When Wilson opened his eyes that morning, the center of his vision was blackened. It was lighter around the edges, but other than a sense of light and dark, he couldn't see. He ran through several possible diagnoses, each leaving him more bewildered than the next. He didn't have glaucoma, at least not that he was aware of. He'd been to the ophthalmologist earlier that year and was fine. He couldn't remember having had a stroke and he didn't have hypertension, though he tested his blood pressure anyway, running through the motions on autopilot, until he realized he couldn't read the test results.

Frustrated, Wilson felt his way into the kitchen for a glass of water when his vision suddenly darkened completely; no light, no slightly-less-murky ring around the outside edge of his eye, nothing. He felt like the rug had been pulled out from under him.

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Trying to focus on the next logical step, Wilson found it difficult to concentrate on anything other than the silence that now enveloped him, magnifying every sound, every heartbeat. He picked up his cell phone, fingers instantly poised to dial House when he remembered what he'd said to him only weeks prior; they weren't friends, possibly never were. He didn't believe it, not really, but when faced with angry frustration, Wilson lashed out. He couldn't dismiss the visit House made upon his leaving; he'd slammed the door in his face, telling him that he would no longer open the door should House knock. How on earth could he ask a favor of him now? House would have every right to slam the door in his face, whether he could see the door or not, and Wilson wouldn't blame him for it. So, he'd asked his next door neighbor for a ride to the nearest hospital he could think of, other than Princeton Plainsboro, and now fearing the end to everything as he'd always known it, Wilson hoped he'd made a harmless mistake to cause him to lose his sight, though he couldn't imagine what. It was then that Wilson began to wonder about the validity of karma.

_______

Wilson sat on a paper covered exam table waiting for an unknown doctor to stride in, hopeful that this man he would have to trust with his sight, would have a miracle cure. He hoped his savior would be able to see something Wilson literally and figuratively could not. He'd arrived nearly four hours earlier, but was forced to wait in the ER waiting room for higher priority cases. Apparently sight was not a top priority, at least not when someone's femoral artery was slashed, or someone else had been crushed in a car accident. Wilson tried to remind himself that triage was designed for a reason and that while he could not see, he was also not in imminent danger. The thought did little to quell his fears and he found himself wishing Amber was beside him and at times, he even wished for the snark of his former best friend.

A nurse quietly stepped into Wilson's exam room. His eyes wide open, his gaze failed to meet hers, missing the mark by about five inches to the left when she began to speak.

"Mr. James Wilson? A specialist is here to see you; he'll be right in."

"Doctor James Wilson."

"Doctor. I'm sorry, it's not noted on your chart."

"Thank you," he said, effectively dismissing her. He hadn't meant to be rude, but his emotions regarding everything that had happened that morning had gotten the better of him.

He sat with hands clenched, face tense, eyes wide open. Wilson wondered if he should close them; he wondered if it mattered. He thought about Stevie Wonder and the head movements he made when speaking and certainly when performing, and Wilson couldn't help but wonder if he himself made over-exaggerated head motions now that he couldn't see. Did he turn his head more to one side to hear better? Did he pinch his face while straining to listen? He didn't know; he hoped not.

Anxious, Wilson tried to regulate his breathing as he heard a slight knock on the door. "Come in," he needlessly called out.

The door opened, but did not close; it was something Wilson thought was a bit odd. The specialist did not announce his arrival nor proffer up a greeting. Instead, Wilson heard the squeak of an exam room stool as it was wheeled from the door to a position somewhere near his feet. The specialist said nothing, perhaps an odd sort, ill at ease with patients; a recluse in his every day life or a curmudgeon; perhaps a House and not a home.

He felt a slight breeze just to the left of his nose as he heard the swish of what he could only guess was someone's hand, crudely trying to assess the degree of blindness.

"So, after that highly scientific exam, do you think I might regain my sight?"

"Can you see what I'm doing now?" House asked, as he mockingly stuck two fingers at Wilson's eyes, as if he were the fourth stooge.

"I'm not at Princeton Plainsboro for a reason."

"Yeah, well next time try choosing a hospital with a doctor who can take on your case. The ophthalmologist here is off in Timbuktu helping blind orphans while trying to pave his way to heaven and the ER's staffed by twelve year olds who are currently swamped with a four car pile up."

"Then I'll go somewhere else. New York General has a much larger facility."

"And how do you propose to get there? I think there's a three year wait-list for a guide dog."

"Get out."

House was now standing, the ruse to hide the extra footfall no longer necessary, as he raised his hands to Wilson's face. "I'm here as your doctor. No worries, wouldn't want you to think I was here as a friend."

"House, I-"

"No, I get it. No problem. I'm only here because Cuddy sent me. I have read the Hippocratic Oath at least once, so I won't leave you in worse shape than when you showed up."

Despite being blind, Wilson could see straight through House's words, though the painful sting of the words pierced him anyway.

"Symptoms?"

"None."

"Just boom, blind?"

"I woke up unable to see out of the center, but I could see some light around the outside edges. A short while later, all lights went out."

"Headache?"

"I had a migraine yesterday and a mild headache since I got up this morning."

House gently set his fingers at the corners of Wilson's eyes, beginning an exam, when Wilson batted him away. "Maybe someone else should do this."

Slightly taken aback at the abrupt gesture, House chose to ignore Wilson. "I'm not going to ask you for your history; I know you're not diabetic, no glaucoma. Any other secrets you might be hiding, besides the migraine? Like maybe the skin cancer scare you hid last year?"

Wilson slightly furrowed his brow. "You knew?"

"You thought I didn't?"

Wilson shook his head. "No. It turned out to be nothing."

"And yet, you still didn't trust me with that information. Any vomiting? Seizures? Strokes?"

"No."

"BP?"

"Normal when I checked in."

"Look up," House said, as he flashed a light into Wilson's right eye.

"You don't have to do this."

House checked the other eye before lowering the penlight. "Could you see any of that light just now?"

"No. So, are you just going to ignore everything I say?"

"Only if it doesn't pertain to blindness. Any head trauma?"

"No."

"Any family history-"

"You know there's nothing."

"Would you rather I have them call in some other world-renowned diagnostician? I can leave," House said, turning towards the door, making sure his footsteps were loud and clear.

"Wait, House," Wilson sighed.

"First you tell me to leave, now you want me to stay? Actually, first you tell me we aren't friends, then you say we never were, and now you can't decide if I should go or stay. So, Sybil, which is it?"

Wilson paused, finally realizing the impact his words had left on House. He heard the hurt and the anger, but what he heard most was the voice of his friend and though he hated to admit it, he was grateful to hear it. "Stay."

"Well, I'd rather leave to be honest-"

"Fine, if you don't wan-"

"You didn't let me finish. I'm not going to cure you in the next twenty minutes and I'd prefer my team run the tests, get a full work-up at Princeton Plainsboro. Thirteen's a wreck, Taub's marriage is on the rocks and Kutner gets on my nerves, but they're competent; more than I can say for the idiot who spelled Wilswan on your chart. I'd offer to let you see it, but given the circumstances…."

"I…." Wilson nodded slowly. "Okay." He paused. "Wilswan? Seriously?"