He wiped the sweat from his brow as he registered the horrible encounter he had just witnessed was just a dream, but the realization took a backseat to the blinding pain he was feeling from his leg. It was much worse than it usually was when it woke him up in the middle of the night begging for more Vicodin. This was almost as if someone had jabbed a knife right in the bull's eye of his scar. Every movement seemed to hurt. Even the massage he automatically preformed on the mangled muscle could not be done. His arm would not cooperate. All he could do was sit and pray to whatever was up there that his agony would not last long. His prayers were in vain, however, since the pain seemed to be getting worse the longer he sat on the bed. Due to his eyes that were squeezed shut, he could not notice how the room was suddenly filling with light and a hand grabbing his shoulder.
"Wilson…" House gasped after finally acknowledging the touch. "P-pills."
The touch immediately ceased and House hoped (he'd given up praying by now) that his friend would obey his command rather than trying to give him some Tylenol or another useless drug. However, Wilson came and put a cup of water to lips followed by his small, white life-line. After a few minutes, the pain finally quelled to only a minor agony, and he was finally able to pry open his eyes, lay back, and breathe normally. He then turned his head to look at Wilson, bed-head and all, sitting up with his left arm over his eyes.
"Thanks," House said in an almost whisper.
"No problem," Wilson huffed, seeming almost as out of breath as his friend. "You scared the shit out of me, you know that?"
House simply nodded and smiled. "Now I'm almost glad you're such a lonely recluse and need my couch." House wanted to say more, particularly more words that appear by "thank you" in a thesaurus, but stopped. He was dangerously close to expressing too much gratitude, which was something he seemed almost physically averted to doing as of late.
"You know there are plenty of people I could date," Wilson groaned, clearly annoyed. "I just choose not to because I have to use all my social energy to make up for your lack thereof."
"Nah, I think it's because you've gone celibate. Not that I'm surprised. I had a feeling you'd go from Jew to Christian when you waited two months to have sex with Julie."
"Some people are slower than others at that kind of stuff, House. Not all of us shack up right after the first date."
"Sure, turn it around on me. Wonderful strategy, if we were in the fifth grade"
Wilson smiled slightly. "What does my sex life have to do with me being here anyway? I moved in with you because government workers needed my hotel room."
"If you would just call that new nurse in your department, you could have slept in her apartment."
"Are you talking about the one you're frighteningly obsessed with?"
"It's called professional interest, and no. Then again, I'm pretty sure she hasn't had sex at all, so she might know a nerd support group or something."
Wilson rolled his eyes. "Whatever, House. Besides, she lives with two other nurses who seem to have very high school crushes on me. Even if we were sleeping together, it would be…weird."
House smiled again as the blissful high began to take full effect. "Yeah, three giggly nurses hanging all over you, telling you about their hopes, their dreams, how they lost their virginity…"
"God, House," Wilson laughed. "Are you that obsessed with sex?"
"Hey, you should talk, especially since you know exactly who all of your nurses live with."
"Bastard."
"Man-whore."
A few minutes of silence followed. House was trying to think of something funny, smart, and pointless to say because he knew that silence always preceded serious conversation. However, before a quip came to him, Wilson finally said, "I've never seen you in that much pain before."
"It's fine," House sighed.
"You know, if you say you're fine one more time, I'm going to strangle something."
"Please let it be Chase. That would be fun to watch."
"House!"
"Sorry, forgot we were in 'adult conversation mode.' Please continue."
Wilson sighed before saying, "First I hear you screaming in your sleep, with huffing and puffing to boot, then I hear you wailing in agony…"
"Good literary term, James," House said in a mock English accent.
"House! This is serious! I'm worried about you."
"You're always worried about me."
At that statement, Wilson simply stared at him. House rubbed his face with his hand in frustration of his friend's endless propensity to care, and even greater propensity to dig into him with his stares.
"Yeah, Jimmy. My leg hurt, just like it has every single day for the past seven years. Nothing to call the New York Times about. It's been worse before."
"Yeah, during your actual infarction." Wilson countered. "You looked like somebody had ripped the damn thing off and then used Tabasco sauce as an antibiotic, and that's just what I got from your face. This is different than all of the other times, and you know it."
"Uh, you weren't even there for the infarction," House said in the most cutting tone he could manage. "And obviously you were asleep during physio, or when I fell down the stairs the first time, or when I…"
"Those were different, House! Those were brought on by outside factors. This time, all you were doing was sleeping!"
The man had a point there. House hated when he did that, but no matter how good the Wilson's points were, he always fought to the bitter end.
"I might've slept on it wrong or something, or I might be having muscle spasms…"
"What were you dreaming about, House?" Wilson said, seemingly out of the blue.
"What does that have to do anything?" Before Wilson could answer, House continued, "Oh, wait. Silly me. In your ever deepening quest to psychoanalyze me, you have now moved on to dream interpretation. What will appease you, Jimmy? Maybe I dreamed I was in the middle of a tornado tearing up my house which symbolizes either my quest for self-destruction or unresolved issues stemming from my first viewing of The Wizard of Oz…"
"…House…"
"Or maybe I dreamed of…"
"I'm going back to sleep!" Wilson grunted, clearly too tired to deal with this anymore. "But we are talking about this tomorrow."
"Whatever you say, Jimbo."
"Please don't call me that," Wilson groaned before pushing himself off the bed and dragging his feet toward the open door.
"G'night Wilson," House sing-songed, in his best June Cleaver impression.
"Goodnight, House," Wilson moaned, focusing on the goal that was his couch and little else.
As he heard the door shut and Wilson's soft footsteps sulking back to the couch, House decided to inspect the scar and make sure he did not unconsciously claw at it in his sleep. Also, he would never admit it, but with Wilson gone, the dark was making him nervous.
He reached over to the bedside table and clicked on his lamp before slipping the waistband of his flannel pajama bottoms down to his knees. When his eyes finally adjusted to the light and he got a good look, his heart felt like it dropped to his stomach.
In an arch-shape around his scar, there was a line of circular bruises, arranged in a manner that made them look exactly like bite-marks.