Just a short chapter from House's POV... have kinda gone

into shock after end of 'Body and Soul' and seeing promo

for 'The C-Word'... surely to God they can't do what it looks

like they're going to do? NOT TO WILSON! I couldn't bear

it... talk about heartbreaking... dreading the last few eps... xxx

'See the stone set in your eyes…

See the thorn twist in your side.

I wait for you.

Sleight of hand, and twist of fate…

On a bed of nails he makes me wait.

And I wait, without you.'

{Sarah Darling: With Or Without You}

The rain-spattered windowpane was pressed coldly against House's forehead as he stared impassively out into the dark street below, condensation misting the glass in front of him with every hot, angered breath he took, utterly hating this time of the night, the pressing, pre-dawn darkness always seeming that much lonelier in the stilled couple of hours before the inevitable sunrise as he pondered the very questions that had him so fucking furious, despite his outward show of simmering silence.

Was Wilson's attacker still awake, or was he sleeping soundly in his bed, without a care in the world?

Would Wilson's attacker even bother to think about the repercussions of his actions tonight, would he know just how many people would be affected by this one event?

Would Wilson's attacker even realize the sheer volume of patients and their families that ultimately relied on his innocent victim, this one man he'd shattered into a million pieces, leaving him physically and mentally incapable of providing both curative treatment and palliative care to those who meant so much to him for the foreseeable future?

Had Wilson's attacker ever had to comfort, intimately examine, bathe and fucking sedate his own best friend all because some perverted fucking bastard couldn't control his most basic, primitive urges?

Had Wilson's rapist ever known what it was to be stripped of everything that made him him, to lose it all so that he had control over nothing, to be frightened like never before, feeling so totally isolated from his own body that he felt trapped in his own skin?

Because right now, and knowing damn well that he'd never be able to forget the unadulterated fear that had battled for dominance within Wilson's muddled eyes as he'd so gratefully succumbed to the Midazolam, House wanted nothing more than to rid this world of the filth that had caused his friend so much fucking pain.

Because it hurt.

And it had hurt when, for the first time since he'd met Wilson, House had realized that his friend couldn't remember just exactly who he was, despite his subconscious leaning into House's touch as he'd lightly trailed his fingertips down Wilson's cheek from his bedside, those expressive, brown eyes that had become a comfortingly permanent fixture in House's life holding nothing but bewildered confusion as Wilson had sleepily gazed so trustingly up to the quite clearly perceived stranger beside him.

House knew it was just the effect of the Midazolam as it had slowly done its job in pulling Wilson into the land of sleep, leaving him with nothing but his gut instinct to rely on as he'd gone under at House's hand.

He knew that.

But even so, those few minutes of Wilson not having the foggiest clue as to his best friend was had been more than enough for House, the recollection now as he absently watched some woman pulling her coat tighter around herself as she briskly walked the otherwise deserted street below sending a shiver up his spine that had nothing to do with the chilled night.

He only turned away from the window then to glance quickly across the dark room when he heard one of his bed's slumbering occupants shifting, his forehead tingling numbly from the sudden loss of the cold glass as he idly watched Cuddy snuggle up behind the still zonked Wilson, subconsciously wrapping her arm around his waist and settling there, comfortable once more in her practical spooning of the unaware Oncologist.

She'd ended up there after Wilson had successfully passed out, grabbing a quick shower whilst House had stayed with him before swapping with the Diagnostician so he too could go and gladly wash himself of the evidence of this night. When House had come back from showering and making doubly sure that the apartment was safely locked up, it had been to find Cuddy dozing on his bed behind Wilson, practically perched on the edge as she slept and dressed in the make do pajamas House had left out for her in the form of one of his own t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants, her dirtied clothes in a small pile on the floor next to the bed.

House hadn't had the heart to wake her, knowing she'd be mortified in the morning when she realized she'd spent the night sleeping in the same bed as two of her Department Heads, the potential for embellished gossip to run riot in PPTH huge.

Under any other circumstances, House wouldn't have been able to resist doing most of that embellishing himself, blowing up the rumors to make them a hell of a lot more than they were – it wouldn't take much really… one 'accidental' mention of the word 'threesome' in the presence of a keen ear and the infamous PPTH rumor mill would go into meltdown.

Instead, House had only been able to bring himself to smile tiredly to himself, jostling his boss from the edge of the mattress and closer in towards Wilson, before tucking them both in, feeling weirdly like some sort of freaky mother hen as he'd taken up his guarding post at the window, despite being thoroughly knackered himself.

Just why he'd thought standing there alone in the cold darkness would help, House didn't know, the whole horrible situation feeling strange to say the least, even more so now that he was observing his two closest friends unwittingly sleeping in a more intimate position than most married couples did, his troubled gaze lingering fondly on the peacefully sleeping features of his damaged best friend.

Why had it happened?

The painful thought flared suddenly from the very depths of him, rearing its ugly head to strike him like a physical blow to the chest, his breath catching in his throat with the paranoid onslaught that quickly followed.

Had Wilson been raped by someone he knew?

How did they even know where he lived?

Had they followed him home?

Had they known he was in the apartment alone?

Had they planned it?

Had they been watching him for weeks, working out Wilson's routine, right down to the last detail?

What if they came back?

What if they did it again?

What if they did more than rape his best friend this time…

What if they went that one step further?

What if they killed him?

The barrage of quite frankly terrifying thoughts instantly tore House's attention back to the window again, his searching eyes hungrily roaming every darkened corner of the world outside, delving into every murky alleyway, half hoping and half fearing that he'd see something, anything, that would somehow answer those burning questions.

Was Wilson's rapist out there now, spinelessly hiding in the shadows?

It was sickening to think, but if he was, House knew he would never find him, no matter how much he longed to rip his worthless little throat out.

And so it was that the fraught Diagnostician eventually found himself sighing bitterly as he gave up to finally limp to the bed and carefully climb in on Wilson's other side, his leg doing its usual nightly routine of absolutely killing him, the cramping muscle refusing to ease despite his hopeless kneading of it.

House froze in his administrations only when Wilson stirred next to him, the sandwiched Oncologist frowning slightly as he appeared to try and smother his face into the pillow he was currently sharing with his watchful best friend, his altered breaths wafting gently over House's cheek as he made these funny little noises.

And it was then that House realized the common term used to coin what Wilson was doing right now, knowing now why the man unwittingly had most women falling at his feet.

Because he was snuffling.

Actually snuffling.

House smirked – this was typical. He should have known Wilson was a snuffler… being the epitome of 'adorable' to 90% of the opposite sex didn't cease to be every night just because he went to sleep.

Saying that, there was a fine line between 'snuffling' and 'whimpering'… and right now, House was inclined to think that Wilson was progressively leaning more towards the latter.

'Hey, Wilson… Wilson, wake up,' whispered House, turning more onto his side to face his friend, taking Wilson's hand in his own to gently squeeze it.

'Wilson!'

'Wh..what?' mumbled Wilson groggily into their pillow, scrunching his nose as he looked up to sleepily blink at House.

'You okay?'

''M fine… go to sleep, House,' groaned Wilson quietly, not even noticing that his hand was clutched in House's and sounding completely like his usual exasperated self as he snuggled back down into the pillow to close his eyes again, having never really woken up properly in the first place.

And House was sure he most probably did think he felt fine… he should do, the Midazolam wouldn't have worn off yet in its ability to artificially shield Wilson from the pain, wrapping him in a drugged cocoon to keep him safe from the raw memories of what he'd just gone through, masking the horror that he was incapable of escaping on his own.

But that was all drugs did… they masked.

House knew that better than anyone.

And the saddening proof of that lay before House now, the Diagnostician sighing knowingly as he gingerly released Wilson's hand to thumb away the single tear that had been trickling down Wilson's cheek since he'd sleepily answered his friend's initial query, a single tear that spoke volumes as to the true state of Wilson's mind.

He clearly wasn't fine at all.

And as House followed suit to finally close his eyes in an attempt to fall asleep, he couldn't help but know that tomorrow was going to be a long day.

A very long day indeed.