A/N: Well, TCFH has worsened--but since that means that I and the laptop are confined to bed, I got chapter twenty-four ready for posting, and here it is. I truly didn't intend to be mean, but it was slightly amusing! Figured I'd better post tonight, as my dear bud, angelfirenze, is getting quite skillful at disguising her death threats as reviews! . mjf :)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Repercussions

When Wilson finally hangs up the phone, he looks at Cuddy, sitting across from him, and he tries to take encouragement from her calm demeanor. She'd been wonderful during the phone consultation; she'd followed him into the kitchen, test results in hand, and she'd provided moral support—and the clear mind that Wilson had lacked.

Cuddy had stayed silent throughout, but would periodically hand him a pertinent question, or observation, scribbled quickly on a sheet of paper, and he'd pass it on and be grateful that she'd thought to bring it up. And every few minutes, her warm hand would come down firmly on Wilson's own cold, trembling fingers, and reassurance would flow through him, for a little while. So now, he thanks her, and hopes that she knows how deep his gratitude really is.

Then they discuss the diagnosis, and the consultation, and the possible ways all this might play out. What they don't discuss is how this could have happened—and Wilson's even more grateful for that.

After Cuddy leaves, Wilson goes to House's room. He's able to busy himself for several minutes with all the routine night duties—a set of vital signs, a pulse ox reading, a careful assessment. He's grateful for the tasks; they enable him, for a short while, to fill his mind with something other than the final test results, the upsetting phone call, the hour-long talk with Cuddy after he'd hung up.

But eventually the chores end, as he knew they would. And all that's left is to sink wearily into the bedside chair and stare at his sleeping friend. And think. There's too much thinking to do, and his thoughts go in fruitless circles. He blames that on the Ativan, but he knows it's just an excuse—and a poor one, at that. So he takes a perverse satisfaction in punishing himself by allowing those fruitless thoughts free rein through his mind, as he stares at the unknowing victim of his mistake, his stupidity, his denial. It might be easier on him if he weren't looking at House, and he doesn't deserve 'easier,' so he denies himself permission to leave, or even to look away from the man in the bed.

I did this to you, and now I can't even fix it. The only one who can undo it is you. I'll try to help—if you'll let me. But, no matter what I do, you'll still be the one paying for my mistake, and I have no idea how much it'll cost you. The last person in the world I'd ever want to harm, and I've found the single most effective way to hurt you. You trusted me to keep you safe, and now it turns out I've been your biggest danger.

House shifts position in the bed; he frowns as if Wilson's thoughts are being telegraphed to him in his sleep. Wilson studies his face; he's always found it fascinating that when House is sleeping, and all his walls are down, he looks so wholly defenseless. There's a sadness there, an utter vulnerability, whose depths Wilson's never seen in the face of any other adult, certainly never sees in House at any other time.

As House's frown eases, and his face relaxes again, that vulnerability momentarily overwhelms Wilson; his only thought is a fierce desire to protect this occasionally child-like friend of his from the world.

And I did try to protect you. You're right, you know; I do overcompensate, don't I? This time, all that bought you was protection from the truth. You knew it; you tried to tell me with that nightmare of yours. Hell, I knew the truth too; my own nightmare shouted it at me. And I was so busy convincing both of us that I could fix everything that I turned a deaf ear to what you tried to say. Even ignored my own subconscious.

Wilson shifts uncomfortably in the chair, then stills himself as House turns in the bed. He waits, not even breathing, until House sighs and settles back into sleep.

It was right in front of us, in front of me, and I refused to see it, to deal with it. Some doctor I am. Some friend. Some… brother. It won't count for anything, but I'm sorry. So damned sorry….

Finally, with a last, regretful look at House, Wilson stands and makes his way wearily to the couch. He sleeps, but despite the medication, his brain battles all night with the repercussions of his neglect.

At 6:00am, he gives up the battle, and rises for the day. After checking on House, the first thing he does is to gather the test results and his laptop. He needs to start figuring out how to tell House what's wrong, and to help him through this, if House will allow it. And at least he'd had the presence of mind last night to ask that the phone conversation be recorded, and to ask Dr. Richard Dickinson to send it to him immediately. A quick check of his email confirms that Dick had uploaded the voice file to him shortly after they'd spoken.

Wilson takes the papers and the laptop to the kitchen and lays everything neatly out on the table while he waits for the coffee to brew. When the coffee's done, Wilson picks up the pot to pour a cup. But his hands are shaking, and the pot slips from his grasp. He's somehow able to catch it before it hits the floor, but there's coffee everywhere. He sighs, rinses the pot, and starts the coffee again.

While he waits, Wilson turns the water on and scrubs the counter and floor with vigor. He knows he's simply using the mess to stall the inevitable, but he's pleasantly surprised at how comforting he finds the mindless cleaning tasks. So when he's finally ready to get started, he feels a bit more relaxed, and a lot more clear-minded. He sits down in front of a blank legal pad and turns on last night's voice file. A pen in one hand, his coffee in the other, he's as ready as he'll ever be to face the repercussions of his own inactions.