I own nothing but the plot.
The ride to the hospital was a blur. All House remembered was telling the medics to go to his hospital, and that the best care Wilson could get would be in that building. Wilson's heart rate dropped repeatedly during the ride, and more than once the paramedics had to tell House to get out of their way.
"We only let you ride with us because you're a doctor," the female medic had said after the fifth time of telling House to stop touching Wilson. "If he crashes, it's on us, whether it's your fault or not. Stay out of my way."
House was reluctant but he muttered, "whatever the she-devil wants," and sat back. He wanted to grip Wilson's hand, to help set the broken knee, to do something. He felt more than useless watching the paramedics work.
When they got to Princeton, the ER staff was waiting outside to bring the stretcher inside. House's eyes slid over all of the people who were going to be in charge of Wilson's life, and when his eyes met Cameron's, relief flooded through him. Her eyes widened at him, realizing who was on the stretcher.
"It's Dr. Wilson, guys," House heard Cameron say, and everything slowed for House.
The medics were dragging the stretcher out of the ambulance, filling Cameron in on his stats and injuries that they saw.
He climbed out of the back of the ambulance, dazed, and realized he didn't have his cane anymore. I must've left it in the street. Cameron and her staff were rushing into the building, pushing the stretcher with them, leaving House behind to limp after them.
As he walked through the doors, Cuddy rushed up to him, panicked.
"What happened?" She asked, unsure of what to do with her hands. She had them half raised, as if to hug or touch him. He grimaced as his leg started to protest, and he realized he left his Vicodin at home.
"I ran," House answered, confused by her question. He blinked rapidly, looking around the hospital, and began rubbing his thigh. He muttered under his breath about finding coffee, then said, "I'm sure Wilson's awake now and I need to go tell him to hurry up."
Cuddy stopped him with her hands on his chest and looked up into his eyes. "You're in shock. Let's go sit down."
"No," House said, shaking his head vehemently. "I need to go bitch at Wilson."
"You can't help him right now. He's in good hands with Cameron. Where is your cane?" Cuddy gripped House's upper arm and started pulling him toward the nurse's station.
"I think I left it in the street. Cuddy, I need to go help."
Cuddy pushed House into a chair behind the nurse's desk gently, and knelt in front of him with a concerned expression. House watched her switch into doctor mode – something he rarely saw – and shivered involuntarily when her fingers touched his face and neck gently.
"Do you remember what happened?"
"Wilson hit a car," House said numbly, the memory of the accident suddenly playing over in his mind. "He needs to be more careful when he walks. He's the one out of the two of us who I can rely on to run from zombies when they attack. I can't risk him ruining his legs or arms because I'd eventually have to jump on his back when we run away."
Cuddy's lips pursed momentarily. She lifted House's eyelids, and he raised his hand to swat her away. She reached over to the counter and pulled down a stethoscope and put it up to her ears.
"Take a deep breath for me," she told House, pressing the chest piece to House's back. He inhaled, closing his eyes at her touch, and breathed out. "Good. At least your breaths aren't shallow."
"Thank God you're here. I wouldn't have known I was breathing if it weren't for you."
Cuddy smiled weakly at him and stood up. "Sit here and calm down. I'm going to go find out what's going on."
"I humored you, and now I need to go to him."
House stood up, and gripped the counter for a second as the ward swam. He swallowed thickly, telling himself to stop over-reacting, and he limped toward the doors that led into the back of the ER where trauma patients were taken to. Cuddy's hand on his arm startled him, and he raised wide eyes to her.
"Let me get you a cane first, at least."
House shook her hand off of his arm and swept the room with his eyes before he found an elderly man asleep in an ICU bed. A cane was leaning against the table beside the bed, and House snatched it up as he walked by. He heard Cuddy sigh in resignation behind him.
The scene on the other side of the door was something House wasn't prepared to see.
House had to admit that he was far from emotional or caring when it came to anyone or anything. He noticed things – there were few things he didn't pick up on, and usually there was a good reason as to why he didn't notice something (drugs mainly the culprit) – but it was hard to make himself truly care.
Except for Wilson, House would never drop everything and rush to aide someone, at least not without bitching about it on the way. Sure, patients were different; they were actually sick by the time they were his patients, and if they needed help, they truly needed it. Usually he bitched anyway as he rushed to help them. He used to run to help them, before he became crippled, but he hobbles along as fast as he can if a patient flat lines.
One thing that he'd never experienced was a patient that he loved flat lining.
As he stood in the middle of the current that was the trauma room, with nurses and doctors pushing him out of the way and yelling back and forth to each other, House realized something.
Watching the person you love die was fucking terrifying.
Cameron held paddles over Wilson's exposed chest and yelled at the nurses and doctors around the bed to clear before she shocked his heart.
House's heart stopped and the air was knocked out of him when his partner continued to flat line.
"No," House whispered, tears stinging his eyes. He moved forward a few steps, and froze when Cameron spoke again.
"Clear!"
Come on. Beat.
"Nothing," a nurse said, then backed away quickly as Cameron lowered the paddles to Wilson's chest again.
House's stomach clenched and he knew that if Wilson died, he'd embarrass himself by throwing up everywhere.
"Clear!"
Please James.
House sunk to his knees when he heard Wilson's heart start back up, and hands were on his arms holding him upright when he wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball on the floor and pass out.
"I think he's about to pass out."
House lifted his head to look up at the person who spoke, and he felt himself begin to snap.
"Get. Off. Of. Me."
Chase glanced sideways, and House turned his head to stare at Foreman. They each held one of House's arms, holding him up on his knees. His leg was starting to really hurt.
A loud screeching went off and House's stomach lurched.
"BRING THE CRASH CART BACK!" Cameron yelled, and House threw the hands off his arms and stumbled to his feet. His knee started to lock up from sitting on it on the hard floor, and the Vicodin was definitely starting to wear off.
"House, you need to get out of here," Chase said, rushing in front of House to stop him from moving further.
Cameron shocked Wilson's heart again.
Nothing.
"He's got to be bleeding badly internally," an unknown doctor said from the other side of Cameron. Someone was cutting the side of Wilson's chest to stick a tube in.
His lungs are collapsing.
"Chase! Scrub in, we need to get him to the OR now." Cameron's voice was panicked, and she placed the defibrillator paddles back onto Wilson's chest.
Chase let go of House and ran from the room. House pulled himself free of Foreman's grip and he reached the foot of Wilson's stretcher in two steps. Cameron shocked Wilson's heart again (House thought it was just like Wilson to flat line twice, just for that attention) and when Wilson's heart began beating again, the nurses started forcing oxygen into Wilson's lungs. The tube sticking out under his arm from his chest was dripping blood onto the floor.
House moved around the bed as the staff around him began preparing the equipment for travel. He said, "I need gloves," and held out his hand, staring at Wilson's bruised and swollen face numbly.
"No, House," Cameron said, her hands working quickly with the heart monitor. "You can't help us with anything. Right now, the best you can do is stand back."
House raised his eyes to hers and stared at her blankly. She blinked back in surprise, and he vaguely wondered what his face looked like to make her react that way. I need to remember it.
"You're doing everything wrong," he said defensively, and reached behind the stretcher to the box of gloves that was connected on the wall. He pulled out two gloves, barely noticing that they were a size too small, and forced them on his shaking hands.
"House," Foreman said from behind, placing his hands on House's upper arms tightly. "I don't want to have to pull you away. They're ready to go to the OR."
"Get off," House snapped, shrugging his arms back to loosen Foreman's hold. He looked up at the monitors, his stomach knotting at the bad vitals. "He can't survive surgery." He put his hands on Wilson's face gently, brushing back his matted hair, starting to feel detached from the situation.
This can't be happening.
"He can't survive without it, either," Cameron told him sharply as the nurses started unlocking the wheels on the stretcher. "If you are his proxy, we're going to need consent."
House's hands fell to his sides slowly, the blood on his gloves from Wilson's hair brushing onto his clothes. Foreman pulled him back from the stretcher as it started moving forward.
"House?"
He glanced up and shook his head. "I'm not his proxy. We never. . . " he trailed off and blinked around the room. Cameron nodded to him sympathetically, whispered something to Foreman, then disappeared through the double doors after the stretcher.
We never decided what would happen in these situations.
"Do you want to go watch the surgery?" Foreman asked, dragging House out of his daze briefly.
"Yes," he answered, hearing the resignation in his own voice. He hated it.
How dare they not let me help? I'm a doctor, too.
After ripping off the rubber gloves, House picked up the cane he'd discarded on the floor when he had reached for the gloves and took a few steps forward before stopping. His knee locked, pain radiating up and down his leg and hip, and he clenched his jaw tightly.
"What is it?"
Foreman had his hands on House's arm again. A brief thought floated through House's mind about ripping off Foreman's hands if he touched him one more time before he bent over to massage his knee.
"Is your knee locking up? Where's your Vicodin?"
"Home," House muttered, trying desperately to remember the last time he'd taken his pills. Wilson made him cut back on the pain medication intake a while ago, and he was always in moderately severe pain, but this. . . this was because he'd way overused his leg on top of the lack of drugs in the last five hours.
"I'll get you a wheelchair, and take you up to watch Wilson." House didn't even bother to argue; he'd never be able to walk to the OR on his own, and at this point he needed to be there with his partner.
A minute passed before Foreman was back with a wheelchair and a syringe, and he helped House sit down.
"Morphine," he said when House raised his eyebrows. "It's just enough to relax your leg."
"We're going to miss the show," House snapped, and Foreman nodded, pocketing the syringe. Seconds later, House was going through the double doors toward the OR, his heart racing and gut twisting with worry.
Read? Review! These first few chapters are shortish, sorry. The next one will be twice as long :)