Everybody lies: even me. I said that I'd have this up by tomorrow at the latest….so much for that. I meant to, but it's the first week back and the teachers are trying to scare us about how bad this year will be so they're giving us tons of homework. Grr! But anyway! Here's the promised chapter! And I won't make any promises about how soon the next update will be, because they'll probably be lies. I'll just have it out as soon as I possibly can!

Thank you sooooo sooooo much to everyone who reviews! Please continue to do so! Or start doing so if you haven't! Hee hee. I love you all!

P.S. The fanfiction website isn't letting me put in their little divider things so I've had to seperate the sections with O's bear with me. Sorry if it's confusing!

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Chapter Four

Wilson

I watched House from that pensive, half-waking state that comes only from a high fever. Every detail of his face shown clearly each time he came into my field of vision, unlike the rest of my world that swam in an opalescent fog.

I could never seem to recall exactly when things happened, or how much time had passed between events. Time passed in a fuzzy blur with some minutes stretching on for hours while others had nearly no existence at all. I didn't know if a day had passed, or a week or even if it had only been a few hours since he'd helped me to bed. Perhaps my hazy perception of time was due to the fact that my moments of true consciousness were few and far between. And even then, I couldn't remember whether I was dreaming or waking.

I remembered hearing House's voice from the other room. I could tell that he was talking to Cuddy by his ton. He always managed to sound hostile and demeaning at the same time when he spoke to her. Things that would have gotten him fired by any other hospital administrator.

"…probably the flu…yeah…no…no, I'm going to stay with him…" He tossed the phone back into the cradle and then I heard him add, "And getting out of clinic is just an added bonus."

The next thing I remembered was a cool hand being placed against my forehead. "James? Hey. You've got the flu, not African sleeping sickness; you've got no excuse to still be sleeping."

The man was never at a loss for a witty remark.

He pressed a glass of cool water into my hands and I drained it thirstily. He was talking to me, but I wasn't really listening.

I handed him back the glass and immediately fell back into the feverish state that claimed me.

I wondered if he was worried about me. Surely he must have been. I knew he was in great pain the previous night (or how ever many nights ago it had been) when he helped me to his bed, but he'd still carried me. I'd been so cynical about House; I'd thought that he was capable of only looking out for himself…maybe there was some place in his heart that watched out for me the same way I watched out for him.

I lingered on the verge of dreams.

Hundreds of thoughts reached out to me, caressing the fringes of my mind. They beckoned me with honey-sweet whispers; calling me to grasp onto the thought. But like young-lovers they weren't content to linger very long after the initial thrill of discovery and quickly flitted away. Leaving me, alone and heartbroken, as I attempted to reach towards another thought.

The first one to stay with me beyond the primary excitement of its existence was the memory of Julie's words.

"He's the fucking reason that our fucked up marriage is fucking over!"

She was right.

House was the reason I couldn't stay married. Because in some strange, inexplicable way, I was married to House.

Not in the shallow, romantic way that most people are married, but on a far more intimate level.

I knew every secret that House had; I'd touched every dark place in his soul (even if it forced him to withdraw from me). I'd seen every tear. I knew him better than he knew himself…I knew him better than I knew myself.

I knew why he sought solitude. He tried so hard to close himself off from the world so that it couldn't hurt him. I knew why he was so cynical, because without his cynicism he would be forced to occasionally trust someone, and he didn't want to risk that trust being misplaced. He took risks because if he lived his life like he had nothing to live for he could believe it was true.

Pain was what he feared and hated the most, but it was what controlled his life. Day after day he fought with it. (Some days giving into it).

I was the only one who would ever really be able to hurt House, because I was the only one who got to him. The only one who's approval he seemed to need, whose assistance he would accept.

As long as House was in my life I wouldn't be able to keep any other deep relationship. I was too much a part of him, and he of me, for there to be room in my life for anyone else.

House came first, always.

House mattered most, always.

House needed me above all others, always.

It was unconditional.

Our "stupid screwed-up" friendship where we were too wrapped up in each other for anyone else to matter.

So, I picked up the pieces of my own life because our friendship tore my life apart…but I was incapable of surviving without it.

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House placed a hand on Wilson's forehead. It had been three days and Wilson's fever had finally broken.

"James?"

Eyelids fluttered open and two brown eyes, unglazed by fever, peered back at him. "Hey," Wilson replied, smiling slightly.

"You're back from the land of the dead at last." Said House, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Wilson wasn't sure if it was for the human contact of if he was simply trying to relieve the constant pain that shot through his leg when he remained standing for too long.

"What day is it?" Wilson asked, as he used his elbows to push himself up to a sitting position.

"Saturday." Greg replied, reaching over to the pitcher of water on the bed table and pouring a glass of water.

"Four days?" His face morphed into a look of utter surprise, as he took the glass of water that he was offered.

"You haven't eaten in three days. If your fever hadn't broken last night I would have brought you to the hospital."

"I wondered why I was starving."

"I'll get you something." House stood up slowly.

"Greg," Wilson reached out and grabbed the other man's wrist. "You're so stubborn. Cuddy would have wanted you to have brought me in days ago…especially if I wasn't eating…why didn't you?"

House didn't answer. He just looked down at Wilson's hand; he seemed to take in every detail. His blue eyes darted around the other man's fingers and the way the encircled his arm. The gaze was gentle; it was almost as if he'd reached out and took the man's hand in his own.

He pulled his arm away and continued to look at the spot on his arm, as if expecting it to blister.

There was no answer given. House left without ever saying a word.

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House

Why had I kept Wilson here?

Why had I insisted upon caring for him myself?

Every member of my team had called at one point and they had all noted that my behavior was out of character. Foreman had gone so far as to suggest that House was feverish myself.

I couldn't dismiss this act as for my own benefit. There was no real debt I could be repaying. Wilson had watched out for me before, but I didn't feel the need to repay any of those times.

Charitable…

Caring…

Those were not words that anyone had ever before used to describe Gregory House.

I opened the cabinet and grabbed out the first can of soup I found…which by coincidence, was the first can I found. There were pluses to owning nearly no other type of food.

I didn't want to admit that Wilson meant more to me than I thought. I liked to think that I could keep a safe distance between myself and everyone else. But Wilson mattered to me. I needed his approval, his care.

I needed him.

I, Gregory House, the pinnacle of independence and isolation, a man who made up lies to be alone, needed someone.

I couldn't need him…to need…to love…was to be hurt…

And there is too much pain in my life already.

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"Greg! Greg! Greg!" Wilson's voice took on a hysterical note that made even Greg frightened.

House dropped the soup bowl, it shattered on the floor. He limped quickly towards his bedroom.

He could tell from James's voice that something was terribly wrong. He'd never heard Wilson sound so scared.

"Greg!"

House's leg protested the pace, but he ignored it.

"What?" James's fright must have been contagious because he heard a note of it in his own voice.

"We have to go to the hospital now." It was obvious that every breath was a labor for him. "Something's very wrong."

If Wilson hadn't seemed so serious about this, he would have made a sarcastic remark about how unnecessary that statement was.

House grabbed his beeper, he wasn't going to question his friend right now. He typed four words: ambulance, my apartment.

"What's wrong?" He moved to Wilson's side.

"Pleuritic chest pain, tachycardia—"

House reached out and grabbed Wilson's hand. He wrapped his hand tightly around. "You're going to be alright."

He heard sirens in the distance.

"You have to be alright."

They were coming closer.