Disclaimer: since I forgot it in chapter one I don't own House M.D. or any related character, I do own the first season on DVD though!

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the first chapter of this fic! Your feedback was wonderful and I'm so glad people are interested in it! So here's the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it just as much. And PLEASE. if you stop into read this, PLEASE PLEASE review!

Thanks,

Love and music are forever

Chapter Two

"You owe me ten dollars." Said Wilson pouncing on House as he walked through the doors into the Clinic.

House grumbled something incoherently, which was probably telling Wilson to go to hell (or something equally as pleasant), as he headed towards exam room three.

In two bouncing run steps Wilson had grabbed his friend's arm and shoved a case file into his hand. "You can't be serious." House looked at the file as if he were holding some very large, disgusting worm, except for the fact that even that wouldn't have disgusted him to this extent. "I've already missed the first five minutes of General Hospital! Robin's going to finally come to terms with her past and forgive her parents in this episode."

Wilson never could understand House's fascination with soap operas. He saw them as cheesy stories with weak plots and actors whose very dialogue made him cringe. House fought with real medical issues nearly every day, Wilson didn't see why he felt the need to involve himself in these cheep copies of people and their problems. Maybe he saw them as an escape, a place where people were shallow, events only masquerading in the poor guise of drama, and heartbreaks were solved in an episode and didn't often remain as haunting specters of former loves looming over their once lovers…as Stacy did House. He'd let her go, told her to go, and yet he still missed her, still wanted her. Another thing Wilson didn't understand about House was shy he kept throwing his heart after a woman who he knew would only break it time and time again.

Grabbing House's hand, he pressed the file into the diagnostician's chest. "You already seem to know what's going to happen. Miss it. We've got half a million patients to see."

"Can't I just hand them all a tissue and two aspirin?"

"No."

"Aye! Look out! Satan in Stilettos!" House said this loudly enough to make sure that Cuddy, who had just walked in, heard it.

"Dr. House, good to see you managed to join us." She brushed past him and picked up a stack of files. "Seeing as you only have one there." She pressed the two dozen files into his hand and quickly swooped away again, grinning at how easily she'd retaliated against him.

House made a rude face at her back and lurched towards exam room three, his gait made even more awkward by the large pile of manila file folders.

"You still owe me ten dollars!" Wilson called after House; he shut the door behind him without ever acknowledging the remark.

He probably shouldn't have shouted, seeing as House hadn't bothered to listen so the only thing accomplished was making his throat hurt even more.

I am not getting sick. I am not getting sick. The thought was almost an order directed at himself.

He swallowed and was rewarded with a sharp stab of pain.

I am not getting sick. He continued to assure himself even though the evidence to the contrary was irrefutable.

"What?" Gregory House asked, raising an eyebrow, the woman's statement had taken him slightly aback.

"My son is dying!"

But then again, any invalidated decree of mortality usually had that kind of effect on people.

The woman wailed and motioned to the little boy sitting on the exam table. He was about six-years old with messy brown hair—which had obviously been hastily combed a second earlier. His shirt however, was neatly pressed and House could see the iron-pressed pleats in his pants. It didn't take him more than a second to make a judgment about this woman. And that was before he even looked at her. The woman herself had thin, blonde hair, which had clearly been bleached. Her matching jacket and skirt screamed PTA board member. A large, lime green purse was slung over her shoulder. It was probably a Mary Poppin's bag, holding everything that this "super" mommy and her poor little child could possibly need.

"You're son is dying?"

"YES!" She cried exasperatedly.

"Of what?" Sometimes it was better to (and more amusing to) appease lunatics.

"Malaria." She pulled out a zippered appointment book, it was made of the same hideously colored leather as the purse. She had neat precise handwriting, every letter formed exactly identically.

The little boy coughed slightly as House turned away and yanked on a pair of latex gloves.

"He has a fever, a headache, nausea…"

"Excuse me, have you made any trips to the Congo?"

"No…."

"Kenya? Zimbabwe?"

"No…"

"Chad? Nambia?"

"No…"

"Columbia? Venezuela? Brazil? Indonesia?"

"No...we haven't ever left the country." It was probably a good thing that she had cut him off; House was going to go on listing all the countries he could remember. "And Timothy has never left the state." She was obviously confused as to the relevance of his questions.

"Then, your son does not have malaria."

"But he was bitten by an ant on—" She flipped two pages in her date book "—the 3rd, last Wednesday."

"I'm only going to say this once and I'm going to say it very slowly so that you can get it through your incredibly thick head. Ma-lair-ee-ah is transmitted by moe-ski-toes which do not live in N-ee-w Jer-sey during the win-ter. Your son has the flu. Here, I'll write it down and save you the trouble from scribbling it in that damn book of yours. Take him home, buy him a set of play clothes and call him Tim or Timmy instead so that he doesn't have his teeth knocked out before second grade." He scribbled the word flu on a prescription sheet and handed it to the woman.

The woman was too stunned to answer.

And he was gone.

House had a way of always wanting to get in the last word. It was as if he were participating in some sort of verbal duel with everyone he met and had to get in the last jab. And if he didn't, he sulked for hours coming up with hundreds of cutting remarks. Luckily, he nearly always won the verbal bouts.

"Patient One, suffering from over-protective, obsessive-compulsive mother." House threw the folder onto the table. "Okay, I'm done for today. Maybe I'll have time to catch the preview for next week's episode."

"You are not! Back into that room, buddy!" Cuddy advanced upon him, pointing a threatening finger back towards the exam room.

"Patient Two: Gregory House, suffering from insane boss and over-work." He held up the hand that wasn't gripping his cane and moved slowly backwards until he backed into the room. An elderly man was already there waiting for him.

House sighed, another long and pointless examination.

"Good-bye." Wilson said tearing a prescription sheet off the pad and handing it to his last patient.

He glanced over at the clock; the large, digital numbers read 8:23. He sighed and leaned his back against the wall, he'd been seeing patients for just over four hours now with only had one fifteen minute break. The dull ache in his head had grown steadily over the hours to a sharp pounding with pain so intense it nearly made him nauseous. Maybe he'd have to swipe a Vicodin from House. The wall was cold and felt nice against the back of his aching neck. Wilson found his eyes slowly closing to shut out the bright lights of the exam room. He should fight it, but the icy wall felt so comforting. His consciousness was slipping away.

Within seconds it was gone.

Wilson

"Every damn night you're over there!" She shouted slamming her arm against the door so it flew shut again. The angle was which that I couldn't force it, she had the advantage of leverage.

"Honey…"

"Don't honey me, you bastard! Every night you wind up at his house! You don't give a damn about me, but you do what ever he wants. He doesn't give a damn about you, James! Doesn't give a damn! He doesn't give a damn about anybody! He's too busy feeling sorry for himself!"

"Julie…"

"No! It's started on you too. You don't seem to care about me anymore. I ask you to be home on time just one night, one night because we had to meet my sister for dinner. Just once! And you give me some bullshit story about having to work late. You were there late there because of him! And now, you're going over there again!"

"Julie, you don't understand what he went through. He doesn't have anybody else. He's alone."

"I'm alone, James! Every fucking night, I'm alone! You're over there at his house, sleeping on his couch…or doing GOD KNOWS WHAT!"

"Julie!" I snapped. I never yelled back at Julie, she was the one with the hot temper. It wasn't worth fighting it like this, but sometimes I would just loose it…this was one of those times. "Dammit, Julie! I can't believe you! He's my friend and he needs help! I'm the only one who can help him!"

"Why don't you just fucking marry him then!"

"You're a bitch, you know that?" I said and throwing all my weight backwards managed to yank the door to our bedroom open. The force threw Julie back onto the floor. I didn't even glance to see if she was alright, instead I stormed out into the hallway.

"If you leave this house you will not be coming back in! I swear to God!" She yelled from the door frame as I pulled on my coat.

My hands trembled in anger as I buttoned the top two buttons of my coat. "You say that House doesn't give a damn about people, well you're wrong! He does, every single damn day! You don't, Julie. You're the one who can't love anyone. Can't really care about anyone. Maybe that's why I help him out, is because at lease I can see that my help is appreciated. Where I'm appreciated! You don't give a damn about anyone. Heart-less…."

"You bastard!"

"…bitch!"

"Get out, James! Get out! And don't you dare come back!"

I slammed the door behind me, but I could still hear her screaming. "And go tell Gregory House that he's the fucking reason that our fucked up marriage is fucking over!"

The outside air was cold biting against my cheeks and I could still here Julie's screams in my ears. "…you bastard…he's the reason…I'm alone…every fucking night…doesn't give a damn…he's the reason…our marriage…over…James…James… James…"

"Wilson? James? James? James!"

Wilson jerked forward at the sound of his name. The spasm nearly made him slam his head back against the wall, but luckily someone's hand was there in there in the way to protect his skull from being cracked open.

"If you're going to try and get out of clinic duty, you might as well go somewhere else to go to sleep." House's voice was strangely soft compared to the memory of his ex-wife's, which was still ringing in his ears. Wilson moaned weakly and stumbled forward as a shuddering couch wracked his body.

"Are you okay?" House asked.

Wilson was slightly confused by the rare gesture of concern. "What am I dying?"

"No, you just look like crap…but you always look like that."

"Thanks for the concern," James snorted, "but next time I'd rather not have you 'boost' my ego."

"Aw…but what are friends for?"

It was times like these when Wilson wished House had a shred of human decency in him…and some pity wouldn't be unwelcome either.

But he could never expect that of House. House wasn't capable of emotion like that. Wilson would always have to watch his own back, because House couldn't do it. No matter what he'd said to Julie, House really couldn't care for people. An empathetic void seemed to have replaced the diagnostician's heart. So Wilson picked up the pieces. He was always there to watch out for House and help him, even though he received no help in return. But it was so hard to do that when he felt like shit. All he wanted right now was a grain of sympathy his normal way of brushing off House's uncompassionate manner (House will be House) wasn't working very well right now.

Wilson just wanted to go back to 221 B and fall asleep on House's couch. Even though his divorce had come through he still didn't have an apartment of his own to live in.

"What do you want anyway?" He asked, it came out a little more harshly than he had intended.

"Clinic's closed." Replied the other man and left the room.

Wilson watched his awkward three-legged gait, cane, foot, foot, cane, foot…an so on, falling into a strange rhythm, a beat that was a constant reminder of his handicap.

But crippling isn't your real handicap, Greg. Wilson thought. Your true affliction is your inability to love or care for anyone at all.

I'll have the next chapter up soon so look for it within the week!