Chapter 2

"And the Music Goes 'Round and 'Round'"

Wilson stirred restlessly on the big leather couch and stared at the shadows on the walls created by diffused lighting from outside and the soft glow from the small lamp Gregg always kept on the piano. Usually he slept well at House's apartment, but the combination of his argument with Julie and the lousy condition in which he'd found his friend, had his nerves frayed raw, and his worry for Gregg's up-and-down health at an all-time peak. It was almost three in the morning and Wilson felt as though his eyeballs had been rolled in sand. What if he hadn't happened by tonight?

Only within the trusted privacy of Wilson's company did House's normal propensity for bitter anger and sarcasm diminish to any extent, and it was only Wilson he would allow to touch his crippled leg, or for that matter, come anywhere near it. Tonight had been a prime example.

"I might kick your ass, but I think it's a little early to shoot you …" had been his quiet answer to Gregg's suggestion, which still ricocheted around inside his head. Earlier, when James had eased his friend's back into a more upright position, carefully lifted his bum leg and placed it off the stool and onto the floor, then picked up the cane and handed it over, House had been able to get to the bathroom without too much extra effort. When Gregg dragged himself out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, he'd been unusually quiet as he eased onto the edge of the bed. James had been waiting there for him and helped him ease his tired body into a comfortable position, then placed a pillow beneath his knee so he could get some sleep. Wilson offered him a Vicodin from the vial in the living room, and he'd swallowed it dry. He'd seemed almost embarrassed by the feeble levels to which his disability had lowered him tonight, and when Wilson rose and made to turn out the overhead light, a raspy "Thank you," caught up with him in the open doorway.

James Wilson turned around in the darkness and answered calmly. "That's what friends are for, House. Good night."

The following morning it was as though last night's scene had never happened. House did not mention it so neither did Wilson. They breakfasted on bitter instant coffee with no milk or sugar because House was out of both. They had week-old English muffins with pats of pilfered restaurant butter and no jelly because House was out of that also. They went to work in House's big Envoy, which he'd insisted they take. Proudly he showed off the expensive lift which had been specially installed on the driver's side, and which he could step onto, press a remote to lift him parallel to the running board, and then simply slide onto the seat. No strain on the bum leg.

"Cool wheels, huh?"

Wilson shook his head, rolled his eyes and patiently observed: "The term 'Sherman Tank' comes to mind more accurately …"

They stopped at the usual fast food and ordered large cups of the torpedo-proof coffee and a couple of large Danish. "Ahhh …" House said as he pulled back into the street, "Health food. Yummy!"

Wilson pulled a wry face and glared at his friend from the corners of his eyes. "Whatever you say, fearless leader."

It was as close as they came to a conversation the rest of the way to the hospital.

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Wilson went home that night. And the next. And the next.

Apparently, House believed, Wilson had called home and persuaded Julie that they should make an honest effort to patch things up. All that week, the atmosphere remained quiet. The two men saw little of one another outside of professional consultation since Gregg was busy with the dreaded clinic duty, finally making a half-hearted effort to catch up on the obligation that reached all the way back to the time of his crippling infarction. At the same time he avoided a confrontation with Dr. Cuddy, and for that matter, anyone else. His "snark" mode seemed to be turned on "high".

By Friday evening, Gregg began to feel a vague malaise and a general achy feeling that radiated through his entire body. His leg felt unusually stiff and his head hurt like he'd been pole-axed.

By the time the weekend began, the change in his breathing patterns told him he was coming down with something he knew would a total pain in the ass to try to get rid of.

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