Here's the second chapter, since I almost have the third done. I finally figured out where this story is um..going. Which is a good thing. Thank you so much for your wonderful and encouraging reviews, they really helped me along. I hope you enjoy this chapter. I believe that there will be four, and then possibly another story to follow. Italics in really big sections are flashbacks, otherwise they're thoughts. The italic section comes almost directly (as I edited a few of my posts) from the rpg with charmisjess. She wrote the House paragraphs, I wrote the Wilson ones. She kicks ass at writing by the way, so that would be why there are much better paragraphs among my chicken scratch :D

Chapter 2 – Mr. Jimmy

Beep…beep…beep…beep…beep…

House rubbed his face with one hand and leaned forward, staring at the same spot on the floor that he had been slowly boring a hole in with his eyes for the past few hours. The steady beeping of the EKG monitor would be a comforting sound if it hadn't been engrained in his head. House found one of his many reasons (and a minor one too) for not being in a patient's room was confirmed…the noise. EKG beeping, blood-oxygen monitoring, oxygen nose-tube…labored breathing, nightmares…

He looked up slightly at Wilson's pale face. This was the second day that he had spent sitting with his friend in-between his other duties at the hospital. House wouldn't admit it, but he found it difficult to get back into work when there were other things on his mind. Normally, nothing like this was going on, he could concentrate fully on a case. But now he was distracted. However, he mused, he didn't mind getting out clinic duty.

With a tired sigh, he looked away again from his friend who was still unconscious, and looked up at the television that he had turned on. He was restless…not even General Hospital could really hold his attention for long.

Slowly, he stretched his leg out, massaging his thigh a little. House looked back to Wilson and hesitated a little, then shrugged slightly. "I know you won't mind, Wilson…there's more than enough room," he said as he put his feet up on the edge of the bed, getting more comfortable in the still uncomfortable chair.

He watched James for a moment, half expecting a response to kick his feet off of the bed, and make him turn off the TV. But there wasn't one. House sighed again and looked down. He reached for the remote and turned the TV off, then pulled his ipod out of his pocket.

Closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall, he hit play, letting the music pick up from where he had last left it – already in the middle of a song. House was tired, he hadn't been sleeping well. If it wasn't his leg hurting, it was re-occurring dreams, and if it wasn't that, then it was the voice of the gunman echoing in his consciousness…

I went down to the Chelsea drugstore
To get your prescription filled
I was standing in line with Mr. Jimmy
And man, did he look pretty ill
We decided that we would have a soda
My favorite flavor, cherry red
I sung my song to Mr. Jimmy…

"Damn it.." House opened his eyes and turned off the ipod, yanking the earbuds from his ears. He sighed and rubbed his face again. "Look..Wilson… I'm…" he started, but then stopped. He couldn't complete it. He couldn't apologize that it was his fault that his friend was shot and was now laying unconscious for two days in the very hospital he worked in. Greg House couldn't apologize…even to James Wilson…

Grabbing his cane, he slowly stood up and looked down at Wilson again. House limped over to the side of the bed and watched him sleep. Slowly, he reached his free hand out to lightly grip the sleeping man's hand. For a long moment, he stood there, leaning on his cane, holding Wilson's hand. "Wake up soon," he said, letting go and limping out of the room.

As the philosopher had put it, other people were hell, House decided, casting a baleful eye on the cheerful icon that announced he had a new email.

It wasn't enough that his pager was down, cleverly stuffed in Chase's croc. Nor that he had locked his office door, and reduced a message-running nurse to tears earlier. Wilson seemed insistent to speak to him. And now he was resorting to the internet.

That was never a good sign.

"You need to talk to House," were not the words that Wilson wanted to hear from an angry Cuddy as he first walked into the hospital that morning. Frustration must be contagious, because clearly he caught it from her after she relayed the very long story to him.

He continued down the hall at a determined pace for House's office, lab coat trailing behind him like a cape. All morning he had been trying to get House to talk to him, and all morning his friend had continued to escape him. Wilson was passed annoyed…Cuddy made it a point to use that accusing tone of hers to say it wasn't just House's fault, but his. And as always, Wilson tried to curb her anger to support his friend. Honestly, on days like this, he wasn't sure why he did it.

Wilson had already had a bad start from the morning when his alarm clock didn't go off, and when it finally did, fifteen minutes too late, it somehow ended up across the room at the base of the wall. Then there was no hot water, which he didn't have time to deal with since he was already late, and he was out of milk. Then the car threatened not to start. One would think a doctor would have a large enough salary to buy a working car, which he had, but even that just...didn't always work... and to top it all off, he spent the first part of his shift hearing a long rant from Cuddy accompanied by a "you go talk to him, he's your damn friend."

Stopping outside of House's office, Wilson stared at the door handle, tempted to try it, but knowing that it was probably locked. Instead, he dug in his pocket for the spare key he made and unlocked the door, stepping inside and folding his arms as he cleared his throat.

There was no one in the hospital who could clear his throat just such, so clearly and decisively, it slid under House's skin like the scalpels the man used to butterfly out brain tumors. Except, faithfully carrying the metaphor, if Wilson's scalpel was turned to him, then the tumor to be filleted had to be his hope of escape. The dismal gloom thickened around him, and he swiveled his chair to face away from the door, steadily studying a selection of files.

Wilson put his hands on his hips and glared a hole into the back of House's head. "You haven't looked at those files in ages, I know you're faking," he said, clearly annoyed.

House cocked his head to the side, suspiciously regarding his favorite ball. After an inquiring second, he turned back to the files, until he found one in the back of the cabinet, and pulled it out. "That's strange. I could have sworn I heard some kind of irritating bird..."

With a frustrated sigh, Wilson hung his head for a moment, then looked up again. "You know what," he said as he started to walk over, "Cuddy is on the warpath and you're lucky she made me come in here." He stopped when he was beside House's chair and looked down at him, "What in the hell were you thinking? That woman's life was at stake and you were just taking random guesses?"

"What the hell were you thinking, House?---stop playing God, House--it isn't all about the damn puzzle, House---God, is it just me, or are you all starting to sound repetitive!" House's fingers clenched on the file, but he swung his chair around smoothly, to face his friend. He found often it was easiest to be calm and collected when he was the angriest. Wilson, on the other hand, looked ready to pop. He took sour satisfaction in this. "I think I'll wait for this conversation to come out on DVD. Didn't I lock my door?"

"You did lock your door, I have a key," Wilson replied quickly, not missing a beat and still holding the intense gaze, "And maybe, just maybe, we wouldn't be so repetitive if you would stop doing what's getting you in trouble, ever think about that?"

House considered. "Huh. No, I never thought about that. Go on, my friend, tell me the secrets of your perfect existence."

He folded his arms for a second, then started to motion with his hands in emphasis, "Don't try to get out of it by changing the subject or making it about me. It's about you. You were right, but you still screwed up. What if the next guess was wrong, what if you killed a patient or..or something!" Wilson ended with a large hand motion, building up steam.

House laughed outright at that. "Oh, I love it when you get all hot and bothered. " His tone abruptly shifted, and narrowed. "Listen, if you think I'm wrong on a case, then stop me, don't come up here as Cuddy's errand boy and give me some lecture on morality!"

Wilson tightened his lips into a thin line, too angry to even think of a response. House was his friend, granted a highly frustrating and upsetting one sometimes, but still a friend. And friend or not, there were times when he wished that he could leave House on his own to suffer the wrath of what ever poor decisions he had made. What he knew, however, is that he could never actually do that to one of his friends. "You know what, maybe next time, I will just let Cuddy deal with this. I'll just tell her, 'Go talk to House, it's his problem, not mine, I'm not cleaning up one of his messes again!' Then it'll be your ass on the line!"

"Don't flatter yourself!" House gave him a bitter laugh, and stood, setting the folder down. "As if you have any real clout in this system. I get away with these sort of things because I'm a damn good doctor! Don't think it's at any level because of you!"

"And maybe you'd be an even better doctor if you didn't take random guesses and pull things out of the air!" He paused to take a breath and narrowed his eyes a little, "Someday, House, you are really going to do someone some damage. Permanent damage. If you don't kill them first."

House scoffed. "Thank you for the cheering words, friend. Now, if you would do me the favor of removing yourself..."

They were abruptly interrupted by the sound of gunfire in the hallway.