Wilson never liked waking up on House's couch, other than the fact that he knew House was okay if he was there to make sure of it. That was the only good think of opening your eyes and seeing that cluttered, messy coffee table, the back of the rough couch, or the dim ceiling. His back always ached, his neck always had this indescribable tight feeling, and he never actually slept for very long on the lumpy hunk of furniture.

So when he woke up and looked at the clock and realized he would have to be up in thirty minutes anyway, he sat up and picked up a magazine that was strewn carelessly under the coffee table.

He idly flipped through the pages, occasionally glancing at the door, waiting for House to wake up.

Wilson had this sneaking suspicion that he would have to wake House up manually anyway. Morphine didn't exactly make you sleep deprived. Especially with the amount House must have taken.

Seconds turned to minutes as he read the magazine (more like stared at the clock and House's bedroom door holding a magazine.)

Just as the digital numbers shifted to six thirty five, as time wasted away another minute, Wilson stood and walked over to House's bedroom. His feet padding against the hardwood and House's slight snoring were all that could be heard in the apartment. As Wilson knew, only his ear could hear these little things he had listened out for so many times in the past. The locking of his door, his snoring, that special way he would suck in a breath that indicated he was in pain, that limp he always got when he was in more pain than usual, that slightly-off way he talked when he had one two many Vicodin that no one would notice, except him. And that's what angered Wilson the most. That he knew so many of House's warning signals, and only now that he found out House had a problem, he noticed the changes in the way he'd been acting towards everyone. He was mad because he should have been able to tell, help him before he resorted to this. He was so mad. How was he not able to tell?

More isolated (if that was possible) No one could tell if Gregory House was just being himself or if he was going out of his way to avoid people. Now that Wilson thought about it, House really had been avoiding him more than usual. And that angered him the most. He was supposed to be there to watch out for House, and if he let himself slip on the slightest things…the more and more he thought about it, the more he noticed the changes.

Loss in appetite. House and Wilson had lunch everyday at work. So why was it that House had been ditching Wilson for the past week because he had work to do? And why was it that their weekly Chinese food and pizza and chips and beer were delayed because he was tired from his latest case. Or because he had to work late. 'He probably just slept in his office to avoid me, avoid our routine, get as far away from life as he could…' Wilson thought wryly.

And after looking at him yesterday when he was passed out on the couch…he was skin and bones. Wilson hadn't picked it up before… but thinking over it…it frightened him; what House was doing to himself. He was probably unaware himself. Or aware and just didn't care. Most likely the latter, Wilson thought.

And he really did go out of his way to not talk to anyone now. He didn't even share the usual banter with him and Cuddy anymore. And Wilson stopped dead in his tracks when he realized that House had actually done his clinic duty this week just so he wasn't talked to or confronted in the slightest way possible. Wilson suddenly felt like he could cry. Not a sad cry, but a cry of desperation. Wilson decided he was selfish. He wanted to cry because he knew, he knew he couldn't get through this alone, couldn't help House on his own this time. He needed someone else that could help him.

Wilson mentally smacked himself and put his hand on the bedroom door…

It was locked.

He groaned and called House's name through the door.

The faint snoring persisted.

Wilson knocked lightly and called House's name louder.

A small grunt erupted from the light snores, but then his breathing pattern returned to normal. (Again, something only Wilson would notice…)

He balled his hand into a fist and pounded into the door, calling his name in suit.

The snoring stopped and a grunt was heard from inside the sanctuary.

It was working, one or two more knocks…

He pounded again.

A shuffle was heard, a groan/moan of agitation and pain (probably when he was getting up,) a rattle of pills (secret stash? Had to be. Wilson took the others away. That just freaked him out a bit more. He had Vicodin lying in his room) and House opened the door.

The sight that greeted him just pissed him off more. Wilson was grinning (a very fake looking grin, mind you) when he opened the door.

"We have to go to work…" Wilson said while nonchalantly scratching his head.

House simply half-nodded and pushed past Wilson and into the bathroom. Wilson stood by the door and held his breath, hoping that there wasn't another vial in there or something.

"Get away from the door Wilson." He deadpanned from inside.

Wilson simply shrugged and scattered away from the door. Looking at his clothes that had substituted as pajamas for the night, he was suddenly blissfully happy he had a change of clothes in his office.

Getting dressed was a painful hassle. All the damn morphine was gone, and the Vicodin wasn't working nearly as good as it used to. It barely took the edge off, just making the edges of his mind fuzzy, not the whole.

The faded jeans slid on no where near comfortably. He sat on the edge of his bed and slipped his left pant leg on with a practiced ease and familiarity. His right leg was the problem. He dropped his pants for the moment and lifted his right leg up gingerly. He slid it in carefully and groaned and cringed and stopped and popped a Vicodin and cursed and pulled at his hair and created new crimson moons in his palm, all trying to put his damn right pant leg on. About half way up, near the thigh, something went wrong and he was on his left side on his bed in an instant. After about five minutes of biting his lip to keep from screaming, he managed to finish the job. He stood up on his left leg, his right leg floating beside it, and buttoned them. He hopped over to the closet and pulled out his Rolling Stones tee shirt and slipped that on while swaying slightly from standing on one leg.

He popped another Vicodin, grabbed his cane, and headed out.

After Wilson ate a quick bowl of cereal and House just poked and prodded and ended up throwing his whole bowl away, they were out the door and on their way to the hospital.

The ride was conveyed in an awkward silence, not one word shared between the two men. Wilson's throat was tight, his chest constricted. He wanted to know what was going through House's mind…he wanted to be able to hide House from all of the shit he dealt with each day.

House's mind raced. He thought about everything, just staring out the windshield, head resting against the back of the car's seat. He was cold. He was hurting. He was tired. He was craving his Vicodin. The spare bottle he held captive in his desk at work never seemed further away at the moment, and the one in the breast pocket in his jacket felt inconspicuously light.

His arm stung. He must have inserted the needle too harshly.

He must have been swimming deeper in his thoughts than he thought because it seemed like just after they had left his apartment, they were suddenly staring at the ugly doors of his hell, his impending doom; PPTH.

He sighed and stepped out of the car with a wince.

House walked fast, trying to stay ahead of Wilson.

To get to his office alone, to get to his extra bottle of Vicodin.

Wilson called something from behind him, but House didn't care.

"Fuck off…" he muttered to himself while limping faster than ever towards the elevator doors.