CHAPTER NINETEEN: Dangerous

When Cuddy and Wilson have composed themselves again, House has a question. He's aware that he keeps sleeping through the important parts, and he wants to be brought up to speed. "Have you started the Zofran yet?"

Cuddy shakes her head. "No, I want to wait until the Compazine has cleared out, and you're not going to be eating anything for the next eight hours or so anyway, so we'll start that tonight. We'll also be using IV morphine, at dosages equivalent to your super-Vic, for your next two doses. We need to keep your stomach empty, no extra strain on your cardiovascular system, okay?"

House regards her dubiously. "Ah, so the empty stomach requirement has absolutely nothing to do with the possible need for intubation, then," he says, only mildly sarcastic.

Cuddy grows very serious. "I don't want you to worry about that." Her eyes go to the red code box, and so do House's. "I've covered every possible contingency, and hey—you've got two of Princeton Plainsboro's finest right here with you, all the way." Both Cuddy and House turn towards Wilson, who's grown terribly quiet at the thought of having to intubate House. Don't blow it now, Wilson, Cuddy thinks.

Wilson looks at House, smiling. "Don't forget, I've got a vested interest in pulling you through this; where will I go after my next divorce if you're not around?"

"I've left you the couch in my will," House says dryly. No one smiles.

Wilson takes a deep breath and sits on the edge of the bed, next to House. He waits until House is really looking at him before he starts to speak. "I trust Cuddy. I'd trust my life to her. I trust your life to her. And I made you a promise when all this started. I told you I'd keep you safe. I will. Always. Whatever it takes. Simple as that." He keeps his eyes trained on House's, allows House to explore his gaze for any doubt, any fear, and makes certain he finds none. When he stands, he allows his hand to brush across House's clenched fingers, gives them a quick squeeze, could've almost been an accident. He turns from the bed, and, his back to House, he closes his eyes and silently prays it was good enough.

Cuddy jumps in quickly; she's been watching the monitor, and she's seen House's heart rate climb since he'd started this conversation, seen a few extra PVCs race across the screen. "Okay, guys, enough with the chatter for now, please. I've got an assessment to complete."

She crosses over to House and shushes him as he starts to speak again—his eyes are still on Wilson. She places the stethoscope on his chest, hoping to cut off any more attempts at conversation, trying to give Wilson a few moments. But House is still trying to speak. She looks up, sternly, and says, "If you don't settle down right now, I've got that Ativan handy, ya know."

House sighs, and she can hear the frustration—and the worry—in the sound. But then he closes his eyes, and she can see him make a conscious attempt to calm himself, and when she listens to his heart she hears the rhythm start to settle back down.

When Wilson turns and comes back to the bedside, it's clear that he's finally made peace with Cuddy's decision. His expression is neutral, his voice gently chiding, as he says to House, "Hey, Cuddy may be in charge of the medicine here, but I'm in charge of your behavior. Lucky me. Try not to make me look too bad, okay?" House doesn't open his eyes, but a slightly mischievous smile quirks his mouth. Both Wilson and Cuddy are able to relax again.

When Cuddy finishes the assessment, she says to Wilson, "I'm gonna go get a chart started; think you can handle him from here?" Wilson nods, and takes advantage of House's still closed eyes to indicate to Cuddy that House has a clear view of the monitor, should he choose to look at it. Cuddy turns it slightly, so that Wilson can still see it but House can't, and leaves the room quietly.

Wilson settles down in the chair by the bed, propping his feet up on the corner of the mattress. "You awake?" he asks softly. When House nods after a few seconds' delay, Wilson knows that if he simply remains quiet, House'll be back to sleep in no time. So he leans his own head back and closes his eyes to wait him out.

---

The dream sneaks up on Wilson, just as sleep has. And—while the unexpected sleep is welcome—the dream, from its beginning, is not.

House is on that damned motorcycle, and Wilson is following in his car. They're on their way home from the hospital. It's a beautiful, clear day, and Wilson's having a moment of regret that House can no longer go running. But he's hoping that he can at least convince House that a trip to the park to enjoy the sun might not be out of the question.

House is heading into the curve that Wilson's always yelling at him about; he insists on taking it far too fast, and—especially when it's raining—the curve's too sharp for such stupidity. At least I don't have to worry about rain today, he thinks as he trains his eyes on the bike, willing House to back off on the speed. So he's watching as the motorcycle suddenly seems to go even faster, and it's not following the curve of the road—it's heading straight for the brick retaining wall, and House is making no attempt to correct its path. And he's watching when the bike, going in excess of 80mph, hits the wall. There's a moment then when Wilson can't see anything at all—his vision's gone black, and then dizziness makes him instinctively pull the car to the right, and off the road.

As soon as the car stops, Wilson's out of it, and running. As he reaches House, yards away from the crumpled bike, he sees that pieces of House's helmet are scattered all around, as if it had exploded. He swallows the bile that rises in his throat, and makes it to House's side. He can see that House is breathing, but the respirations are already agonal, and Wilson knows. He gently lifts one eyelid, and then the other, and feels no surprise that both pupils are blown; there's no more blue in those eyes, just the flat, dull black of death.

When he sinks to the ground and gently takes House's head in his lap, he can feel the spongy area in his skull that indicates a depressed fracture—the injury that had sealed House's fate at the moment of impact. No, he thinks. House sealed his own fate when he got on the bike. It wasn't an accident. "You lied to me," he whispers to House as the uneven respirations start to slow. "You promised me that I wouldn't be the one to find you…." He hears the first onlookers start yelling that they've called 911, and he hopes that the ambulance comes slowly. House is already dead, but the broken shell can breathe for a few minutes more. He won't allow them to code his friend; it's the last thing he'll do for him, if it comes to that.

He looks down and sees rain on his hands, cupped lovingly around House's head, rain on House's face, mixing with the blood. He's confused; the sun's still shining brightly, but as he lifts his head to look at the sky, he can feel the rain on his own face, too.

"Wilson. Wilson!" Who would be calling to me out here? These people are all strangers. Go away; please be quiet. My brother's dying. He doesn't like a lot of people; leave us alone--

"Jimmy!" He lifts his head, startled awake, and discovers that the rain, and the blood, are only tears—his tears, and a lot of them. And the voice is House's, only feet away from him, with blue eyes again, and those eyes are looking at him… watching him cry.