The next morning, House heard Wilson talking on the phone. In his half-awake state, he could only make out part of Wilson's side of the conversation.

"I just don't know what to do at this point, Lisa...not getting better…"

There was silence. House knew who his friend was talking to. Lisa Cuddy, dean of medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. House had talked to her once or twice, but not at length and mostly only to look down the scooping neck of whatever revealing shirt she was wearing that day.

"No, Lisa… not suing...your fault."

Not suing? House wanted to hurt anyone who had anything to do with the state he was in. Even as he was sitting still in bed, his midnight dosage of morphine was wearing off, and he could feel his body drifting into the ever-present chasm of pain. He wanted to call for Wilson,but he also didn't want to see the other doctor's concerned face. He didn't want to be reminded of the mistakes his friend had made to lead House to this condition. He also didn't want Wilson to remember his PT appointment this morning. He had been having appointments twice or three times a week in the hospital, and it was always torture. They would maneuver his leg up and down, side to side, while he lie in bed, arching his back and screeching, sometimes even begging pathetically for the therapist to stop. They usually didn't, citing his need for recovery. Recovery his ass. He didn't know if he would ever be close to the same person he used to be. He was doomed to be a quivering, sweaty, screaming cripple.

Wilson came into his room after his phone call ended. "Hey. Ready?"

"No…"

Wilson sighed. "You won't get better if you don't go…the muscles will atrophy worse."

"Won't get better...if I do go."

"That's not true." Wilson looked at the newly disabled doctor. Seeing that the pain seemed to be ramping up again, he handed his friend his morning dosages. House seemed grateful for this.

"Let's get you up," Wilson said, wheeling a padded wheelchair next to House's bed. "I'll help you get in the bath first and then we can go, OK?"

House really didn't want his friend seeing him naked. "No."

"House, you reek. You haven't bathed in what, two weeks? I'm not arguing with you."

House sighed and pushed himself into a sitting position with his hands. Wilson helped him sit up so his legs swung over the edge of his king-sized bed. House sucked his breath in as his leg was maneuvered, but he didn't scream for once. Wilson gently helped him into the wheelchair, ensuring his bad leg didn't touch the ground. He wheeled his friend to the bathroom. House took off his shirt and tugged at his pants, unable to lift his hips to get them off. Wilson gently put his hand on the small of his friend's back and lifted, tugging off the man's pants and underwear. House sat there, buck naked, cold and embarrassed. He was like a child. Slowly, Wilson wheeled the chair to the bath and helped House in, starting the water. He unwrapped the bandages around House's mangled limb.

"Should I go now?"

House nodded. He just wanted to be alone for awhile. For the rest of his life, actually.

He stared down at the scar tissue forming on his thigh. He gingerly touched it, winced, and jerked back. It was still an open wound, with red surrounding the scarring. His right leg was about twice the size of his left.

Suddenly, he couldn't take it. It was too much. He had been healthy! More than the average person, actually. He played badminton, golfed, played pickup basketball on the weekends. He was more fit than a guy his age should have been. He punched the tile of the bathroom wall, and felt his fist sting. He couldn't feel it much because of the morphine, but it was enough. He sobbed quietly, his head in his hands.

"House?" Wilson knocked on the door, concerned.

"GO AWAY!" House shouted angrily.

Wilson did the opposite, coming in to check on him. "What happened?"

House didn't answer, instead he continued sobbing into his hands. Before he knew it, Wilson was next to him. "Is it your leg?"

"No, it's not my fucking leg!"

"What is it then?" Wilson mothered.

House continued crying. Wilson rubbed his bare back. He slowly helped House back into his wheelchair and into his room to get dressed, deciding not to question him any further. Despite what some may think of James Wilson, he knew when to shut up.