Again, thank you to everyone who has been reading and commenting. I do appreciate you all, especially the guest reviewers - although I don't think there's a need to take pot shots at others. In my opinion, it's the sign of a great show that everyone can come up with their own interpretation of events. It means things and characters aren't simply black and white. We can like characters for some actions and dislike them for others. And House M.D. certainly gave us that opportunity. So please, play nice.

What makes night within us may leave stars. (Victor Hugo)

3-Absolution

House just stared at him.

Wilson sat down heavily, realization sinking in. They were out of state, he couldn't prescribe for House. Besides, even if he could, he didn't bring his prescription pad. The small orange bottle on House's nightstand – empty as he knew now - seemed to glow. They were out of Vicodin. They were far from home, and they were out. And it was his fault. He had taken House from Cuddy, like some dead weight. Bring him to the funeral and back. Like a truck driver ferrying cargo somewhere. They probably didn't care what they were carrying. Neither did he, apparently.

Finally, Wilson became aware of House fidgeting on the bed and looked up. He had to do something, say something.

"House…" He drew a blank. There was nothing he could say that would help. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't gonna cut it, you know. Last I heard sorry wasn't an approved treatment for muscle and nerve pain."

"We could… there's always the ER. There has to be a hospital around here…" he offered tentatively.

House laughed. It sounded more like a bark than a laugh.

"I'm not letting some idiot resident on two hours of sleep and a shitload of uppers poke around my leg for hours, hemming and hawing, just to determine that I'm a drug seeker. No. Not a chance."

Wilson had a brainwave. "I have some Motrin in the car. For emergencies. I… I know it's not much, but it could at least take the edge off."

House huffed. "So, what are you waiting for? I think this qualifies as an emergency."

Wilson rushed out to the car.

"Was this stashed right next to the backup flashlight and the emergency rations of lembas bread? Did you check the use by date?" House swallowed what looked like a handful of pills, put the bottle on the nightstand and leaned back.

Wilson knew what House was doing. He needed a distraction until the pills kicked in. So he took the bait. "Yes, they're still good. I check them once a month. You know, just in case I get a migraine while I'm driving."

House closed his eyes, the lines on his face betraying his seemingly relaxed pose.

"I guess I'm lucky you're such a good Boy Scout then." He continued after a few deep breaths, "So what genius cooked up this hare-brained plan? Was it Cuddy or did you help?"

Wilson would rather not answer this question. But he had no choice, and House wasn't going to go easy on him now. If anything, House in pain was even more scathing and persistent. "Cuddy just said… I don't know, your mother… she kept calling because- because you wouldn't answer."

"My Mom has a knack for that. She gets on people's nerves, very politely and nicely, until they give her what she wants. The only one it didn't work on was my father. Even she hated him."

Wilson waited for more information, but nothing came. A moment later House struggled up off the bed, clearly still in pain. Wilson was about to help, but years of experience told him what kind of reaction that would elicit. So he stayed put and watched House slowly pace the room. How many times had he witnessed this over the years? Too many, Wilson concluded.

For the next hour or so Wilson observed House walk from the door to the TV and back, pausing every now and then to massage his leg for a moment, getting slower and slower and more unsteady, until, finally, he stopped altogether. It didn't look like Wilson's pills had helped much. Stooped over his cane, House had his back turned to Wilson at that point and took some deep breaths, as if to fortify himself.

"You know I wouldn't ask if I knew another way…" he finally said.

Wilson almost sprang to attention. He was glad to be asked to do something; he didn't care what it was. Anything to stop the misery he saw playing out in front of his eyes.

"I'll have to sit in the shower for a bit. A hot bath would be better, but this should work at least for a while," House hesitated for a second, then continued, "I'm not sure I'll be able to get back up afterwards…."

"Sure, no problem, I'll give you a hand," Wilson cut in.

House turned, eyes blazing. "No! I'm not that decrepit yet. Just stick around. Don't go back to your room. That's all."

And with no further look at Wilson, he limped off into the bathroom.

Wilson still wasn't sure what exactly he was supposed to be doing. He finally decided that he was no good standing there helplessly in the middle of the room and moved to the bathroom door that House had left a little ajar.

On the other side of the door, he could hear House moving about slowly. Then came the sound of clothes dropping to the floor, interspersed with grunts and sighs. Finally, he heard the shower turn on and the cane hit the tiles.

The shower curtain was dragged across. More grunting and then, a thud, followed by a muffled sigh.

Wilson hoped those were good signs. "House? You okay in there? Shout if you need me."

There was no reply. The water was still running.

If House had hurt himself, he would need him to come in. If he was fine and in the shower, he probably wouldn't notice him coming in, Wilson reasoned.

So he pushed the door open.

The tiny bathroom looked identical to his own next door, and it was already filling up with steam. House's clothes were in a heap on the floor, and his cane had been dropped just outside the shower.

"Make yourself comfortable while you're snooping," House called from behind the shower curtain.

"Doors opening create a draft, you know, and motel shower curtains are flimsy. Surprised they're not see-through actually," said House while Wilson was still wondering how on earth he could have heard him come in over the noise from the shower.

Wilson sighed. "Excuse me for caring. I'll leave if you want."

A beat.

"No. Stay. I'm sure a steam room session is good for your sinuses or something."

Wilson smiled to himself, pushed the poison green bath mat against the wall and sat down on it.

House hadn't been that far off actually – the shower curtain wasn't see through but Wilson could still just about make out a shape behind it. Every now and then that shape moved a little behind the curtain.

"You know, if you want to be alone for a while…" Wilson said with a grin after listening to what sounded like House massaging his leg but could well have been something else.

Nothing except the sound of the water hitting the tiles. Then House snorted.

"Ha. Wish I had the energy. But weren't you offering to help earlier…?"

Wilson laughed. "No thanks. Not quite what I had in mind."

They sat silently for a while. Wilson removed his tie and shirt; it was getting hot in there.

When he didn't hear or see any movement from inside the shower for a while, he had to check. "You okay in there?"

There was nothing for a moment, and then House said, as if he hadn't heard Wilson at all, "You know what he would say now? He'd tell me to stop whining and suck it up."

Wilson felt a deep pang of sadness for a small boy who had once tried to hold back his tears following some little accident or other. There was nothing he could say to this, but House didn't expect a reply.

"He never took his uniform off at home," he continued, "figuratively speaking. He did change when he got home. But he wore the attitude, never took it off."

Wilson had only met John House a few times. House was right. The man wore an invisible uniform. He was always polite, affable even, during their short meetings. But it had seemed a little rehearsed; as if he was following a script because he wasn't sure of his footing.

"Guess he only felt comfortable when he was working, when he could put that uniform back on," Wilson mused. "Socializing isn't everyone's thing."

"Yeah, seems that's not genetic then," House huffed. "Doesn't mean you have to treat your family like your subordinates."

Oh no.

"That wasn't a dig, House," Wilson was quick to interject. "Just saying that it's quite common."

"Yeah, yeah, got it."

House sounded distracted. Wilson saw him change position behind the shower curtain. By now his back must be hurting and his legs cramping. The shower stall was no place for a man of House's height. Even Wilson's own backside was sore from sitting on the tiles. He could only guess how House must be feeling.

He hadn't thought it through properly before it was out. "House, I am not going to tell you to suck it up. Saying you're in pain is stating the truth and not complaining. It doesn't make you a whiner."

Behind the curtain, all movement stopped. The milky white plastic was stuck to House's shin which seemed frozen mid-movement. Even discounting the noise from the shower, Wilson wasn't sure if he could have heard House breathing at that point. Because he wasn't sure if he actually was.

"Did you just give me permission to howl and cry?" House's voice was tight.

Wilson took a moment to make sure he didn't mess this up now. "If that's what you need, then yes."

House laughed once, but Wilson wasn't sure if there wasn't something else underneath the amusement, something he couldn't quite hear through the noise of the shower.

"Go ahead. I can stand outside, so motel staff can see right away I'm not torturing you. Right after they break down the door," Wilson suggested, trying to add some levity to the situation.

House turned off the shower. "Not right now, you can't. Right now you need to throw me a towel in here."

Wilson did as he was told and awaited further instructions.

It took a while and quite a lot of movement behind the shower curtain, before House spoke up again. "I need a hand… don't worry, I'm decent. More or less."

He was indeed. When Wilson drew the curtain aside, House was still on the floor of the shower, the towel wrapped somewhat haphazardly around his waist. It was clear that he had tried to push himself up by stemming his good leg against the wall. But with no bar or anything to hold on to, his efforts had been in vain.

House held out his hand and Wilson pulled him up. He was about to take House's arm to help him step over the rim of the shower, when House slapped his hand away.

"Said I need a hand, not an escort."

Wilson didn't reply but passed House his cane instead and then left the bathroom to wait outside.

After a while he heard House lumber up to the door but then stop before opening it fully. Not sure what was happening, he finally guessed House was collecting himself before facing Wilson again.

To give him a little more privacy, Wilson busied himself by smoothing out the covers on House's bed.

"Thought you'd want to get into bed after that shower," he said to the pillows once he heard House come out from the bathroom.

He heard House shake a few more pills out of the Motrin bottle on the table and bit back a comment. There was no other option. He had seen to that himself. He sighed.

"I'm not an invalid," House growled as Wilson held back the covers for him. He flopped down on the bed and groaned. "Shit. No, I am."

Wilson didn't even dare attempt to help House into bed after House shot him one look and said, "You'd make a perfect nurse, Wilson. Just not sure you've got the legs for one of those skimpy outfits."

Instead he settled down in the easy chair by the TV. In the semi-darkness of the room he listened to House trying to get comfortable in bed.

"You gonna sit there all night?" House eventually asked.

"Got nothing better to do. I might as well hang out here."

"Idiot."

But House made no further attempt to kick him out.

After a while it became clear House couldn't get to sleep.

"Did the shower not help at all?" Wilson finally dared to ask.

House huffed. "Yeah, it did. Just not enough." And a moment later, "He would probably see this as rightful punishment."

There was a lot of pain in those words and Wilson knew it wasn't just the acute physical pain. How could this much pain ever be justified in any way, he wondered. And then he understood what House was referring to. There was only one thing for which he thought he deserved punishment. It was why he had consented to the DBS.

He fought the sadness pooling in his stomach. He pictured Amber again, the way she looked at him before he had turned off the machines that had kept her alive. And then he saw House in the ICU. So much pain in those eyes. And he, Wilson, had felt nothing looking at the man who used to be his friend. He had been numb through and through. Or that was what he used to think. He began to wonder if that hadn't been an excuse like so many others.

"You don't deserve punishment, House," he finally whispered. House stirred, but there was no reply. "Yes, I blamed you. It's why I left. Why I didn't want to see you anymore. I know you're not to blame. I did blame you because you were there; you were available. I needed to blame someone because I needed to make sense of it all. I was hurting so much. But you didn't kill Amber. The truck driver who drove the truck into the bus didn't even kill her. Maybe the adamantine killed her. Or the flu. She made the decision to step on that bus. You didn't force her. You didn't make her take the flu pills. You didn't even ask her to come pick you up. Maybe I killed her. After all, you wanted me to pick you up."

He listened to the darkness and finally heard House exhale slowly. Wilson felt a weight disappear from his shoulders. The heaviness in his gut began to ease.

So he took a breath and said, a little more certain and forceful this time, "House, you're not to blame."