A/N: Ta-da! Hee-hee. Will be re-titled 'AMNESIA' soon, so don't look for Possibilities. You can guess the rest, I s'pose. But I shall add some twists to make it...shall we say...interesting.

Enjoy! Thank you for all the reviews - if you have any ideas (even silly ones), I'd be happy to receive them!

(Again, it's not as long as I would like...but I'm tired. Humour me D )

It was so...dark. And blurry. Since when had things been blurry? Wilson blinked a couple of times as his eyes slowly adjusted to the light. What had happened again? His ears strained: someone was talking. To him? Yes. Yes.

"Can you hear me? Hello?" A man in a uniform with a cross on the arms was looking at him. Wilson opened his mouth, but no answer came. He seemed surprised. The man was now going through a brown leather thing. A wallet? He took out a small white card.

"Wilson, James. Okay, James. You've just been in an accident-"

He had? Oh yes...the truck. Red, it had been. Very loud too.

"-and you seem to suffering from a concussion. No serious injuries-"

Good. That was good, right? Wilson managed a small smile, and the man grinned back at him.

"-but we'll get you to Princeton-Plainsboro. You may have to stay over night-"

That was bad. Where did he live? Some apartment. Messy. A puzzling picture was slowly forming in his mind. A piano. He remembered a piano. He frowned slightly in frustration and tried to make himself think. It was all there somewhere. What else?

"-but I think you'll be just fine. Can you nod for me?" Wilson obliged the kind man a nod as they gently lifted him into the back of the ambulance.

There were so many people. He'd never seen so many new faces before. Pretty women wearing the same clothes came in and out of his room, some old guy with a clipboard...they all seemed to know him. But he didn't know any of them. He could barely remember their names. Wilson disliked the way they talked to him, as if he was going to break down any minute. Or how they all looked so sorry for him. He didn't feel sorry for himself - why should they?

"Now, James. How are we today?" asked one of the women (she was the dark-haired one. Lucy? Linda?) who had been . Wilson kept quiet. She seemed so familiar, and yet... She sighed and looked at him, her eyes wide with concern. Wilson wanted to scream with irritation.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, before realising he sounded like a tantrum-prone five-year-old. He almost wanted to pout. But the woman just sighed again.

"James, do you know what happened?" she said slowly.

"I was in a car accident." Next question.

"Yes, you were. And you suffered from quite serious head-trauma. We didn't notice it at first, but..."

"Mm-hmm." What did she mean?

"Do you understand?"

"Yes. When can I go home?" He sounded pathetic now. The woman looked like she was going to cry. Wilson hoped she wouldn't.

"Do you remember where you live?" Linda/Lucy asked quietly. Pass, next question, please.

"I..." Wilson felt frightened now. People should know these things. "No. No, I don't. I'm sorry." He threw in the apology at the end for good measure. Maybe it was his fault.

"Oh, James," said the woman. Something bleeped, and her hand went to her waist. She took out a small black machine-thingy and looked at it, swearing under her breath. She tried to smile at him. "I have to go now, but I'll be back later, okay?" Wilson shrugged. It wouldn't make a difference to him if she never came back.

He'd feel better if she didn't.

"Isn't that so awful about Wilson?" said Cameron, as caring and compassionate as ever. Chase nodded, his eyes on his daily crossword puzzle.

"Yeah, I know. 10 letters, meeting place."

"Rendez-vous," answered Foreman, sitting down with his coffee in one hand. "It's unusual, though. Head trauma doesn't normally do that much damage. There are usually other factors." Chase shrugged.

"You're the neurologist, Foreman." Foreman rolled his eyes.

"You know what I mean. High blood pressure, high cholesterol, high homocysteine, lack of exercise...and depression." There was a slight pause.

"He did just get another divorce," commented Cameron thoughtfully, finishing the last dregs of cold coffee. She made a face as she swallowed.

"Yeah. But he's had two before - nothing new for him. It's not like he hasn't been there before," Chase said, putting down the newspaper. "He knows the game."

"House isn't taking it too well," said Cameron, scribbling her curly signature on a prescription.

"He doesn't take anything well. What're you doing?"

"Signing his prescription for Vicodin."

"Should you be doing that?" asked Chase, frowning. Cameron stood up and walked to the sink, placing her empty cup in it.

"Who else will?" Foreman raised an eyebrow.

"Are you sure this isn't one of those girl-things? You know, be nice to the guy when his down, maybe he'll-"

"No. No," she said, a little too forcefully. Chase watched the exchange, crossword finished. She coughed, a pink blush colouring her normally pale cheeks. "I'm just being nice."

"You're just being nicer than normal."

"How can someone be too nice?" asked Cameron, her hands going to her hips. "Wilson-" She cut herself off and sat down. "He's going through a hard time, that's all."

"Any new cases?" said Chase, coming to the rescue. She smiled at him gratefully. Foreman gave Cameron one more amused look before flicking open a file.

"Nothing House would be interested in."

"I'm glad you all know me so well. When shall we have the sleepover? I'll bring the girly-movies. We can watch them and cry," said House loudly, limping in.

"How are you?" said Cameron, worry washing her features grey.

"Apart from a bum leg, constant pain, I am absolutely deeeelightful this pleasant morning," said House brightly.

"I meant-"

"I know what you meant." He headed into his office and closed the door.

House leaned back in his chair, spinning around slowly. He liked the slight feeling of nausea as he became dizzy - almost like he was flying. Flying away. Stupid Wilson, he thought. Trust him to go and get himself into a car accident, but on top of that, to lose his memory? What kind of loser (he smiled at the bad pun) did that? Sure, he broke up with his wife, but it wasn't like he hadn't done it before. So what, move out, move on. A tiny niggling voice in the back of his mind reminded him that he hadn't been able to, but House pushed it away. He wasn't like Wilson - Wilson was meant to be strong. Wilson was not meant to be lying in one of the narrow hospital beds in La-la land. He was meant to be saving the world, curing cancer. Bringing the dead back to life. Only idiots went into Oncology. But then again, mused House, that was Wilson through and through. There to pick up the pieces.That had always - always - been Wilson's job. Not his.

He stood up and stretched, wincing slightly as his leg gave a little twang of pain. House still had not seen his friend, merely looked through the window. Cuddy (and Stacy, not that her opinion was worth much), and even Cameron had told him to go and see his 'friend'. His friend who could now longer remember him. The nurses were probably telling him terrible stories about him. He sighed and picked up his cane. After all, what was the point?Ten years of friendship down the drain. Too much time spent making it work. Wilson (if he never recovered his memory) wouldn't want to be friends with him anyway, House told himself. He had always been pretty crappy at 'friend-stuff'. Like listening and comforting. Not his thing. Maybe it would be better for the both of them if he just let it go. Never talk to Wilson again. He'd miss him (the one sane constant thing in his depressing life), but he would move on.

(Although Wilson had been there push him along the...the last time. Could he do it on his own?)

Yeah.

If you lied to yourself often enough, it became second-nature.

But the truth hurts more.

He couldn't face rejection again.