A/N: This chapter directly follows the previous. Extra warnings for mentions of suicide.

Buckling her seatbelt, Rose leans back with a smile.

"Have a good time I take it?" Wilson chuckles as he starts the car and pulls away.

"I haven't had such a good time on Christmas Eve since I was fifteen." She replies, leaning back in the chair and allowing herself to be lulled by the car ride.

After a few minutes, they pass a sign that reads Jim's Tree Lot 3 Miles.

Rose looks on longingly. "I haven't had a tree in decades."

"You wanna stop? A nice one would look lovely in front of the window behind the piano, don't you think?" Wilson answers, peering at the look of joy that crosses her face.

A smile spreads across her lips as they pull in. There aren't many trees left, but a quick loop around the lot reveals a small squatty one that's perfect for the apartment. Wilson insists on paying, purchasing some overpriced decorations from 'Jim' as well. They load it on top of his Volvo, strapping it down as best they can, and continue towards home.

After a few minutes of silence, Wilson's worrying curiosity gets the better of him. "You convince House that you're not leaving him then?"

Rose sighs roughly, watching the light snowfall outside her window as she answers. "Yeah… he was terrified I was James… The absolute respite in him when I said I wasn't… he just… clung to me. I don't know how he got so bad so fast."

Wilson cringes at her words, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Where do you see this going with him?"

"Where can it go Wilson? I love him. It either ends eventually, or it doesn't. I certainly don't want it to but it's not like we've discussed the future… I'm just… sticking around as long as he wants me to I guess. I... I want to be with him."

Her answer is honest but her voice trails off some, almost a whimsical tone falling flat.

Wilson nods. "But?" he prompts, knowing she has more to say.

"I don't get it. Something stupid happens- an argument say- and instead of just being angry for an hour and getting over it, he lets it sit and stew and stew. And then he over thinks and rethinks until his mind has taken a simple argument and corroded it into a dozen reasons I should leave and stresses himself beyond belief. Not that opiate withdrawal helped either but still."

She sits back, rubbing her eyes and sighing, glancing to Wilson's drawn face.

"He can't puzzle out the logic of you staying, Rose."

"What?"

"The only other really serious girlfriend he's ever had spent most of her time attempting to remedy his flaws. She was this beautiful, intelligent, good-for-him woman, and he loved her more than anything. He tried so hard to improve for her, he really did, tamping down on his ego and his mouth and all of that. And then she left him, because the disability that she caused suddenly made him not good enough for her. Because he was in so much pain that all the flaws he'd managed to filter out came rushing back, making up for lost time."

Rose hisses under her breath at that, shaking her head angrily.

Wilson gestures towards her, continuing his speech. "And now, a more intelligent, more beautiful, even-better-for-him woman comes along, whom he's coming to love more than he ever did Stacy. And every flaw, every failing, each and every moment lacking perfection, she takes in her stride, accepting all of him and loving him without condition.

"You let him be when he's depressed. You argue with him when he needs to let it out, and don't take offense. You know his ticks, and how to avoid them. You know how to get in his head and help him- mold the negative into positive- and simply be there when there's no fixing to be done. You know how to handle his pain, and his disability doesn't bother you in the slightest- you don't even see it. And, on top of it all, you've stuck around for over a year. He's made no effort to ask you to stay in his life, no mention of the next year or even beyond that, and here you are saying you can't see yourself anywhere else.

"To him, it's too good to be true. He doesn't deserve it. Doesn't deserve you, and thinks you deserve better. He looks at himself and- true or not- he finds nothing that you're gaining from being with him. He sees no benefit for you and so he thinks and thinks and thinks and attempts to find a reason why you should stay, and finds none. So the second there's a tiny reason you should leave, he jumps on it, and runs with it."

HWHWHWHWHWHWHW

She's too good for you. You don't deserve her. She only stayed because you looked so damn pitiful. Next time, she'll leave you for sure.

House rubs his temples angrily, getting up and pouring a large glass of bourbon. He stares at the caramel liquid in one hand, twirling the amber pill bottle in the other. The little white capsules clicking from one end to another and rattling against one another.

It's Christmas, and here you are, drinking and hating yourself. You're worthless. And they're out having fun without you.

He takes a sip of the liquid, savoring it as the burning trickles down his throat.

Can't protect your girlfriend against a problem you caused. Then she gives you another chance, and what do you do? Get all clingy and cry over it. Very manly. Way to go.

He rubs his thigh, the pain beginning to ramp up again, and swallows a single white pill.

Half a day without those little white demons and you're reduced to a shaking idiot. An idiot who cuts himself like a pre-teen girl.

Sighing, he puts his head in his hands, wishing it would stop. Hoping for it to just go away.

Would you beg her to stay if she wanted to leave? Bet you would. Blubber and kneel down and beg like a dog.

He presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, watching the colors flash and trying to silence his mind.

Why are you even here still? You don't deserve her. You don't deserve Wilson. Hell, the hospital doesn't even need you anymore. She'd save just as many lives as you. You're horrible, awful, terrible for her. She doesn't need you. Doesn't want you. You're pitiful. Useless. Idiotic. Incompetent. Hopeless. Addicted. Wallowing. Depressive. Cruel. Misanthropic. MISERABLE. WRETCHED. HATEFUL. VIAL. WORTHLESS. PATHETIC.

Slamming his glass on the table, he picks up the phone and dials.

He clears his throat, attempting to keep the pinched tone out of his voice.

"Hey Mom. I guess you guys are already up at Aunt Sarah's. M'sure Dad's in the eggnog and you're probably suffering through another dried out turkey. Just wanted to say Merry Christmas."

Twirling the bottle in his fingers one last time, he uncaps it, and upends it into his palm. He closes his eyes, exhaling raggedly, and pours the pills into his mouth, chasing them down with a full glass of bourbon.

Setting down the glass and sighing, he rubs his face and sits back, waiting.

HWHWHWHWHWH

"House?" Wilson calls, fidgeting with the key in the door to the apartment.

He and Rose enter, struggling to balance the tree between them and squeeze it through the door. Still laughing and joking, they manage to make it in. Rose bumps the door shut with her hip and they turn around carefully, so as to not knock anything over.

Then they see him: Unconscious on his back, just behind the piano, lies House, hardly breathing.

The tree thumps to the floor and needles float into the air as they rush over to him, shedding their coats and gloves as they go, reaching for his pulse and checking his respiration in tandem.

"It's there." Wilson assures them both, his fingers dug into House's neck. "It's weak, but it's there."

The pair roll him on his side, and, from underneath him Rose produces a familiar object. Light glints through the empty orange plastic as Wilson swears, dashing for the phone.

"There's no time James! He'll be dead before they get here if we don't do something. Get me the kitchen trash!"

He obeys, quickly returning with a wastebasket. Rose pulls House into a sitting position, leaning his torso forward over Wilson's arms and putting the trash in his lap. Then, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she shoves two fingers down his throat, past the uvula and into the soft muscle, when she feels him start to gag, she removes her fingers quickly, and aims his head to the can.

She and Wilson silently count nearly twenty pills in putrid liquor as House's body heaves, finally stilling after a few minutes. They lift him gently onto the couch, laying him on his side should he throw up again, and check his vitals once more.

"His pulse is stronger now." Wilson reports, looking to Rose.

She nods, sitting down in the armchair and curling her legs up, resting her chin on her knees. Wilson goes to the door and stands the tree up in place, then paces through the apartment. His hand glued to the back of his neck, he follows a path identical to House's.

The minutes tick by, and finally, House groans. Rose darts to his side immediately, grabbing his hand and squeezing, verbally encouraging him to open his eyes.

When he does, the cerulean takes a second to focus on her, and fades to a dull blue, filled with guilt and sadness. Wilson brushes her out of the way and shines a light in his eyes. Once satisfied with the pupil constriction, he double checks his breathing with the stethoscope from his briefcase.

He looks at House, and, apparently unsatisfied by what he finds, blinks slowly and shakes his head in irritation, tossing the empty pill bottle at him as he rises to leave, fixing him with a look of vexation and disgust.

Giving Rose one last glance, Wilson leaves, brushing the tree out of his way aggressively as he slams the door.

Rose returns to the armchair, hugging her knees and looking to House, a giant lump forming in her throat.

"What were you thinking?" She whispers, not trusting her voice otherwise.

When he makes no move to answer, Rose continues, her voice immediately cracking and staying in a high octave, the tears she couldn't cry before as a doctor flowing freely now that she's sure he's okay.

"I don't know what you think, or why you think it, but dammit House, I love you. Okay? I thought we covered this earlier. You deserve me, and everything I do, and I'm not leaving. And I don't know what I'd do if you…" She trails off, ducking her head down behind her knees, her body trembling.

"Come here." He commands, his voice hoarse and low.

She does, practically laying on top of him on the couch. He wraps his arms around her, and she buries her face in his shoulder.

"I'm sorry." He adds, stroking her back and holding her tight.

"Something has to change. This cannot go on like this." She mumbles into the crook of his neck.

"I know." He answers, looking up to the ceiling with a sigh. "I know."

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWH

As he begins to awaken, the sun shining onto his face from the window, he tunes into the world around him. A Christmas tree, fully decorated and alight, swims into his vision. He can smell cookies baking and coffee brewing, and hear bacon sizzling on the stove.

A fire already crackles, low and warm, under the mantle, and carols play quietly in the background from his stereo system.

As he slowly stretches out and straightens up- ever more sore from spending the night on the couch, he hears two voices of laughter in the kitchen.

Walking in and rinsing the awful taste from his mouth with tap water, a cup of coffee is placed in his spot as he sits down to a pile of macadamia nut pancakes. Wilson gives him a strained smile when he mumbles "thank you," and continues chatting with Rose.

House observes in silence as brown eyes dance with amusement while debating who received the worst present growing up. Dark hair swishes around her ribs, adorned under a mint coloured sweater and black leggings. Her smile radiates as she laughs at Wilson's admittance of being gifted a video game that he neither wanted nor learned to play. She glances to House watching her, and her eyes soften to him, her lip curling up in a small smile before turning back to defend herself from Wilson's torment over getting a set of encyclopedias that she actually read.

The day continues like this, the three getting pleasantly buzzed on eggnog and sherry, cooking and laughing and dancing around the house, for once actually filled with some kind of cheer. Wilson gives House a beautifully preserved copy of The History of Medicine: A Very Short Introduction, and Rose a cashmere sweater she can only imagine cost him a fortune. She returns the favor with several silk ties that House actually approves of, and a pair of etched onyx caduceus cufflinks. House looks a bit guilty for not having gotten Rose anything, but she affixes him with a look that tells him she'll be more than happy to accept other forms of gift giving, later tonight.

Rose and Wilson's meal turns out perfectly- as usual- and the three sit, sated and glowing in the living room. When Rose curls up to House and begins to doze off, Wilson, glancing approvingly at House's arm around her securely, takes it as his queue to leave, rising quietly and heading to the door.

Before he shuts it, he sticks his head back in, and House cranes his neck to see him. "Merry Christmas House," he says, his sincere words laced with unspoken forgiveness.

A small, allayed smile passes the older man's lips. "Merry Christmas, Wilson."