'Sup dudes. Another chapter for you, because I have nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon. I suppose technically slight Season 6 spoilers. Enjoy, and please, please, please remember to rate and review! If you want a specific chapter or imagine written, I will happily take requests, just PM me with your idea. Please note that I am currently halfway through Season 7, so if any spoilers, preferably nothing set after the beginning of Season 7.
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Thin October sunshine filtered through the curtains of 221B, illuminating the bedroom. Silvery dust flew around the air, settling on the bookcase and knickknacks. The cane sat on the floor, held upright by the bedside table. Two entwined hands lay between the two people on the bed, one rough, one soft.
House grunted in his sleep, unconsciously trying to place his hand on his thigh to massage it, only to find that it was trapped in Wilson's grasp. The inability to relieve the pain woke the diagnostician, and he groaned quietly as he realised that it was a Monday, and both of them were an hour late already.
"Wilson," he said gruffly. "Get up."
Wilson stayed stubbornly asleep, leaning into the sound of House's voice. House sighed and rolled his eyes, before uttering the fateful words:
"Wilson, if you don't get up, I'm burning your red stripy tie."
Wilson sat bolt upright. On the right side of his head, his hair was sticking directly upright, giving his a crazed look as he blearily rubbed his eyes.
"What's the time?" he yawned, stretching.
"9."
Wilson's face fell, and he stumbled out of bed, looking around despairingly.
"Late, House, we're LATE," he yelled, throwing on his shirt, which lay on the floor in a crumpled heap. House stayed sat on his edge of the bed, massaging his thigh, grimacing as he dreaded having to stand upright. Wilson whipped round, tying his tie. "Why aren't you getting ready? We've gotta go!"
"I don't want to go in," House replied truthfully, looking up at Wilson with puppy-dog eyes. Wilson's face immediately softened, and he knelt down in front of House.
"Neither do I, but I have to," he whispered, gently kissing him. House pulled away, grinning mischievously as he dialled a number on his phone.
"Pretend to be throwing up when I signal," he ordered. Wilson gave him a strange look, but nodded all the same. House clicked on speakerphone as the person answered.
"House?" Cuddy answered. "Where the hell are you!? And what have you done with Wilson?"
"Rude," House said. "Wilson's ill, and I'm looking after him."
"What?" Cuddy replied, sounding concerned.
"Yeah, he came over last night," House lied fluently; Wilson ducked his head to keep himself from giggling. "I told him not to have the chicken from the Chinese, but he wouldn't listen to me. Been throwing up all night."
"Oh my God, is he okay?" she said urgently. "Do you need me to drop some supplies off?"
"No, we should be fine," House replied, looking alarmed.
"Just give me a call if you need anything," she said, sounding skeptical. House gave the thumbs-up sign frantically. Wilson gave some very convincing retching sounds, all whilst grinning his head off.
"My God!" Cuddy shrieked as Wilson's fake-vomiting sounds faded away. "Are you sure you don't need anything?"
"I'm sure," House said, before ending the call. Wilson burst into a fit of giggles, doubling over with glee.
"You have got to teach me how to do that," he laughed, wiping his eyes as they both collapsed back down onto the bed.
"Shut up and go back to sleep."
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At around 12 o'clock, House's phone went off, the Mean Girls theme tune blaring out. House and Wilson were cuddled up on the couch, watching monster trucks. House raised his eyebrows and picked up the phone, confused.
"Yeah?"
"I'm coming over," Cuddy's insistent voice said; House's eyes widened and he nudged Wilson, who looked at him inquisitively. "I'm 10 minutes from your apartment. Do not be naked."
She ended the call before House could reply.
"We have a problem," House said. "Cuddy's coming over."
"She's gonna find out," Wilson groaned, dragging his hand down his face. "We're gonna get killed."
"She doesn't have to know," House replied.
"How?"
"Well, how d'you feel about taking Ipecac?"
"Ipecac?" Wilson repeated, sounding skeptical. "Isn't that for poisoned people?"
"Technically, yeah, but it induces vomiting. Only lasts about half an hour, I can have Cuddy out of here in 20 minutes. Rub some Vaseline on your face to make you look sweaty, throw up a bit, that's convincing enough, right?"
Wilson looked around desperately, but sighed and nodded.
"You need to take it now," House urged. "It takes 10 minutes to take effect."
House hauled himself up and limped to the kitchen, reaching to the back of the cupboard and pulling out a small bottle of Ipecac syrup.
"I am so gonna regret this," Wilson muttered as he allowed House to spoon-feed him two-and-a-half tablespoons of the vomiting liquid.
"And now, we wait."
They both settled down (after House had smeared a quarter of a tub of Vaseline on Wilson's face), watching the monster trucks drive ridiculously quickly over ramps, Wilson sitting on the edge of the couch, twitching ever so slightly. After almost 10 minutes, with House half-asleep, Wilson suddenly jumped up and ran to the bathroom, waking House up with the sheer force of the vomiting.
"Guess it worked," House muttered to himself as he limped quickly to the bathroom to see Wilson with his head down the toilet.
"I hate you so much," Wilson mumbled between retches.
"Act sick."
"I am sick!" Wilson complained, finally sticking his head up, wiping his mouth and his watery eyes. As if on cue, the doorbell rang. House held up his finger as if to say 'don't move', but Wilson needed no more encouragement as he hugged the toilet, quietly sobbing to himself.
House limped as slowly as possible to the door, listening as the rings became more and more insistent. Opening the door with controlled speed, he leant on the door frame as Cuddy bustled in, dumping the equipment on the coffee table.
"Where is he?" she said briskly, but with concern.
"Bathroom," House replied, trying to look worried as he closed the door and Wilson began throwing up again. Cuddy looked at him with alarm, rushing to the bathroom, House hot on her heels.
"Oh, Wilson," she said sympathetically, kneeling down next to the sick man. "How're you feeling?"
"Like crap," Wilson moaned, setting the side of his face on the cool porcelain.
"I told you not to get the chicken," House voiced from the doorway. Wilson shot him a filthy look.
"And the great House prevails again," he said sarcastically before dry-heaving violently.
"Has he been drinking any fluids?" Cuddy asked urgently. "Eaten anything?"
"Yes, I've been making him drink water, but no, he can barely hold the fluids down," House answered, silently thanking genetics (not God, never God) that he could lie so convincingly.
Cuddy gently rubbed Wilson's back before bringing herself up.
"Look, I have to get back to the hospital," she said, sounding pained. "I can't get back over here, so I'll come round tomorrow morning."
House nodded, and quickly showed her out before rushing back to the bathroom, painfully lowering himself to the floor.
"It'll be over soon," he said, rubbing gentle circles into Wilson's back, just Cuddy had done.
"How long is soon?" Wilson replied, raising his head hopefully.
"20 minutes or so."
Wilson groaned and let his head slam onto the porcelain.
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"Well, thank God that's over," Wilson said as he collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. House was already there, curled silently on his side away from his best friend. He didn't even move at the sound of Wilson's voice.
"Are you okay?" the oncologist asked, shaking House's shoulder. House whimpered, and Wilson leant over him to see that House had rolled up the leg on his pyjamas, exposing the thigh muscle which was spasming madly.
"Please, just one Vicodin," House begged. "Please."
"No," Wilson said sorrowfully. "I'm sorry."
House groaned, and let himself try to fall back to sleep.
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The next morning
"Morning, ducklings," House announced as he entered his office, throwing his backpack with impressive accuracy on the white chair. Thirteen, Taub, Chase and Foreman all jumped up, eager for news.
"How's Wilson?" Thirteen asked. "Heard he was pretty ill yesterday.
"God, if I had a dollar for every time I've heard that today," House mused, lowering himself into a chair. "Yes, he's fine, yes, he's back today, yes, never get the chicken from Tony's China Shop."
They all nodded, slowly sitting back down, Chase giving everyone a knowing look.
"I know about the wager, Chase," House said; Chase's head whipped around to face him, the Aussie's eyes wide. He nodded, scared.
"Differential diagnosis, people!"
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"How're you feeling?" House said teasingly as he sauntered into Wilson's office, slamming the door shut behind him.
"30!" Wilson exclaimed, giving House a quick kiss after placing down his paperwork. "30 people have asked me that. A further 13 have told me that I look 'a little peaky'."
"I think we should go public with our relationship."
Wilson looked up, his mouth hanging open in shock.
"Wh-what?"
"Almost the entire hospital is in on a wager that Chase is running about whether we are dating or not," House explained. "We could make a lot of people very rich."
Wilson tried to splutter out excuses as House grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into the hallway, which was incredibly busy now people had seen House go in Wilson's office. Chase looked up from a nurses station, smirking as he knew what was going to happen. Even Cuddy was there, praying that they were dating; she could really do with the $3000 she could win.
"HEY!" House yelled, turning the very few people who weren't looking heads. He pulled Wilson towards him and kissed him, with everyone watching.
There was stunned silence for a moment as House pulled away, before a huge cheer, delighted cries and many yells of "It's about time!". Wilson smiled slightly, more in shock than anything else. House nodded.
"Hope you all get your money," he said before taking Wilson back inside his office for some much-needed calming down.
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I personally really like this one. Hope you do too guys!
