That night, I walked away from House without a backwards glance, back to my ex-wife. It wasn't until the next day that I started to get worried. Like it or not, I'm House's only friend. I knew that I'd feel guilty if House died because I wasn't there to save him, like usual.

Sighing, I decided to stop by on my way in. If he was fine, I didn't need to bother Sam. We'd agreed that I would stop it with House or lose her.

It never was much of a competition. At least, I thought it wasn't, until I realized how ambiguous that line-all my lines, all my thoughts-were. The self-evaluation could wait. I had to say goodbye to Sam, and check on House.

That's how I ended up knocking on House's door later that morning. I'd almost managed to talk myself out of it by then, but I figured that I might as well check up on him, since I was already there. I wasn't even sure what I thought it was. House was on the floor of his apartment in a puddle of vomit after something that had the distinct possibility of dragging up things House would rather forget.

My belief was strengthened when there was no answer to the door. I unlocked the place and let myself in for the second time in fewer than twenty-four hours.

Either House had managed to move a few feet after I left, or somebody else had been here, since there was a pillow under his head.

I was fighting myself the whole way, but I decided to wake him up. I'd heard the expression let sleeping dogs lie but I wasn't sure if it was applicable here. I wasn't fully sure House was sleeping, no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise.

I looked closely at House and something snapped. I wasn't sure how I hadn't noticed it before. House was shaking slightly, his hands balled up into fists. I rushed over to him, not entirely sure what to do. I wasn't fully convinced that this wasn't emotional, but there are some times when even psychosomatic pain has to be treated. Namely, when it's stressing the system to the point that there's a definite possibility that his heart rate could cause major health problems, as I suspected here as I put my hand on his, checking the pulse in his wrist.

It was elevated, like I'd suspected. "House? This is me, Wilson. I need you to sit up."

I held my breath, but House didn't respond. I shook his shoulder, trying to get him to move. When that was ineffective, I decided to try the direct approach, grabbing his shoulder and forcibly pulling him upright.

Bad move, I guess. House screamed. Not moaned, a full out scream. I hadn't heard anything like that in years.

I felt absurdly guilty. How was I supposed to know that he was hurt? It didn't matter the excuses, my friend was screaming in agony. I dropped him like I'd been burned, and he fell, gasping, into the pillow.

I knew I had to get him up, but I was going to be more careful this time. I couldn't hurt him more than he'd already been hurt. That would be unbearable to me. I had to figure out a way to get House somewhere soft, and hopefully calm enough that I could ask him what had happened.

Thing is, I simply couldn't think of a reason that he'd be hurt. He didn't have any real injuries, just a small cut on his shoulder, and some scrapes on his face. It couldn't be his leg, he hadn't been complaining since he came back from Mayfield.

Most days, he hasn't been going through a veritable obstacle course.

My concince reminded me quietly. I might as well check. I put my hand gently against his leg. House screamed and tried to pull away, but before he did, I felt it. His muscles were spasming out of control. I could remember a few times from right after the infarction when he'd complained of this. Usually, the complaints were right after PT, but then I remembered that this had probably been PT from Hell for him. Some days, he gets away with barely moving from his desk chair the entire day, and today his whole day had been spent crawling through rubble. I had to wonder why Cuddy had sent him there.

She, like the rest of us, probably forgot. House has been exceptionally quiet recently, rarely complaining about his leg. I'm sure part of it was him being off opiates, he didn't have the pain from the pills anymore, but he still had pain, I was sure of it.

I could remember how he'd acted when he was on ketamine. I had no doubt that he'd have ditched the cane immediately if he'd actually felt any better.

On second thought, it probably was his leg doing this to him. Shit, that meant that it would continue, if I couldn't get him off the floor, and get it elevated. That probably wouldn't be a good idea either, at this moment. He'd reacted quite violently to sitting up. I shuddered to think of trying to actually move his leg right now.

I shook House more urgently. I knew he was awake. "House, I need you to tell me where you keep the morphine."

At least House responded, though it wasn't a very helpful response. He laughed quietly. "No...morphine" he gasped.

I frowned. "House, I won't judge you. I can tell that you need this for an actual physical condition."

"None...here...had to stay...clean."

I ached for my best friend. He'd disposed of his safety medications in a desperate attempt to stay clean. I never thought that he would ever dispose of a last cache of the stuff, but he did, willingly.

I was in a dilemma, though. I needed to get House something, because he was shaking and crying, sobbing. As I was sitting there, the tears paused for a short while. House stared at me, catching my eye for just a second. "Help me" he pleaded.

There was nothing to help him with, though. This was a paradox, I could not leave him alone, there was still a serious risk of his elevated heart rate getting out of control, yet the risk would remain until I left, to get morphine.

This was one of the few situations with House where I would readily agree that he needed morphine. I didn't have to ask for a number. The fact that he couldn't move spoke for itself.

Then, I realized another variable, the phone. Mind you, I only realized because it was ringing insistently. I hurried over to get it, hoping against hope that it was somebody from the hospital.

To my relief, I heard Foreman's voice.