A/N: You're making me so happy with your comments. As far as updating, I'll do my best to continue posting quickly. Thank you again.

Chapter 8

It had been about three hours since Wilson had gone to sleep. House had settled himself into his favorite chair to watch some television, chancing upon a miniseries about the WWII ghettos of Poland that piqued his interest. He glanced at the clock, determining it was time to check on his friend.

Retrieving his cane from the side of the chair, he leaned into it as he slowly stood, realizing how tired he was as he headed towards the spare bedroom. He would go to bed after checking on Wilson, leaving his door open so he could hear if the younger man called out to him.

As he approached the bedroom, he turned on the light in the hallway to gently illuminate the room. While Wilson needed his sleep, he decided it was more important to wake him up to monitor his orientation and alertness. As he walked to the side of the bed, he immediately sensed that something was wrong.

"Greg…." The young doctor's voice was barely above a whisper.

"You're awake." House clicked on the lamp on the night stand. Wilson was on his side facing him, his breathing labored. The older man sat down on the edge of the bed. "What's wrong?" he asked quietly, stroking his friend's hair.

"Sick…" the oncologist whispered. "I'm…I'm gonna be sick…."

House quickly reached across to the nightstand and grabbed the plastic bowl, placing it on the bed. He gently raised his friend to a sitting position. "Jimmy, take this," he said, carefully placing the bowl into Wilson's hands.

The younger man clutched the bowl with both hands as he held it close to his mouth. He could feel his insides churning when his stomach suddenly clamped down, forcefully bringing up its contents. House held on to him, keeping him upright and holding his hands steady as his body trembled from the pain. Sweat formed across his forehead, his eyes teared; he was helpless against the demanding spasms racking his body. His stomach continued pushing out what it could until the cramping finally abated.

House took the plastic bowl from his hands, noting its contents before placing it on the night stand. His eyes tightly closed, Wilson felt a cool damp towel lightly wash across his face, followed by the sound of the other man's soothing voice, "Jimmy, open for me." He felt something cool and damp touch his lips prompting him to open his mouth which he did, tasting mint as the inside of his mouth was freshened with a swab.

House's arm was across his back holding him up. He leaned in against the older man's shoulder, resting his forehead on his chest. "Sorry," he managed to get out hoarsely.

The other doctor pulled him closer. "It's okay," His voice was quiet and reassuring. "You threw up bile because there's nothing in your stomach. We'll have to do something about that. Are you feeling any better?"

"No…still sick." His breathing hitched.

"I'll give you a shot of cyclizine." House carefully lowered the young man's head to his pillow and gently shifted him onto his side. Retrieving a syringe and alcohol wipe from his pocket he pulled down the oncologist's waistband and injected him in the fleshy part of his hip. "Give it a few minutes to work and you'll feel better."

House brought the plastic bowl, empty syringe and other medical supplies to the bathroom, washed out the bowl and discarded everything else. When he returned to the bedroom, Wilson was lying on his back, his eyes open.

"Did it kick in yet?" House asked as he sat down on the edge of the bed. The young man looked up into his friend's eyes. "It's starting to…I feel a lot better than I did."

"Good. Do you know where you are?"

"Your apartment."

"You need to put something into your stomach."

Wilson turned his head away. "No, I can't."

"Jimmy, listen to me. I don't want you to start dry heaving and throwing up blood. You have to eat something."

"I'll get sick again."

"Let the cyclizine do its job. I'm not talking about a four course meal; I'll bring you some dry toast and tea."

Wilson sighed. "You're serious when you call me Jimmy."

"I'm always serious." The older doctor smiled. "Will you be alright while I go to the kitchen?"

"I'll go with you… I hate crumbs in bed."

House began to protest, but noted that his friend had more color in his face than he did just minutes before. "Okay, come." He stood and waited for Wilson as he slowly got out of bed. It took a moment for him to get his bearings, but once he did, he felt better and walked with his friend to the kitchen.

House sat across the kitchen table from his colleague watching him pick at his toast and barely sip his tea. "At this rate we'll be here all night."

Wilson smiled sadly. "Sorry. It doesn't want to go down."

"Can I get you to take some bismuth instead?"

The oncologist almost turned green as he shook his head.

"Well it's either that or we'll sit here all night while you try to get that toast down." House studied his friend. "One teaspoon," he said as he held up one finger.

Wilson squinted his eyes. "One teaspoon….that's all?"

"Yep."

He thought a moment. "Okay."

House smiled as he stood and limped to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, quickly returning with a bottle filled with pink liquid. He opened a drawer and pulled out a tablespoon.

Wilson shook his head. "Wait a minute…that's not a teaspoon."

"Did I say teaspoon?"

"Yes."

"Oops, I guess I lied."

"House, I'm not taking a tablespoon of that crap."

The older doctor's eyes narrowed threateningly. "Either you take a tablespoon of this, or I'll administer your next dose of cyclizine in suppository form."

Wilson rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. "I think I might've been better off at the hospital with Cuddy."

"Nope, she doesn't like you as much as I do."

"She likes me a lot."

"She only says she likes you to get to me."

Wilson smirked. "Thank you for clearing that up."

House sat down next to his colleague as he shook the bottle of bismuth. He twisted off the cap and poured it into the tablespoon, holding it out for the young doctor. "Hmmm….yum. Looks like bubblegum."

Wilson closed his eyes and opened his mouth allowing his friend to administer the medicine.

He almost gagged as he swallowed it. "Oh, god, that stuff is vile."

House smiled. "Trust me, you made the right choice."

Wilson placed his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his hand. "It's not my fault that the cops told you I was dead."

"Yes it is."

"You don't really believe that."

"I have to blame someone so it may as well be you," House said, his expression serious.

"Why don't you blame the police?"

"Because it's much more fun to blame you."

The oncologist rolled his eyes again. "I'm tired."

"You should go back to bed. I'll be right in after I clean up in here."

Wilson stood and headed towards the bedroom. "Don't be too long."

"Yes, dear," House called after him as he cleared the kitchen table.

tbc