Chapter 13 - James Wilson

At that moment, Wilson was standing in front of the glass door of the hospital room, which his best friend was occupying. Again. He carefully put his hand on the frame to open the sliding door. House's head turned towards him at the same time.

It was late when he entered, closed the door behind him, and stood by the injured man's bed.

"How are you?" he asked into the oppressive silence, but the only answer he received was a penetrating look from large, blue eyes. His fingers played restlessly in the pockets of his coat, because he already knew what House would say to him.

"You kept it a secret from me."

Wilson didn't know how to describe the sound of his voice. Not exactly cold, not exactly emotional, kind of dry, but also a little hurt. In the blue of his eyes rustled a storm of accusations that Wilson had expected, but which still hurt him.

"I'm sorry," he replied with all the calm he could muster, and sighed deeply. He knew it wasn't fair, and he knew House would hold it against him. He had foreseen that the moment he hadn't mentioned the Vicodin during their first conversation about his leg. That it would come out at some point, and then his silence would be fatal for him and their friendship.

"Listen... I just kept the drugs from you because I was hoping - and am still hoping - you won't take them again." Wilson tried to explain himself. The words came out of his mouth calmly, because he had already thought about them before he even went to House's room. "They don't do you any good... they may relieve your pain for a while, but they do too much damage to be worth it." His heart pounded violently as he waited for a reaction.

House had already averted his gaze during his short monologue and was looking out the window on his right into the dark evening. Many thoughts seemed to be raging in his head, which the diagnostician first had to sort out before he turned back to his best friend and looked at him seriously.

"You shouldn't have kept it from me. It's my decision," he replied coolly. Wilson thought his heart was skipping for a moment. Reluctant to accept his answer, he shook his head vigorously and raised his finger threateningly, as he had done before when they both argued.

"It was wrong of me not to tell you, I know that. But I won't let you take the Vicodin again," he replied, suddenly gripped by courage, and narrowed his eyes. "I won't prescribe it for you again."

To Wilson's surprise, House did not show the reaction he expected to his determined threat. Instead, his friend's expression was surprisingly composed.

"I'm not talking about that," he replied. "I'm not interested in taking the Vicodin again. So far, my pain has been bearable." His gaze was stern but honest as he continued: "When Nolan told me about my withdrawal in the clinic, I remembered." With the last few words his voice suddenly sounded weak . "It was very painful..."

Wilson's anger fizzled out suddenly, and once again compassionate warmth entered his brown eyes. His posture relaxed, he pulled a chair up to House's bed and sat down to listen to him, guessing House needed an open ear now.

"Besides..." For a brief moment House seemed to ponder how much he wanted to tell. Fear threatened to clasp Wilson's nervously beating heart, fear that something about their relationship of trust had broken through his silence. But House probably remembered their friendship after all. "All of a sudden, several memories came back, which must also have something to do with withdrawal attempts," he explained slowly.

Wilson nodded in understanding. Now he could imagine what had caused his sudden faint. He could imagine that it was painful to relive the memories when they came. Presumably his brain had been overwhelmed by several flashbacks hitting him and had stopped. A frightening realization, as Wilson found, because it meant that it could happen again and again and could not be prevented.

"That was probably not easy," Wilson tried to say comforting words. "But you got through it."

House didn't seem to calm down, his eyes were still uneasy.

"This time," he replied flatly.

Wilson sighed. House had also thought far enough to know that similar situations were almost inevitable and that every reminder would have to be prepared for the fact that his brain could not withstand the pressure. That was certainly anything but nice. Did it slow the diagnostician's will?

"Are you going to quit working on your amnesia?" Wilson asked straight out. He wondered what he would do himself, if he could tolerate the pain even if the path to the goal seemed so excruciating. But House was tough, he wasn't so easily dissuaded even by agony from something he had once set on his mind.

"No," he replied firmly. The uncertainty in his gaze vanished, determination took its place and forced a warm smile from Wilson. That's how he knew House. Self-destructive when the situation called for it.

But his friend's expression turned serious, which stole Wilson's smile again immediately.

"This pain... the unconsciousness... it can happen again and again from now on," he stated in a serious voice and sat up straighter. "I want you by my side when it happens again, Wilson."

Wilson's eyes widened. Though he'd always known House valued and needed him, he was terribly honored that the former cynic dared to speak out. That he allowed him this level of friendship. But House wasn't finished yet.

"I can only do that if I can be sure that you are honest with me." Wilson felt the blue eyes on him almost pleadingly. "You have to promise me that you will never again withhold anything from me, lie to me or do anything that is against my will. Can you do that?"

At first, Wilson couldn't utter a word, speechless. He opened his mouth, closed it again when no words left him. Then he nodded.

"I promise."

He couldn't tell if he was just imagining it or if the corners of House's mouth really twitched in a tight, pleased smile, but his relaxed posture and the satisfaction in his eyes were Wilson's answer.

Deep relief flooded him. He had dreaded the moment House would tell him he couldn't trust him. He had secretly expected an argument and it still surprised him that House forgave his dishonesty so quickly. But he was also grateful, grateful for the second chance, grateful for the intact bond between them that he had already seen tearing in his mind's eye.

Wilson slowly got up from his chair and pushed it back a little.

"You should take a little rest. Tomorrow you will be discharged again."

House just nodded wordlessly to him and sank into the pillows. A satisfied smile played on Wilson's lips as he turned and left the room.

He was at House's early the next morning and was just signing the discharge papers while House changed and got ready in the bathroom. Wilson had brought him some fresh things from his apartment because House wanted to stay in the hospital straight away for the day. Of course, he had rejected Wilson's suggestion to go home and rest for at least another day.

Wilson was just taking the form back to one of the nurses when he came back the bathroom door opened and House was standing in the doorway in fresh clothes. Leaning on his cane, he limped across the room and, as soon as he had left it, headed for his office. Wilson followed quickly.

When he caught up with him, he opened his mouth to ask something, but he couldn't do that because Chase came rushing around the corner with a quick pace and almost collided with his boss. All three doctors stopped abruptly.

"Don't you run over the cripple," complained House cheekily. Chase didn't seem to notice the joke in his words.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Can I speak to you both for a moment?" He nodded towards the office. Through the glass walls, Wilson could see the remaining three members of the team sitting at the conference table, waiting.

"Sure, what's up?" House replied and limped forward.

Wilson followed, frowning. He noticed the file in Chase's hand. He felt uncomfortable. Did a new case really make sense in this situation?