Title: Needed – Part 4

Author: lornesgoldenhair

Genre: House MD

Pairing: House/Wilson friendship and later Slash

Timescale: Early Season 6

Rating: T to be safe. M in later parts.

Date of Creation: September 2009

Summary: House returns to work and Wilson struggles with his feelings after a particularly difficult day.

Spoilers: Through to Season 6.

Distribution: Fanfiction. net, otherwise just ask.

Disclaimer: Not mine. David Shore owns everything.

'Sophie's condition is very poor,' he spoke softly, holding and yet wishing he could avoid her mother's gaze.

'How long?' two loaded words.

'It's really very difficult to...' his rehearsed reply was cut off sharply. He ought to have realised. Sophie's mother had after all heard all of this before. He'd said all this before. Almost a year to the day.

'How long?'

'Hours to days,' the admission came and there was silence. He watched as her palms smoothed over her knees and wondered briefly if they were clammy or dry. She rocked forward, bracing herself, and he found that he couldn't read her response; her features were taut but there were no tears. She nodded to herself, willing strength into her voice.

'OK.'

He waited, quelling disbelief. OK? Nothing was OK.

'Monica...'

She looked up sharply, rocking forward again, removing one hand from her knee and letting it rest against her swollen belly. He saw her fingers twitch in response to the baby's movements there but her eyes were distant.

'I should go sit with her,' she said flatly, 'Thank you, Dr Wilson.'

The door opened before she could bring herself fully upright, the noise of it suddenly harsh in the quiet of Wilson's office. House appeared, too quick, too big for a room already filled with unspoken sadness. He opened his mouth but was immediately silenced by Wilson's untempered glare. A step back and he was holding the door, watching as Monica moved past him to the hallway, tracing familiar steps back to the children's ward; she gave no indication that he had interrupted, didn't even glance in his direction. He studied her gait, the wide step of pregnancy; the protective way she held her belly, before allowing the door to swing shut again.

'What are you doing here?' Wilson asked wearily, his left hand still annotating Sophie's charts. He felt the weight of House's stare for a moment before relinquishing and looking upwards.

'Your patients are getting younger,' house remarked, 'That one's not even born yet.'

'Patient's in the ward, leukaemia.'

House looked thoughtfully at the door.

'Mom's pregnant again? She trying to breed some bone marrow?'

Wilson glared in disgust, 'Did you want something?'

'Board meeting,' House explained, dropping into the chair in front of Wilson's desk, 'My pre-return audition. Got to go play nice with the big boys.'

'Right,' Wilson's eyes returned to the chart. He remembered now, House was due back to work. Two weeks of lounging had almost driven him to the brink of madness again. Boredom was devouring him whole and he had finally admitted to Wilson that actually, work might be a good idea.

'You coming?'

'What... oh... no I don't think so.'

House's eyes on him carefully reading. 'You're on the board.'

'I've already sent a memo, you're ready to come back, you have my vote.'

'But you're not coming?'

Wilson swept his hand across his brow, 'No... I... I have a lot on today OK? I live with you every day I know you're doing better I don't need to sit in a room for two hours debating it when I have patients to see.'

The merest flinch of surprise in his friend's eyes revealed that Wilson's words had hit a lot deeper with House than he had meant them to.

'Sorry... sorry,' he waved his apology towards House with a motion of his hands, 'That came out harder than I meant it. You've done well, you have your license...'

'Next week...' House corrected sourly. He looked away, running his gaze over Wilson's diplomas and certificates, framed and propped along his shelves.

'Next week,' Wilson conceded, 'And you have Nolan's OK, and Cuddy's and my endorsement for what it's worth. This board thing is just a formality. It's more for their collective ego than for any necessity.'

'Right... I have everyone's OK,' House said sullenly. Wilson looked up from the chart; looked at his profile, head tilted to one side as he refused to return Wilson's stare.

'You need me to be there?' it came out more world-weary than Wilson had intended. He saw the twitch of House's jaw and an intake of breath which might have indicated a reply if it hadn't been cut off by the shrill sound of Wilson's pager. He glanced down at the number, 'Damn,' he breathed.' House listen, I...'

House was standing, 'It's fine,' he said, his voice tinged with something hollow. 'Go see to your bald kiddies. It's just a formality after all, the board don't need you there...'

And he was gone.

'Damn,' Wilson said again.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW

Everything in the terminal care ward was clean and neat, pastels and soft tones, little puffs of scent from bouquets and arrangements which served to mask the sterile clinical air. The last Oncology dinner had funded a new selection of paintings, but nothing too bright or cheerful. Landscapes and distant meadows, faded flowers. The decor was tasteful, understated, comforting.

House had once quipped that Wilson should lay moss coloured linoleum and call the wing 'The Green Mile;' all that pretty wallpaper didn't fool anyone, everyone here was waiting to die.

'Shut up and put a hundred bucks in here,' Wilson had replied, shoving the collection tin towards him. To his surprise House had donated, making a show of opening his wallet and plucking out notes one by one.

'Nothing religious, I don't want to walk in there to find psalms all over the walls or cherubs stencilled onto the door frames.... and make sure you get a decent TV package installed.'

'I'm no redecorating the place so you can have somewhere to eat lunch.'

'No-one spends more than a few weeks in there except the staff, might as well make it comfortable.'

Comfortable. It looked peaceful, almost welcoming. At times there was cheer; the friendly chatter of the nursing staff and the familiar faces of loved ones as they visited in the early days. Mom was comfortable, Dr Wilson had upped her meds, her sheets were clean and the staff were pleasant, yes things were much better for Mom now, thank you. And then days slipped by and the pain got harder to manage; the place seemed colder, the pastel colours dim and Dr Wilson would be paged more often. Place lost its charm then.

'Thanks for coming, I'm running out of options,' Dr Hammond handed him the charts without looking up from her place at the nurses' station. 'She's already at top dosage; I'm scared to increase it further.'

'She's still in pain?' Wilson flipped through the pages, scanned through the dozens of 'as needed' dosages given in the last two days, noted how the prescribed amount had increased steadily.

'Yes...'

'Driver isn't blocked? I mean she's still getting the infusion?'

'I had the nurses check the site, its infusing fine; it's just not touching it. I've never seen anything like it, the more meds I give the worse the pain gets. She says it burns.'

'Neuropathic,' Wilson lifted scans from the notes and held them to the ceiling lights, 'Tumour's eating through her sacral plexus, diamorph alone won't touch this.'

'Epidural isn't enough.'

'Needs increasing,' he took a pen from his lab coat and started crossing off medications from the chart. 'I'll discuss it with anaesthetics but...'

'Increase the driver and she'll lose the power in her legs,' his junior looked alarmed.

'She's been in bed for days, I don't think it matters anymore.'

'It matters to her. It's one more thing she's lost.'

'She's in agony this is the only way to stop that.'

'She doesn't want to give up yet, she'd rather...' Dr Hammond dropped her voice, 'She'd rather suffer than admit it's over, she won't sleep, she just lies there... Dr Wilson she won't even close her eyes.' The young doctor looked frightened, it was a look he recognised.

Wilson glanced towards the side room where their patient lay. The inner curtains were drawn but the door was barely ajar. He could just make out the shallow rise in the covers which indicated her legs before the rest of her body vanished behind the wall.

'You need to talk to her,' Dr Hammond urged.

Wilson sighed, one hand reaching instinctively for the back of his neck while the other fell to his side, chart in grip, new dosages as yet unwritten.

'What do I say?' he asked.

Dr Hammond looked confused. 'I... I don't know... you've more experience with this than...'

'Yeah... I know,' he agreed tiredly, 'Just humour me, be a sounding board, tell me what you'd say.'

'I'd tell her that there's no need to suffer. I'd tell her that...' Dr Hammond struggled, 'That we can control the pain, control the symptoms, that it can be peaceful...'

Wilson looked down at her kindly.

'Yes tell her we can make it comfortable, that we can take away all the physical pain,' he smiled sadly, 'She's thirty one years old, she has three children under six and a younger sister about to become a mom to those children. We can't make this better...'

'We can ease her distress, a little midazolam, the euphoric effects of the analgesia, we can help this.'

'Exactly as the protocol dictates,' he glanced back at the door.

'The protocol works, Dr Wilson, you wrote it.'

He laughed mirthlessly. 'Yes I did, Dr Wilson's flow chart on how to die well. Means nothing here,' his voice was tinged with bitterness. 'It's different when people lived, when they're ready to fade out surrounded by loved ones, then you're right it can be peaceful. This...' he gestured towards the door, 'This can never be peaceful.'

'We have to try....' and then, 'Dr Wilson are you OK?'

He tapped the edge of the file on the desk softly, 'Yeah, fine. I'll speak to her.'

His voice sounded miles away, even to him, his stomach knotted in anxiety. Every day he did this, every day.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW

House looked up from his journal to find Wilson frozen in the hallway, keys half in his grip half dangled towards the little table next to him. He had dark circles under his eyes.

'You going to come in or just stand there like a house plant?'

Wilson started just a little and let his keys drop with a clatter. He moved towards the couch instinctively, aware of House's eyes watching him from his place in the lounge chair opposite. His long legs were propped on the coffee table, cane against the arm rest of the chair, journals on his lap, coffee cup on the floor next to him. He looked relaxed, sleeves rolled up and an open collar to his crumpled shirt. His eyes were however slightly more guarded than usual.

Wilson sat and fidgeted. He was dimly aware that he still owed House an apology for the morning, that he should have been there to support his return, that it meant something to House, but all he could see were his patient's eyes.

'Hard day? House asked a little coldly, he removed his glasses for a better view.

'Hmm,' Wilson made a little noise of agreement.

'Bald kids die on you?'

'Not yet.'

'They scheduled for later?'

'I'm on call,' Wilson withdrew his pager from under his overcoat and tossed it onto the coffee table.

'They don't need to call you for a death, you have juniors for that.'

'I asked them to call me.'

House rolled his eyes, 'This is why you're always so pissy, you don't need to be called, tell them to do their job and get some sleep.'

'I need to be there for this one,' Wilson said quietly.

'Can't always be where you're needed,' House commented pointedly. Wilson's insides stabbed just a little. He picked at the journals on the table. 'Did the meeting go well?' he managed.

'Back to work Monday, thanks for asking.'

'Sorry I'm a little preoccupied.'

'I can see that.'

'Sorry.'

Wilson was aware of a sharp twitch of frustration in House's profile but he didn't reply immediately. He felt cloudy with thought, the conversation he had with his young dying patient still weighed heavy on him. The one he would probably have with Sophie's mother in the small hours of the morning loomed over him. He was drowning in words and death. He sat looking at his hands, head bowed.

'Go to bed,' House said stiffly.

'It's your turn.'

'I'm reading, you need sleep, go to bed.' There was concern beneath his irritated, but barely.

'I'm fine here,' Wilson leaned back, still in his coat, eyes somewhere in the fireplace.

'I'm going to be reading here, probably all night,' House goaded, 'Go to bed.'

'I don't think I'll be sleeping much.'

House lowered his journal with a crackle and a sigh which was just a little too forceful. Wilson glanced up at him at last.

'You want to talk about...' House waved a hand, 'Whatever this is?'

'It's just a bad day, it happens, I'm an oncologist.'

'Exactly, you should be used to it; instead you're sitting there like someone killed your puppy.'

'Sometimes it just mounts up a little,' Wilson shrugged. He felt the creeping misery at the nape of his neck and the pressure of it bore down into his heart. He wanted to bury his head somewhere and lose this feeling.

'So... talk.' House's discomfort was evident in his tone.

'You hate talking.'

'I hate you looking like that more.'

That was as close to a confession of 'I care' as House would get. As the days had passed since his arrival at the apartment he had grown outwardly stronger and less accessible. He finally slept uncomplaining in Amber's bed and his vulnerability became less, better hidden. He didn't speak of the night Wilson held his hands and told him the past was over or the way his barriers had dropped to expose something raw inside him. He didn't tell Wilson how grateful he was and he didn't speak of how scared he'd been the first night he had lain alone in her room, glancing at corners, praying her face wouldn't swim into view. He didn't speak of just how damned hard it was. But Wilson detected it anyway, accommodated it, encouraged recovery with a smile or a touch or some subtle acknowledgement of feeling. Today he had let House down. But House had changed enough to see past that, and still care.

He just didn't know how to care and Wilson could feel him struggling from where he sat. Right now House was irked because he cared and didn't know what to do about it. If had more mental energy Wilson might have spoken to him about it, but he couldn't quite make it that far. He let his head fall back against the couch and closed his eyes. It was enough that he was there.

And besides, House was right, he should try and sleep, he should try and go to bed, his roommate would be up until three with whatever had grabbed his interest. Wilson's lumbar spine growled lowly from too many nights on the couch but he could not be coerced into moving quite yet. He let the room settle over him, the richer lighting kinder to his eyes than the fluorescent of the hospital corridors, than the cold light of his patients' rooms. He could hear the soft turn of pages and the quiet exhale of breath, a slow rhythm, calming somehow, like the ticking clock at the far side of the room.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale. Fading.

Fading.

Faded.

Gone.

Wailing from the coffee table, piercing, painful. House absent, the room in darkness. Disorientated Wilson tugged at a blanket which had twisted around his legs and grabbed for the pager. The number flashed into the gloom around him, casting a sickly green glow across his features. He pressed the buttons, searching for the message although he already knew what it would read. Finally he saw it and he let out a slow breath, watching as the green light faded and he was left in the shadows, alone, skin sticky from interrupted sleep. On autopilot he rose and gathered his keys, making his way back to the hospital and Sophie's room.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW

It should have taken longer. It seemed too fast to qualify as something so important. From beginning to end it took a few minutes, the practicalities of death largely seen to by the nursing staff, Wilson arrived, verified and left again. It felt wrong. Sophie had played her role for months, battling, battling... and then he came here in the small hours and announced that it was all over. House was right, his juniors could have done this, but he'd been so insistent, he'd so desperately wanted it to be him. And now he felt empty. It was all too stark and real. He could have arrived in the morning to the news, and felt the sorrow, and held Monica's hand. He could have played the caring cancer doctor and shielded himself from this. Why had he come here?

He tried to linger in the room, tried to force meaning into what he saw. Her body lying flat and tidy under the covers, eyes closed, teddy bear in the crook of one arm, pendant around her neck, like a princess waiting to be woken, nothing but the tell tale wax of death on her skin to indicate she was gone. And the stillness, the feel of it in the air around him. Alone and yet not, the ghost of her presence making up for the stilling of her heart.

Still here. But empty.

He looked at the teddy and thought of another in his office. Her sister had given it to him just over a year before, a thank you for kind Dr Wilson. She had died a month later. And six months after that, her mother was back in his consulting room with another pale sick child.

He thought of the swell of her belly in his office that morning. Two gone, one on the way. Another little girl? Another child to be born and raised. He wondered if they would make it past five or if Monica was to be cursed. He wondered how she would survive.

The light in the room was tinged pink through the shade on the lamp by her bed. It lent colour to her cheeks. Better Monica should come in now, sit here now. Better now than when the light turned cold again in morning.

He turned to the door, meaning to open it and fetch her and bit down suddenly on his lip. He didn't have words for this moment; he just didn't know what to say. She would look to him for something to say and he'd run dry of platitudes.

He opened the door , Monica on a chair outside, as though she was frightened to move too far. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

'I'm sorry,' he said.

On his way back through the hospital he passed another room, curtains which had been closed all day now strangely open at night. He peered through the glass at the flicker of a television screen playing across a young woman's face, ravaged to age by cancer. The rest of the room was in darkness but he could barely make out the cards by her bed, scrawled in childish hand to 'Mommy.'

The nurse moved quietly beside him, she couldn't figure out why he would be here at 3am.

'Dr Wilson?'

'I was on the children's ward,' he explained absently, 'Is her pain settled?'

'Yes, she hasn't needed breakthrough tonight.'

'Good.'

'I don't know what you said to her but she was a lot calmer after you left... you have such a way with people.'

'Yeah,' sadly, quietly. He watched his patient blink slowly, her gaze never moving from the TV screen, her body motionless, legs paralysed, arms thin and heavy. Not calm, defeated.

'Can I ask... what you told her?'

Wilson watched the silent rack of a tear across her cheek as she blinked again.

'I told her to let go.'

A beat as the nurse followed his gaze.

'She still hasn't closed her eyes,' she said.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW

He didn't know why he did it, he wasn't thinking, just acting on an impulse which directed him wordlessly towards comfort. He had stood silently in the centre of the living room for what seemed like hours, images in his head, empty words he had spilled over grieving relatives. He felt cold. He felt a tremor in his limbs. He felt as though too many pictures were racing in his head, too many memories, too many losses. He raked his fingers through his hair and tugged on it lightly as though it might help ease the rising tension in his mind. It was too quiet, too empty in here. He looked around the darkness at the vestiges of day, an unwashed mug on the table, scattered journals, the blanket he had untangled himself from when he answered his page. House must have put it over him before stealing to bed. He bent and lifted it, working the wool between his fingertips, trying to sense the warmth but instead he inhaled a flutter of familiar scent and felt his heart fall heavy in his chest. His skin ached with hunger, he felt utterly alone.

Wilson's step was light as he entered the bedroom, early dawn threatening to break in dark blue stripes across the sky outside. He felt his fingers reach for his collar and his legs bent in the middle to allow him to sit on the bed. He felt sick, the nausea of exhaustion churning in the pit of his stomach, and his fingers shook as he slipped off his loafers, unlatched his belt.

'Someone die?' the rough voice behind him indicated he had woken House. Nothing unusual yet, Wilson would often wander in late on the nights House slept here to grab his sleepwear from a drawer or plug his phone into a charger.

'Yes.' His breath caught in his throat as he waited for a reaction but none came and he felt the ache wash over his limbs again, grinding at him until he felt tears threaten and burn.

Please talk to me, I need this.

The sound of covers moving and House rotating under them, turning to face his friend's back. Wilson's fingers slowly opened the buttons on his shirt until he sat with it open, not quite able to continue, his thoughts slipping back to his patients.

...Her lips were blue.

...Her eyes were open.

...Her eyes were shut.

...Over too quickly.

...He had told her to let go.

...She hadn't shut her eyes.

Their faces merged until his thoughts batted back and forth between them, struggling to remember. At once the patient was a child and a mother, one losing the other, one being lost. It prompted other memories, other losses, the endless trail of patients who came, and went and returned to die. Wilson slumped forward, his hands covering his face. He let out a deep sigh, shuddering with the force of it, quickly drawing breath again lest he disintegrate on the spot.

'You do this every day,' House stated slowly from behind him, 'It's your job.'

'I know.'

'So what's different today?'

'I don't know.'

'Yes you do. '

'I left my persona somewhere I guess, forgot how to be Mr Emotionally Centred.'

House shifted behind him, snorted slightly. 'You're never emotionally centred; you just like to think you are, you're just as emotionally uncentred as everyone else.'

Wilson slid his watch from his wrist, dropping it on the night stand.

'Kid died today,' he said by way of explanation.

'Kids die every day,' but the tone of House's voice showed interest. Wilson turned just slightly towards him, straining to make out his features in the dark.

'Kid had a sister, died of the same leukaemia last year.'

Silence. Waiting.

'Hmm,' House tilted his head slightly. The kid's death didn't interest him. Leukaemia was boring. Wilson's reaction tonight was not boring.

'Two for the price of one,' Wilson said weakly to break the painful quiet, 'You probably have a theory about their genetics... I ran the tests, there's no gene, it's entirely random. It's entirely... cruel...' He could feel House scrutinising him. God he just wanted to lie down, he wanted darkness to wash over him. He felt a sudden pang deep inside of him; he wanted another human being somewhere close. He didn't need House to understand, or say something clever, or come up with a theory about the patients. He just needed to lie down, with him there.

But the silence bothered him and the words kept coming in spite of himself. 'I've spent two years caring for this family, I've watched two sisters die and I... I couldn't save them.'

House's eyes glittered as dawn started to trickle through the blinds. 'You're not God.'

'They think I am, they look to me to... make it better somehow and I can't... I watch them fight these diseases and ultimately I make no difference... I just give them permission to die...'

'Wilson,' a warning note to House's voice. He needed to back off. He was being melodramatic. House hated that. It wasn't rational.

'Sorry, sorry it's the middle of the night and I wander in here and... emote... sorry.'

'Actually its morning,' House's eyes travelled to the window briefly before returning to Wilson, skittering over him uncertainly. 'You do make a difference,' he said quietly, 'It's just...' he was lost, 'You make a difference,' he finished.

'Yeah,' a small sigh. It was the closest House would come to offering actual comfort, here with his guard down in the middle of the night. Wilson was dimly aware of the warmth from his side of the bed and the ache in his spine. 'I'm sorry I missed the board meeting,' he offered.

'You had dying people to see,' House said. 'Dying people need oncologists.'

'I should have been there.'

'Yes, you should have.' There. The little stab of hurt he had seen in House that morning, finally in words.

Wilson winced a little. 'Thanks, as if I don't feel crappy enough.'

'You get off on feeling crappy when you're like this.'

'That's not fair.'

'I know...' barely whispered. 'I'm not very good at this stuff.'

Wilson pressed his lips together, swallowed hard. He started to unhook his cufflinks, feeling House shifting behind him, aware he should probably vacate to the living room again, feeling awkwardness rising. But the same thing that had caused him to enter the room in the first place now held him there, he just... needed this.

Something heavy in the air, in his breathing. Something snapping, giving way.

'Look if you're going to get in could you just get on with it,' House's voice strained now, 'Because I was planning on going back to sleep sometime soon.'

The cufflink came away heavy in his palm and he gripped it tightly. 'I... House....'

'Get in.' An order and an acknowledgement of need. House let himself fall back down to the mattress and lay still. 'While it's still dark...' he added, 'Longer you leave it, harder it'll be to... get to sleep. The couch is giving you backache, you're overtired and you're getting all girly as a result. You need rest. Now... get in.'

Wilson stood uneasily and hesitated before reaching forward for the covers. He peeled them back slowly, removing his shirt, allowing his pants to fall away, slipping into his side of the bed. He turned to the left, looking out across the floor of the room.

'Thanks.'

House made a grunt of acknowledgement. 'I'm going to mock you so hard in the morning.'

'I know. I probably deserve it.'

'You're pathetic.'

Wilson accepted the judgement and allowed himself to move slowly towards unconsciousness. He listened to the breathing behind him. Inhale, exhale, fading. He wasn't sure how much time had passed when he felt the mattress dip slightly and House turned behind him. A sudden warm breath on his neck told him he was facing him, closer than he might have expected. Wilson opened his eyes again, his gaze on the creases of pillow in front of him, shadowed in the gloom, tinted blue with dawn. He felt the tremor in his limbs start to subside and the shape behind him bled heat into his body.

'House...'

'Go to sleep.'

The words were there before the thoughts had formed. '...you can.... move closer if you want.'

He heard House breathe in and hold it, felt something shift in the air between them. He could make it a joke, diffuse the situation, but his mouth went dry. Wilson's heart tickled in his chest. What was he doing? House would never let him forget this, he'd probably move out; Wilson has a bad day at work and suddenly he's...

He felt House's chest against his back, the slow uncertain touch of his hand as it moved along his forearm, reaching, wrapping around his wrist lightly. The breath at his neck was hotter in its proximity, the barest trace of lips against his skin; hesitant, not quite a kiss, not quite platonic. Wilson tilted towards him the smallest amount and House shifted again, bringing himself flush against him.

'OK...' House's voice was antsy, hurried with thinly veiled anxiety 'Better? Good...Now go to sleep. Please.'

Wilson looked down at the hand on his wrist. A few more minutes and the sun would be up, colour would return to the room and the moment might be gone.

Inhale. Exhale. Fading.

House's breathing slowing as the clock ticked behind them.

Inhale. Exhale.

Wilson's mind holding onto the sound, onto the warmth at his back, around his wrist.

Inhale. Exhale.

He couldn't let it fade, not this time.