The day of House's appointment with Dr. Lane arrived quicker than he thought it would. Following the incident with the razor in the bath tub, Wilson had kept a closer eye on him for a long while. They had settled into a routine where House would bathe every morning and then would do his morning PT, which, although he would never admit it, was getting easier. The remaining muscle in his thigh was getting stronger and he could manage three steps before he needed his wheelchair.

There had been an episode a few weeks back when House had been determined to prove to no one but himself that he could and would regain the use of both of his legs through a cane or crutches and he had waited for Wilson to go to bed, had hiked himself out of his own bed so that he was sitting up, he'd swung his left leg over the edge and had gently moved his right so that he could get up, using his dominant and stronger leg to stand on first, which in itself was never easy. Once he was standing on one leg, he tentatively put some pressure on his right, he nearly collapsed there and then from the pain and the huge chunk of missing thigh muscle, but if Greg House was one thing, he was stubborn.

To begin with, he'd managed two steps towards the bathroom – usually, he'd call out to Wilson who would then either support him to the bathroom or if he was tired or had had a bad pain day, would push him in the wheelchair. He fixated on his goal, he was just going to go to the bathroom and pee, then head back to his bed after a small rest and Wilson would never have to know.

The monster that controlled his pain tricked him as he was getting more confident and taking small, painful steps towards the bathroom. He had reached the door when the monster struck and his legs collapsed under him, he hit his head on the bathroom cabinet that had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He reached out to try and steady himself on something, but only succeeded in making a racket as he fell to the floor, passing out as his face hit tiles.

The next thing he could remember was waking up with his head in Wilson's lap, a cold compress pressed against the cut to staunch off the blood flow. Wilson's trusty pen light had been shining in his eyes, which was what had alerted him to his own consciousness.

"How long have I been out?" he asked, his speech slurring. God, he must have hit the ground hard.

"The crash woke me, I guess only a few minutes, but it seemed like a lot longer, what on earth were you trying to do, House?" Wilson said, concerned etched on his face and apparent in his voice.

"I needed a piss," House stated, simply. "I thought I could make it."

"Well, next time, call me; it's what I'm here for." Wilson gently placed his head on the tile floor and disappeared from House's eye line. The first sign of him returning was the wheelchair foot rests appearing next to him. "I'm going to lift you into the chair and then put you back to bed so I can look at that cut and see if it needs stitches," Wilson told him, getting himself into position so that he could lift House. Over the past few weeks and months, House had lost his appetite and was therefore, a lot lighter than he had been when it all first started to go wrong.

Once he was back in bed, Wilson switched on the bed side lamp and moved it so that he could get a closer look at the cut over House's eye. "That's gonna bruise, it needs a few stitches. Cuddy's gonna think I beat you."

"Only if I'm a good boy," House quipped.

"You've got your appointment with Dr. Lane soon, hopefully it'll be healed by then. You have to stop these stunts in the middle of the night. You'll end up doing yourself some serious damage."

"Yes, sir," House replied, rolling his eyes. Wilson had his back to him, getting the suture kit ready to stitch the cut.

"I saw that, now behave or I'll do it without anaesthetic," Wilson replied, his back still turned.

House poked his tongue out at Wilson just in time for Wilson to turn around with the lidocaine syringe in his hand.

It didn't take long to stitch the cut and before long, both men were in their own beds and drifting back off to sleep. Except House couldn't quite shift the memory of how it had felt to be taking those steps, maybe one day he would walk again.

The morning of his appointment with Dr. Lane, Wilson had decided to go into work to catch up with some of his long term patients and see how they were doing with the change in Oncologist. He knew that his team would look after them, but that didn't stop him wanting to make sure that his absence hadn't caused any major problems.

As usual, House has his morning bath, then they did morning P.T. Eventually, House was clothed, fed, and in his chair ready to go to his appointment. It was Wilson who was making them late as he wanted to bake some of his famous pancakes for the patients he visited; hospital food does not a good diet make.

They set out only ten minutes later than planned and the roads between Baker Street and PPTH were strangely quiet, meaning that they actually got there early. Wilson had promised he would stay with House until Dr. Lane called him in, he didn't want to be left alone with the other crazies on the third floor.

He wouldn't have admitted to it to anyone – especially not Wilson, but he was scared as to what would go on during the session. He had yet to come to terms with the limitations the surgery had placed on his life and with his eye still a yellow bruise from his tumble in the bathroom, he knew he'd have to explain it. Why couldn't Cuddy just let him go back to work? Mental health be damned!

"Greg House, Dr. Lane will see you now," the secretary said. Wilson stood up, put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently.

"Page me when you're done. Good Luck." With that he was gone and it was up to House to push himself into the office – which held both glory and hell for him.