Drenched

Summary: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heels, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

Disclaimer: If House were mine the boys would be shirtless far more often. (Yeah, I'm not the only one who's bummed because I don't own it now, am I?) –grin- House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's.

Author's Note: -dodges flying tomatoes- I'm sorry! –dodges more- I know! I'm a horrible horrible fanfic writer! Shame! Just don't hurt me. –cowers- I have a good excuse!

-looks at list of excuses, crossing off options such as 'my dog ate my zip-drive' and 'indigestion'-

College! Yes, college! I had to pick one! Be kind, oh gracious readers.

There was also the fact that this was an extremely difficult section for me to write. All of last week I was working on the opening segment, deleting thousands of words at a time because it just didn't seem to work. Then I put it in Wilson's POV, split it in two sections, gave the other part to Cameron and viola. It seemed better. –sigh-

I have a beta! -hears rejoicing- Unfortunately, she hasn't looked over this yet. -hears disappointed sighs- Soon however, snowrabbitses (from LJ) will be going over all earlier chapters and current ones. I was just anxious to get this posted. In any case, a big thanks to her for taking this disaster of mine on!

Angelfirenze sent me this, very helpful, information last week: I just noticed something. You described in detail during the first chapter about House's dependency on Vicodin and the effect the addiction was having on most of his body, but you never mentioned his liver. He always took the pills, you said. I was reading up on hydrocodone at Wikipedia and it explained that the 5mg of acetaminophen in Vicodin is why addicts will usually use something straight like Oxycontin or dilute the Vicodin first with water to get rid of the acetaminophen. Excess levels of acetaminophen in the blood causes extreme toxicity to the liver. House would have needed a new liver for certain after (or before) the second detox with the amount he was taking. Unless he diluted the pills, which we know he does not.

This just further proves that the medicine in this fic is bad! Normally, I would adjust the story accordingly, but I think it's a bit too far in for that now. Nonetheless, here is some accurate medicine should anyone decide to go on a Vicodin-popping spree. For now, please content yourself with the delusion that House has a liver of steel! –insert trumpets-

This shall be another two-parter. I'll try (and likely fail) to have the second section up in a week.

This story is canon-compatible up to "Skin Deep."

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

EDIT- Didn't you know? The rain in this story is toxic! Hence, ammonia instead of pneumonia. –shifty eyes-

I can't believe I did that. –sigh- Yes, I am a moron, but I'm also charming in my idiocy, making it all okay… Right? –wink-

Fixed it! (And a few other things I caught.) Sorry!

---

Chapter Six: So I Can Sew It, Part One

I want…
I want so much I'm breathless
I want to put my power into a poem
To burn a hole in your pocket
So I can sew it.
-Nicole Burdette

---

Wilson thought about how he could best describe what had transpired in the bathroom of his favorite, if rarely frequented, bar. 'Unpleasant' was much too kind, but 'pure hell' might be stretching it a bit.

"Hellishly unpleasant."

"What was that?"

Oops.

Jimmy was in Cameron's car, again, after having flushed his lunch down the bar's toilet. Unfortunate, since he had quite enjoyed the meal going down. Wasn't nearly as agreeable coming back up.

The two had left shortly after James had emerged from the bathroom, feeling a little green around the edges and more than ready to go home. He had paid George and insisted that he would take a cab home, a reassurance that Cameron ignored, hushing his protests as she guided him into her car.

Under normal circumstances, Wilson would have fought with a bit more persistence and vigor. But as it was, he lacked the energy and conviction to put any real heart into his objections, allowing Cameron to push his head down gently with only minimal fuss as he flopped himself into the vehicle. Her hand, no doubt, preventing him from accidentally knocking his head against something, destroying the few brain cells that remained after a night of being drowned in liquor.

He wanted to go home and sleep-off the effects of alcohol. To, after weeks without rest, allow his exhaustion to overtake him, transporting him, however briefly, to a place where he could forget. A luxury that he, perhaps, did not deserve, but felt that he desperately needed.

"Nothing, sorry," he yawned and fumbled with his seat-belt, struggling with the suddenly complex device, "Drunkenly mumbling to myself. Best left ignored."

She was grinning at him from the next seat. "If you insist." She seemed to be examining his face, searching for something. "You know, you are the most sober drunk man I have ever come in contact with."

James grinned without humor. "I'm drunk, have no doubts. Just bang some pots together tomorrow morning and see me flinch. Sell tickets, even. People are bound to be amused by it. Greg'll want a front row seat."

At last he was buckled in and gave and internal cheer of triumph, looking up at Cameron with a satisfied smile on his face.

She shook her head, still grinning. "Where do you live?"

Jimmy rattled off a slurry intersection and address to Cameron, watching her as she drove. She was relaxed, scrutinizing the road with a casual intensity that bespoke of her natural weariness, the slight caution that was apparent in her every action. Now, seeing her attention focused on the road, Jimmy imagined that she was noticing every detail, taking in the slightest of alterations to the landscape. He could almost see the list of observations in her head, the small, obscure, pieces of data that another person would have missed or found unimportant.

Cameron was like that; just as meticulous as House, but in an entirely different fashion. Whereas Greg found a hidden symptom, an unexplored motive, Cameron found an undiscovered emotion. A suppressed feeling, an unspoken promise.

House exposed the things people were ashamed of. The wife that cheated on her husband. The pregnant child. The attempted suicide. In contrast, Cameron brought to light the things they were proud of. The undeniable caring of a couple for one another. The parents and their fierce love for their newborn. The good heart in a woman dying of cancer.

Perspective.

House typically assumed the worst of those around him and was rarely disappointed. Generally, Cameron saw the best and suffered the consequences when she was let down. Greg remained emotionally safe in his cynicism, expecting every atrocity that came his way, unsurprised by the depths to which humankind could sink. Allison took each additional sin, every wrong committed, as a personal affront, every new encounter with the baser aspects of humanity chipping away at her belief in the goodness of people.

And yet, she never abounded the belief. Didn't toss it aside and pass it off as foolish, childish, naivety. It would have been an easy thing to do, to succumb to the evidence submitted to her, give in to the inevitable. But she didn't. Despite all she had been through, all she had seen and all she had taken part in, the persistence of the belief remained. To Allison Cameron, people were inherently good, a thought that guided her moral compass and life.

It was what made her seek the best in her fellows, to cherish such things when she had discovered them, holding them close to her heart as small gems that proved her faith in humanity was justified. It was why she was so kind, hoping to coax the goodness out of others. Why she cared so deeply for her patients, seeing them as decent, deserving people in addition to the sick she was paid to cure.

It was why she loved Greg House.

She had found a seed of good in the gruff doctor because she had gone looking for it, because that was the sort of thing that Allison Cameron did. Once she had discovered this seed, something that Greg went to great lengths to hide, she had fallen for him, quickly and hard. It had been an obvious thing for Wilson to spot, attuned as he was to those around him. The looks she had sent Greg would have been enough to tip him off, the small shivers that ran through her spine whenever he saw them together, the adoration she had for her boss. These reactions combined with the forced dinner convinced Jimmy that the evidence spoke for itself.

And just as Cameron's nature drove her to seek House out, to reveal the goodness in him and help it grow, so too did House's instincts demand that he reject her at every turn. So convinced that any person who partook in a selfless action (and an attraction to House was about as selfless and unrewarding as they come) had ulterior motives, Greg searched for them. Poked and prodded, examined and annoyed until he had discovered the answers that he wanted. And these, whatever they were, had been enough to send Allison away. To cease her active purist of the man, if not her want.

Or at least, this was what Jimmy assumed. Despite his pestering, House never had revealed what had taken place on the night of his date with Cameron, and Wilson had never been in a position to ask Allison for the details of the evening.

Although, this was a wonderful opportunity to do so.

Wilson quickly pulled himself away from his thoughts, doing everything to prevent himself from speaking save for slapping his hands over his mouth and sewing his lips shut.

No, he was not going to ask Cameron what had happened on a date that had taken place more than a year before, an event that had likely caused her some distress. He was not going to force her to bring the incident to the forefront of her mind when she was doing him a favor, and was not going to remind her of the fruitless love she had for House during a time when she was already struggling with her own family difficulties. Was not.

He waited for a moment, clenching his jaw in case his tongue ignored his explicit command.

Satisfied that his body was obeying his orders, he relaxed slightly. He was far too reflective when drunk, more prone to wallowing, to saying what was on his mind without thought of the consequences. Half of the reason he had been so verbose when Cameron had entered the bar was because the alcohol freed him from his hesitation, his common sense. His ability to keep his mouth shut.

When James was miserable he would wait until he was able to place himself in some remote corner, where he was certain he wouldn't bother anyone, and mope for a time. Once through, he would reintroduce himself to society, satisfied with his stint of self-pity and ready to pretend again. Unfortunately, Cameron had interrupted him while he was in the midst of his moping period, and he was quickly discovering that it was much more difficult to pretend to be alright with a gallon or two of scotch flowing through his veins.

Sighing slightly, James yawned again, fixing his stare, once more, on Cameron as the glow from the streetlights highlighted her skin in reds, yellows and greens.

He fell asleep staring at the collage of colors.

---

Cuddy was surrounded by an immense amount of paperwork, sheets and files piled on top of every available surface in her office. She was mildly appalled by the state her workroom had been reduced to, the space normally orderly and neat, nearly absurd in its cleanliness. Cuddy liked order, control, to maintain an air of professionalism at all times. (All of them things, coincidently, that contributed to her constant irritation with House.) The disorganized and chaotic condition of the room spoke volumes about her current mood in a way that no glare or hateful assignment of clinic duty could quite convey.

Lisa was attempting to relax, her high healed shoes forgotten on the floor, her legs crossed languidly in front of her, resting on the hard oak of her desk. She was slouched down in her chair, feet tilted upward slightly, head leaned back and eyes closed. She took a deep breath and tried to clear her mind, to let the troubles of the past week exit as she exhaled, out of her and into the universe, the problems becoming the issues of some other poor fool who came across them.

Her efforts weren't really accomplishing much other than making her feel slightly ridiculous for even attempting them. The headache was still there, making her feel each rush of blood as her heart pumped, causing her entire skull ache in a constant beat. The dread also hadn't departed, the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, a sense of impending doom overreaching her every thought and motion.

This was the third, failed, attempt at calming herself. The first had been clinic duty (during which she had dully noted that House was not present), which had actually made her state of irritation and mild panic worse. If a woman ran for six hours, it wasn't exactly rocket science to deduce why her legs were bothering her. A cold was not an early sign of some violent pneumonia and an ear infection did not lead to deafness.

Cuddy had survived four patients and then gone back into her office, waving to Wilson as he picked up another file at the nurse's station. She was a little more sympathetic towards House's constant whining now; the people who came into the clinic really could be idiots. Not that she would ever admit this is him. That would just be asking for a solid year of his particular rendition of the, "Nah nah! I told you so," chant.

The chaos around her had been the second, ineffective, attempt to take her mind off of the situation. Nothing was more mind-numbing than paperwork, and Lisa had her fair share of it to catch up on. Her frantic writing had been working well, until she found a large stack of bills that had yet to be paid, the total sum of the lot being a number far too high for Cuddy's comfort. At least now, with over a dozen of her investors threatening to back out of their obligations if PPTH's bad press continued to persist.

She had then given up on practical work and opted for this third option. Although now considerably more comfortable than earlier, her overall demeanor remained the same.

Cuddy hated being helpless. It was horrible, needing to sit back and watch as other people decided her fate, when forces beyond her control determined her destiny. What made this situation all the more unpleasant was the fact that the fate being decided was not simply her own, but also that of her hospital.

Lisa had given up everything to keep Princeton-Plainsboro running, devoting her time, effort and passion to the hospital's hollowed halls. PPTH was what she had learned to live for. She woke up every morning to go to work. She ate so that she would be able to perform to the best of her abilities while on duty. She went to sleep each night so that she would be able to function at the hospital the next morning. There was only a small number of things left in her existence that were entirely her own. An occasional golf or tennis game, articles of clothing to remind her superiors that she wasn't some genderless goon at their service. Everything else, relationships between friends or lovers, vacations, family, had faded in the background, secondary to the job she loved.

Her life revolved around this hospital, its trials and tribulations, its ups and downs. It was a living entity to her, a child that she needed to care for, a responsibility that she would never shirk. She was not going to let bad press kill the thing she had given up her life to protect.

She was jerked out of her thoughts as the door to her office was thrown open, House limping in and beginning to speak instantly.

"Cuddy, I-"

He stopped mid-sentence and stared at her legs, her skirt having been pushed back to her knees with her legs at the slightly elevated height.

He blinked repeatedly, looking from Lisa's legs to her face, then back to her legs.

Sensing a developing pattern, Cuddy rolled her eyes and brought her feet down from their perch, smoothing her skirt to its usual state. She stared at House intently, in hopes that this would encourage him to get to his point. Quickly.

He blinked a few more times. "Wow, Cuddy. The ladies are nice, but if you flash those legs every now and then," he whistled, "Let's just say that investors would plentiful."

"Why are you here House?" She eyed the clock on her desk. It was past eight and Cuddy was mildly surprised that the man was still on the hospital's grounds. Usually House couldn't be paid money to stay after hours unless there was a dire situation in his department. Pratt certainly wasn't dying, and there were no other patients that he and his team were working on. And yet, House was here anyway, supposedly on hospital business.

"I forgot."

Or not.

He eyed her toes under her desk. "Is that pink nail polish?"

Lisa sighed, slipping her feet back into her constricting shoes. "Have I covered enough flesh so that the blood flow can return to your brain functions now?"

He looked up, "Hey, you're the one exposing skin here," he smirked, "Want to tell me something Cuddy? Feeling lonely? Hoping secretary boy would pop his head in, see you in such a state of undress and decide to ravish you?"

Cuddy blinked at him. "If you consider a glimpse of calf to be 'a state of undress' then maybe you should be the one calling him. You certainly need his companionship more than I do."

"Ha! So he is a secretary!" Cuddy gave him an irritated glare, "Thanks, but I'm good. What do you think I have Chase for?" House sighed wistfully and Lisa grinned, despite her best efforts to halt the upward tilt of her lips. "It's the hair, I think. All mop-like and blond and long-"

"House," best to rein him in before he become too enthusiastic about Chase's hair, "what do you want?"

"You mean besides sexual favors from Chase?"

"That would be preferable, yes."

"World peace, obviously." He paused and looked at her hopefully, "That is the correct answer, right? Can I get my crown now?"

Cuddy pinched the bridge of her nose. "Why are you in my office House?"

House sighed sadly. "Party pooper," he started to hobble back to the entrance to her office, "I know what's wrong with Pratt and why the episodes occurred." He jerked his head towards her, "Make sure the girls are strapped in, that your skirt's not up around your waist and let's go. We wouldn't want anyone to think that we were," he looked around, making sure the cost was clear, and then lowered his voice, "up to something." He wiggled his eyebrows and Cuddy only just restrained herself from throwing something at him.

"What caused the attacks then?" Lisa stood up from her chair and caught up to House, the two exiting her office at the same pace, Lisa slowing to accommodate House's hobble.

"Cuddy!" House gave her a mock-severe look, using his cane to press the 'up' button on the elevator. "That would ruin the surprise."

"Then why did you come get me?"

House stared at her blankly.

"You never do anything if you can make your lackeys do it instead," the elevator opened and they stepped in, House nodding at her assessment of his tendencies. "And if you wanted to gloat you would have told me the origins of the episodes." Again, House nodded. "So? What is it? Wanted exercise?"

"I sent the minions home."

Cuddy sent him a shocked expression.

"They just looked so tired you see, not to mention that I missed you." He gazed at her intently and Cuddy rolled her eyes again. "We just don't get time to bond anymore, Lisa. And that hurts me, deeply. I find myself weeping at night, sobbing because I just don't know what happened to our friendship."

Cuddy blinked at him.

"Fine," he sighed. "No one appreciates white lies anymore. Someone," he sent her an annoyed glance, "let Cameron leave early and Chase and Foreman went home ten minutes ago. And I was looking for Wilson. He wasn't in his office or the Oncology lounge so I thought he might be with you."

"No, I only saw him once today. At the clinic." She glared, infusing all of her frustration into the mean-spirited stare.

"Hm," House ignored her. "Do you know where he is now?"

"He went home a half-an-hour ago," she said quickly, having every intention on harassing her employee about his failure to do his job, again. But before she could properly berate him, she saw his expression suddenly become serious. "What is it?"

He sighed. "I'll miss him. Jimmy and I, we just don't get time to bond anymore. And it hurts me deeply-"

Cuddy blocked out his droning until they reached Pratt's room, whereupon House abruptly, and without warning, slid open the glass door, smiling rather evilly when Pratt and his wife both jerked awake at the sudden sound.

Lisa scowled at House and smiled towards the Pratts. "Hello Mr. and Mrs. Pratt. I'm sorry we're bothering you so late at night, but we have good news that we wanted to tell you as soon as possible."

Pratt sat up groggily from his spot on the bed. "It's no problem Doctor Cuddy," he looked down and squeezed his wife's hand, which had been resting in his own even as they were sleeping. "We probably want to hear it quickly too, if it's so good."

He glanced up and narrowed his eyes at House. "Who are you?"

Cuddy felt like banging her head against a wall.

House didn't need to meet patients, even if they had the potential to make or break the hospital's reputation.

"He's Doctor House, John," Pratt's wife said quietly from her chair, staring nervously up at the tall doctor. "The man in charge of your case."

House waved. "Yeah, hi. Funny running into you again," he raised an eyebrow at the woman, "And to think that this time I can actually give you some helpful information, none of which was brought about thanks to your visit to my office." He moved to the other side of Pratt's bed, sitting in a chair and tapping his cane against the floor in an irregular rhythm. "Just think of what could have been avoided if you had a little patience." He sighed and shook his head sadly at her, mockery apparent in every gesture. "Jimmy says hello, by the way."

The woman paled and looked down at her hand entwined with her husband's, both Pratt and Cuddy staring at her, at a loss. Did she know Wilson somehow? A former patient, a friend of Julie's?

Before they could ask any questions however, House had started again, "Anyway," he stopped the incessant tapping, "to matters at hand." He fixed his eyes on Pratt, giving him a piercing glance. "Mr. Pratt, you are an utter idiot."

There was a shocked silence for a moment, during which Cuddy contemplated the various ways in which she could commit murder. Death by drowning was far too good for the man, but perhaps she could douse him in gasoline and set him on fire. That seemed like a painful enough way to die, one that House certainly deserved. Where to get the gas though...?

"Umm..." Pratt looked down to his wife and then up at Cuddy, finally turning his attention back to House at the Head of Medicine's defeated shrug. "Alright? How does this help with my diagnosis?"

"It doesn't. But it is the cause for our lovely get-together." House dug in his pocket and pulled out a small ornately wrapped piece of candy. "Do you recognize this?"

Pratt nodded, "Yes."

"Where did you get it?"

"We got a batch of them from a motorcycle company in China that we're making a deal with."

"Do you know what is used to make these candies?" House had his eyes clenched shut, holding the sweet in front of him and waving it a bit, already knowing the answer.

Pratt sighed and rubbed his face with his hand. "No."

House opened eyes and gave an exaggerated nod. "No!" He stood up and walked up to Pratt's bed, "And is it a smart thing for a person with an extreme peanut allergy to eat something that they do not know the ingredients of?"

Pratt opened his mouth, but House interrupted him. "No, it is not. Next time you want to experiment with foreign foods without labels, don't. Or at least keep a supply of epinephrine with you, like the normal folk with peanut allergies do." House went back to his seat, "Funny things, allergies. They don't decide to leave the people with the big checking accounts alone. A real shame, because I'm sure you would be one to offer some hefty bribes." He waved the sweet again, "No more of these, understood?"

Not waiting for a response, House stood back up and smirked smugly, heading for the door.

Cuddy was glaring daggers at him, arms crossed over her chest, and would have gladly caused the doctor serious harm if she had anything more deadly on her person than a stiletto heel.

"That can't be right,"

Everyone in the room turned towards Mrs. Pratt, still holding onto her husband's hand.

"You caught me!" House said, stopping in his tracks and turning around. "It was a lie. Wanted to catch the reactions on tape. We have it recorded, you know. It'll give the security guys a real laugh when they see it in the morning."

The woman ignored him. "The second attack... he didn't have any of the candy when it happened."

House narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"She said he didn't have any candy the second time House," Cuddy spat out, feeling her head give an ominous pound. "You're wrong." And have just insulted one of the most powerful men in the country, a silent addition which tact forced her to leave out.

He ignored his boss. "But you did have a piece the first time?" House asked, turning towards Pratt.

The man nodded, apparently still too shocked at his own foolishness to convert the reply into verbal form.

"Which means you were right about the first attack," Mrs. Pratt said, staring intently at House, "But not the second."

Cuddy shook her head grimly. "That was caused by something else."

House looked to Cuddy, shrugging. "One out of two ain't that bad, is it?"

It took all of Lisa's will-power not to reach for her stiletto.

---

Wilson was unconscious in the next seat.

Well, perhaps 'unconscious' was a bit strong of a term, but he was definitely asleep. Quite an impressive feat, considering the odd angle his neck was in and the manner in which he had slumped his frame, giving him a look similar to that of an accordion.

Allison hated to wake him. If a man was capable in sleeping in such a position he had obviously been lacking in rest for some time. She couldn't imagine someone voluntarily bending their spine that way for any other reason.

Granted, it wasn't a great leap of logic to assume that the oncologist hadn't been sleeping properly, not after what she had just learned.

Alcohol is said to free one from their inhibitions, to set lose the restrained and allow a person to abandon their reservations. All fears, insecurities and hesitations set aside for a few hours, life reduced to an alcoholic haze that soothed the senses, loosened the tongue and broke reservations.

And yet, it hadn't been enough for the doctor next to her to drop his defenses. Only now, while he was sleeping, did Allison have a true notion of Wilson's state. It was easier to see the exhaustion now in this unguarded moment, the dark bags under his eyes, the deep groves in his face, the unhealthy pallor of the skin. It was as if the veil had been lifted and Cameron was left with the truth; Wilson was struggling, a fact that no one, save for House, perhaps, had noticed.

It was a depressing thought; that a man so well-liked by all could suffer for a month with only minimal notice being taken.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, Cameron looked on either side of the street she was parked on. They were in front of a series of apartments, one of which Cameron sincerely hoped belonged to Wilson. She had managed to get an intersection and address out of him before he nodded off to sleep. Before the scotches allowed him this one respite from his act, this small flagging of the armaments. Cameron felt cruel, pulling him away from it.

But, allowing him to stay in that position for longer than twenty minutes would be a form of cruelty all it's own.

Hesitantly, she shook the doctor's shoulder. "Wilson?"

He groaned, turning slightly and shaking off her hand.

She smiled and brought her appendage to his back, "Jimmy? "

Another groan as he slowly sat up, opening his eyes, "Whatsit?"

Cameron smiled more broadly, removing her hand. "We're at you're house," she paused and looked intently at him as he glanced out of the windows, "Or at least I hope we are."

He squinted a bit at the apartment to their left and nodded wearily. "That would be mine." He fumbled with his seat-belt a bit, almost tripping out of the car once he had detached the high-tech device, and poked his head back in the vehicle once he had righted himself. "Thank you for the ride," he grinned, "Both of them. I'm sorry I wasn't the best of company."

"You were most charming," Cameron reassured the man, smirking at his sheepish smile. "And you're very welcome." She looked him up and down again, noting his slumped posture, every feature seeming to droop out of sheer exhaustion. Even his hair had lost its flop. "Now get inside before the rain gives you an pneumonia or you collapse. I'll see you morning, alright?"

He gave another tired nod. "Yes ma'am." He sent her a small grin as he closed the door, swaying slightly as he made his way across the street and up the steps to his home. She nearly snorted when he dropped his keys after digging them out of his pocket, trying several times to get the metal device into the small keyhole before at last succeeding. With a shake of his head he gave her another wave before staggering inside of the building, the door slamming closed behind him.

Cameron's eyes remained focused on the entrance for several moments, the man behind it the subject of her thoughts. James Wilson, she was quickly learning, was a man of great complexities, and she found that she could no longer define him based solely on his roles of House's friend and as a competent doctor. Perhaps because she had never felt the need to look at the oncologist in any other set of lenses, she had simply dismissed the notion of him having a life outside of the hospital or beyond House's influence. In her mind he had only ever played those two parts, and so she had treated him accordingly based on these roles. All but a handful of her conversations with Wilson had focused around medicine or her boss, Cameron gladly exploiting his knowledge in both areas without thought to the man himself.

Only rarely had she contemplated him in the light of an actual person, with problems and burdens of his own. Yes, she had known that he had committed at least one infidelity, but she had never considered any negative effects the event might have had on him. How the guilt ate at him, how his first wife seemed to haunt him, his own shame preventing him from reaching amends with her.

Yes, he had lived with what he had done. But he had never mentioned how, and Allison never asked.

She had dismissed Wilson as nothing more than a kind and skilled doctor with a great amount of tolerance. Written him off as a sourcebook of information for her to exploit, conveniently forgetting that beneath his pleasant smile and joking manner there was a man every bit as human as herself. And the fact that she had overlooked this, purposefully ignored any hints of unhappiness on his part, made her feel deeply ashamed. She chose to believe that Wilson was happy and content, a simple man who had made mistakes and moved on from them, because it was easy, not because such assessments were accurate. Or fair.

She was determined to never allow herself this luxury again. That of pretending that Wilson was more than human, above the heartbreaking trials of everyday existence, possessing neither emotional strife nor significance outside of the box she had carefully crafted for him. She knew better now.

With a sigh, Cameron pulled herself out of her regretful thoughts, coming back to the present and her intense desire to sleep. Five hours was enough to function off of, but not comfortably. She turned the key in the ignition, putting the car in gear, preparing to head home and looking forward to the prospect of uninterrupted rest.

Only to catch the sight of worn brown leather to her right. Frowning, she put the car back into park and reached for the skin, marveling at the texture of the case once it was in her hands.

She smiled. On the inside flap were the indented letters, "J.E.W."

Jew.

She laughed and turned off the car, grabbing Wilson's briefcase and locking her door before crossing the street, heading for the oncologist's home.

One would have hoped his parents had been at least a little more subtle upon naming their child, taking into consideration the mockery that was bound to follow the poor boy throughout his adolescent life. No wonder he was able to deal with House's insults and sarcasm; he most likely had an entire childhood of conditioning.

She was still smiling when she reached the door to the building, briefcase over her head as a make-shift umbrella as she knocked. She shifted her feet a bit while she waited, feeling the rain slowly soak through her thick sweater.

Narrowing her eyes when there was no response, she banged on the wood again, becoming worried. She wouldn't have been surprised if Wilson had somehow hurt himself, perhaps tripped over something and banged his head.

Shivering, she pounded once more on the hard wood. "Wilson!"

Nothing.

Concern escalating, Allison reached for the doorknob, taken aback when the device easily turned at her touch, allowing her access to the apartment. Wilson must have forgotten to lock it once he came in.

Peeking her head into the home, she looked from left to right, seeing nothing but the faint outlines of furniture and accessories. Cautiously, she entered.

All of the lights were off, but she could find her way around the place easily enough, making out the shapes of a kitchen counters, couches, and even a large armchair (a trench coat was carelessly thrown on one of its arms) from the dim natural light. And yet, anything that hinted at the person who resided in the building seemed to be mysteriously absent. No photographs, personal trophies or any indication of the habits or life of individual who lived inside of these walls. It had the feel of a home that was slept-in, but not lived in. Containing all of the necessities of life but none of its pleasures. The absence of personality had an eerie effect on the space, causing it to seem cold, barren.

Not to mention that it actually was cold. Nearly freezing, in fact. Either Wilson didn't know how to work a thermostat, he wanted to pretend his house was an igloo, or he wasn't at home enough to notice the frigid temperature of the place.

Cameron brushed her thoughts aside, renewing her search for the oncologist.

Softly, she called, "Wilson?"

"Hm?"

Allison practically jumped out of her skin, looking around frantically for the source of the sleepy voice.

Tentatively making her way towards the direction she thought the sound was originating from, she continued. "Wilson, you left your briefcase in the car and your door's unlocked."

"Oh, sorry." Ah ha. The couch. Now that she was looking in the proper location, she could just barely make out the back of Wilson's head poking up above the piece of furniture. "Could you just leave the case by the door? I'll grab it later."

Cameron made her way around the sofa, briefcase still in hand. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes," she looked down at his sprawled form, grinning, "the scotch is just catching up to me, is all."

"I can tell."

He opened his eyes and smirked at her smile. "Ah, obviously I'm more entertaining this way."

"I don't know. You have you're moments when sober as well."

"When I still manage to make a complete fool of myself, despite lack of alcohol, you mean?"

"Something like that."

"Glad to hear my blunders are compelling, at least. Here," he slowly sat up from his sprawl, bringing his feet to the floor, "I'll see you to the door." He stood, and then rapidly sat back down, one hand going to his temple while the other groped at the cushions to his side.

Cameron quickly set the briefcase down by one of the couch's legs, moving to the front of the sofa to sit on a coffee table placed across from it. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Wilson shook his head gently, "just a little dizzy." He looked up slowly and gave another smirk. "I did consume half of the scotch in New Jersey though. This sort of reaction isn't exactly unexpected."

Cameron grinned, leaning forward and resting a hand on his forehead, placing the other on his shoulder to make sure he didn't pull away. "You don't have a fever," Allison frowned and rubbed the fabric of his shirt in-between her fingers. "But your shirt is soaked. And it's freezing in here," Wilson blinked at her repeatedly as she stood up, glancing around the dark room. "Where's your thermostat? If we don't turn on the heat you'll be an icicle in an hour."

"Cameron, stop. I'm fine."

Allison ignored him, silently reassuring herself that the man was inebriated and that it was perfectly acceptable to make sure he didn't get himself sick.

She searched for a few moments, finally finding the device and fiddling until she felt the temperature slowly beginning to rise. Nodding in satisfaction, she returned to Wilson's couch, assuming her position on his coffee table once more.

Cameron stared at him, his elbows on his knees, hands entwined in front of him, eyes fixed on his fingers, head hunched down. Utterly defeated.

"You're not very good at taking care of yourself, are you?"

She wasn't sure what made her say it. Perhaps the weary set of his frame or the desperate look about him. A man so obviously drowning and yet completely incapable of swimming to save himself.

He brought his head up and blinked hazily at her. "I can take care of myself."

"Of course you can," she smiled at his mildly offended expression. "I'm not doubting your ability. Every time I see you with a patient I know that you're completely capable of caring for others. You're the ideal doctor," she gave a small, bitter, laugh, "and a much better friend than House deserves." She paused, looking at him intently. The slope of his back, the hair hanging in front of his face, the structure of his hands. "You look after others when they are unable or unwilling to look after themselves." He was still staring at his fingers, one thumb running over the other. "Like you did for House last year."

There was a slight tensing of his muscles, but no response.

Everyone knew what had happened during those three months, even though the truth had never been spoken. It wasn't a secret; a dirty deed to be kept under-wraps. It was simply made perfectly clear that it was no one's business.

When House had returned to work everyone was far too content with his new demeanor to bring thoughts of the old version of the doctor to their mind. Even Cuddy had remained silent on the subject, quickly forcing House back into clinic duty the day he came back without comment on his absence. Foreman relinquished his charge of the Diagnostics Department without argument or resentment. The diagnostics team, and the hospital as a whole, went on with work as usual, finding no need to give any attention to the matter.

Everyone was pleased. House looked healthier than anyone had seen him in years, was in a slightly less vindictive mood than what they had become accustomed to and didn't appear to be suffering any ill-effects from the months away. No one wished to bring this positive change to the doctor's attention for fear that he would revert back to his old ways simply out of spite. So, everyone kept silent on his small vacation and his improvements, no one wishing to reawaken the beast or lose what had been gained.

Then Wilson came back.

No one failed to notice how frail the doctor had become in such a short span of time. The way his belt buckle had moved up two loops and his lab coat hung off his frame. How sunken his eyes were in his face, the way it was possible to see his collar-bone through his shirt. Just as noticeable and nearly more frightening were the extra hours Wilson spent in his office, how he sent other doctors to speak with his patients, stopped going to the clinic. For a man who spent the majority of his time with others, who was known for his excellent and personalized patient care, this sudden seclusion was more telling of the price that the three months had cost him than any physical deterioration could have been.

Almost as disturbing was House's suddenly mothering manner towards his friend, causing half of the hospital to go searching for something stronger than Vicodin in his personal office. Not to imply that House had been any more pleasant to Wilson; that was asking a bit much of the diagnostician. But nonetheless, during the hours Wilson would lock himself away, House would hop over his balcony ledge and come in through the back door. He would bring the oncologist food when it didn't seem as if Wilson had eaten that day. He would force his friend out of his office and make him walk around the hospital with Greg, to 'help him think.'

Once Wilson returned the silence concerning the three months the two men had been away wasn't maintained due to a fear of House relapsing- it was plain that the doctor had no intention of returning to his Vicodin-popping habits. Instead, it was done out of respect. If Wilson didn't mention it, if House didn't bring it up in everyday conversation, then they certainly had no right to comment upon the events that had given one man back his life and extracted a painful toll from the other. It was private, almost sacred, and every attempt that had been made to inquire into what had occurred during their time away was met with scorn and icy dismissal by all. It was simply something that no one touched.

Until now.

Because it had never been acknowledged. Because Cameron had never thought that Wilson needed verification for the good things he had done. She assumed that he knew, was aware of how he had helped House, his patients. That he understood how profound his sacrifice had been. People thought that because he did such things with an unwavering regularity, with no expectations of praise or gratitude, the he did not need the recognition.

And perhaps, he didn't. But he certainly deserved it. For someone to, however subtly, thank him for what he had done. To give voice to his deeds, make them real.

So, Cameron had broken the unwritten code, stepped over the line. Left the collective comfort zone of the society that was Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. And had the feeling that there was no turning back.

So instead, she plowed on.

Cameron was, after all, a very practical person. No use regretting what can't be undone.

"You take care of others, but you don't do the same for yourself." Wilson didn't look up, continuing the close examination of his fingernails. "But somehow you find the time to keep up appearances. Fix your hair and straighten your tie, pretend nothing's wrong, trying to protect everyone around you from knowing how strained you are."

Allison leaned forward, willing him to look up, to see her so he could, maybe, grasp her sincerity.

He did, and she locked eyes with him. "It's alright if you stop pretending."

They held each other's gaze for a time, Allison content to stare at the deep brown. They were intense and yet unassuming. Kind, earnest, but also experienced. Empathy and wisdom combined to create a knowledge tempered with compassion, sympathy with clarity and purpose. It was a most interesting mix, one that she thought she could stare for hours without losing interest.

It was at this thought that Allison realized what she was doing and looked away quickly, leaving Wilson staring at her neck and Cameron mentally kicking herself.

What did she do after work today? Stalked James Wilson of course. Interrupted him while he was attempting to drown his sorrows, forced him into letting her drive him home, invited herself inside said home and then lectured him. All followed by a stare that was far too intimate for Allison's conscience to pass off as friendly concern.

She was an utter idiot.

But a determined utter idiot. She couldn't do much more damage by this point, might as well make sure Wilson didn't catch a cold.

With a sigh, she continued with her original campaign. "Come on. We have to get you out of these clothes."

Wilson looked up sharply and gave her an amused smirk, eyebrows raised. "Are you trying to take advantage of me in my vulnerable state, Doctor Cameron?"

"And into other ones!" Cameron glared, an effect that was likely lost due to the fierce blush she felt overtaking her features. "James Wilson, why I never," she stood up and paced a bit, hoping he didn't take the sudden movement for the escape from proximity she knew it was. "You need to get your head out of the gutter. What would your mother think?" She made an effort not to appear as flustered as she felt, an action doomed to failure. Her cheeks were still burning.

Wilson laughed and leaned back into the couch. "My mother has long since washed her hands of me and would not be surprised in the least."

"Poor woman. She has my greatest sympathy and utmost admiration for not causing you severe brain damage out of sheer frustration."

He let out another chuckle that abruptly stopped when she held out her hand in front of his nose.

He stared at her hand and then sent her a confused expression.

"You need help getting up or you won't stay up," Cameron jerked her hand.

Wilson tried to wave the hand away, "I'm fine here, really."

"No one can sleep properly on a couch."

He groaned. "Truer words never spoken."

"Then why are you resisting me?"

"Principle in general. I'll look like a sissy if you need to help me up."

"Look, you can either take the hand or I can drag you up by your tie," she eyed him questioningly, "which might make you spew again, causing you to leave a nasty stain on your carpet." She glanced down sadly at the floor and then returned her gaze to him again. "Either works for me."

Wilson looked up at her helplessly.

"Your choice. You can sacrifice your poor, defenseless, carpet because of your pride or you can give in and let me help you up."

"You're not going to take no for an answer, are you?"

"Nope. I'm very stubborn."

He sighed. "You're mean, you know," and he took her hand in his.

It was an odd hand. Large, strong, but also possessing an odd grace, fine bones creating fascinating dips in the skin, interesting contours in a seemingly insignificant locations. The skin was a mystery all its own, alternating between rough and soft, worn and smooth areas side by side. Signs of a man who has spent more time holding pens than digging ditches. She also felt the faint impression of calluses on the tips of his fingers, the coarse skin brushing against her own fingertips.

Her observations were brought to a jarring halt when the hand was snatched out of hers and quickly brought to her shoulder, its counterpart doing the same to her opposite. She staggered for a moment, bringing her hands to Wilson's waist as he wavered, slowly righting herself as he regained his own footing.

There was an awkward silence as they remained in the position, Cameron staring at the spot where Wilson's neck became shoulder, feeling the slight movement of her hair being stirred by his breath.

"Well," Wilson backed away a bit, hands still on her shoulders but removing the comforting heat he radiated, despite the damp clothes. "This is completely destroying any respect you have ever had for me as a man, isn't it?"

Cameron grinned and slung one of his arms over her shoulder, heading down a hallway and trying not to notice every point at which they were touching. "Wear a wife beater to work one day, then there will be no way I can question your manhood."

"I don't own a wife beater."

"Something we will have to remedy." They had reached the end of the hall and Allison gestured towards the last door. "That it?"

"Yep."

"Alright," she removed his arm and gave him a gentle push towards the room, "get changed into something dry and tell me when you're done. I want to take your temperature before I leave, just in case."

"Is this another one of those things where you're going to force me to do what you want, despite my wishes?"

"Yep."

"In that case," he gave a small salute, "Yes ma'am."

He disappeared behind the door and Cameron let out a breath of air, berating herself, feeling horrible.

This only proved that House was right.