A/N: Happy Birthday to Dragen Eyez and to Exotic Emeralds! mjf

CHAPTER FOUR: Needles

Wilson sits quietly with the results of the studies in his hands, trying to decide what to do next. No, that's not true; his medical training tells him that the EMG and nerve conduction study are clearly necessary, and that there's no decision to make. But the other part of him, the part which embodies his love and concern for House, is forcing him to try to seek a way around it. Finally, he regretfully acknowledges that this cannot be avoided. Jimmy is upset, and already hurting for his friend, but Dr. Wilson knows what has to come next. He looks thoughtfully over at House, who's still dozing fitfully in the wheelchair. He takes a deep breath, stands up, and goes to kneel at House's side.

House opens his eyes and looks down at the folder in Wilson's hand, then raises his eyes to meet Wilson's. "So?" he asks, in a voice hoarse with fatigue.

Wilson hands him the folder. "All the preliminary results show pretty much what we'd expect. Some normal changes of aging, and a small amount of spinal degeneration consistent with sequelae of the infarct. Nothing that would account for the severity of pain in your left thigh."

House opens the folder and glances over the results. "So that's it, then. A pulled muscle, or a strained tendon. Can we find my clothes and go home now?"

Wilson stands up and looks at House. "I'm sorry, no. We need to go to Neurology; I scheduled an EMG and a nerve conduction study, and we might as well get it over with. Timing's good; you've got extra pain meds on board, you've had a little rest. And then we'll be all done with everything, and we can go home." I feel as if I'm speaking to a child; Dick had better be right. Can't imagine that House would get any comfort from being treated like this—I'd think he'd be insulted.

"I don't think all this is necessary," House says, and his voice is hard.

There's the reaction I was expecting, Wilson thinks. So he's surprised when House looks at him questioningly and continues to speak.

"But you apparently do," House tells him, and waits expectantly for Wilson to nod. "You're the doctor. So let's just get it over with."

Well, I'll be damned! Score one for the shrink. Wilson shakes his head with rueful amusement as he steers the chair towards Neurology.

Even the intravenous dose of morphine Wilson had administered earlier can't fully blunt the acute pain of an electromyogram. As the needle is stuck repeatedly into House's left quadriceps, House initially attempts his characteristic snide commentary, and even the physiatrist is laughing with him.

But when his half-hearted joke about "the ultimate gating mechanism for pain" falls flat, he seems to give up, and to give in to the torment. His eyes are shut tightly, and each time the needle goes in again, Wilson winces in sympathy with the quiet agony on his face.

When House, during an especially painful needle insertion, flails out blindly with his hand and catches Wilson's left wrist in an agonizing vice grip, Wilson simply stands there stoically, and covers House's hand with his own. Tomorrow morning, when he sees the bruise House's thumb is making on his inner wrist, he knows he'll fully realize the extent of the torture House is going through—but for right now, Wilson is praying that somehow, his touch dilutes the suffering for House.

It's almost 11:00pm by the time Wilson pulls the car out of the hospital parking lot. After he'd helped House transfer from the wheelchair to the passenger seat, he'd folded the wheelchair and placed it in the trunk, without comment. House had glared at him as he'd closed the trunk and got in the car. Wilson had answered the glare with a neutral expression, refusing to engage in battle, until finally, House had looked away, and simply sighed. Wilson's won another conflict, but the sadness he feels eclipses any sense of victory.

House is obviously uncomfortable on the drive home, but apparently he's just too tired to complain. He answers Wilson's expressions of concern with a short, "I'm fine," and lapses into silence again.

When they arrive back at the apartment, House wordlessly allows Wilson to help him up the steps, and, once inside, to lower him carefully to the couch. Wilson had thought that House would want to go straight to sleep, but—as fatigued as he is—he appears alert, and almost… Wilson searches for the word to describe House's odd mood. Disturbed, he finally decides. Maybe he's angry that I put him through all that; looks like he's gonna turn out to be right, just a simple pulled muscle.

It would be late Monday, or even Tuesday, before they had the final results on all the studies, but nothing unexpected had shown up in any of the tests. House had had no comment at the time, had just nodded his head. Wilson had expected some well-deserved gloating, or at least a smug, "I told you so," and it concerns him that he hasn't heard it yet. It's not like House not to crow about being proven correct.

When Wilson returns from the kitchen with an ice pack for House's needle-bitten left thigh, he's surprised that House is not watching TV, not playing a video game. He's just sitting there. Waiting, apparently. His face is serious and thoughtful, and Wilson's struck again by its gauntness, by the fatigue written in every line.

As House has become thinner and weaker, though, it seems that his eyes have become stronger, more intense, and somehow even more expressive. The hard-won six pound weight gain of the last few days hasn't yet touched the sharply chiseled planes of his haggard, pale face; it's an incongruous setting for his vivid blue eyes. And right now, the expression in those eyes is sad, and puzzled.

Wilson places the towel-wrapped ice pack gently along House's left thigh, then sits beside him on the couch. Instinct tells him not to say anything; whatever's bothering House, he'll share it only when he's ready.

The two men sit in silence for several minutes. House finally looks at Wilson. "It's not just some minor injury. There's something wrong. I know it."

Wilson thinks about this before he answers. "We've done pretty much every test available. So far, everything's normal, but we don't have the final results yet. Why don't we wait until we have those; there's really not much else we can do right now except deal with the symptoms. I'll admit, I am concerned that the pain seems to be unaffected by the super-Vic. But really, that lends more credence to the theory that this is some sort of an acute injury."

House is searching his face, and it takes Wilson a moment to realize that House is looking for reassurance, for the calm confidence that all his patients look for, when he's the only thing standing between them and the unknown. And he's inexplicably moved by this, by the still-new realization that this skittish, angry best friend of his, his deeply troubled brother of the heart, has chosen to trust him so completely. So when he looks back at House, his own eyes shine with warmth and compassion and assurance as he says, very quietly, "It'll be okay. We'll get through this. It will be all right."

House's eyes bore into his a moment more before he looks away uncomfortably; it's clear that he wants to believe what Wilson is saying. But it's almost as if he's having trouble granting himself permission to do so. So Wilson keeps talking. His words aren't thought out now; he's speaking purely on instinct.

"It's okay, House. Don't fight it so hard, and don't fight it alone. I'm here. I want to be here, and I want you to let me fight the battles for now, while you get your strength back. That's your only job; I'll take care of all the rest."

Wilson has, thus far, been careful not to look at House while he speaks. But now, he makes a point of looking directly at him. "You chose me as your physician. I'm… honored that you did. And I take that… trust… very seriously. You'll get through all this. We'll get through it. Together. That's just the way it's supposed to be."

Now Wilson stands, and turns away from the couch, away from House, as he says, "Back in a minute. You've been off the TPN long enough; gonna go set it up for the night. Just relax a few minutes." Yeah, I know I just stormed the gates, and you're uncomfortable right now. Maybe even scared. So take some time, think about it. Get used to it. It's okay.