I'm so happy with the positive feedback I've been getting! Thanks so much guys. I wrote this chapter up quickly, in the midst of inspiration. It's not really as descriptive as the others, and I apologize for that, but I just wanted to get this in here before I have to go to soccer. Well… Thanks again. The beginning in this chapter, I guess I was just trying to get the jist of what happened down. Towards the middle/end I explain a little better I guess. I have to post this chapter because I edited this about 10 times and if I don't post it now I don't think I ever will be satisfied and actually do it.

He couldn't open his eyes. He wouldn't. He knew if he moved one muscle in his aching body, without Vicodin or freshly injected morphine… the couch does wonders for him. His head was pounding and still swimming from the high of the morphine, his breathing ragged, sweating profusely, his heart racing, his leg...there weren't enough words in the human language to describe how his leg felt.

Deciding that he lay there long enough, he tried to open his eyes. The light was blinding and he shut them as quickly as they had opened. He curled up on his left side, cradling his head, eyes squeezed shut. Agony, that was the word to describe how he felt. Pure and utter agony. A faint groan escaped his tightly pursed lips. Where was the morphine wave? God fucking damn he needed his Vicodin.

He saw the light dim from behind his eyelids. Someone closed the blinds.

It all rushed back now. Wilson…waking up…pissed. Then the present morphine reached his mind again and he spaced out. He thought in fragments; like waves, thoughts came to him while the bittersweet morphine was in his system. Ebbing in and out, splashing in and slowly receding until it became just a distant memory.

He opened his eyes to a dimmer house. This...he could tolerate. It took him a moment to realize where he was again. A cloak of hazy morphine washed over him, and pain faded away for the moment. A faint and crooked smile worked its way onto his fatigued face.

Something moved near him; he heard it. He tried to sit up, but the morphine's affects were wearing off. He needed his Vicodin. Or more morphine. His eyes were able to focus and register what was on the coffee table. Or rather, what wasn't. The two delicious drugs weren't there. Just his cane sat, leaning against the dark oak, feebly. He gritted his teeth. Another wave splashed over him, and he relaxed his heavy shoulders.

This wave seemed to last longer than the others. That's how it worked for him once the morphine began to wear off. The last of it would come and go, until it didn't return. That's when it was time for another dose.

But it wasn't on the table. What the hell? Where did it…

Wilson. He remembered for a moment, but then his mind went hazy again and his thought was swept away with the morphine's buzz.

Finally, the creature that was causing the racket showed himself.

And boy did it looked pissed.

Legs spread slightly, hands on hips, lips pursed in a thin white line, and anger, which House could usually read, was ever present in his eyes.

House couldn't focus enough to see it though, so he smiled when he saw Wilson.

"Jimmy m' boy. How are you?" The words came out raspy and hoarse and slurred and it just angered Wilson more. House's vision swirled and morphed around him, colors blending into one collage. He really was riding the high.

"How am I?" Wilson repeated, completely awed. "You've finally lost it haven't you?"

"What?" House asked, enjoying the current buzz he was experiencing. He would savor the last moment until he needed another dose, or his doubled daily Vicodin intake.

"Morphine, House? Morphine? Since when the hell did the pain get so bad you needed to shoot up morphine?" Wilson couldn't hold it in any longer. The anger, the fear, the worry. In the long time he had known House, he has done stupid things. Nothing this stupid, though.

He remembered the time when he came to check up on House a few months after the infarction. He remembered seeing House swaying on the couch, an empty bottle of Vicodin curled in his sweaty fingers. He remembered how he had to be the one to personally drive House to Princeton General to have his stomach pumped before the dumb ass killed himself. House claimed he just lost track… but Wilson knew House well enough to know that was complete bullshit. How does a brilliant doctor lost count and swallow a whole bottle?

He remembered one frantic night when he got to House's apartment and it was empty. He remembered the knot wrenching in his stomach as he drove bar to bar looking for him. He remembered having to literally drag House's drunk ass body out of the bar because he had gotten so wasted he couldn't walk or see or anything.

He remembered when House had lost a patient, how screwed up House had been acting. He had to give a boy wonder talk that House claimed had initially no effect on him, and the psycho babble shit should be saved for a dying cancer patient, but Wilson knew it worked because House was at his office later asking if Wilson was ready to buy him lunch. And when his leg had gotten so bad he asked Cuddy for morphine. He thought it was insane then, and he was shocked and disappointed and so many other things when Cuddy told him. He remembered feeling guilty when he realized he was glad that Cuddy deceived him and gave him a placebo. He remembered talking to Cuddy for hours about what could have made his leg become that horrible; his mind. He remembered all the lows House had been through.

He just couldn't register why House would resort to this now. Had the pain gotten that bad? Was the Vicodin finally losing its effect? How long had he been doing this?

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People never saw what Wilson got out of their friendship. It was all one sided to watching eyes. No one could see deep down what the benefit of House and Wilson as friends came to be to Wilson. What useless sidelined spectators saw was a grouchy old cripple who mooched off of the young, handsome doctor. No one saw what Wilson received. To them, Wilson was House's scotch tape, and nothing more. All he did was hold House together before all of the pieces broke and clattered. They only knew how it was Wilson who saved House years ago after over dosing (this was an 'untrue' rumor.)

Their friendship to the glancing eye was nothing. Wilson was just there to help House, through the infarction, when Stacy left, when he overdosed, when he went through his detox, when he needed a refill, when House got to drunk to move or do anything rationally (when did House ever do anything rationally?) Wilson had to drag him home. That's all they saw.

What they didn't see was what House gave Wilson in return. That sense of security House gave him. The way House understood every aspect of whatever Wilson went though; whether he lost a patient, had troubles at home...whatever the reason, House was there…always. He may have never helped in words, but no one knew what he actually did to help Wilson. That House was actually the reason Wilson didn't just jump off a bridge one day. Wilson himself wasn't even sure if it was guilt or neediness or that passive feeling that if he left House…he shuddered whenever he thought of it. And sadly, he'd thought of what would happen to House if Wilson were to ever leave often. But Wilson would never leave. And he wasn't sure if it was that he was selfish or that he took pity upon House or if he just loved the guy so damn much, but he was never going to leave.

No one knew about the time Wilson had lost two patients at the hospital, a thirteen year old girl with leukemia, and a thirty-two year old father of two who had cancer in his lungs…on top of that, Mrs. Wilson number two was gone. No one knew Wilson had went to the bar and drank what seemed like enough alcohol to shock his liver for good. That Wilson had passed out, right there, in his barstool. That the bartender had to reach into Dr. James Wilson's pocket and retrieve his cell phone and call number one on his speed dial. That House had left in the middle of a passionate evening with Stacy just to go get his sorry ass. That he had taken Wilson home and had thrown him on his couch and spent half the night cleaning up Wilson's vomit and supporting his swaying body as he made his way to the bathroom and back.

And now this was happening. He looked at it as just another test of their friendship; proving how strong they could be. Like pillars to a building. One without the other would never stand, would never be.

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House was experiencing another burst of the morphine's blessing, so he wasn't really able to answer correctly. He did feel inferior though, laying down while Wilson was fully able and pacing before him.

He muttered complete gibberish as he reached for his cane.

His hand grasped the cool handle, swung his left leg over the end of the couch, and gingerly moved his right leg over in suit.

Wilson wasn't quick enough to keep him down, so House was swaggering on his feet in an instant.

He took one drug-induced step in Wilson's general direction, but he still had a bit too much morphine in his system to be up and about. He titled to the right slightly, and swayed a bit before his head hid the floor with a sickening crash. His leg folded underneath him, and all of his thoughts were blanked out, everything in him dead. He knew no more. The pain was unbearable. And he meant it. No human should have to go through this. Was this God's way of punishing him for being a selfish prick? He couldn't breathe. He choked in breathes in short, ragged hiccups and squeezed his eyes shut. He rolled onto his back, his head pounding, his leg overtaking his mind. The pain…he couldn't think. He knew no more.

Wilson was crouched beside him in an instant. He grasped House under his armpits and was able to get House to his feet with a few mumbled protests and groans and sharp cried expressing nothing of how he truly felt. He pushed House to the couch a bit too hard, and House fell against the cushions, his head lolling backward.

He really was riding the high. He forgot everything that happened, nothing but the soft material of the couch rubbing against him and the morphine attacking the pain lingered in his screwed up mind.

It was pounding harder than it ever pounded, a white veil crossing his eyes as the pain increased. He smiled a crooked smile as his head hit the back of the couch. More morphine and his Vicodin. Give him that and he's set for life.

Wilson watched in complete disbelief as House sat on the couch, grinning like a schoolgirl, right hand twitching, glazed eyes staring at Wilson, but not actually at Wilson.

Wilson was in complete awe. "You're high? House, you didn't just take this for the pain? You're fucking high?" His voice rose with each syllable.

House put his index finger against his dry, cracked lips, his other hand strewn atop his head.

"No, I've been quiet long enough House! I've noticed you acting differently, and I've let it go long enough! You're shooting up fucking morphine now? How long has this been going on House? If the pain was getting worse, I would be a little more sympathetic about it, but you're doing it to get fucking high!"

House groaned. "I don't have time for this Wilson…I need to get to work..." Wilson never understood this, but no matter how off House was at times, the man could always talk, always use his mind, even if it was in the smallest of ways.

"God, you're really out of it! You actually think I'm going to let you go to work high on morphine! You could kill someone you know!" Wilson shook his head in utter disbelief.

"No one needs to know…" House muttered.

"I have to tell Cuddy…" Wilson didn't want to; he had to.

"No you don't!" House tried to shout, his voice slurring slightly. "No you don't…" House said, voice wavering with exhaustion and pain. "You won't. Why are you here anyway?" The buzz was fading slightly now…thanks to the Boy Wonder.

"House, I have to tell her, as much as I know you don't want her to know. You're going to end up coming to work one day, high off morphine, and killing someone. I'm telling her; for professional and personal reasons. She's your friend. And for your second damn question, I came to get my damn DVD player you never gave back! It's a good thing I came too! How much morphine did you take? And I swear to God House, if you mixed in any Vicodin with it…"

"Wilson, can we deal with this at a more reasonable hour?" House asked, half paying attention. His leg hurt badly. His eyelids were falling with fatigue. His head was pounding, and every muscle in his body quivered…he didn't need this now. He didn't need Wilson. He needed more morphine, more Vicodin. That's what he needed. He needed to go to work to get away from the house. To get away from everything.

"You didn't answer my questions." Wilson snapped.

"Go home. You don't need to be here…I don't need you here. I'm fine." An exasperatedly tired House said.

"Oh, that's rich. House…you're that damn high? Think I'm just going to get up and leave?"

"No…" he murmured, Wilson still a blur of color before his dilated eyes. "Just too hopeful…I'm fine Wilson. I'm serious." House found it hard to believe that even though he was as doped up as could be, he wasn't slurring as much as he did every night last week. He figured it was time to up his dose by a mg. or something.

"So am I!" he shouted. The words echoed through House's mind, swerving in and out, the words morphing and twisting. It was some what amusing to him, the way Wilson looked and sounded in his current state, and he smiled.

"What the hell is so funny?" He snapped.

"You…you're funny…"

"I'm calling Cuddy right now. I'm telling her we're not coming to work. I have to explain you did something totally fucking stupid and I have to be here to make sure you don't kill yourself." He took a step closer to House and held his hand up threateningly. "I don't want to have to tell her House, but she's your boss and friend and she cares and I feel she deserves to know. You…don't move a finger, you got that?"

House shrugged off the younger man's words. "Can I at least have my Vicodin?" he asked pathetically.

Wilson barked a bitter, sour laugh and shook his head. He walked over to the telephone, lifted it off the receiver, and dialed Cuddy's office number.

"Dr. Cuddy." She greeted, voice oozing with trained professionalism.

"Cuddy, it's…it's Wilson…"he answered, unsure if now was the time or place to tell her.

"What is it?" she asked. Dr. James Wilson was not a man to stutter unless there was something, anything wrong.

"I'm uh, at House's." He paused. "I…We can't come into work today." He finished.

"And why not?" she asked.

"House did...uh…something stupid." He couldn't tell her over the phone. This was serious. The moron was shooting up morphine, for God's sake.

"Is he alright?" she asked, worry evident in her voice.

"He'll…be fine. I'll talk to you about it tomorrow. I would come in, but I got to make sure he doesn't kill himself." He said it as a joke; it was sad that he was serious. Not that House was suicidal, no. He didn't think that for a minute. (Well, he hoped he knew.) Just the fact that he did it in the first place, that he had it with him to begin with. He couldn't quite put his finger in it, but his House's-only-friend instincts were kicking in and telling him that is wasn't safe to leave him alone. He was high, he fell, his leg probably hurt even with the morphine. Suicidal? No. Desperate? Yes.

Cuddy sucked in a lung-full of air. Those words stung her, somewhere deep down. "Sure, sure…take care of him. Call me if you need anything. And I mean anything. I want to see you in my office first thing tomorrow, Dr. Wilson."

"You got it, see you tomorrow Dr. Cuddy."

They hung up.

Wilson looked over at his friend, who was staring at the table unfocused. He sighed and made his way over to the couch.

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Cuddy sat at her desk, every muscle in her body tense and quivering. House did something stupid. Stupid enough for the infamous Dr. Wilson to actually stay home from work. Wilson had only taken three sick days during his whole employment at PPTH. Two of the times being for House (and the reasons for those to sick days Cuddy knew- it just added onto her sack of worry) and once when he had shingles and was completely incapable of walking and doing his job. Even then he had two doctors in for him, calling him every hour to check up on things. 'Whether I'm asleep or not." He had said.

Cuddy inhaled deeply to try and clear her racing mind, and opened the file atop her desk.

She read the first line half a dozen times and decided it was a futile attempt; she couldn't focus.

She turned her chair in the direction of the window and watched the breeze swish and sway at the falling leaves.

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House was still sitting there when Wilson placed the receiver back onto the cradle. He walked over and sat next to his friend, all of the anger faded. The one thing he could remember was that whenever House screwed himself over, Wilson had always been there, because no matter what House said, he needed Wilson there.

Will all of the anger replaced with bitter memories and tainted remorse, Wilson put his hand on House's shoulder.

"How bad is it House?" he asked softly, warm brown eyes mixing with dilated, glazed blue ones. "How long has this been going on?"

House swayed slightly, trying to register why there was a hand on his shoulder and what it was Wilson just asked.

"I'm fine." He said, swatting Wilson's hand away and trying to stand again.

"Sit down House; you're in no condition to stand. You're going to fall and hurt yourself again."

House pushed Wilson off of him with half of his remaining strength and stood. He wavered slightly, leaning strong on his cane, the walls spinning, colors blurring into one depressing picture of his surroundings, head floating high, legs shaking.

He regained control of his hazy mind and slowly hobbled back towards his bedroom, ignoring Wilson's protests of standing.

"I'm going to bed." He said halfheartedly. He stumbled and swayed and bumped into things and staggered and stopped for breaks on the ten foot walk to his bedroom door.

"We need to talk about this…" Wilson attempted to call after House.

House ignored him completely and continued staggering towards his destination. Maybe he couldn't hear nor understand him, maybe he didn't want to, but he kept his unsteady gait until Wilson heard the door shut quietly and the distinct sound of a lock clicking closed, a sound no one would have heard except Wilson's expertly trained ear.

He sighed and walked over to the window, watching the wind press against the leaves, flapping and fluttering them this way and that. The really strong leaves stayed attached to the old tree, but a few weak old crumbling leaves dropped to the floor, waiting to be crunched by unknowing pedestrian feet.

Wilson sighed and turned away from the window, and stared at the deathly quiet door to House's bedroom. It was almost as if he were waiting for his friend to come out of there, completely sober and carrying a video game and they would sit and laugh and eat take out and pizza and drink beer and House would kick Wilson's butt and occasionally let Wilson win in whatever barbaric game they decided to play that day. Unbeknownst to House, Wilson knew that he let him win from time to time when Wilson was feeling inferior, constantly loosing.

It was then that Wilson noticed they haven't done any of this in over a month.