A/N: Hey, YOU—yeah, you know who you are—the bunny isn't here; locked the cage, threw away the key….

Okay, kiddies, so sorry, just a wee brainblip; no worries, I've taken my medication! ;-) On with it, then….

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Awakenings

Cuddy doesn't want to awaken Wilson; he hasn't even changed position on the lounge, and the anxious set to his face has just started to ease, but it's 9:00am—he's going to be annoyed that she'd slipped in the extra two hours--and while he's normally a gracious man, she doesn't want to push her luck. She approaches the lounge.

" Wilson?" She puts a hand on his shoulder. "James?" His eyes fly open, and he's instantly alert.

"What is it? Is it House?" He's up and moving toward House's side before he finishes the question.

"He's fine, relax; I titrated down to 15mg just before I woke you. How do you feel?"

"Better, thanks—amazing that an hour can make--" He's just noticed that, while it's still raining heavily, it's much too light outside to be just 7:00am. Confused, he looks down at his watch, then up at Cuddy. "Could you please tell me what time it is?" he asks her pleasantly.

"Well, would you look at that! Seems to be 9:00!" she responds brightly, matching the bland innocence of his tone.

He momentarily considers being angry, then decides on amused instead. After all, House is doing well, and Cuddy had acted out of what she thought was a valid concern for Wilson; how can he be upset about that? "Ahh!" he says. "Thought for a minute there that my watch was running fast; good to know there's nothing wrong with it."

She smiles sheepishly at him. "You needed the sleep. Forgive me? Not that it matters, I'd have done it anyway."

"But you said an hour; I trusted you!" He's mildly indignant.

Cuddy glances over at House, then back to Wilson, mischief in her eyes. "First law of The House Theory of Humanity: Everybody lies. Surprised you missed that one. You're only annoyed because I managed to pull one over on you."

He laughs. "You're right. And yes, you're forgiven--not that it matters, of course. So, tell me what I missed."

Cuddy picks up the chart and hands it to him. "Not much, happy to say. As I said, he's at 15mg now, but it's been only a few minutes, no changes yet. The O2 is down to 2 liters; sats are staying at 96, 97 percent. He's had a few spontaneous movements, mostly involving his leg. He's been trying to rub it, I think, although he doesn't appear to be experiencing any acute pain."

"He's just checking to make sure we haven't amputated it yet," Wilson says dryly. When she looks at him, shocked, he says, "Ready to hear about that dream-that-can-wait-an-hour-or-three now?"

Wilson starts at the beginning, and tells her everything. "It was frightening to watch, can't imagine how he felt, living it. For the first time in my life, I think I really understand the expression 'scared to death.' If I'd had Versed available, I would've used it, a little retrograde amnesia sounded like a great idea at the time. But now, I'm glad I didn't; if he remembers what happened once he's awake, that could be a good thing, too. Now that he's subconsciously acknowledged his biggest fear, a conscious acknowledgement might be healthy."

Cuddy thinks this over. "He's already said a thousand times that we tried to take his leg six years ago; still angry about it, too. He 'acknowledges' it on an almost daily basis—I'm usually on the receiving end of it. How much more 'acknowledgement' can any of us handle?"

"You just said that he's still angry about it, Cuddy; you know that certainly doesn't indicate acceptance—and you can't accept something you haven't yet acknowledged. Remember the five stages of grief? He did the denial thing right up front; he was convinced that reopening the artery would restore full use of the leg. He even rejected his own medical knowledge, because it wasn't giving him the answers that he wanted."

He pours himself a cup of coffee from the carafe Cuddy's had delivered. "And then, when he finally agreed to physical therapy, he was bargaining—'I'll work harder than anyone's ever worked, just give me my mobility back.' " Wilson remembers that stage well; House had aimed all his vitriol at Wilson when the PT hadn't worked; it had been ugly.

He shakes his head at the memory. "And depression and anger were continuous themes throughout. They still are; he's never moved past them. There are documented cases of people willing themselves into death while in the depression stage; that's one of the reasons why I've decided to consult Dickinson. He doesn't know House, doesn't know his history or his…mmm… current circumstances. We need some objectivity--you and I can't provide that for him."

"There you go with the understatement again," Cuddy observes.

Wilson continues, "I'm hoping… there's some way we might be able to shepherd him through the anger, the depression, so that he'll finally be able to reach acceptance. Maybe it can't be done, and then we'll have to accept that. But if he could just be…at peace… with the way things are, then we could at least lessen the psychological components of the physical pain. I think it's worth a try. Nothing to lose at this point, really."

"It all sounds nice and neat. Simple, even." Cuddy says, "which is why it doesn't sound like House."

Wilson smiles. "Yeah, I know. Just comes down to this; it's been well over six years, and he's still grieving… Oops—vitals time—if I can trust this damned watch." He steals a sidelong glance at Cuddy, who is, of course, rolling her eyes. Something predictable, almost comforting about that eye-roll….

House looks more comfortable than he has in almost seven years. His posture in the bed is normal; no curling, no guarding. Even his hands are relaxed as Wilson reaches for a pulse. "House, I know you can hear me in there. Just want you to know, we're in the home stretch now. You're at 15mg, and it's all good. Gonna leave you there for another hour, we're gonna do this slow, try and let you recupe a bit from that little pre-dawn horror flick of yours." He opens the gown to check lung sounds, winces when he sees the bruise. "Sternum doesn't seem to be bothering him much," he says to Cuddy.

"Oh, he found the bruise during my last assessment," she answers. "You're right—doesn't seem to really impress him, guess when your daily pain scale runs at the 8 to 10 level, it only rates a 2." They exchange a rueful glance.

House stirs as Wilson finishes up, turns easily onto his right side, settles back into sleep quickly.

"You know what was so amazing about the whole dream thing?" Wilson says as he checks the IV sites, "It wasn't that he managed to break about ten rules of physiology by fighting off that much sedation. It wasn't that now we really know just how deep his fear for that leg is. And it isn't even that he took about five years off my life; if I actually added up how many years I've lost because of him, I'd have to fall over dead right now." He shakes his head.

"Cuddy, he reached out. House reached out to another human being—not because it was required, or because it was polite, not because it was the right thing to do. He felt something, and he allowed himself to act on it. And that just…gives me hope, real hope for the first time since the surgery, that the infarct didn't just…break him inside, that there's still something good in there that can start growing again." Wilson becomes quiet as he relives the scene in his mind, and when he begins to speak again, it's clear to Cuddy that he's thinking aloud, doing his best to analyze what's happened.

"All that was important to him when the nightmare was over was that leg; it had to be tangible. Couldn't get him to relax 'til I finally put his arm on it. Yet he was willing to give up that security; he pulled the strength from God-knows-where to reach out to me, take his hand off his leg. Sure, the lack of pain—wait, the lack of pain! Cuddy!" She stares at him; his expression is amazed, joyous. "It worked! We did it! He went through that entire horrible ordeal—not once did it trigger breakthrough pain. And he didn't believe the leg was there unless he could touch it—he was afraid it wasn't there because it wasn't hurting!"

Wilson's laughing; impulsively he picks Cuddy up, spins around with her, plants a kiss on her cheek—and now she's laughing, too.

Their celebration is interrupted, however, when a sleep-thick voice from the other side of the room says, "Hey! Patient trying to rest over here. Sick people need sleep. This is a hospital, quiet zone, it's a rule, I checked. Can't you people follow rules?"

Wilson turns to Cuddy. "He's baaack!