Life was good – or at least not too bad, House thought as headed toward Wilson's room. It was Wilson's second full day in the hospital and Cuddy had done what Cuddy did best – well, other than wear low-cut blouses and tight skirts. She'd pulled a few strings and arranged for House to have temporary hospital privileges. He'd stayed the first night and most of yesterday, hovering, monitoring, double checking until, by late afternoon, even Wilson was urging him to leave. Back at the cabin, he'd spent the night packing up their stuff and sleeping fitfully.

The orthopods had rendered their verdict on Wilson's wrist and knee – sprains that would resolve with rest and a little rehab. An ultrasound had ruled out internal injury. So, that left Wilson with a chest tube and various aches and pains and left House escaping at least three days of Clinic duty.

He continued onto Wilson's room without stopping to read his chart. A call to the charge nurse earlier this morning confirmed that the patient was doing well, thank you. Pain meds had ensured a decent night's sleep, the chest tube drainage had subsided, vitals were strong. It was up to the admitting physician, the nurse was careful to point out, but in her opinion, the tube would be pulled later today and Wilson might be released as early as tomorrow.

So, other than the usual nagging in his leg, House had much to make him smile. That smile, however, vanished the minute he entered Wilson's room. Wilson's mouth had formed a tight line and his lower lip had disappeared. Wilson was pissed.

House scanned the monitors – all good. The Foley was gone, which alone should have been cause for celebration. Wilson was sitting up in bed, with plenty of happy juice flowing through his veins. Since there was no obvious medical reason for Wilson to be pissed, House couldn't escape the sinking feeling that Wilson's sour mood had something to do with him.

The deep brown eyes met his, intense and unwavering. "You told them I was taking anti-depressants," Wilson said without preamble.

"Duh."

"Why? Why did you tell them?"

"Let's see." House glanced skyward, pretending to think about the question, then looked back at Wilson. "Oh, right. That would have been the part of your medical history when they asked about current medications."

"You didn't have to--"

House leaned into his cane with both hands. "You know anti-depressants don't mix with certain meds. What'd you expect me to do? Let them induce a fatal interaction?"

Wilson wasn't appeased. "Well, apparently they decided that if I was taking anti-depressants, I was depressed."

"That would be the usual reason people take anti-depressants."

"And, because I was depressed, I obviously needed to talk to a psychiatrist. So they sent Dr. Blume to evaluate me."

House shrugged. "Okay."

"Not okay."

House hobbled over to the room's only chair and eased himself down. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but it beat standing and this conversation looked like it could take awhile. "So what? You've talked to a shrink before. What's another one, more or less?" He adjusted his position to take pressure off his thigh. "You make up a bunch of nonsense about your mother, they nod, write something useless in your chart and go away."

"He accused me of trying to kill myself."

House was pretty sure his jaw had dropped and, quite frankly, that didn't often happen.

"I told Blume that I'd been off my meds for a couple of weeks. He suggested that, without my meds I was depressed and that my 'accidents' weren't really accidents."

"I hope you told him he was the one who needed a psychiatrist."

"I wouldn't have had to tell him anything if you hadn't felt the need to spill every detail of my life."

House started to blurt out an excuse, a reason. Thought about explaining to Wilson that he'd been worried, would have told that annoying woman with the clipboard anything to make sure Wilson lived. Somehow, he didn't think explanations would improve Wilson's mood. Better to let Wilson vent; he'd deal with the repercussions later.

"I finally managed to convince him I wasn't suicidal," Wilson continued. "So then what do you think he said?"

House looked down; obviously, Wilson was going to tell him and, equally obviously, he didn't even want to hazard a guess.

"He suggested that my accidents were subconscious attempts to get attention."

Wilson and Munchausen's. Now House had heard it all. "And he got all this from the fact you took some anti-depressants?" House groaned inwardly at the mere thought that Wilson was actually buying any of this. "There's a reason they call accidents accidents. Because they don't happen on purpose."

Wilson pointedly looked toward the window and away from him.

House wasn't following this. Did Wilson have some sort of masochist complex? Wilson was one of the most popular guys in the hospital. Why would he need to hurt himself to get attention? A flash pain stabbed across his thigh. He gripped his leg, willing the muscle to settle down.

"You okay?" came Wilson's voice from the bed.

After a moment, House looked up to find the anger in Wilson's eyes replaced with concern. "Just trying to get your attention." Two could play this "attention" game.

"Ha, ha." Wilson sighed with resignation. "Where are your pills?"

"You're the one in a hospital bed. Stop worrying about me."

"Occupational hazard. Your leg's hurting."

"My leg's always hurting."

They sat in silence for a minute.

"I don't think I fell on purpose," Wilson finally said. "But what if I did?"

"Why'd you see the shrink in the first place?"

"I already told you—"

"Yeah, I know. It's personal." House nearly spat out the last word. Again, he allowed silence to permeate the room. "Something to do with me?" he asked, finally, keeping his tone light and his eyes off Wilson's face.

"Like you said, not everything is about you."

House smiled. "For me it is."

"I just—I just needed someone to talk to."

"That's what hookers are for."

"That's the problem. It's all a joke to you. Even getting cancer was a joke.

"For the last time, I didn't have cancer!"

"That's not the point!"

"Then what is the point? What's got you so upset that you have to spend afternoons with a shrink and the rest of the time downing happy pills?"

"Look at me."

House rolled his eyes and bit his lower lip but allowed his eyes to meet Wilson's.

"What do you see?" Wilson asked.

"Is this one of those exercises you do with your psychiatrist?"

Wilson sighed heavily. "Just tell me what you see."

House shrugged. "I see a 40-year-old oncologist who, were he not a total klutz, would right now be sitting in a ski cabin in front of a fire toastin gooey marshmallows and spilling his life's story but, instead, is stuck in a hospital room with an odd need to engage in some sort of impromptu psychobabble."

"House, I've been divorced three times. I've had sex with a dying patient. My brother's been MIA for a decade. I live in a hotel room. And then the person I thought was my best friend doesn't trust me as a doctor or a friend. And you want to know why I might be a little depressed?"

House found this entire conversation was depressing and only aggravating the pain in his leg. He pulled the Vicodin bottle from his pocket.

"Is Vicodin your answer to everything?"

"It's my answer to the pain."

House was preparing himself for Wilson's retort when a nurse's aide pushed into the room with the small machine that would register Wilson's vital signs. He certainly wasn't going to continue this discussion in front of her and, a quick glance at Wilson showed he was tiring too.

"Need to take your vitals," she announced in the cheery, too loud voice that nursing staff used to flaunt their perceived power over the old, weak and helpless.

Wilson kept his eyes closed as the aide wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm. The whole thing was rather ridiculous, given that Wilson's pulse, BP and respirations were already being tracked by the various monitors attached to his body. But House knew too well from personal experience that hospitals had established procedures and trying to convince anyone that they were duplicative or unnecessary was rarely successful. Besides, it provided a convenient excuse to leave.

Leaning heavily on the arms of the chair, he pulled himself into a standing position, stealing a glance at the chest tube drainage.

"I'm going to see about getting that tube pulled," he said. "I'll check back later."

Wilson didn't answer immediately and House didn't wait for a reply before slipping from the room.