thanks for the reviews. i'm slowly getting into some medical stuff here...which i'm not fully knowledgable in yet, so let me know if i mess anything up or if you have any suggestions. keep reviewing please! thanks. - the management.

2.

Wilson squinted against the bright light that flooded into his office.

"Wilson?" came a female voice from the door.

James Wilson was on his back laying on his couch in his office. The lights were off and blinds closed- not that they made a difference since it was getting dark outside.

It had been such a long day.

The thin beam of light that stretched from the hall beyond the door had landed right on Wilson's face, so he shifted slightly to get out of its path.

Cameron entered and closed the door behind her, making the room dim again. "Are…you alright?" she asked quietly and instantly regretting the question. Of course he wasn't doing alright. His girlfriend was dead and his best friend was in critical condition. She wearily walked over towards the couch, arms crossed, unsure of what to say. Instead she stared at him with pity written all over her face.

After a moment, she squatted down to eye level with him. "Wilson…you should go home. Get some rest."

At first he said nothing and just stared at the ceiling above, shaking his head slightly. He took a shaky breath and sat up, making room for Cameron on the couch.

"I…I can't. She's not there." He whispered. "It's not even my home anymore."

Cameron, who was now at his side, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Now would be a good time to tell him, she thought. News of his friend might be of some relief to him. "House is awake."

Wilson went rigid and looked away. "Great," he mumbled coldly.

Cameron frowned. "What's wrong?" she asked, feeling stupid again for asking stupid questions.

"He should be dead." Wilson said in a voice that did not belong to him. A voice that dripped with bitterness. He looked at Cameron with red, teary eyes. "Not her."

Cameron stared speechlessly into Wilson's deep, brown eyes for a moment before she finally realized. Of course. He blamed House for Amber's death. She watched him heave in and out shaky breaths. "Wilson…he's your friend-…"

"I don't care. He takes-…" he paused, "He takes everything, it seems. He-"

"You can't blame him for this. He didn't want this any more than you did. It's not his fault. It's not one's fault. It was only an accident-"

"But if it weren't for him she…" his felt a hitch in his breathing, his voice now wavering, "…she wouldn't have been there…she'd be alive…Amb..er…"

At the sound of her name, he gasped and quickly buried his face in his hands. "Oh God…Oh God…" he whispered.

Cameron slid her hand to his other shoulder so that she now held a sobbing Wilson in a loose embrace. She had never been very close to Wilson, but her heart bled for him right now as he wept there in the dark office. She knew how he felt. She remembered how it was when her husband had died.

Cameron knew.

What she did not know, however, was the rage of mixed emotions of sorrow, bitterness and hate that Wilson was feeling now.

--

He didn't know why, but Wilson found himself wandering in the direction of the ICU some thirty minutes later.

He's your friend.

Wilson felt partially foolish for wanting to blame everything on House. But blaming it on him made it easier, for some reason. What he didn't understand, he thought as he slowly trudged down the hall, is how Amber wasn't angry about her passing.

It wasn't fair. Nothing was fair.

He stopped in front of the doors of the Intensive Care Unit as they slid open. Beyond them was a sleeping House and a napping Cuddy in the chair next to him.

He didn't deserve that kind of support from her or from anyone. He didn't deserve what he had right now…life.

Half a second later, Wilson could have kicked himself for such a thought. Why was he standing here wishing death upon someone…especially someone he considered his family?

As he stood and pondered these thoughts, he noticed that House was beginning to stir. He watched and waited as House's weary blue eyes slowly wandered around the room and eventually found Wilson's teary brown ones.

As they stared at each other for a moment, Wilson realized that he couldn't handle this right now. Somewhere, deep down inside, he was somewhat relieved that his best friend was ok. But for the moment, he couldn't help but hate him. At the same time he hated himself because he also knew that if he could, he would trade House's life for Amber's in a heartbeat. In a way, he already had.

He was so confused.

With one last glance, he turned and left.

--

Oh, God.

House leaned his head back on the pillow. The stupid lumpy hospital pillow. The stupid hospital that was keeping him alive. Oh so bloody well alive.

He hates me. He really does.

He could sense it in his cold stare…that stare that said absolutely nothing to him. He rightly deserved it though. It was his fault that his girlfriend was dead. How do you make up for something like that? How could someone possibly forgive another for such a thing?

It wasn't fair. Because misanthropic drug addicts should die in bus crashes. The young, do-gooders in love should walk away clean.

Oh, how that white bus looked so good to him right now. There was nothing there. And yet, nothing seemed so marvelous.

House looked to his left at an exhausted looking Cuddy, who apparently hadn't left his side since he first woke from the coma.

Coma.

Seizure.

Heart attack.

Concussion.

So much had happened to him. It was amazing he was still alive.

He closed his eyes, keeping Cuddy's hand in his own. It was comforting, even though he felt he shouldn't be comforted at the moment. He let his mind wander back to the past days events. It was ironic…he had put so much time and effort into trying to remember it all…and now all he wanted to do was forget every bit of it.

He felt himself slipping away as everything began to replay in his mind, this time in slow motion, as if wanting to torture him with it all over again.

--

The jerk of his hand is what stirred Cuddy at first. She lifted her head from the back of her chair and looked over at House in the bed next to her. She kept a gentle grip on his hand and watched as his head would occasionally twitch from side to side. His lips moved slightly, as if trying to say something, but no words came out. He must be dreaming.

"House," she said quietly. She knew he needed rest, but he also needed a neuro check as well, just to check his concussed head.

When he didn't respond to his name, she leaned forward and shook his shoulders. "House," she said again, this time a little louder.

He let out a small gasp and jerked his head to the side as if startled. The movement must have hurt his aching head even more because following that he groaned.

"House, wake up," Cuddy demanded, now on her feet and hovering over him with worry. She watched as he muttered something completely incoherent and began to think that he was hallucinating again. Which was not a good sign with a head injury like his. She decided that he needed another head scan, to check the swelling.

The last thing she needed was for him to slip back into a coma.