House sat alone in his apartment with the small shoe box in front of him. He had all but forgotten it as it lay under the coffee table. Before he had been too distracted to even remember it, yet alone open it; but now it felt almost like a betrayal. It felt like he had no right to look at the contents. His hands shook as he took off the lid. The last conversation with Wilson flooded his thoughts.

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Wilson seemed nervous as he stepped into House's apartment that night. He had carried a small shoe box under his arm. He sat on the couch and rested the box on his lap. He had so much on his mind.

"Unless its a stash of pornos and beer, I don't want it." House had barely greeted Wilson. His show was on and greetings could wait until the commercial break. He took a swig of his beer and offered it to Wilson.

Wilson shook his head and watched House drain the contents of the bottle. "I lost a patient today; a little girl. I misdiagnosed her." He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes and he didn't want to cry in front of House.

"It happens. Get over it." House had lost a patient today as well and wasn't being particularly patient with his friend today. He knew Wilson was looking for comfort, but House was being selfish. He knew it, and for some reason he couldn't bring himself to care. He hadn't taken his eyes off the TV and didn't need to to know that Wilson was upset.

"How do you just get over it? I cost a young girl her life." Wilson had never wanted a career where he had to make on-your-feet decisions. He liked the stability of oncology. Once you had a diagnosis you could think about the right treatment options. But she hadn't had cancer. If he had known that, she would have survived. He sat facing House's profile, wanting to look in Houses' eyes, but not daring to ask him to turn around.

"If you hadn't done it, someone else would have. Doctors like us are a dime a dozen. No one needs us." House could feel his anger rising up. He knew he should calm down and not take it out on Wilson, but there was no one else around and everyone knew that self control was not one of House's strong suits.

Wilson was only looking for comfort. He had no one else to go to but House. "You..."

House didn't need to hear it to know what Wilson was going to say. Normally it was endearing but tonight House just lost it. He didn't need to hear about his weaknesses. To be reminded of his own failures. He didn't want to offer comfort in any form. "I don't need you, Wilson. I don't need anyone." It was a lie. House hadn't meant it, but his stubborn pride refused to let him retract the statement and apologize. Instead of facing Wilson, House got up and went to the kitchen to get another beer.

Wilson stood up, knocking the box onto the floor under the coffee table and followed House into the kitchen. "You don't need me?"

Here was his chance to take it back; to say he was sorry. "No. I don't need you Wilson." He kept his eyes on the counter, not daring to look at the tears that he knew were welling in Wilson's eyes.

"Fine. I swear, House, I don't even know why I try talking to you. Just forget that I said anything."

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Wilson had stormed out, tears still unshed as he slammed the door. He had forgotten the box and there it had sat while Wilson lay unconscious at PPTH

House opened the box and pulled out random bits of paper. He hadn't known that Wilson could draw. He'd never even doodled at the office, but these were good. He recognized former patients of Wilson that had passed on. Wilson had drawn a portrait of his last wife. House had disliked her immensely. To be entirely honest, he had never liked any of Wilson's wives. He set the drawings down on the couch next to him as he waded through them. They were all dark, a reminder of how he had failed in the past. House knew how much it hurt Wilson when he lost one of his cancer kids. He should have been nicer. House took time to look at each and every drawing as he neared the bottom there were some happier drawing. He had one of House and his team at the office. Tucked at the very bottom of the box was a picture of House sitting at a bar. He knew instantly which bar he was in. He, himself had tucked away a piece of the broken mirror from that fateful night. There were no other mementos of their friendship, and no drawings of Wilson's other friends. Had Wilson been as lonely as he was?

House set the papers back in the box and rested his head in his hands. Wilson had tried to show him. He had asked House for help in the only way he could. For once Wilson had needed him and House had failed him. Ever the same selfish bastard he always had been, he now had to figure out how to fix this.