Wow. I pretty much suck at life here. I haven't updated this story in forever. So for those of you still reading thanks for sticking around. I'm sure you had to start all over because it has been so long. R&R appreciated.

"So he really didn't say anything?"

"Nope. Silent. He let me patch him up. Then wheel him to the showers. Hell he even let me help him in and out of the damn shower."

"Nothing?"

"Why is this such a foreign concept. House was quiet. I'm sure pneumonia plus a 45 minute workout really helped him catch his breath."

Cuddy sat and considered the possibility. "How bad were his hands?"

"They'll be sore for a while. They were pretty torn up. He was punching that stupid bag for almost an hour."

Some days it sucked being an administrator. "Go up and talk with him and find out anything else. Meanwhile I'll let the nurses know to call one of us he leaves his room."

Wilson heaved himself up out of the chair still shaking his head. "What was he thinking!?"

"I don't know but I want you to find out. I need to know if he'll be fit to return to work when he's healthy."

"What do you mean when he's healthy?" Angry brown eyes snapped up. "Once the pneumonia clears his system he'll be fine. We'll keep him on the antibiotics for three or four more days and his chest will clear up and he can go home. Give him Friday and the weekend off and he'll be back in a week or so."

"You can't possibly be blind to the self destructive behavior we've seen in the last few days. He was drunk when he was first brought in after walking from his apartment most of the way to the hospital. He was severely hypothermic and his heart stopped. He left the hospital AMA, developed pneumonia and then just spent an hour beating his hands bloody. Does that sound like someone who should be treating patients to you?"

Fire raged behind Wilson's calm exterior. Who was she to judge House? What right did she have to question his abilities to treat patients?

She continued sensibly, "At the very least I think he should speak to someone from the psych department about the possibilities of an anti-depressant. He can't keep going on like this."

Wilson was about to come up with a witty retort when the image resurfaced of House's body arching off the gurney as hundreds of joules of electricity were pulsed through his body.

"Yeah, maybe he should see someone." The fire died down to smoldering embers.

The appointment with the psychiatrist didn't go well. He read the patient history and asked a few questions which got the same answer as everything else. Unresponsiveness.

House ate the food put in front of him lest they try to switch him to IV nutrition or an N-G tube but it was the limit of his willingness to interact with the world. He stared out the window and watched the individual snowflakes fall.

The day after the psychiatrist a new little cup with what House immediately recognized as an anti-depressant. He didn't need them. He was fine. There was no point to taking them here. He wasn't going to take them once he left and it took at least two or three weeks for them to start working. And he wouldn't need to be in the hospital that long. He could already feel his breathing easing and the crackle was dying down.

The day after that he was set to be released with strict instructions to stay in bed and finish the round of oral antibiotics. It was Thursday.

Wilson had visited twice a day. He just sat there at lunch and chatted or turned on whatever inane television program was on at the time. In the evenings the cycle would repeat. Today though Wilson showed up after all his work was done and tossed clean clothing on the end of the bed.

House felt the pile land on his feet and looked up. "Come on. I'm taking you home."

Silently and slowly House got dressed. Three days in bed had actually helped his leg. The cramps and tension that would have followed him around for weeks after such a strain had finally eased on the second day.

Tying the last shoelace in place a jacket and cane were thrust into his left and right hands respectively. Wilson gave a nod to the on duty nurse at the desk as they passed. The paperwork had all been filled out and signed off before he even got to House's room.

The car ride was much the same. Silent.

When they arrived at the apartment Wilson walked up the stairs unlocking the doors and allowing House to follow at his own pace. His jacket was already slung over the back of a chair when his friend hobbled in the door.

"Go grab a shower. I'll make dinner."

The thought was heavenly. The smell of the hospital had permeated his hair and even seeped into his clean clothing. Nothing sounded better than to get out of the stiff jeans and into something soft and comfortable. His stubble had grown itself into something of a real beard during his stay and needed to be trimmed back as well.

The smell of homemade marinara wafted through the open door of the bathroom as House emerged clothed in comfy sweat pants and a sweatshirt surrounded by a billow of steam. As he entered the kitchen he saw the high stools at the butcher block had silverware and plates laid out across from each other. Spaghetti, homemade meatballs, fresh parmesan. It smelled amazing.

"Have a seat." The voice broke the soothing silence.

The scrape of the chair legs against the floor. The clunk of the tall glasses of water as they're set down. The groan of the wooden joints as House plunked himself atop the stool.

"This is kind of nice. You should get pneumonia more often. It seems to have paralyzed your vocal chords."

A glare.

"Although it could be hard to run a differential without talking."

A shrug.

"Or without Cuddy's okay that you can go back to work."

"What do you mean?" The words just popped out sounding gravely from disuse.

"Ah. So they're not paralyzed good to know. I mean that unless you agree to talk to someone she won't let you go back to work. All of this destructive behavior isn't making her particularly confident that you should be around patients right now."

"I'm fine."

This time it was Wilson who was silent. Although his eyebrows were doing a lot of talking as thye contorted themselves into a who-do-you-think-you're-fooling sort of pose.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, because repetition makes it true."

Growl, scrape, thump, thump, thump.

House was out of the kitchen before Wilson could do much about it.