One look was all it took, a moment of eye contact and he was off, running, eyes trained on the ball. He dove in for the grab, caught it and slid in the grass and the mud as a thunderclap of applause and cheers erupted around him.

Just as fast, he found himself on a tennis court, staring down his opponent. Wilson tossed the ball up, served to his back hand. The ball sailed back across the net with ease.

Jogging together, and stopping for coffee afterward. Talking about sports and work, Wilson's latest marriage, House's resistance to take that step with Stacy.

Stacy.

House sat up suddenly, body damp with sweat, leg tightening with the movement. He rocked forward, both hands wrapping around his thigh, breath caught in his throat. He closed his eyes, tried to relax, knew the spasm would subside quicker if he could just relax.

He was aware of the door sliding open, the harsh shaft of light that glared at him off the tile floor. He closed his eyes, he didn't even care who it was. Nothing he could do about it anyway, with his leg tight and unyielding.

Chase caught the edge of the ottoman and reached in to help. Long fingers digging into taught muscle. House whimpered before he could repress it, and tried to push Chase's hands away. Instead he leaned back against his chair, the bulk of his weight held on his elbows, hands curled in fists of frustration.

Chase hummed, and though at first it irritated him, he found it helped him relax if he concentrated on the tune. Sweat beaded his forehead and dripped down the side of his face. As the pain in his leg subsided, he used his shirt to rub his face dry.

"That's going to be sore for a couple days," Chase said as he moved to the other chair.

"Thank you for that news flash, Dr Einstein." House glanced at Wilson, and since he was asleep, directed his attention to Chase. "Any chance I could convince you to give me something for the pain?"

"How much Vicodin have you swallowed in the last twelve hours?"

"I was actually thinking muscle relaxer."

Chase nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

House nodded. "I have to piss."

"Need help?"

Another nod. "I don't think I can put any weight on it."

"I could get you some crutches."

If looks could kill, the look House shot at him would have taken him down. Chase shrugged it off and stood at House's right, reached down to help him up. It was a struggle, and Chase had to kick the ottoman out of the way.

Once he was upright, House flung his arm around Chase's neck. Chase reached back for the IV pole, and guided it along with them.

"I don't need you to hold my hand for this part," House sneered at him, and Chase eased out from under his arm. He stepped out of the bathroom and kept his back to the door until House whistled for him to come back and help him to his chair again.

The first thing Wilson was aware of was the constant beeping of the heart monitor. He'd forgotten how annoying it could be. Especially in a silent room.

Slowly other things came in to focus. The closed blinds, the dim light above his bed, the IV, the pull of the catheter. That was the worst, and he reached down to adjust the tube.

His eyes drifted to the left, House was asleep in his chair. His legs were propped up on the ottoman, a pillow under is right knee. He was covered with a light blanket, and a book lay at his side. The table beside him was littered with patient files, his Game Boy, and the red mug from his office. Wilson smiled at the image.

His eyes closed, and he became aware of just how much his body hurt. His back ached, he had no idea how long he'd been in bed but judging the stiffness he felt, it had been a few days. He half wondered what happened, and why he was in the hospital, but it seemed so far away. He was more concerned with getting comfortable, and he wanted to turn on his side. His legs refused to cooperate, and a sharp pain traveled up his back. He hissed and swore under his breath.

House was instantly on his feet, his book hit the floor with a bang. He muttered a string of curses to match the frustration Wilson felt. He grabbed hold of the bedrail to steady himself. "You're awake."

"You look like hell," Wilson told him.

"Thanks."

Wilson's eyes drifted shut. Not that he was awake, he just wanted to sleep. Had he been awake before, or was that a dream? He opened his eyes to see House had an IV line. Probably not a dream, since he remembered that.

"How long have I been here?"

"Three days."

Wilson wet his lips. "What happened?"

"What do you –"

"Tell me what happened, Greg." Wilson knew the use of House's first name would say more than words.

House nodded. "We went to a bar. You got mugged. Bastards stabbed you."

"My legs…"

"There's swelling around your spinal chord. Dr Hicks seems to think you'll be fine. It's just a matter of time."

Wilson raised right hand off the bed, looked at it. Somehow the bandages didn't really concern him. With a sigh he let it rest on the bed and raised the left to his face, rubbed his eyes. "Or I could be…"

"Don't. Don't even go there, James."

"But it's possible."

"Yes. It's possible. Just like it was possible the toxins from my leg would kill me. Cuddy told me, you remember Cuddy told me I'd probably never walk again. And look at me now."

Wilson didn't say anything for a long moment. House thought he'd slipped back in to sleep. "What are you reading?" he asked, softly and without opening his eyes.

House looked down at the book on the floor. No way in hell he was leaning over to pick it up. The Demerol in his IV helped the pain, but did nothing for his mobility and he was smart enough not to push it too much.

"Great Expectations. I know you love Dickens, so I've been reading it to you."

Wilson cracked one eye open at that. "Shit. You should be reading Michael Crichton."

"Right."

"One of these days you're going to pick up one of his books, and you'll actually like it." Toward the end, Wilson's words started to slur. "God, I'm tired."

"It's the drugs. Don't fight it. Your body needs sleep."

"I've been sleeping…how long? Three days?"

"No. You've been unconscious. Big difference."

Wilson's answer was silence. House eased himself back into his chair. His leg refused to cooperate, forcing him to pull on his pant leg to get his foot on the ottoman.