Hi everyone!

New update for you :) For all my American readers, and

any others affected, my thoughts and prayers are with all

of you and your families and friends in the aftermath of

Hurricane Sandy. Love to you all xxx

'There's a place, that I know.

It's not pretty there and few have ever gone.

If I show it to you now, will it make you run away?

Or will you stay… even if it hurts?

Even if I try to push you out, will you return?

And remind me who I really am?

Please remind me who I really am…'

{Kelly Clarkson: Dark Side}

-[H]-

'Oh, for God's sake - will you lot quit with the House/Wilson differential? We're not ill, we haven't eloped, and neither of us are your damn patient. D'you think Wilson would be simultaneously pleasuring two naked chicks, right now, if he was?'

Wilson practically snorted the prophylactic pills he was half way through taking at that far too casually stated, thoroughly lewd comment, managing to throw a preoccupied looking House a reproachful glare amidst the coughing fit that almost had him choking on his own meds.

He received nothing but a classic 'seriously – why are you surprised?' look in return from his jabbering best friend as House insisted on continuing a losing argument down his cell with not one, but all of the ducklings from the kitchen doorway, to which Wilson simply shook his head resignedly once he could breathe again and sat back to pretend to watch yet more crappy TV.

Less than three seconds later and he couldn't help his weary gaze falling back to the various bottles of pills that sat so innocently on the coffee table before him. Zidovudine, Lamivudine, Lopinavir, Ritonavir… these were all names of drugs that Wilson recognized, names that he, as a Doctor, would readily recommend to any patient in need when they offered so many people such hope.

As a Doctor, he revered them.

As a patient, a victim, whatever the hell he was labeled as these days… he hated them. Because he was shattered. Physically, emotionally… he was just totally drained. Those same drugs that the Doctor in him sat in awe of symbolized everything that had gone wrong in his world. One glance, and he could feel the clammy sweat breaking out all over him, he could feel the tingling echoes of the shearing force he'd inflicted upon his inner thighs that night, scrubbing so hard with that damn cloth to rid himself of him. He couldn't help the tremble that still shook his hands, his heart hammering as he closed his eyes, weak remnants of billowing, fiery pain still clawing so deep inside him that he had to swallow back the nausea, his mouth suddenly dry with the continual urge to vomit.

Some would call his symptoms side effects. Normal, expected, simple side effects. Nausea, fatigue, headaches, diarrhea, fever… he had them all, just as House had predicted he would. The fever was mild, but it was there, helped along by his inability to stomach anything more than the mere morsels of food he was managing to tolerate, helped along by the lack of fluids, by the loss of fluids… helped along by his reluctance to sleep. A reluctance that had nothing to do with the meds. A reluctance born simply of the fear that had him rooted to this couch. And that, right there, was becoming the undoing of him, because, God… he needed to sleep. Wilson was so, so tired. He was exhausted, dead on his feet, yet so frightened that of a night, when he curled up on this couch, he kept his eyes wide open to the dark that was willing him to drift off, listening so intently to every tiny noise that he jumped constantly, more often than not giving in to just switch a lamp on and feeling all the more pathetic for doing so. He couldn't close his eyes… he couldn't see those eyes. His eyes.

Not again.

Please, not again.

That, Wilson could control. He dozed restlessly through the day instead, the dreams, nightmares, kept at bay by House's presence. House didn't know his friend was barely sleeping… Wilson hadn't told him. Past his point blank refusal of House's offer to sleep in the same room as him, Wilson had said precisely nothing about this. House was already wound tight with worry for his best friend, he didn't need him losing any more sleep than necessary over him, of all people. He felt guilty enough as it was landing all this crap at House's doorstep in the first place without making it any worse for the Diagnostician.

Nearly two weeks had passed now since he'd been attacked. Two whole weeks, and, consciously, he could barely remember them. And as unsettling as that was, as disconnected from reality as that made him feel, Wilson just couldn't bring himself to even try and remember. It was just too much. Everything seemed to have just merged foggily together in a numb blur of meds, nausea and House, uncharacteristically perhaps, faffing. Two weeks of Cuddy dropping by, her unaware pitying causing him to cringe all the more as she handed over bags of groceries. Two weeks of Wilson barely eating anything House put in front of him, feeling relentlessly sick, his stomach having churned for what seemed like forever now, a lot of those same groceries completely wasted as they inevitably ended up in the trashcan or down the toilet. Two weeks of the minutes and hours running away from him so quickly that he was constantly getting left behind, unable to catch up, the bustling world outside that darkened window feeling like a hellish lifetime away. Two weeks of Foreman, or sometimes Chase, ringing House's cell. Constantly. Investigating. Checking up. Two weeks that seemed to have been spent, day and daunting night, on this couch.

As odd as it was, as much as he knew that his ass would end up more or less melded to the thing, Wilson felt marginally relieved when he was sat right here on House's old couch. This one piece of furniture that had always been waiting to offer him a warm place to sleep when the shit in his life hit the fan. It was his last resort, his one safe place, and it never failed him.

Although, really, it wasn't so much the actual couch that offered him this sense of security, this feeling of being fiercely protected no matter what, was it?

It never had been.

It was the owner.

And, undoubtedly, it always would be.

'Wilson?'

Wilson jumped then, snapped out of his reverie by the mug of coffee that was being held in front of him, looking up just in time to see that now familiar wave of concern ghost across the shadows of House's face as he obligingly took the mug.

He couldn't help coloring slightly.

'Thanks.'

'Yeah, well just make sure you drink it this time,' muttered House as he limped past Wilson to throw himself down next to him on the couch, his worry, as always, coming out in his gruff tone of voice.

He hadn't bothered with all the pleasantries of offering food this time. Not even an Oreo. Because where, a week or two ago, that little snack had gotten Wilson to at least go through the motions of sustaining himself, now… well, now he barely touched a thing. Even something as insubstantial as a cup of coffee, tea, bloody water… he just didn't bother finishing them.

And though it only been a couple of weeks, House couldn't deny that Wilson looked like crap as a result. Those rosy cheeks that used to dimple ever so slightly whenever Wilson laughed, smiled… the mischievous twinkle in his eyes that could brighten House's darkest moods with just one, meaningful glance… at the moment, that Wilson was little more than a distant memory. Because the pallid, sallow man sat before him, dull eyes murky with neglect, ringed with dark shadows of fatigue… this Wilson really was little more than a wasting, haunted shadow of his former self.

And with every passing day, every passing hour, it was all House could do stop himself from jumping up and shaking some life back into his comatose friend, screaming in Wilson's face to just stop it, to just stop giving in so easily to this crappy life, to just stop fading away so fucking quickly, so fucking willingly, because my God it was just… it was just shit.

It was shit, and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

Perhaps mainly due to the fact that there was no puzzle here. There was no seemingly impenetrable mystery to solve. There was no gaping question to work out the answer to and set right again.

Because Wilson couldn't just be fixed with endless testing, the right diagnosis, the right treatment… the diagnosis was obvious. And there was no cure here. There never would be.

All either of them could do, all either of them could hope for, was for time to do the impossible and heal him as it passed idly by.

Despite the fact that, so far, Wilson appeared to be going worse, not better, the further time took him away from the night of his rape, much to House's dismay. It was clear to all and sundry that the more that shattering event became an inherent part of who Wilson was, the quicker he was drowning, weighed down by sheer despair, plummeting through the cold depths of this smothering mindset with nothing to grab hold of as the light above faded inevitably to black, tethered forever to the vile man who'd caused all this in the first place.

His world was crumbling, falling down about his ears, and there was nothing he or anyone else could do about it.

Because at the moment, at that very moment, Wilson couldn't help but feel that this was it. Two stagnant weeks would soon roll over into a month, six months, then a year… his life wouldn't stop just because he'd been forced to grind to a hopeless halt at the hands of a stranger. The world wouldn't stop turning for the sake of James Wilson. It most certainly wouldn't wait for him, would it?

Sickeningly, the cruel fact was that this feeling of complete exhaustion, this crushing feeling of constant humiliation, shame, embarrassment… this feeling of being slowly choked by life itself, bleeding him dry until he was no more, squeezing so unbearably hard, suffocating him… this feeling was permanent. Whereas his symptoms would more than likely disappear with the end of his meds, this feeling was never going to go away.

It was never going to go away.

The thought horrified him. And, strangely enough, it wasn't actually the thought itself that engulfed him in a kind of cold horror… no. It was the calm realization that went hand in hand with it, the automatic response that came to his battered mind immediately.

It was the innate knowledge that he didn't have to run forever.

Because he couldn't run forever. No one could.

Eventually, he would have to give up. He would have to give up running from the utter despair that was slowly catching up to him, that was slowly creeping in, and he would have to give up chasing the life that he'd been robbed of.

And when he did give up… oh, God would it be a relief.

Such a sweet, sweet relief.

Such a sweet, sweet release from this non-existence.

Wilson didn't register the hard lump in his throat until he realized that House was saying something, hands clammy and his voice unsteady when he looked quickly then to his best friend, his head spinning.

'S-sorry… what?'

He could give up now if need be.

It could be so easy.

'The team,' reiterated House patiently, probing blue eyes narrowing imperceptibly as he calmly held the positively terrified gaze of those familiarly strange chocolate eyes before him, sensing a significant shift in Wilson without the young Oncologist having to say a thing, 'They aren't going to lay off with the questioning. I know this is the last thing you want to hear, but… well, I think we're going to have to tell them sometime soon. They know I'm fine, and they're more interested in Uncle Wilson now than the actual patient. Even Taub's started meddling, and that's saying something considering he normally couldn't give a crap about our dear little work family.'

House knew he was treading territory that was nothing short of excruciating for Wilson, given that he still hadn't rang the Police yet. Therefore, logically, he was thoroughly expecting Wilson to react to this suggestion… at the very least, he expected his best friend to try and back out of it, and quite frantically so.

As the man who hadn't even been able to tell his best friend that he had depression, it seemed a perfectly rational expectation to have.

What he hadn't expected was this… a frighteningly distinct lack of any sort of immediate response.

Because Wilson didn't appear to have taken a single word of what he'd just said on board, still staring at him with such blatant dread that House couldn't help but know that the two of them were in different places entirely.

'Are you okay?'

It was a stupid question, yes, but it was out before he knew it, blurted fearfully from his lips around the same time he suddenly found Wilson's rather warm hand clutched beneath his, the Oncologist clinging on back to him like he'd fall away from him right there if he didn't hold on as tight as he could.

Wilson nodded, like he always did, despite feeling completely lost within his own battered mind, despite the tears that were pooling in his tired eyes… despite the fact that, less than a minute ago, he had honestly contemplated the merits of killing himself just to escape this dizzying rat maze that was his own head.

Oh, he was fine. Just peachy, really.

'You're not fucking 'peachy'', came the tersely snapped reply from House, surprising Wilson with his newfound ability to read minds before he realized he must have said that out loud, closing his eyes and leaning gratefully forward into the coolness of House's hand that was now pressed against his hot forehead.

He really didn't feel 'peachy' now that he actually thought about it…

'Crap' was probably more like it.

Feverishly so.

'I don't think I'm well, House,' he mumbled exhaustedly, earning himself a sarcastic snort from his best friend as he suddenly found himself being pulled to his feet, clamping his mouth shut with the disorientating wave of sickness that washed hotly over him. If it hadn't been for House's arm around Wilson's waist, both men were pretty sure Wilson would have ended up on his ass just then.

'Oh, you think?' retorted House, shaking his head as he practically dragged Wilson towards the bathroom, gritting his teeth the whole way against the ongoing protest from his leg in this whole sorry tale. He could happily murder two Vicodin pills, a tantalizing thought that had crossed his mind numerous times over the past two weeks.

'Jesus, Wilson - you're burning up,' he muttered, the younger Doctor feeling like a dead weight, human-shaped hot water bottle next to him. By now, his cheeks had rapidly began to flush, and it didn't take a top Diagnostician to work out that Wilson's previously low grade temp had now made the jolly transition into a raging bitch of a fever.

Saying that, it didn't take a boy wonder fucking Oncologist to figure out that not sleeping for two weeks straight would more than likely give a mild temperature the boot it needed to hit triple figures, especially given that he was already well on his way to malnourishment and dehydration if he didn't get his act together soon.

'Fuck me, like we needed this on top of everything else,' berated House angrily, ignoring the knot of concern in his stomach and unceremoniously dumping a listless Wilson on the toilet seat before he turned to get the bath running, the water bursting forth for a split second before he'd whirled back round again to face the sorry mess that was, up until recently, the most level headed man he knew. Well, on the surface he had been anyway.

Wilson had certainly been the sensible one, at any rate.

'You're a fucking Department Head, Wilson. A Department Head, and the best damn Department Head I know. I'm not stupid, I know damn well that you haven't slept a fucking wink during the night for two weeks running now – how the hell was that going to help anyone? Why didn't you just let me sleep in the same room as you like I offered? Because now, idiot, you're burning up right in front of me and you can't even keep a glass of fucking water down without chucking it back up again. I'm trying my best here, Wilson, I really am, but my God you're doing a damn good job of getting yourself admitted to hospital.'

Wilson said nothing for a moment as he held his pounding head in his hands, his voice practically a growl when he tiredly surmised exactly what he thought of that little outburst from behind closed eyes:

'I don't care.'

Three words that can mean so little or so much, sometimes at the same time.

Three words that can mean nothing more than the simple fuelling of a petty argument in their blatant disregard of another's point of view, or in turn can offer an invaluable insight into the numbed mindset of your best friend.

Three words that, right now, served to halt House in his fraught tirade caused entirely by anxiety-ridden frustration at the pieces Wilson had been scattered into, pieces that House knew he was completely failing to pick up and put back together again here.

The man he called his best friend was like stranger to him at the moment.

'You don't mean that,' he sighed eventually, knowing in his heart even as he uttered that response that Wilson, frighteningly, had probably never been more serious in his life.

'And you don't mean that,' muttered Wilson right on cue, more to himself than anything, still knowing House better than anybody despite being in the throes of a fever that, right now, was seeing him shiver quite uncontrollably as he curled into himself away from House's stare, a stare that he just knew would be nothing short of accusing.

A stare that he just knew would break him if he looked up now.

Christ… he didn't need this.

He didn't need to see his own failure written all over House's face.

He didn't need to see the disappointment, the concern, the pity, the fear, the responsibility, the guilt, the helplessness, the unyielding protectiveness, the anger, the simmering fury for the owner of those cold, grey eyes that haunted every one of Wilson's thoughts, fury Wilson inherently knew would flow true from House given half a chance to see that devastating stranger erased from this world, the associated guilt of which continued to splinter painfully through Wilson every single day…

He didn't need to see any of it.

And he didn't need this stupid damn bath, either.

'And where the fuck do you think you're going?' barked House as Wilson took it upon himself to messily try and get up from the toilet seat, only to find himself easily shoved back down again with House's hand firmly gripping his shoulder, much to his annoyance.

'House, get off-'

'NO!' yelled House, the faint symphony of uncharacteristically obvious panic that threaded through every level of his voice as it echoed around the bathroom, the apartment, suitably surprising both of them with the intensity of that one word.

They both knew it was nothing to do with Wilson's reluctance to get in the lukewarm bath, despite it being the best medical course of action to bring his fever down quickly.

'No,' repeated House, softly this time, held captive by the huge brown eyes that were, thankfully, staring up at him right now with a mixture of defiance, fear and… relief? He couldn't put his finger on it, turning away from the gut-wrenching truth that sat before him to turn the water off, before sitting himself down on the edge of the tub next to Wilson. The silence that inevitably descended was both relieving and completely exposing, leaving House no choice but to take a deep breath and say what he had to say before he talked himself out of it.

'I'm gonna say this once, and once only,' he said quietly, staring intently at his interlocked fingers and avoiding Wilson's gaze as he tried in vain to come up with a way of softening what he was trying to say here.

In the end, much as he usually did, he just came out with it.

'I don't know if you've thought about this, or if you're thinking about it right now, but… but all I know is that it takes something a lot less than getting raped to push people over the edge. It doesn't take much to persuade someone to just… end it all.'

House's blood ran cold when he heard Wilson's breathing tellingly hitch then, closing his eyes briefly against the tightness in his throat before looking up to stare directly at his quite clearly terrified best friend, his best friend who had just practically confirmed what House had dreaded all along.

This conversation, this whole mind-blowing scenario, was nothing short of surreal.

Surreally fucked up.

Big time.

'Wilson, I'm sorry, but if you think I'm gonna just let you go and off yourself, then you've got another thing coming.'

It was out before House knew it, a fantastically insensitive statement that fell from his mouth in an almost disbelieving snort, born entirely of the near hysterical laughter he could feel working its way up horribly from the cold pit of his stomach, despite the telltale burn behind his stricken eyes.

He never had understood how laughing in the face of pure terror did any human any good in any sort of situation. It served no useful evolutionary purpose to have laughter come as the natural reaction to frightening experiences.

And yet here he was, Gregory House MD, feeling like he was about to simultaneously piss himself laughing and vomit profusely at the cheerful news that his best friend, the person he cherished most in this shitty, shitty life, the person who meant absolutely everything to him, was, in fact, suicidal.

All whilst knowing that he had never, in all his life, been more scared than he was now.

He couldn't even work out if that was cruel irony or just plain stupidity.

'House-' began Wilson hesitantly, cut off almost immediately by House once more as he continued in his tirade that was rapidly descending, as expected, from disbelief into indignant anger.

'Oh, and you can rest assured that I'll be right there behind you if you manage it, sunshine. You can bet your bottom fucking dollar I'll be right there.'

Wilson felt like he'd been punched in the stomach, the tone of House's voice nothing short of vicious as he virtually hissed that last sentiment at him, a sentiment that had never even entered Wilson's mind but now seemed so stupidly obvious a reaction from House that he now felt about three inches tall.

'That's not fair,' he whispered shakily, utterly ashamed that he just couldn't stop the trembling of his lower lip as he tried so hard to stave off the tears that were welling once more, flinching with the look that House threw him then, an incredulous look laced with such pure rage that he could barely maintain eye contact with the angered Diagnostician.

'Not fair?' repeated House furiously, blue eyes blazing as he pushed himself up from the edge of the tub to stare down intimidatingly at Wilson, 'Not fucking fair? No, what's not fair, Wilson, is coming home from work one night to find your best friend lying on the floor, having just been raped, and barely fucking alive. What's not fair is knowing that it's all your fault, 'cause if you'd just done the right thing for once, you would have been home on time to kick seven shades of shite out of any bastard who threatened your best friend in any way, never mind fucking raping him. What's not fair is sitting here for what seems like forever, watching the person your world practically fucking revolves around slowly wasting away to nothing as he falls deeper and deeper into his own fucked up head, until he convinces himself that he'd be better off, that I'd be better off, if he killed himself.'

'House, please!'

House was shouting now, not giving a crap that Wilson was on the brink of breaking down right there in front of him, not giving a crap that he was pleading with House to stop, only knowing the aching pain that had engulfed him with the realization that Wilson might not be here tomorrow, next week, next month, next year… the pain in his leg had paled into insignificance with the torrent of chilling fear that swallowed him whole, his voice growing hoarse with the yelling that he couldn't hold back from.

'What's not fair, Wilson, is coming home from work one day to find the only person you give a damn about slumped in the bathroom, long gone with the empty bottle of pills lying next to him. What's not fair is walking next door into your best friend's office to find him sleeping on the couch, only realizing when he won't fucking wake up that he's dead. What's not fair is hearing that damn gunshot ringing off every god damn wall in that hospital, and knowing, even before you find him, even before you seen his brains blown out all over some fucking ceiling, that you've just lost the only thing you value in this world. What's not fair is opening my front door to the fucking vision of you hanging from some fucking belt, or rope, or wire, or.. or something, just.. just swinging there, dead, gone, and expecting me to just carry on like nothing's changed, like you don't even fucking matter!'

His strangled voice caught horribly on that last word, the silence broken only by House's heavy breathing as he stared hard at a silenced Wilson, who was as white as a sheet by this point. What he wanted to say, in his usual snappy tone, was 'Wilson, get in the bath – once your fever breaks you obviously won't be talking this utter crap anymore.'

What came out was nothing like that. In fact, it was nothing at all, for the simple reason that House was frighteningly certain that Wilson would think no differently once his temperature was back down to normal again.

It was a fact that, for once, had left him totally lost for words, whereupon he tore his gaze from Wilson to cast a last, hateful glance at the useless, filled tub before turning his back on both it and his crushed best friend to limp painfully from the room.

For his part, Wilson felt much like he had done that night a couple of weeks ago when House had found him on the floor of their Condo – broken, exposed and overwhelmingly lonely.

Numbingly so.

All the while yearning so desperately for House to find him amidst the ruins of his life and never, ever let him go.