House shifted uncomfortably in his chair, beads of sweat falling off his forehead. His right hand jittered tunelessly on the desktop, the tapping noise barely inaudible over the intense rhythm of his heart in his ears. His mind was blank, his voice tight, his leg excruciating.
The cane fell clattering to the floor, but House didn't retrieve it. Instead, his piercing blue eyes stared through the glass panes of glass, out into the corridor. Blurs of people walked to and fro.
Only one person was in sharp focus.
As House caught sight of James Wilson, part of the pain was alleviated in a moment. It was a brief sighting, with Wilson not even glancing inside the office, but it was enough.
House swore under his breath. His addiction with prescription drugs was hard enough - but with James Wilson?
Unbearable.