A/N: This chapter is my present to all of you who have put up so patiently with chapters of deep character analysis, and reviewed so kindly, while awaiting the angst. Enjoy the gift.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Blip, Redux

Wilson is seated at House's desk, listening to the rain. It's 5:10 Sunday morning, and an impossibly long day stretches out before him. He appreciates the rain and the pre-dawn blackness; somehow it reinforces the air of safe isolation and privacy he's tried to create for House in this room, for this weekend.

Wilson had started titrating down the morphine at 4:00am, and it's running now at 35mg. House is beginning to move up to level 2 on the sedation scale. He's still somewhat difficult to rouse, but Wilson's seen him move his legs slightly a couple of times, and he's turning his head on the pillow. He appears comfortable, and as far as Wilson is concerned, he can stay at 2.5 for at least another hour. No rush—House has earned this vacation from his pain.

Wilson gets up, walks to the window to watch the rain. A crack of thunder rumbles through, and lightning splits the sky. Wilson hears a sound behind him, and turns towards the recliner, thinking that House might have been disturbed by the thunder.

House is moaning, loudly, in his sleep. Wilson can tell that if the heavy sedation weren't suppressing his physical movements, he'd be thrashing, possibly screaming. He's over to the recliner in two steps--just in time to catch House as he bolts upright in the bed. Damn, if this is pain, none of this worked. But… I don't think it's pain. "What is it, House? Are you in pain? Talk to me; I'll help you."

House's eyes are wild, unfocused. He's trying to push Wilson away, trying to pull his arms free of Wilson's grasp. When the cardiac monitor starts shrieking in loud protest at House's elevated heart rate, the noise startles House badly; he's so frightened now that he's doing everything he can to get loose, trying to move his legs off the bed, struggling to get away from Wilson, away from--something. Wilson chances removing one hand from House's arm to reach out and silence the alarm.

Wilson's been trying as gently as possible to restrain House, to keep him from hurting himself. But the adrenalin-fueled, terror-stricken man has no such compunctions. As soon as Wilson releases his arm, he swings it up wildly, dislodging the line carrying the steady dose of morphine. Blood wells at the site, then spills down his arm. Wilson catches the arm quickly, and clamps his hand tightly over the IV site, keeps pressure on it; he doesn't know, right now, what the sight of the blood might do to House in his current state.

Now that the morphine line's out, the situation's become an emergency. Wilson wracks his brain trying to think of a way to get House's attention. He's got just one idea, and nothing to lose. "Greg! Greg! Greg, listen, it's Jimmy--I need you. I need you, Greg!"

He can probably count on the fingers of one hand (and have fingers left over) the times during their friendship when he's called House by his first name, and each of those previous times it's been meant to convey comfort or to express hurt. And he can't recall ever saying to House, in words, "I need you." He's praying now that the combination of the name and the plea will be able to reach some area of House's mind unaffected by whatever's causing this stark terror.

And it works. House stops struggling, turns his head to look at Wilson. But wait--his eyes are still confused, still fearful. Despite the oxygen, he's gasping for breath. His skin is damp, and cold. His heart rate is in excess of 140 and climbing, his blood pressure's dropping rapidly—and he's looking through Wilson, not at him. He's going into shock; God, House—what's happening to you?

"House, I need you to listen to me very carefully, okay?" House doesn't respond, just continues staring through Wilson, and there's still no focus in his eyes, no indication that he's heard, or recognizes, his friend. But he's not fighting now; the tension's left his muscles. He's almost limp; Wilson's hands seem to be the only thing holding him up. Okay, we have to deal with the shock first.

Still holding House's arms, Wilson, trying to keep it simple, easy to understand, says calmly ,"House, lie down," carefully enunciating each word; he simultaneously attempts to ease House into a recumbent position. But he loses whatever tenuous connection House might have had with reality; House begins to battle again; he's shouting now.

"You took my leg! You said the deal was off! Why are you back? You can't have--" And then, in the middle of it, House's eyes close, his head droops. He's mumbling something unintelligible, but Wilson is able to make out "no amputation." Wait a second; he's not hallucinating, you don't nod off in the middle of a hallucination—he's not even awake! He's dreaming.

"HOUSE!" Wilson yells, "House, wake up!" He shakes House as roughly as he dares.

House lifts his head, has trouble keeping it upright. But he opens his eyes; they're bleary, but not wild, and this time he's trying hard to focus on Wilson's face. "Jimmy,... you're here…." His voice is faint. "Whassa matter? Why…wake…me?"

"Sorry about that. It's okay, though. I'm gonna help you lie down now, just relax." Wilson gently lowers House back down in the bed; this time House acquiesces drowsily to the movement. "You had a really bad dream; that's all. Everything's all right now. You're safe. Just a dream." House's eyes, which had been almost closed, fly open again, and Wilson sees panic.

"My leg!"

Wilson smiles reassuringly at him, quickly moves the tangled blanket aside, says firmly, "It's right here, House, look."

House looks down at his right leg and smiles. "Nasty dream…" he whispers, his voice trailing off as his eyes start to close again.

All the alarms have silenced themselves as House's vital signs are gradually returning to normal, and now the quiet in the room is profound. Wilson takes the opportunity to pull in a few deep breaths, let the adrenalin drain from him. When he's feeling calmer, he speaks gently.

"House, sorry to do this to ya, buddy, but I need you to stay with me a minute here. We've had a little…incident…with the drip. I need to get it restarted pretty quickly here, is that all right?"

House doesn't open his eyes. "'Course, Jimmy…veins…outta…my ears…." He tries to lift his arm to give to Wilson. "sorry…made a mess…"

Wilson swallows down hard on a sob. "You didn't make a mess, House, you didn't do anything wrong, okay?"

"Din't?... muss be… losin' my… touch…" House tries to grin.

Wilson blinks rapidly, to clear the tears away so he can see to insert the new cannula. As he ties the tourniquet and swabs the site, he says, "Okay, it's okay, just a quick little prick here and we'll have you and your happy juice reunited in no time. Don't move your arm, bud, we've gotta get this done. Then I'll let you get back to sleep."

Somehow, Wilson manages to slide the cannula in and restart the drip. Somehow, he manages to get a pressure dressing on the old site, sponge away the blood, change the gown. Somehow, he gets through a thorough physical assessment, all the while murmuring assurances to House.

Somehow, he achieves the perfect balance between Dr. Wilson ministering to the patient, and Jimmy supporting his friend. And, finally, somehow, he manages to call Cuddy, and tell her, in a voice that would almost pass for normal, that he needs a little break, no hurry, sorry to wake her, whenever she can get here. Just a little break.

He hangs up the phone and goes back to House, who seems restless. He's positioned on his right side, and apparently asleep, but every couple of minutes he's making the same motion—left hand moves across his body, and down. Wilson wonders briefly if the catheter had been tugged during the struggle and is causing him discomfort, but as he moves the sheet aside to check, House makes the motion again; Wilson can see now that he's bringing his hand over to his right leg, but not, apparently, to ease pain. As soon as the fingers make contact with the leg, the hand relaxes and retreats.

"Aw, House, it's still there—your leg's still there." He's stunned that House is aware enough to have purposeful movement; it shouldn't be possible. That's how bad his fear is—it's stronger than the sedation. Incredible. Wilson has an idea. "I'm gonna turn you now; we're gonna go to your left side for a little while, see if that's more comfortable." He carefully rearranges the pillows, slowly rearranges House's body so that he's lying on his left. Then he picks up House's right hand and places his arm gently along the ruined thigh, and House smiles, allows himself to finally relax, lets the morphine pull him under again.

It's not even three full minutes later, though, when Wilson sees House start. His arm has fallen to his side, and he's trying to get it back to the leg. Wilson returns his arm to its position, and makes a decision. House is so weak; the desperate struggle of the dream has sapped the last of whatever thin reserves he'd had. He's got to sleep. Wilson draws up a bolus of 5mg morphine and injects it into the line.

House sighs as the drug hits, and Wilson does too. He collapses into the chair, haggardly rests his forehead on the arm of the recliner. Just for a minute….He's getting ready to lift his head, needs to get a current set of vitals to go with the morphine bolus, when he feels a light touch in his hair. He opens his eyes, startled, and realizes that it's House.

Maybe I'm the one who's dreaming! He shouldn't be able to move... But then, the hand makes a weak, awkward patting motion on his head. He turns his head slowly towards House, and he sees him struggle to get his eyes open halfway, watches as he fights so desperately to hold them open so that he can meet Wilson's eyes.

"'S'okay, Jimmy," House whispers, so faintly that it's almost like an unvoiced thought in Wilson's mind. He strains to hear as House, with superhuman effort, continues to speak; "We're safe…s'okay…I'm…here…." The weary blue eyes close then, and Wilson feels the hand resting on his head grow heavy and still; House has finally, truly, found his way back to the quiet, comfortable place inside the medication, and, for a while at least, he's found his own peace.

Wilson doesn't move yet; he can't—he's overcome by the extraordinary gift House has given. He comforted me; he overcame weakness and sedation to do it, he overcame himself to do it, and he wanted to comfort me. He allows the warm weight of House's hand resting on his head, the enormity of what House has done, to continue to soothe him.

And that is how Cuddy finds them, five minutes later, when she unlocks the door and enters.