the morning will teach House a lesson. Helping him up and making sure he was okay wouldn't do anything. Wilson wasn't always going to be there to help him up.

But he's your friend...

This statement, which had always been a no-brainer for Wilson, was now becoming harder and harder to stand by. House's addiction was worsening...building into a horrible, unstoppable crescendo until there would be nothing left for him except his Vicodin. But he didn't even have his Vicodin! Cuddy had taken it and hidden it in a place Wilson himself didn't even know. He just wanted it do go back to what it used to be like...before he was so addicted to this drug. Better yet, before his leg! He knew that House was his best friend, but sometimes he wondered if he really appreciated their friendship. He took great risks with it. He wasn't even willing to do a 10-minute speech for Vogler to secure his own job and, incidentally, Wilson's job. And tonight, House had preferred pills over people. Over Wilson. Over company on Christmas Eve. House really had changed. Two years before, he and House and spent Christmas together. They had Chinese food and had told jokes to entertain themselves when they were all alone on a big holiday. He had been so happy and content with being with someone who appreciated him. Who was his true friend. But maybe it wasn't that important to House. Maybe it wasn't really a friendship.

Maybe it was just a big pile of crap.

It wasn't that House made him feel like crap, or talked crap to him...he had known that about House since the beginning, but that hadn't really changed anything. In his own mind-set, he knew that House was a bastard, but he never expected him to hurt him so badly...like he had tonight. Did House really think that nobody cared about him? Wilson cared about him. Cuddy cared. Cameron certainly cared, and Wilson knew that even Chase and Foreman cared about him. But none of that mattered to House. He was happy with wasting himself away, trying to act misunderstood so that when he screwed up he wouldn't hurt anyone. But he had. He had hurt Wilson and two years ago he had hurt Cameron, even though Wilson figured that he wasn't exactly one to fall in love. House was being selfish, and that's what made people hate him.

He looked over at the clock. 10:00 AM. Christmas morning. He had seen House at 6:30. But it didn't matter anymore. Maybe his New Years resolution would be to not be so clingy...and realize when friendships were screwed.

He closed his eyes and laid back on the couch. And so it was that Wilson fell asleep...alone...on Christmas Day.