The next morning, House emerges from his deep slumber with a start. Immediately, his hand snatches at his leg, running an inventory down to his feet. Thigh: check. Knee: check. Shin: check. Thank god it's all still there. Every time he wakes up in a hospital bed, he fears that it will be the time they amputate.
It's not like he didn't know what he was doing last night; House knew that he shouldn't have taken that last handful of Vicodin.
"It's killing me," he thought. "Every one of Wilson's bald-headed cancer kids was most likely going to live longer than I am. Crap! Wilson! He must have taken me here… he must be furious…"
It was at that moment that House looked up and realized that he wasn't alone.
"Morning, Sleeping Beauty."
Looking as glossy-haired and glassy-eyed as he does when he has had a whole night's worth of sleep, Wilson sits in the chair at House's bedside.
"Haven't I fulfilled your desire for neediness yet? Get out of here," House spat.
"You're not getting rid of me that easy."
"Why don't you give an old cripple a little peace," House says as he adjusts his pillows, pretending to be getting ready for a nap.
"Look, House, we can't just pretend that last night didn't happen."
"Can I piss first?" House quips as he throws back the covers and starts shifting his weight towards the edge of the bed.
Wilson gives him a look. After gingerly swinging his legs to the floor, House adds, "I know…"
He tries to take a step, but fails and catches himself with the nightstand. Without any painkillers in his system for over seven hours, his thigh is killing him. House lowers himself to the ground, and grasps the muscle that is nearly in spasm. Wilson rushes to House's side, kneeling beside his best friend.
"You can't keep going like this," Wilson starts, but soon realizes that House is dead white and shaking in pain. This is no time for a conversation.
House can't even unclench his teeth to ask for the drugs. It's a standoff. Wilson knows that House wants, maybe even needs the drugs. But after last night, he's not so sure he wants to keep giving in. Instead, he digs into the bulging muscle with his palms, deeply massaging the core of the pain. Wilson works at it until his own forearm begins to cramp.
After what seemed like hours later, House and Wilson lie exhausted on the floor. The worst of the pain has left Greg's fragile body. For a man with such a large presence when awake, he appears wasted and pained when unconscious. Wilson rests for a few minutes, then picks himself up and wipes the sweat off of his forehead. House has lost so much weight lately that Wilson can lift him back on to the bed with little effort.
It doesn't take long for Wilson to change his mind. He presses the button to call for a nurse.
Within a few minutes, she appears. After a quick consult, she leaves and returns with a syringe full of morphine.
"I'm going to regret this," Wilson reflects as he injects the medicine into House's bicep.
The pain is seen leaving his body. A rush of relief is apparent, even in sleep. Tiptoeing over to his sleeping beauty, Wilson pulls the covers over House and plants a quick kiss on his forehead.
"Sleep tight."