Hi everyone! A belated Christmas prezzie for

you :) Hope you had a lovely Christmas - thought

I'd post this in time for New Year! Thank you

again for reading and reviewing this, it really does

mean a lot. I hope you all have a Happy New

Year and 2013 brings you all you hope for :) xxx

'And I don't want the world to see me,

'Cause I don't think that they'd understand…

When everything's made to be broken,

I just want you to know who I am,

I just want you to know who I am,

I just want you to know who I am…

I just want you to know who I am.'

{Goo Goo Dolls: Iris}

-[H]-

'Damn it!'

Wilson's heart sank guiltily at the incensed curse that he heard House hiss under his breath from down the hallway, his already churning stomach clenching horribly as he made his way slowly from the bathroom towards the dimly lit bedroom, where House had been clashing around ever since he'd stormed out on a bewildered Wilson around forty minutes earlier.

Wilson hadn't known what to do then, lost as he was. Oh, he'd known what he'd wanted to do… what he'd wanted to do, desperately, unashamedly, was to get up and follow House to wherever he'd ended up and do whatever it took to make it all better again. In an almost child-like leap of logic, born entirely of his recently intensified dependency on this one, lone man, Wilson undoubtedly knew he would have done anything, literally anything, to have House back on side again, to have the only person he needed in this fucked up mess, in this fucked up world, stood with him again, anchoring him through this living hell.

The adult in him, the House-monitor, the House-carer, the House-equal, however, had thought on, ruthlessly quashing that vulnerably childish, almost primal, instinct despite it running so strongly through him that it was almost painful. No, the adult in him, the Oncologist turned unwilling patient, the near-suicidal rape victim, the consumer of fever-causing meds, the still possible petri dish of sexually transmitted infections, had decided to take the only safe course of action that seemed to be available to him at that point, whereupon he'd somehow managed to strip off and exhaustedly drag his sorry ass into the now tepid water to just lie there, dizzily nauseous again and willing the fever to go down, finishing off what House had started even if his best friend was nowhere to be seen.

The best friend who's nowhere to be seen for a reason, dumbass.

The best friend you're about to take down with you.

The best friend you really, really don't deserve.

It was an onslaught of vicious self-doubts that continued to plague Wilson even now as each careful step took him closer towards House, a balancing hand guiding him along the wall, the bath having helped his fever a little, but not much. It had done nothing for the nausea, or the head spinning, or the suspicion that his legs were about to give way beneath him, and it was with a dry mouth and the constant urge to gag that Wilson couldn't help but fear that this clean, white t-shirt was not destined to stay clean, or white, for much longer.

He was so tired of feeling like this, so tired full stop, that he could have fallen to his knees right there in the hallway and wept.

Because Wilson hated this. And he hated being sick. Above all else, above headaches, diarrhea, fatigue… above all else he hated vomiting, and had done since he was little. His job hadn't helped in lifting that fear. If anything it had only reinforced it, nausea and vomiting one of the end of life symptoms that could be so difficult to get under control, he knew. He'd seen first hand the drain it had on each of his patients at some point or other, particularly with those who had fallen victim to the likes of gastro-intestinal cancers, and he made sure to do his damn hardest to be hot on the prescriptions of anti-emetics for any patient of his who complained of even the slightest sickly feeling.

He made sure because he knew what it was to be so scared of vomiting that you'd do anything to avoid it, changing your breathing, counting in your head, trying to take your mind off it and the toilet you know in your heart you'll end up chucking up into, and consequently being able to think of nothing else, that hot spike of queasiness growing ever stronger in your stomach as it works its way up your throat…

To have that feeling plaguing you permanently… it was just exhausting.

And whenever Wilson did find himself inevitably on the bathroom floor, shakily hugging the toilet, all he ever longed for, like always, like most people, was his bed. His warm, soft bed where he could wrap up and fall sleep until it all went away.

And now he couldn't even have that thanks to the evil, evil bastard who'd made real what had previously been nothing more than an imagined horror, a horror that would never happen to him, surely.

And yet it had.

And all it took was a fleeting, pointless 'don't think about it' before he was back there again, like he was always going to be, getting brutally pummeled into the back of his own couch, in his own cozily lit living room, the echoes of those fisted, calloused hands as they'd beaten him so cruelly to his own wooden floor rushing over him now with every sickened breath, his own arms trapped beneath him with the crushing weight of this sweaty intruder, whose foul breath had been so stickily hot as he'd breathed so heavily down Wilson's neck in perverted anticipation of what, unbeknownst to Wilson, was still to come, hissing vile words that had frozen him with the cold, unnatural, unmistakable feel of that knife edge, trapping him there for what he'd then come to realize, with unprecedented terror, what was now inevitable as he'd felt the insistent tugging of his belt, his pants, his underwear, any helpless attempt to shout out, to scream, to move blocked with the dirty hand, the dirty body, of this heaving stranger as he'd so easily forced Wilson's trembling legs apart with his knee, that same tremor shattering his stammered voice as he'd weakly begged for it all to stop, begged for this masked man to please, please not go there, he couldn't go there, but he didn't listen, he didn't want to listen, he didn't care and he.. he…

He was going to be sick.

House hadn't even known Wilson was there until he heard a low moan from the hallway, dropping the pillow that was the last touch to the newly made bed and limping quickly to the bedroom doorway, where he caught a lasting glimpse of Wilson tumbling messily back into the bathroom again, already heaving.

He hadn't been able to face Wilson after what gone down in the bathroom before. He couldn't. Anger just hadn't cut it when it came to describing the feeling that had him so fucking furious, because it was so much more. He'd faintly recognized that bottomless pit of cold grief that seemed to hollow you from the inside out, constricting his throat, simmering away behind tired eyes, helpless to do anything but take it out on the bed as he'd ripped the bedclothes off of it, his dirty clothes as he'd whipped them from all over the floor to practically slam them into the laundry basket, the bedside table that he'd kicked hard in protest at this crappy, crappy world, leaving him with nothing but a sore toe on his right foot, like that damn leg wasn't messed up enough as it was. Because it was a thoroughly, well-established fact that he did not do change well.

And why should he?

Wilson was his constant, his base, his go-to man for anything he needed in every area of his life, the single person in a lifetime of people that had solidly stuck by him no matter what, always looking out for him, always doing his best for him, always standing up for him when no one else would.

Put simply, he was his best friend.

To have that change in any way at all just wasn't a possibility for House.

To have any of that change in the most devastating way possible, to lose it all completely, to lose Wilson completely…

No.

No.

Unsurprisingly, despite wanting to shake Wilson so hard that he'd make that stupid, stupid idea fall right out of his head, despite wanting to throttle him with his own bare hands, House didn't think twice about going to him now, the wholly expected pangs of guilt for his earlier outburst resonating through his chest when he found Wilson slumped at the toilet, leaning over it with his forehead resting in the palms of his hands, his trembling fingers raking anxiously through hair that hadn't seen a brush for days now, trying so desperately to stave of the inevitable with slow, deep breathing, with the closing of his eyes, shivering so hard under a clammy sweat that he was inadvertently making the urge to gag even worse.

It was a scenario that House had walked in on time and time again over the past week or so, the sight of his usually composed best friend so depleted never getting any easier to bear witness to, no matter how many times this had happened now.

'We'll be on first name terms with this toilet soon,' commented House quietly, slowly lowering himself down to take his usual seat on the edge of the tub where he could stretch his leg out and stay with Wilson for as long as he needed him to, apprehensively watching the younger Doctor on the floor at his feet.

Wilson couldn't really say anything back to that immediately, seeing as he couldn't bring himself to open his mouth just then for fear of throwing up, knowing how pathetic he was being but really not giving a crap at that point for how he looked. It took a couple of minutes, and a couple of failed attempts, before he could mumble something that was nothing short of unintelligible to House.

'Jesus, speak up will you? I've heard mice fart louder than that.'

Even with his head halfway down the toilet bowl, feeling like utter crap, a somewhat irritated Wilson couldn't help the mental eye roll.

'I said,' he began faintly, taking a couple of uncertain breaths before carrying on, 'I said you don't have to stay.'

He couldn't bring himself to open his eyes and look up to House then, the cold dread for his friend's honest as always answer that sat heavy in his stomach doing nothing to help his so far successful attempt to stave off the vomiting.

He didn't want House to go, no matter what he said.

Of course he didn't want House to go.

'You'd have no one to hold your hair back for you if I didn't stay,' pointed out House carefully, helpfully useless as always, at last earning himself a sideways glance from an obviously exhausted Wilson that gave House just enough time to offer him a reassuring smirk from above, all the while, tellingly, having moved not an inch further towards the doorway.

It was a small, but definite, exchange that lifted the laden atmosphere slightly, both men choosing to stay comfortably silent until Wilson finally felt ready to slowly kneel back from the toilet, where he took a deep, shaken breath before settling back against the wall, the tiles cool on the back of his shoulders and head as he reluctantly met the searching gaze of his best friend at long last.

House didn't usually sugar-coat any opinion he had to offer, and the fact that Wilson was clearly struggling to find his way through this endless hell wasn't about to change that, sharp blue eyes boring into the huge, brown wells that wearily held him.

'Well, it's official. You look like shit,' he declared, absently rubbing his thigh as he took in the pale heap of lethargic Oncologist that was his best friend, who tiredly cut in before House could really get going with the Wilsonesque lecture that was on the tip of his tongue.

'Of course I look like shit. In case you hadn't noticed, I've had my head stuck down this stupid toilet for the best part of a week now, vomiting Christ knows what 'cause I've hardly eaten a thing – apologies for not staying pretty enough for you while I did that!'

House couldn't suppress the surge of frustrated exasperation that flared within him at that point, biting back before he had a chance to process what was coming out of his mouth.

'Yeah, and the only way you're going to get back to being pretty-boy number one is if you close your eyes and sleep, Wilson!' he snapped back immediately, his tone sharp as he folded his arms in an almost mirror image of Wilson as he too curled his legs up and defensively crossed his arms from the floor, throwing House a sulky glance before looking down to mumble sullenly into his lap:

'I'm not pretty-boy number one.'

'No, you're not – 'cause you look like shit,' reiterated House emphatically, deliberately antagonizing Wilson and sighing with ill-disguised annoyance, 'if you recall, I did say that a minute ago before you went all bitchy on me. Now stop deflecting, pretty-boy-who's-not-so-pretty-anymore, and admit, just this once, that maybe I'm right and you need to sleep. You're driving yourself crazy here. You know you are.'

It didn't take a genius to know where this was all headed, and Wilson, despite wanting so badly to do just that and curl up in bed to get a full eight hours rest, was terrified. He was mortified at the hot, defeated tears that pricked bitterly at the corners of his eyes then, a great wave of dread crashing over him as he stared at his lap, biting his lip hard against the sobs that choked him.

Because he was so overwhelmingly ashamed that he'd been reduced to this. The youngest ever Head of Oncology at PPTH, and here he was trying not to break down crying on House's bathroom floor, mourning, like always, for his old life, his life before that unimaginably awful night, a simple life where something as natural, as vital, as a peaceful sleep was taken for granted.

He'd never take sleep for granted again.

Just like he'd never take being safe in his own home for granted again.

It wasn't until he felt House lightly squeezing his shoulder that Wilson looked up, startled to find his best friend crouching in front of him despite the ongoing pain of his leg, his voice a soft assurance when he spoke.

'He can't hurt you here. No one can. I won't let them, Wilson, I promised you that. I'll always promise you that, no matter what I say in the heat of the moment.'

Maybe it was the completely unusual rationality of that sentiment, maybe it was the undying commitment that weaved through every syllable, through every unknowingly tender whorl of those blue eyes, he didn't know – all Wilson knew was that he was barely managing to hold it all together as he swiped furiously at the tears that spilled over then, clearly restless in the corner he felt trapped in, a corner that he wanted so desperately to escape from, a corner that he'd never wanted to stay sat in more.

Was it really so wrong, so awful, to want to evaporate into tiny, invisible pieces and just… float away?

God, what he'd give to be able to just shut his eyes and escape it all.

Maybe not forever.

He wasn't allowed to have forever. House had seen to that.

But just for a bit.

'Come on,' asked House of him softly, tentatively offering his hand to the wrecked man before him, 'come and get some sleep.'

It took both of them a little by surprise when Wilson finally conceded to House's request and reached out to cautiously take the Diagnostician's proffered hand, using it to unsteadily pull himself up with him.

Wilson knew before he was even fully to his feet that that simple motion had just tipped him over the edge, his heart dropping and the nausea crashing over him in an almighty wave a moment later that had him retching before he knew it, stomach-heaving retches that saw nothing more than water and bile come up at this point as he lurched for the toilet, echoing retches that brought him to his knees once more in a fruitless bid to alleviate the familiar spasms of aching cramp that tore though his abdomen as he heaved, his head killing him as the little room spun in a sickly blur that forced his disorientated eyes shut yet again.

His world tilted on its axis anyway, his grip on the toilet seat white-knuckled as he clung to it, realizing somewhere that he was being propped up by House as he fought to get back to a feeling that remotely resembled normal.

Wilson just couldn't muster the energy to give a shit for the sad fact that he was silently sobbing now, even more so when he felt the warm weight of House's arm coming to rest around his shoulders as his best friend more than lived up to that title in hunkering down on the floor next to him to wait for the retching to subside again, his leg be damned.

'M'sorry,' whispered Wilson eventually, exhaustedly hanging his head and keeping his eyes closed as he breathed deeply in a last ditch attempt to will this bastard nausea away, not surprised in the least when it resolutely stayed put.

Neither, it seemed, was House.

'You're not stopping the meds, no matter how many times we have to do this,' he declared quietly, not needing to see Wilson's face to know what he'd be thinking, the stopping of those meds a sure fire, thoroughly tempting, way of ending the associated nausea, 'Even if I have to take you to a hospital, I won't let them stop those meds. I'm your attending. I'll take you to PPTH to get my way if I have to.'

'You're not… admitting me… anywhere,' breathed Wilson slowly from behind closed eyes, certain that he'd rather stay on this stupid, swaying floor forever more than face the pitying, disbelieving stares of his colleagues once they learned of the reason for his being there in the first place.

God, even the thought of it made him cringe horribly. He couldn't bare that. He wouldn't bare that.

'Wilson, you're my patient. I promised you two weeks ago that I wouldn't admit you, but I told you then I wouldn't be taking any chances either. Not with you. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is. You're staying on these meds, and if that means you're going to keep vomiting with a fever, then you need IV fluids at the very least. And an anti-emetic. I haven't got any of them here, and if Cuddy sees the state you're in then she'll have you admitted no matter what any of us say. You know she will.'

'She didn't.. she didn't last time,' muttered Wilson distractedly as he tried his hardest to not retch again right there and then, referring back to that night two weeks ago, the first time in his life he'd required the use of Midazolam, a drug previously known to him for relieving anxiety and agitation in his patient's only.

'Last time you weren't close to malnourishment and dehydration thanks to a kick-ass fever and non-stop chucking your guts up,' pointed out House firmly, knowing he was only voicing what Wilson already knew at heart, 'Last time you were behaving exactly as expected given the circumstances, hence the meds Cuddy brought with her. To have you hospitalized would have made things a whole lot worse, not better. You weren't sick then, not like you are now. She can't bring everything here, Wilson. Cyclizine, saline, a drip stand, cannulas… if she authorized that, it'd be more than her job's worth.'

There was a beat of terse silence before Wilson spoke up.

'Well.. well what about you?' he asked shakily, looking up at House now as he grew evermore frantic, 'You could do it, you've gotten away with worse in the past!'

'Yeah, when my patient wasn't you, and they were in a hospital bed surrounded by Doctors and Nurses watching them twenty four hours a day!' shot back House exasperatedly, hating himself for this but knowing that a thoroughly panicked Wilson was long overdue a hospital admission considering the state he was in. He was already pushing it by not relenting on the meds, and mean as that made House feel at the moment, he couldn't have Wilson run a higher chance than necessary of contracting HIV thanks to his rapist. He just couldn't.

Hence the catch 22 situation they were currently right in the middle of, a ridiculously obvious situation that House knew he should have foreseen but, perhaps stupidly, hadn't.

He could diagnose a rare disease from the vaguest of symptoms, relentlessly work out each and every complex puzzle that arrived at his door in the form of yet another nuisance patient, could predict the likely course of action of hundreds of different conditions, and yet fail, quite spectacularly, to predict what would happen if you treated your best friend at home who was eating and drinking very little, who wasn't sleeping properly, who was out of his mind with fear and self-loathing, and who, to top it all, was in the middle of a course of vicious prophylactics that used his body like a kids' playground.

Anybody could have seen where all this was headed, before it had gotten to the stage where hospitalization was seeming more and more like the most sensible option here.

Because now it was a case of either following his head in admitting Wilson, where he could receive the proper treatment he needed and be home again in no time with all the meds he needed to remain somewhat comfortable for the rest of the prophylactic course, or following his heart in finding some way of getting hold of the meds and equipment that would let Wilson stay here, in the privacy of the apartment, while he got well enough to face others again when he was ready and only then. On his own terms.

'I can't go in, House,' pleaded Wilson desperately, knowing he'd be recognized in any of the local hospitals as PPTH's Head of Oncology, knowing how word would soon get back on the grapevine to his own colleagues, word of him being on prophylactics, of why he was on them in the place…

Because he was raped…

No…

Oh my God, you're kidding?

Honestly…

Christ, poor man…

Poor thing…

Poor Doctor Wilson…

Why would someone do that?

Would they do it for no reason?

Surely not.

You're saying it was somehow his fault?

Could be.

That's what I heard…

He's a man, it's not like someone could just pin him down, is it?

But what if they did?

What if that's exactly what happened?

They'd never know. They'd always be guessing, wondering what happened, never looking past it, never seeing him again, seeing only a broken man who had been violated via the most shameful, soul shattering means…

He was now first and foremost, in the eyes of others, in his own eyes, a rape victim.

And pity would surely follow him for the rest of his time at PPTH.

Wilson couldn't hold back the gasped sob that burst forth from him then, shaking under the arm that pulled him into the warm hold of his best friend, holding him so tightly as he broke down, hugging him just as he had done when he'd found him broken and battered on the condo floor that fateful night after work that seemed so long ago now.

And this… well, it was breaking House's heart all over again.

'Please…' begged Wilson breathlessly into the familiar contours of House's chest as he curled into him, his voice hoarse with the helpless tears and cold fear of a truly desperate man, 'please, House, just.. just get someone to bring it all here. Anyone. Just don't take me to hospital. Don't tell Cuddy. Please. I can't face them, House. I can't.'

It became clear to both of them then, particularly House, that Wilson was, and always would be, his weak point.

Because House found himself saying 'okay' as soon as Wilson stopped speaking, the Oncologist sagging with visible relief in his arms as they sat there together on the cold bathroom floor, silent but for the weak breaths and swallowed moans of the younger man as he let his head fall heavily to House's shoulder, still nauseous as ever with the tiled walls of the bathroom going into free fall as the room lurched before his unfocused eyes…

'Cameron, it's me. I need you to come over here and bring some stuff with you. You tell a soul about this and I'll have your career nose dive before it's even off the ground, you got that?'

For his part, Wilson hadn't even felt House rooting for his cell, much less hear House dial her number… he hadn't really heard anything save the rush of blood that thundered in his ears as he registered that he was suddenly very, very hot and very, very dizzy.

A bit like last time, actually.

He vaguely pondered that there had been no need for the harsh words directed at Cameron there – she was a nice enough girl, after all – before his lolling head crashed once more into House's shoulder and he gladly passed out, the limp Oncologist propped up now by House alone as he shifted quickly to hang on to the scarily pale, lifeless form of his best friend.

If he sounded a tad anxious to his ex-fellow, he didn't really give a shit.

He didn't really have time to.