A/N: a dark filler of a scene, in which we learn that House sleeps. and then he sleeps some more. and i envy him. i need to sleep too. tired of living in House's office for the 10 days i've worked on this while my own house (small h) is overrun by dustbunnies and pizza cartons. you kiddies don't even have to tell me that this scene's weak, it's bad, it stinks, but you can, if it means i get to sleep for a day or three. over 1400 words to tell you that House sleeps; how exciting is that? now me sleeping-- that would be exciting. so…umm… let's go watch House sleep…..

CHAPTER NINETEEN: House Sleeps

Wilson knows he needs to call Cuddy, get her down here to talk, find out what was up with that last visit. But first, he wants to get House completely settled in for his very long night. He takes a set of vital signs the old-fashioned way; stethoscope for heart and lungs, warm, soothing hands on back and chest--he's lost so much weight, when did that happen?--, gentle fingers for pulse; not the electronic monitors. He trusts the monitors; he simply believes more deeply in a caring touch, in the intangible human factor; he owes this to his patients. House has never understood the concept, has even said snidely, "They get just as well without the laying on of hands, and they don't leave here addicted to caring." As if caring was another disease to cure, a bad thing in need of fixing.

The assessment causes House to move a bit, try to get away from the disturbance. "So you're still at 2, huh? Well, if you can hear me somewhere in there, you're doing really well, House. Just relax into it, okay?" He titrates the morphine up another 5mg, waits ten minutes, and tries to rouse the patient. This time, it takes painful pressure on his nailbed to get him to moan and try to pull his hand away. Success! We're at 3 now. He writes it all down, and breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes that he's functioning —and feeling—like Dr. James Wilson, MD; he can finally put that whole friendship thing away for now and do something practical to help House.

He checks the IV sites, assesses House's pupils, puts drops in his eyes to keep them moist, and gets another respiratory rate. Once he's inserted the urinary catheter, though, and is taping the tubing to House's thigh, the awful sight of the wasted, discolored skin covering what used to be a quadriceps reminds him that this is his best friend who's currently lying here in such fragile condition. There's a quiet sadness in his eyes as he repositions House comfortably and covers him, and he decides that there's really no way to keep House's best friend Jimmy out of this room, and that this might not be an entirely bad thing—best friends and family members keep physicians on their toes because they throw that human factor in their faces.

And while we're on the subject of this dysfunctional little circle House has created--.He takes his cellphone from his pocket and calls Cuddy.

Cuddy answers the phone on the first ring, asks without preamble, "Wilson, how's he doing?"

"So far, so good. I'd have called sooner, but we just came off doing the vitals every five minutes; we can move them up to every fifteen now. He went under without any problems, calm and happy, even; got him to 3 well within the first hour. You coming down?"

He's unconscious, that part's over, he wasn't scared, he wasn't alone, he's safe now…a thousand thoughts run through her mind. "I'll be right there."

---

Wilson is just finishing a neuro check when Cuddy arrives, and he motions her to have a seat. She doesn't, though. She walks over to the recliner and looks down at House; her face is unreadable. She picks up a limp hand and begins to get his pulse. One hand is around his wrist, but Wilson notes that the other has curled softly around House's fingers and palm, so Wilson doesn't mention that he's just finished the vitals—what she's doing has nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with comfort. For whom, he's not sure.

Finally, Cuddy gently lays House's hand on his chest, and turns to the desk where Wilson is sitting. He looks up from his charting, and appraises her carefully before speaking. "He asked for you, ya know. Wanted you here while I sedated him." A flash of guilt across her face is gone so quickly that Wilson isn't even sure it was there. "But then he changed his mind. Almost as soon as he said the words. It was...odd."

He knew; he knew, and he was trying to protect me. Thanks for that, House. "If he'd really needed me, I'd have come."

"I think he knows that, Cuddy. I've been thinking about this; let me take a guess here. This has something to do with the part I missed during the infarct. The chemically induced coma, the surgery. How you felt then and how you feel today about your part in all of that." She doesn't look at him, and doesn't answer for so long that Wilson thinks she might not answer at all.

"Wilson," the word comes slowly. "Imagine something. Imagine that he's a couple days post-op, and you stop by his room. He's thrown Stacy out, and he's in there all alone. He doesn't see you, and he's lying there, and you can see the way the sheet drapes over his right thigh, looking almost normal because of the bulk of the bandages and the drains. And you know that pretty soon, all of that will be gone, and he's gonna look down at that sheet and see nothing but a valley where muscle used to be."

Wilson is listening intently, really trying to put himself in Cuddy's place, to see it through her eyes. This is the first time in all these years that anyone—including House--has spoken freely with him about those crucial days he'd missed.

"And then you see his face," Cuddy continues. "You think he's sleeping—his eyes are closed—and you're grateful. But you notice that his breathing isn't right for sleep. And you look at him again, and you see the tears running down the sides of his face. And he's not making a single sound; not one sound, as he cries all alone. And you want to go to him—you need to go to him, but your feet won't move. Because you know that you're directly responsible for those tears. You're able to rationalize your inaction by telling yourself that this is House, he'll shun your sympathy, but you know you're just trying to make yourself feel better. And it works, so you turn and walk away before he knows you were ever there." His physical pain, I could have dealt with that. But it's House; his emotional agony is still a foreign land to me. She hadn't considered, at the time, that this particular emotional landscape was new territory to House, as well. And that she might—just might-- have been able to help guide him through it, undamaged. But she lives with that knowledge now, and it hurts her.

She takes a deep breath, refocuses on Wilson. "And then you live with that memory every day for six years, never able to share it with anybody, because you want to protect House's privacy—and your own guilt." She shakes her head to clear it; the scene she's created for Wilson is so real that she feels she's just lived through it again.

Wilson feels that he's living through it too, for the first time. And it hurts him, and the ache in his heart, the sadness for House that's always with him, grows just that much deeper.

The two friends sit in silence. Both are watching the sleeping man whose desperate needs have brought them all to this place. Cuddy is wondering how things might be different; better now, if she'd entered House's room that day. Wilson is thinking that things would be different, better now, if he'd been there that day. He knows he would have entered. What was it Foreman said? 'You look him in the eye and hold a hand out to pull him back…'... I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, House, that there was no hand for you to grasp.

They both regret that they'll never really know if it would have made any difference at all. The only one who knows that is House, and really, neither Cuddy nor Wilson thinks they're strong enough to ask him—or to live with his answer.