Disclaimer: Don't own House & company. Don't even rent them. But I do borrow them and put them right back.

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House flipped the page of the Journal of Infectious Diseases, huddled close to the window to capture the remaining daylight. Outside, ice clung to the trees, roof, and railings but had stopped falling from the sky. The fireplace radiated enough heat to keep them warm. Between the logs Wilson had brought up and the small stack already stored in the cabin, House wouldn't need to make the dangerous trip outside until at least tomorrow morning.

Earlier, House had helped Wilson wriggle into a set of sweats and even convinced him to take more Advil. Even so, Wilson's sleep was fitful, interrupted every few minutes by a painful shift of position or catch in his breathing. Although confident that Wilson's injuries weren't serious, he'd feel better once they could get to a hospital and confirm his diagnoses. Until the roads cleared, however, it was too risky to drive. For now, they were stuck.

"House, I need to pee."

House glanced over the top of his reading glasses to find Wilson struggling to sit upright on the couch. He pointed to the medical bag. "You pack a urinal?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Of course not."

"We could improvise."

"I can walk to the bathroom," Wilson declared firmly.

"Your knee isn't steady."

"You said yourself there isn't any serious damage. Walking twenty feet won't kill me." He motioned impatiently. "Help me before I go all over the sofa."

With a sigh of irritation, House pushed himself upright, provoking a stab of protest from his thigh. Wobbling precariously, he reached for a handhold to steady himself until the pain subsided. However, the arms of the sofa were too low and, an instant later, he fell back onto the cushions, doing his best not to allow more than a soft grunt to escape.

It had been noticed. "House, what's wrong?"

House waved off Wilson's concern. "Sitting too long in one position." Wilson's gaze didn't waver as he gently massaged his leg, willing the pain to dissipate. The second attempt to stand still hurt, more than it should, but this wasn't the time to show weakness and, besides, there wasn't a damned thing Wilson could do.

He helped Wilson stand and ceremoniously handed over his cane. "I rent by the hour." Wilson briefly experimented with the cane then worked his way down the darkened hallway, House hobbling alongside.

"I can do this myself," Wilson said.

"You don't have any practice being a cripple."

"I'm a quick learner."

House allowed Wilson to go into the bathroom alone, settling for leaning heavily against the wall outside. Without his cane, House's damaged leg had been forced to absorb more weight, making his limp even more pronounced and planting a grimace on his face.

Wilson emerged a few minutes later, looking as drained as House felt.

"You'd better make it back okay," House said, eyes summarizing Wilson's condition. "If you fall, I'm not picking you up."

"I'll keep that in mind," Wilson managed through clenched teeth. Upon reaching the couch, he gingerly lowered himself and handed back the cane.

"Where's it hurt?" House asked, towering over him.

"Your leg, obviously."

This time, he decided to let Wilson get away with turning the question on him. "My leg always hurts."

"Not this bad. You hurt it helping me up the stairs, didn't you?"

"Wilson, you may not believe this, but not everything is your fault."

"Let me look at it."

House pirouetted in a poor imitation of a runway model. "See it?"

"Stop that. Sit down and let me check it." It was Wilson's doctor voice, the one that House hated when it was turned on him.

"In case you hadn't noticed, your wrist is sprained."

Wilson gestured with his right hand. "I'll manage."

"My leg is the same today as it was yesterday and the day before that and the day before that . . . ."

"Why won't you admit that you're having breakthrough pain?"

At least Wilson appeared for the moment to have given up trying to examine him. "That was the patient who called hours ago." He reached for Wilson's chin. "Better make sure you don't have a concussion."

Wilson batted away his hand. "The Vicodin's been keeping the pain tolerable. You've upped the dose but you're still hurting. It's not enough anymore, is it?"

"Lie back, I want to check you over."

Wilson didn't move. "That's why you wanted to do the trial at Mass General. His voice was gentle, almost sad. "You needed something more."

Wilson the martyr; almost as bad as Wilson the doctor. Time to change the subject. "Yeah, yeah, you got me. Now lie back."

"House, do you have any idea the hell you put your team through, simply because you wouldn't admit your pain was worse?"

"I didn't put them through anything. It's not my fault that they stuck their noses in my business."

Wilson coughed slightly "You could have at least told me."

"It wasn't any of your damned business."

Wilson sighed and shook his head. "But it is my business to make sure you get your Vicodin fix."

"I told you last night that if you have a problem with that, you should stop."

"I'm trying to help you."

The self-righteous Wilson – the worst of all. "I know. Just like you wanted help your brother. I'm not your project."

"I thought you were my friend." Wilson coughed again, harder, arm braced against his ribcage.

House grabbed the stethoscope and shoved it under Wilson's sweats. "Keep it up." Coughing worked as well as deep breathing in keeping Wilson's lungs clear. In less than a minute, Wilson had settled down, though still slightly breathless. House pressed him back against the couch, and pulled up the quilt. "I'll get some ice," he said, reflexively rubbing his leg.

"I'm fine," Wilson replied. "There's a heat pack in the bag. Doesn't need electricity. Use it."

"When did you become so bossy?"

"House, I deal with pain management every day. If the Vicodin isn't enough, we'll find something else."

"I'm running out of options. We both know it. And we both know what the ultimate option is."

Wilson's eyes narrowed. "Why would you even think that?"

"The Sword of Damocles, only it's going to chop off my leg, not my head."

"House, no one wants to amputate. There are other options."

House turned away. He was tired of being told to try other options, tired of trying things that didn't relieve his pain, tired of being in pain. At times like this, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd been right to insist on saving his leg. Had he secretly believed that someday he'd be normal again?

There'd been those precious days after the Ketamine treatment when he'd been able to walk and run and climb like everyone else. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard if he hadn't been reminded what 'normal' was like. But he had, and now he desperately wanted that back, wanted his life to be defined by something other than pain that was only getting worse.

Wilson wanted to help. Wilson always wanted to help. But what would happen when there was nothing more Wilson could do? As another twinge rippled through his thigh, House feared that day was coming and it was coming much more quickly than either of them could handle.

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