"House, I say this as a friend, but you need to get out of bed and grab a shower or something because you smell," Wilson said, after the fifth day of House laying in bed, only getting up to drag himself to the bathroom and refusing the use his wheelchair, which led to made falls and Wilson having to pick him up and carry him to and fro, which was no easy task because despite losing weight since the fall, House wasn't exactly light.
"Can't stand. Can't shower," House replied in a monotone, not even acknowledging Wilson.
"You can have a bath then," Wilson said, not giving up.
"Can't get in. Can't walk," House said, in the same monotone, his eyes fixed on a point in the corner of his room.
Wilson sighed; as far as he saw it he had two options. He could give up and let House wallow in his own misery and self-pity or he could physically run a bath and fight House all the way. Part of him wanted to choose the first option, after all he could only imagine how House was feeling and although the pain was under some kind of control with the severdol and oxycodone, but he still had flare ups when he would clutch his leg and whimper and those were the times when he was most vulnerable and would occasionally let Wilson near him to help him with the pain, though there were no more injections, just ice, heat and the occasional massage to ease the cramping muscles – or what was left of the muscles at least. He knew though, deep down that the only way to get House out of the depression was some tough love, something to snap him out of it, prove to him that he wasn't totally crippled, he still had his left leg and he could push himself in the wheelchair when he felt so inclined. If he ever wanted to return to his job, the only thing keeping him going and this Wilson knew from the way House's face lit up when Foreman called with a consult – it was as if the old House had returned, the one that lived after the infarction, before the fall and the second blood clot and the surgeries, the one that lived with his disability and embraced it in a way only the great Dr. House could – something had to give.
In the end, Wilson chose the second option. House had been wallowing for too long and with the psych evaluation coming up he couldn't afford to spend all of his time in bed. He'd refused to allow Wilson to do his PT meaning there was risk of the muscle's atrophying, which would cause more pain and more problems in the long run. He needed to do this for House's own good, even if he didn't see it that way.
He sighed deeply, leaving House alone in the bedroom and ran a bath, getting a razor and some shaving cream out so that House could at least shave – his stubble had turned into growth and he was looking nothing like he had done before. He planned to forcibly dump House in the bath if necessary and then do his PT exercises, even if he fought him. Things were going to change, starting now.
Once the bath was full, Wilson went back into House's room. "I ran you a bath, do you want to go yourself or do I need to carry you?" he asked, his voice firm in the hopes that it would break through whatever wall House had put up between himself and the outside world.
"I told you before, can't walk," House replied in the same monotone he had used before, still not acknowledging Wilson.
"I guess that means I need to carry you," Wilson said, approaching the bed.
"Why can't you just leave me alone to rot? No one asked you to stay with me," House snapped.
"Because despite what you may think, I care about you and I'm not going to let you kill yourself because you think your life is over."
"My life is fucking over."
"No, it's not, House. It's changed is all and I'll admit it's a shitty change and if I could make it all better, I would, but I can't. I'm sorry you can't walk anymore, I'm sorry the ketamine didn't work, I'm sorry you had another blood clot and they had to cut away more of your thigh muscle, I'm sorry that you're looking at life in a wheelchair, but your life isn't over and the sooner you realise that the better."
"So, what is this? Some kind of fucking intervention?"
"You could call it that."
"I'm not getting in that bath and you can't make me," House snapped, finally making eye contact with his friend. His eyes were full of fury and rage and a tinge of sadness. Wilson knew he was hurting both physically and mentally and he could only imagine that kind of pain, but he wasn't backing down now.
"I guess you really don't understand how certain I am that this is going to happen."
"Oh yeah, Jimmy, coz you'd risk hurting the cripple. You won't even step on a fucking ant!" House spat.
Wilson threw back the covers, put one arm under House neck and the other under his knees and lifted him off the bed. House fought him all the way, but ever time he tried to loosen Wilson's grip, he'd twist his leg and end up in pain that would make him rethink things.
"You wait until you try to get my clothes off," House spat. "I'll fight you all the way, just leave me the fuck alone!"
"This is for your own good, House," Wilson said, making it to the bathroom and dumping House – fully clothes in a t-shirt and boxers – into the warm bath.
"What the fuck?" House shouted.
"You can either take off your clothes and enjoy your bath, or I'll get my surgical scissors and cut them off myself," Wilson told him in a voice that told House he was deadly serious.
"I'll take them off myself," House spat.
"Good. When you're done washing, here's a razor and shaving cream for your beard."
"Goody, something sharp, I can slash my wrists and this will all be over."
"Only if you fancy doing it with me watching."
"You're going to watch me bathe, that's just wrong!"
"Yeah, because you've given me every reason to trust you with a razor," Wilson told him, his eyebrows raised.
"I hate you," House muttered.
"You'll hate me more after this because once you're done we doing PT...a full session and you can moan and whinge and complain and call me every name under the sun, but you're doing it. You can sit in depression for the rest of your life. It stops now!"
"Since when did you get to dictate my life for me?" House snarled, stripping off his t-shirt and dropping it to the floor. His boxers would have to stay on because there was no way for him to get out of them whilst sitting in the bath and despite the fact that Wilson had been putting catheters in for him for the past couple of months, he still didn't want to sit in a bath completely naked while Wilson watched.
"Since you were too busy wallowing in self-pity to see that you still had one."
"You think I still have a life? Did you not see what happened to me in PT that day? I collapsed trying to take three fucking steps. What's the point in focusing on the positive side of things when the positive side sucks beyond measure?"
"House, you still have your job and if you ever want to go back to it you have to get off your ass, find a wheelchair that suits your needs, see a psychiatrist and get cleared and make sure your leg doesn't get any worse and to do that you have to start taking care of yourself. That means bathing, PT and getting your lazy ass out of bed!"
House sat staring at the wall as Wilson's words sunk in. He knew that he was right, that he had his job, a job he was bloody good at, but would he have the same level of respect from his fellows in a wheelchair as he'd commanded on a cane. He washed himself without thinking about it and finally looked over at Wilson.
"Can I please do this in private?" he asked, all the anger gone from his voice.
Wilson looked at him for a moment, sure that his words had finally gotten through. "I'll be in the kitchen, call me when you're done and I'll help you get out."
"Thanks."
House lay in the bathtub thinking about the future. Could he really continue his life from the confines of a wheelchair? Would people pity him? Would his fellows pity him? He didn't think he could stand that and no matter what Wilson said to him, he knew he felt sorry for him too and he couldn't stand that either. He had never been one to ask for help, never felt he needed it, but he didn't think he could get through this, it was just too much.
He stared at the razor on the side of the bath and thought, Just one simple cut and it could be the end of it all. He didn't want to die, he just wanted the pain to end and until you've suffered that way you cannot understand that, which was why he knew Wilson wouldn't understand if he just told him and he didn't think he had the words to explain it as it was.
The minute he did it, he regretted it, the water was turning a lovely red colour and he held his wrist under the water to stop it getting everywhere and realised then that he really didn't want to die, he just wanted to know how to go forward, how to get over this.
"Wilson!" he called, not sure how to explain it to his friend, but knowing that he had no choice now that he done something stupid that needed intervention.
"Just coming," Wilson called back from the kitchen.
"Wilson, I need you now!" House shouted back as the blood gushed out of the wound. He'd made the cut deep enough to hit the vein and his blood; his life-force was ebbing out of him.
The tone of House's voice made Wilson leave the sandwiches he'd been making and head to the bathroom. To begin with he'd thought that maybe House had tried to get out of the bath without his help and had slipped and fallen, but surely then he would have heard something. What he was greeted with instead was House sitting in bath water that had a reddish tinge to it.
"What did you do?" he demanded, rushing to House's side.
"I had an accident," House said, holding up his left wrist, which was dripping blood.
Wilson grabbed one of the towels from the rail and wrapped it round the wrist trying to get the bleeding to stop. "Christ, House, do you want to die?"
"I just got confused."
Wilson said nothing and lifted House out of the tub, laying him on the bathroom floor. "Don't move and hold that towel there tightly, I'm gonna get my kit and see if I can stitch you up or if we need to go to hospital."
Wilson returned quickly with a suture kit and some gloves. "Let me see," he said, signalling for House to move the towel. Although is had hit the vein it wasn't deep enough to require hospitalisation. Wilson put the towel back over the cut and motioned for House to hold it in place while he drew up some lidocaine and supplies to suture it up.
"Once I'm done here, we're going to do your PT and have a long discussion as to why I should just take you back to the hospital and have Dr. Lane admit you to the psych ward for a few days," Wilson snapped at him, pulling the towel away and injecting the lidocaine. He waited for five minutes and started to stitch up House's wrist. Once he was done, he placed a gauze bandage over it and taped it in place.
Without giving House a chance to explain himself, he knelt down, put one arm under his head and the other under his knees and lifted him up, carrying him back to his bed and laying him on it with his feet near the bottom so that they could do PT.
"Wilson, let me explain," House started.
"No, House. Right now, I don't want to hear whatever excuse you have for me. I shouldn't have been so stupid as to trust you with the fucking razor in the first place, it's not like you've been listening to a word I say, is it?" Wilson spat. He was angrier with himself than with House, but right then he didn't care about upsetting his friend, he just wanted the truth to hit home. No matter how harsh it would seem.
He should have realised that House was sorry for his actions when he didn't make a single complaint through the whole of the PT session and Wilson really put him through his paces considering it had been over a week since the last time they'd done a session. Once he was done, he watched as House swallowed a severdol and then looked him dead in the eye.
"Talk."
"Jimmy, I just didn't know what to do, I didn't want to die, I just didn't know how to ask you for help, didn't know how to form the words because I knew you'd just feel sorry for me and I don't need pity, I don't want fucking pity from anyone, but especially not from you."
"So you thought carving up your wrist would tell me that you needed help?"
House nodded.
"Do you know what it's told me, other than the fact that you can't be trust around sharp objects for a while? It's told me that you've hit rock bottom and I can't pick you up, I can't help you because no matter what I say to you, you don't listen to me and how can I help you then?"
"Please don't send me away. You're all I have, please don't leave me, Jimmy, I'd die if you left me."
"I won't leave you, but you have to swear to me that from now on things will be different, no wallowing in bed, no carving up pretty pictures on yourself, you'll eat, you'll drink, you'll do the damn PT and you'll talk to me, promise me that, House or I swear..."
"I'll do it."
