Wilson fell in to such a deep sleep, House knew it was the first real sleep he had known for a while. Probably since the beating started. House didn't sleep, instead sat watching the colors of the sunset play out on the pale walls of the office.
He imagined the scene. Wilson, sitting at the kitchen table or the desk in his home office. Eating toast or working on patient files. Julie coming in with some irrational complaint. Had he left the toilet seat up? Maybe he forgot to get stamps at the grocery store. Or he hadn't gotten around to replacing a bulb in her reading lamp. Something, that was small and inconsequential, but she was all over it, taking any excuse she could find to throw insults at him.
He would have apologized, profusely, regardless of fault. He didn't have to do, or not do, whatever she demanded, he always took the blame. She hit him from behind, the first time, hand or fist connecting with his shoulder. He'd turned around, shocked, but silent. Or maybe he said her name. He might have said her name in that soothing way he had, trying to reach her, trying to calm her, pacify.
She'd only hit him again. And again. A rain of fists pummeling him. Had he tried to defend himself at all? If he had to guess, House would say i no /i . Not until she started to wind down, and then he would have tried to comfort her. Unless she walked away from him, left him sitting there alone.
Somewhere along the way, House's hand moved from Wilson's hair to rub gentle circles over his back and shoulder. He stilled his hand, listening to the sounds of someone outside the office door.
One of Wilson's staff needing a word with the boss? One of his own staff, looking for him? If they'd seen his cane outside, or had checked all his usual hide outs, Wilson's office would be the next logical place to seek him out.
He tensed involuntarily at the turning of the knob, blue eyes trained on the door. "…my husband," came the unmistakable voice. Every nerve in him tightened. She flung the door open, Wilson stirred, and House attempted to keep him still by shifting his hand to Wilson's head, trying to comfort him back into sleep.
"Get out, Julie." House hissed through his clenched teeth.
"No, Greg. You get out. I need to speak to my husband alone."
Wilson bolted upright, eyes wide and glazed, disoriented. Eyes trained to Julie, he took a deep, shuddering breath. "Julie…"
Green eyes burned. "You were supposed to come home tonight, you son of a bitch." Julie launched forward, steps hard on the tile floor. "You knew my sister was coming." Her purse flew at him, connecting with his head. His arms went up instinctively, but House was on his feet and shoving Julie back a step before she could hit him again.
"You stay out of this!" She turned her fiery gaze on House.
House was unaffected by it, and retaliated with a death-glare of his own. "How rude of me. Let me step back and watch you beat my best friend with your purse." He put his hand up to catch the purse mid-swing. Fingers dropped to curl around her wrist, a subtle grip that clearly communicated his strength.
"Let. Go. Of. Me." Julie spat, eyes held steady on his. As she grunted the last word, her knee connected with his bad thigh, and effectively took him down. He dropped to the ground with wide, shocked eyes and mouth open but unable to make a sound.
"Greg!" Wilson slid off the couch, his body having lost all coordination as he scrambled to get to House. Above him, Julie laughed a laugh that was anything but amused. He looked up at her, started to tell her to go to hell, but her foot shot out and smashed into the side of his head and all that came out was a strangled cry. Pain exploded behind his eyes, and still he reached out for House, hands groping against the fireworks of color fading quickly into darkness of vision.
"You are pathetic, James Wilson," Julie knelt down in his face, took hold of the tie around his neck. He could hear House moving, grunting, struggling, but there was nothing he could do for his friend at the moment, except keep Julie from turning her attention back to him.
He fought with gravity and double vision to get his hands to cooperate and seek a hold on Julie's arms. Tightening his grip only made her tighten hers. She had more resistance, and the tie was cutting off his airway.
House was talking, but Wilson couldn't make out the words.
"Son of a bitch!" Julie hollered, and abruptly let go of the tie, causing Wilson to stumble backward and hit the floor hard. His bruised mind registered the click of Julie's heels, the hiss of a threat that seemed to be directed at House, and then arms around him. Instinct was to fight, and though he tried, he fell against the warm body and buried his face against the softness of a cotton T-shirt.
A shower of gentle, reassuring kisses rained down on him, soothing hands caressed his head, his back, his arms.
"Greg…"
"Shhh." House murmured. "I called security. They'll get her. She's not going to hurt you anymore, James."
"I'm sorry."
"Shhhh. Shhh. I've got you."