Chapter 32

The climax of House's emotional outburst sent a nurse's racing into his room, her shoes hurriedly squeaking along the lino, seeing the two men tangled in an awkward hug on the floor she hesitated, her face a questioning mask. Wilson shook his head slowly, warning her off, she faltered for a moment, but he maintained eye contact letting her know he had the situation handled. She backed away, taking in the chaos of the room as she went.

The two men stayed on the floor for a long time as House gradually gained control over his mutinous emotions. Thai food leisurely seeped down the hospital wall creating a lumpy, viscous puddle on the floor. Wilson manoeuvred one arm so that he could gently rub his friend's back in soothing circles, making gentle shushing sounds and soon the shuddering sobs ceased. House began to relax into the comfort Wilson provided and let his weight settle on the other man, taking the strain off his maimed leg and injured hands.

It was longer still before either man spoke, but eventually House began to shift. He brought his hands up to his eyes and began to scrub the tears away, then leaned forward, away from Wilson, who slowly allowed his arms to relinquish their protective hold. For a brief moment missing the comforting warmth and weight of his friend, but he held onto his gratitude that House had truly allowed himself be vulnerable with him. "Sorry." House uttered so softly that Wilson almost missed it.

He was stunned for a moment before realising that House was waiting for a response. "You've got nothing to be sorry for." He replied firmly, his eyes fixed on the back of his friend's head, which hung, dejectedly.

"'m pathetic." He answered, as quietly as before.

Wilson shifted so he could try to get a glimpse of House's face, but the other man moved himself around as well, keeping his face averted. "You could never be pathetic." He responded, his voice soft but full of conviction. House shook his head gently. "House! You saved a woman's life. You had numerous broken bones, your skull was severely fractured, you were bleeding internally, and you still dragged that woman from a burning car. That's not pathetic." When he saw House's head raise slightly, he continued. "It's going to take some time to get over this. It going to take a lot of work… and you're going to have setbacks. But if anyone can do it, it's you."

"You don't know that." House murmured, but his voice wasn't so heavy this time, Wilson detected a hopeful note hidden in his broken words.

"Yes, I do. Because you've done it before." House half turned and glanced at him at this comment. "After the infarction you were in agony. So much muscle had been removed from your thigh that you could barely even sit up by yourself, let alone walk. When you quit physio after just one session everyone gave up on you ever walking again. Even I gave up. But you did it. You taught yourself to sit up. You taught yourself to walk. It was painful. There were setbacks, some were pretty bad. But you did it. I don't think anyone else could have."

"I remember." He whispered. "But this is different. This is worse."

"No, it's not. Do you know why?" House didn't respond but was listening intently. "Because you're still Greg House."

HHHHHHHHH

Wilson's sleep that night was plagued by nightmares. House jogging down the road, his long lithe legs carrying further and faster away from Wilson, who huffed heavily, struggling to keep up.

House hefting his lacrosse stick, his face a mask of concentration as he deftly dodged one man, spun around a second, put on a burst of speed, rounding on an open net. He raised his stick, pulled back and let fly, the ball hurtling toward the open goal amid a chorus of cheers from his team.

House kneeling in an easy crouch, his body easily tucked into a low overhang. Wilson watched as he suddenly propelled himself out, springing effortlessly to face a figure clad in paint splattered overalls, her long dark hair spilling out, a mask obscuring her features. His gun was raised before they realised he was even there and he let loose a slew of pellets, further colouring their marred outfit.

House swinging his club, ready to putt, but never finishing the motion. Bringing the club to his side, he let it fall, his grip instead going to his right thigh, massaging the muscle with a pained expression on his face. "You ok?" Wilson heard himself ask.

"Must've pulled a muscle." House said before picking up his club and finishing the putt.

House writhing in bed, his face contorted in bitter rage, agony tightening his features further. His right leg propped up on a stack of pillows, fresh surgical dressings swaddling his thigh. Stacy tried to grasp his hand, but he pulled away, Cuddy explaining the procedure they had performed without his permission. Suddenly his screams of fury sent them fleeing his room. Wilson watched on as his eyes fell to his leg and he began tearing at his dressings, unravelling the bandages, tearing away saturated dressings, pulling at fresh stitches. A deep valley opened up in his thigh. Blood began seeping from the wound, slow at first, then faster until the sheets were stained crimson. Sticky scarlet fluid dripped to the floor, forming a rapidly expanding pool. House looked up then, meeting Wilson's eyes, a wild, savage look in his eyes. His fingers dipped into the warm tacky liquid, swirling it around, smearing his gown, his arms, his face. A disturbed smile frozen on his face like a rictus. Wilson looked away.

A loud insistent tone rang out, drawing his attention back to the darkened room. Suddenly it was full of people moving frantically in the small space. House was lying motionless, a large dressing covering the left side of his head, a long gash slashing his cheek. Foreman frantically pumping his boss's chest, Cuddy pressing paddles to his burnt and bruised chest, squeezing the button sending 300 volts coursing through his body, causing him to convulse on the small bed, stained with congealing blood. Wilson threaded a needle into an IV port and injected, letting the spent syringe fall to the ground. He looked to the monitor, still flatlining. Abruptly, everyone stood away from the bed as one. Cuddy dropping the paddles, Foreman's hands falling limply to his sides.

"That's it." He heard himself say. "I'm calling it. Time of death 5.43." Everyone nodded, stripping the stained gloves from their hands. "Bye House." He looked at his friend's burnt, bruised and bloodied form one last time, then turned and walked away, joined closely by Cuddy and Foreman. No one looked back as they switched off the lights, left the room and let the door swing shut on the empty husk lying on the table.

Unable to shake the disturbing images that accompanied his sleep, Wilson felt an overwhelming need to see his best friend, to make sure he was ok after the distressing events of the previous evening. Ringing his assistant, he rearranged his morning schedule pushing back appointments to the afternoon and cancelling meetings so he could be at rehab before House started another gruelling day of physio, therapies and treatments. He dressed quickly and set off.

HHHHHHHHHH

As he approached House's room, he saw two nurses leaving, talking in hushed voices, one of them spotted him and peeled away from the other, approaching him with a solemn expression. A cold tremble quivered down his spine and he sped up so he could intercept her sooner, his disturbing dreams from the night before flashing through his mind, adding to his unease. "What is it? What's wrong?" He questioned before she could speak.

"Don't worry. It's nothing too serious. Greg had a couple of seizures this morning. He's stabilised now, but it'll be a little while before he's up and around." She flashed him a sympathetic smile, briefly touching a hand to his arm. "Don't look so worried. He'll be ok. Why don't you go in and see him?"

House's room was quiet, the curtains drawn against the early morning sunshine. The gentle inhale exhale from the bed told Wilson he was asleep. When he approached the bed, his eyes strayed to the screen that had been set up to monitor him after his seizures. He felt a measure of relief lighten his panic as they showed that he was indeed stable. House's eyes were closed, a light sheen of sweat covered his face and he looked tired, even more so than he had the night before.

House's chart lay on the bedside table. Wilson grabbed it and flipped through the notes. The first episode started at 05.53 and was picked up by the monitor on his mattress, alerting the nursing staff. It was relatively short lived and stopped on its own after less than a minute. The second started a few minutes later. It was more severe and required a round of Ativan before it ended. House was post-ictal for 11 minutes then regained consciousness for a little while before he succumbed to his exhaustion.

Wilson sighed, it was now 08.20, he should come around soon. Settling himself in the chair by the bed he turned on the TV to watch while he waited for his friend to wake up. It was difficult to concentrate on the news as his eyes kept flicking between the bed to check on the sleeping man and the discoloured wall opposite him. Someone had attempted to scrub the wall where House had hurled his meal the previous evening. Their attempt had not been successful. A brown stain clung stubbornly to the wall in a long, thin streak and the paint was faded where it had been scrubbed. It would need to be repainted.

Before long House began to stir then opened his eyes, blinking languidly. He raised his right hand, for now free from the tight neoprene glove and rubbed at his eyes, yawning leisurely. His eyes were listlessly drawn to the flickering images on the tv. He watched for a moment before the frenetic images were too much for him. Abandoning the show, his eyes tracked around the room before falling on Wilson. He blinked then, confused. "Wha' you doin' here?" He slurred, then scanned the room critically. "Di' I sleeep all day?" He asked, confusion clear on his face.

Wilson felt himself smile affectionately; he must still be pretty groggy. He turned himself fully, so he faced his friend. "No, I thought I'd come by before work and see how you're doing." Then injected a note of humour into his voice. "I didn't expect you to sleep through my visit though."

It was House's turn to flash a small smile, but it faded quickly. "Thank you… for last night." He said, as his listless eyes fell on the stain on the wall.

Again, Wilson felt himself smile. "Any time." He said, "I mean it." He added when House didn't respond.

He then pulled himself up the bed slightly. "Time's it?"

Wilson consulted his watch "8.50. You ready to get up and grab some breakfast?" House nodded but his movements were slow, lethargic.

Wilson lowered the rails and grabbed the crutches as House sluggishly manoeuvred himself out of the bed. He had to stop himself from offering support as his friend slid from the bed and wobbled slightly before gaining his balance, then slowly set about getting ready for the day.