CHAPTER TWO: House Is Down
This is gonna be touchy, and Wilson knows it. He'd known of the box and its contents for three months now. He knows the contents well; hell, he even has his own key to it, courtesy of Cuddy. When she'd handed him the key she'd made him responsible for ascertaining that the contents hadn't been utilized, and Wilson took the job very seriously.
For three months, at least once a week he'd sighed in relief when the cap on the surreptitiously marked morphine vial was still intact. He'd check the other supplies, relock the box and return it to its spot. House's own, private little crash cart. Only problem was, House didn't even suspect that Cuddy or Wilson knew. And now, there was no way around it. Would he be embarrassed? Defiant? Wilson settles wryly on enraged. Yeah, that's it. Enraged.
He's contemplating the best way to tell House that his secret, well, isn't, when House lets out a gasp, a hiss, a deep, guttural groan. And explaining to House how he knows about the box is no longer the priority. He moves back to House's side.
House is curled tightly again. Each breath hitches in his throat, there's a sheen of sweat covering his skin, but his eyes are open, and he sees the box in Wilson's hand. He searches Wilson's face suspiciously, defiantly awaiting the inevitable lecture. Wilson reads his mind. "No lecture today, buddy. Not this time. Maybe later." As he speaks, he's deftly popping the cap on the morphine, carefully drawing it up, trying not to see the hungry look in House's eyes, trying harder not to see the unremitting pain that's there too.
He gently untangles House's left arm from its tight curl at his chest, straightens it slowly, turns it to find the vein. House closes his eyes as Wilson ties the tourniquet, swabs the vein, inserts the needle. Wilson draws back slightly on the plunger, looking for the flash of blood that will confirm correct placement. He sees it, looks at his watch and begins the slow, careful administration of the medication.
When he's finished he stays there for two full minutes, fingers at House's wrist, eyes on his chest, monitoring his pulse and respirations. He's pleased with the numbers. He stands, takes his cellphone from his pocket, and reluctantly types in a text to Cuddy. Just three words, but she'd understand it and come as soon as she could, and he'll fill in the details when she arrives. He looks at the message, their agreed-upon code, and presses 'send'. "House is down."