Wilson often used House's apartment as a refuge when things weren't going well at his own home. Taking cover at his friend's apartment lessened the chances of being hit by a random flying coffee cup thrown by an angry Mrs. Wilson. House finally had to give him a spare key because he got tired of being Wilson's doorman. The oncologist let himself into the apartment after Cuddy told him she couldn't come to the door and he could come in if he promised to be quiet.

"How is he doing?" Wilson asked softly as he locked the door behind him. A faint snoring came from the sofa. Then he looked over and saw the reason why Cuddy couldn't get up.

House had built himself a cozy little nest at one end of the sofa with every pillow within a ten block radius. They were stacked three high, the diagnostician was smooshed against them, sitting lengthwise with his legs across Cuddy's lap. A light green blanket was draped across both of them. House's head was tilted back, his arms were folded across his stomach, and he was out cold.

"He's doing all right, all things considered," Cuddy answered, keeping her voice low, affectionately patting her lover's leg. "It won't be too long before he can go back to work. Look out patients, Dr. House is coming back with a vengeance."

"Is he still walking around without his cane?"

"Yes. No limp, either."

"That's good news. Since when did he sleep before 3am? Did you drug him?" Wilson sounded half-way serious as he walked to the easy chair and settled into it to get a better look at his esteemed colleagues.

"He's been sleeping a lot lately."

"Hypersomnia can be a symptom of depression," Wilson said stonily.

"He has no difficulty waking up and he's not disoriented when he does. There's no pain to disturb him so now he's playing catch-up."

"House is sleeping through the night?" Wilson asked incredulously as he watched Cuddy nod. "No nightmares or anything?"

"Nope, sleeping like a log," she chuckled. "Hmm...it's almost funny. Greg gets shot and I get the nightmares. I'm not sure which one is worse."

"No pain in his leg at all?" The oncologist raised his eyebrows.

"None."

"How do you know that?"

"He told me himself. The gunshot wounds are still bothering him a little, but not his leg."

"What about the Vicodin?"

"What about it?" she frowned.

"Is he still downing those like candy?"

"The bottle hasn't been touched in a week."

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "How can you be so sure?"

"There were fifteen pills in that bottle last week," she answered simply, "and there were fifteen in there when I counted them this morning while Greg was in the shower."

"And he's not going ballistic from withdrawal?"

"Staying home all day is starting to drive him ballistic, not the lack of Vicodin."

"Incredible," Wilson muttered under his breath, then shifted his attention to the Dean of Medicine. "How are you doing, Dr. Cuddy?"

She gave the oncologist a tired smile, "I've been better."

"Are you sick?"

"No, but keeping an eye on Greg here can really take it out of a gal."

"How so?"

"If you were to ask him, the whole shooting thing was just a minor inconvenience, like spraining his ankle instead of some maniac walking up to him and pulling the trigger without warning. He could have died and it doesn't bother him in the least."

"In other words," Wilson began, "he's still the same prickly misanthrope he always was. You're disappointed that he didn't see the light or the error of his ways, so to speak."

"Sort of," she sighed. "That maniac is still running around and Greg is like 'oh well, that's life'. I wish he would think before he speaks. Not everyone can tolerate his bluntness like we do. He might end up pissing off the wrong person again, and that person will have better aim."

A groan came from the pile of pillows. "If you two are going to talk about me," House muttered, opening his eyes, "you can at least be polite enough to make sure I'm out of earshot."