If he couldn't trust his mind any more, what could he trust? What was real and what was delusion? House stared at the floor, suddenly afraid of a world grown treacherous and false. He looked up at Cuddy, hoping for reassurance. She couldn't give it to him. Her shocked expression mirrored his own. He looked down again.
"Wilson said he knew someone..." House's voice trailed off.
"Yes, Wilson. We'll take you to Wilson," Cuddy said.
Cuddy's stiletto heels clacked as she walked down the hospital corridor and House trailed behind. He caught up to her at the elevator. She managed to give him a strangled smile – an awkward mixture of pity and acute discomfort - and they rode together in silence. Cuddy was out of the elevator and heading towards Wilson's office before the doors had fully opened.
House barely registered the brief conversation between them, as Cuddy handed him over to Wilson's care. Soon he was sitting on Wilson's couch, drinking something hot and sweet in a Styrofoam cup, while Wilson sat at his desk and talked on the phone, making arrangements.
"I spoke to my friend at Mayfield. Unfortunately, they can't take you till the weekend, but I thought that you could stay with me until then. Is that okay with you?"
House nodded. He took a sip of the hot, sweet beverage. It was so sweet that he couldn't tell whether it was coffee or tea. Wilson took a bottle of whiskey from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured in a generous amount. He returned the bottle to its hiding place and sat next to him on the couch.
"I've cancelled most of my appointments for the afternoon, but I can't get out of Department Head meeting."
House edged closer to Wilson on the couch, until they were shoulder to shoulder, almost but not quite touching. He wanted Wilson to touch him, to hold him, but at the same time, he dreaded it. House was barely holding himself together, and any open display of sympathy would send him over the edge – he'd cry or collapse or make a scene and he hadn't cried since he was a child. He wasn't going to start now.
House leaned back and shut his eyes. Wilson's fingertips brushed his as he took the Styrofoam cup from his hand, and House opened his eyes. Wilson's face was very close to his own, and House wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if he kissed him.
Wilson glanced away, slightly flustered, as if he had somehow picked up House's wayward thoughts.
"You look exhausted. Why don't you take a nap and I'll come back to get you as soon as the meeting is over?"
Wilson got up and crossed the room. He produced a fleece blanket from another drawer. The blanket, like the hot tea and whiskey, was part of his "bad news" kit. Wilson was skilled at dealing with people who had just suffered a devastating emotional shock, and for once House was grateful for his expertise.
"You don't have to coddle me like I'm one of your patients," House complained, but he put the blanket over his shoulders anyway. He was a little chilly.
Wilson looked at his watch.
"Damn it, I'm late already and I'm supposed to be chair! I'll be back in an hour, or less if I can get Birnbaum to drop his agenda item. I keep telling him that our Committee has nothing to do with parking assignments, but he won't listen..."
Wilson grabbed a file folder from his desk,. He turned back, his hand on the doorknob, and looked at House, professionally assessing his condition.
"You'll be all right?" Wilson said.
It sounded like a question, but it wasn't. It was reassurance that Wilson had everything under control and all would be well again soon.
"Go to your meeting," House said. "I promise not to ransack your office for Vicodin while you're gone."
As soon as Wilson had left, House got to his feet and limped over to the light switch. A nap actually sounded like a good idea. He lay down on Wilson's couch, under Wilson's blanket and let sleep take over.
He didn't have to be afraid any more. House was safe. He had found the one thing in the world that he could trust.