A/N: Thanks for the reviews and follows! Lovely to be back to writing, no matter what the magnitude. I feel my words have been a bit repetitive so be mindful that I have been working on that, and also please excuse any out-of-character phrases or actions, especially from House himself. It's quite difficult to write tender and personal things from House's perspective... but of course you all know that :)

2.

Crunch.

Juice from the apple sprayed like aerosol into the room as House took a large bite, eyeing his team. They filed through the glass doors one by one, each wearing a look of defeat. "Second toxscreen was negative," Foreman stated lamely.

House stopped chewing and cocked his head to one side. "Do you know me?" he pondered uselessly.

"So was the third one," Kutner added with a look of annoyance.

House sighed and set the nearly-whole apple on his desk as Thirteen stared at the charts. "What if the hyperglycemia isn't just a coincidence; what if it's a symptom? The only way we can know is by running an A1C test – figure out how long it's been high."

"More likely that it's high from the two dozen bagels she's eaten this week," Kutner said.

"We should still run the test." Thirteen's green eyes, like daggers, turned to House.

He shrugged. "Sounds good. I'll be sitting here twiddling my thumbs, anxiously awaiting your return." The four of them left the room at his dismissal.

The sun had long since set over New Jersey, but House was still reclined in his office, feet propped up on his messy desk. A case as nonfatal as this didn't quite preoccupy him. This left him alone with his thoughts. Or, better yet, left alone with his giant tennis ball. The soft thwack it made against the wall was constant, even reassuring in its annoyance.

When the phone rang in his office, he answered it on the first ring, but said nothing. Whoever was calling knew he would be here; whoever was calling knew who he was. He didn't need to introduce himself.

"Do you want to come over?" Wilson's voice pierced his eardrum like a bad song. Almost instinctively, House drew the phone away from his ear. He sounded drunk, his voice slick and heavy with the promise of liquor.

"What's wrong? Your hand not good enough company?"

There was a sad sound on the other end of the line – one House couldn't quite place. "House," Wilson simply breathed. Then, he uttered something completely unexpected: "Please."

Something in House changed then, and it was something that he hadn't been sure he was feeling in the first place.

"I told you to get over it earlier, I'll tell you to get over it now," House said coldly. "I'm not coming over so I can entertain your little soap opera. She's dead." He nearly shouted the last two words. He placed the phone on the hook passionately and leaned back in his chair, trying to dull the vicious migraine that had just settled like a mushroom cloud over his frontal lobes.

"Hyperglycemia's a symptom," Taub announced, shoving through the door. House's eyes flew open in surprise. "A1C test showed a consistent blood sugar of over 250."

"That leaves Cushing's –"

"—no physical symptoms and normal cortisol levels rule that out—" Taub interjected.

"—or something's wrong with her pancreas." House stopped walking and racked his brain. "Get an ultrasound and a CT of her abdomen." He paused. "And double check that it's not Cushing's while you're in there."

This left him again alone with his thoughts, which unsurprisingly dwindled to Wilson.

A man who had everything – a great job, great friends, four fully-functioning limbs – let, of all people, the Cutthroat Bitch ruin it like this. He'd been devastated when he'd divorced his wives, of course; he wasn't heartless. But this was a different sort of divorce. This one had been forced. Neither party had given up on the other. There was no loss of love.

He wondered idly of the times he had almost died, letting his cane turn like a baton between his long fingers. Would Wilson have reacted in the same way? If House, the day of Amber's death, had followed suit, dressed in white robes and pure intentions, would Wilson have been doubly upset? It would be a miracle if he survived, he mused. It was a miracle he was alive now.

House reached into his desk for his Vicodin, surprised when the orange bottle did not appear in his fist.

Another light switch moment occurred to him, but this was not like the others.

It was almost as if he had died – at least to Wilson. Vulnerability breeds neediness, and neediness breeds disappointment when people do not provide. Wilson had been reaching for House almost embarrassingly, putting his dignity into House's bitter hands. It wasn't rocket science, House knew; but somehow, he could not bring himself to give in to Wilson's weakness.

Then it hit him, almost as violently as the garbage truck had struck the bus. The missing Vicodin. The alcohol in Wilson's voice. The pain. The agony. The phone call.

House launched himself out of his chair, nearly falling to the ground in his urgency. He needed to go. He needed to go, and he needed to go as quickly as possible. Dragging his useless leg behind him, House hurried toward his motorcycle, leaving the once-bitten apple, oxidized and forgotten, atop his desk.

He knocked once. He knocked twice. By the third time, House had set into a full-on panic. Blood was singing beneath his skin, adrenaline pumping through his entire circulatory system. "Wilson," he shouted sternly, slamming his fists against the door. "Let me the fuck in."

Instinctively, he slapped his thigh, keys jingling in his pocket. He grabbed for them blindly, not sure why he hadn't reached for them in the first place. This wasn't exactly a situation where he felt the need to respect Wilson's privacy, not that he felt that too often anyway.

The key ring sat in his palm. Fuck. Why did he have so many keys? He cursed himself. From now on, no making a spare key for everybody he knew. Certainly didn't seem so funny in situations like this. He finally found Wilson's – it seemed to be the last one he had left to try – and forced the door open, nearly falling on his face as he stumbled into the apartment.

"Hey!" he shouted at nothing, no one. He limped into the living room, his eyes wildly searching for his friend. Without thinking, the name slipped out of his mouth: "James!"

He turned his watch over on his wrist, checking the time. 11:25. What time had he called the office?

Hanson's "MMMBop" sounded from his pocket, no longer funny so much as it was haunting. He silenced it immediately, his eyes reaching for something to grab onto. Finally, he found it.

Leg pain nearly gone, House traveled faster than he had in a while toward the bathroom, his heart sinking as he did. The light was on, shining bright from beneath the door. "James," he called, trying to mask any sort of worry that may escape. "You asked me to come, and I'm here."

As if bargaining with him would change what he was afraid he'd find.

He threw his body into the door and used all the strength he could muster to force it open. A second time. A third time. Just when it seemed his body weight would not be enough, the door broke open, spilling light into the dark living room. The first thing he saw was a handgun, followed by a very unconscious James Wilson sprawled across the floor.

A slur of profanities fell from House's mouth before he could stop them, not that he would've if he had thought to. Before he realized his hands had checked for a pulse, his brain had registered that there wasn't one.

When the fuck did Wilson buy a gun?

His peripheral vision was gone, dark corners pushing in. A whole new sort of claustrophobia crashed down on House – not a feeling of not enough oxygen, or not enough space, but not enough time, not enough words he could say, and not enough things he could do.

CPR was second nature at this point, his lips meeting Wilson's with no hesitance or snide remarks. He tasted like vomit and liquor. House felt no emotions or sensations. He was a robot performing CPR on a stranger. In a bathroom. With a gun, an empty prescription bottle labeled Gregory House, and an empty fifth of vodka mingling dangerously on the linoleum.

"Come on," he pleaded. "Wilson. James. James!"

Another round of CPR. Thirty more compressions, two small breaths. Another. And another.

By the grace of God, a cough and a pulse. A surge of blood from the left ventricle, into the aorta, shooting scarlet blood like a steady stream of lead bullets into the rest of his body.

The next thing he knew, his phone was to his ear. He couldn't even remember who he had called. "I'd ask what on earth you could possibly want, but nothing could surprise me," came the groggy voice on the other end. "I sent your team home."

"Cuddy." He stated. That's who. Of course. Her name tasted funny in his mouth. "Cuddy. I'm at Wilson's, I don't have time to explain. I need you at the hospital."

"What are you –?"

"Now," House yelled, letting the phone drop to the floor.

The entire exchange had probably been a total of thirty seconds, but time was precious and he was kicking himself for even calling Cuddy. The debate was impossible: call an ambulance and risk Wilson possibly losing his license and his ability to practice what he claimed to love? Or save his life? It seemed doubtful that anyone in their right mind would let a suicidal doctor practice, of all things, oncology. If Cuddy knew, maybe she could prevent it – maybe keep some meaning in his life after he'd lost, what he believed, was everything.

Wilson was breathing, with a pulse. What was next? House loosened his friend's tie, unbuttoned his top buttons and pants. Checked his airway again. Ignored the growing pallor of his skin.

"Stay with me," he ordered. His voice was angry. The phrases were leaking from his mouth now, things that other doctors always said that he never found useful. What good was trying to convince a dying person to stick around? "Dammit, Wilson, you can't do this," he continued, blindsided by his own words.

Above all other things, his keen eye had picked up on something: there was no blood. Why was this important? He couldn't remember. No blood, he thought. No blood meant no exterior wounds. Which meant…

He hadn't used the gun.

But he'd wanted to.

Jesus Christ.

House pulled off his jacket and tossed it over Wilson's still body, grabbing his fingertips and cursing when he saw cyanosis. Shock. He propped Wilson's feet up onto the toilet and checked his pulse and respiratory rate again. Low. Low. Everything was low.

Wilson sputtered again. House didn't remember turning him to his side, but was thankful he did. "Wilson," he shouted, his thoughts colliding like atoms. His voice picked up an aggravated tone. "What the hell did you do?"

Wilson's eyes were rolling, unable to focus. House couldn't think. No clarity. No sense.

If Wilson couldn't practice, so be it. At least he'd be alive.

House punched 911 into his phone, the first time without realizing he hadn't hung up on Cuddy in the first place. When the call was connected, he didn't allow the dispatcher her miserable introduction. "Severe overdose of Vicodin and a fifth of vodka. Could use a little help here." He rattled off Wilson's address. "And hurry," he added as an afterthought.

The tunnel vision was fading; Wilson was alive, at least; that fact alone proved that House had been right – the call had been a desperate cry for help. The thoughts flooded in: I shouldn't have called him that night. I shouldn't have gone to the bar. I shouldn't have gotten on the bus. I should've just come when he called. I shouldn't have told him to get over it. Shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't…

This was not the best time to fall out of character, House humorlessly thought to himself. Lapsing into better judgment could not afford to be his tragic flaw, not now.

Wilson's eyes were shut.

"Stay awake," House commanded harshly, slapping his face to wake him up. He turned on the faucet and tossed cold water onto his friend. Wilson's face was its own entity, acting by its own accord – eyelids and pupils confused. His eyelids started to droop, falling like blinds over his irises. "Stay. Awake!" he repeated, jamming two fingers into his neck. One, two, three, four...

Wilson was coughing, choking, a pitiful mess lying in his own vomit.

House wasn't focused on the EMTs shuffling in, like angels clad in blue scrubs, lifting the soiled body of his best friend onto a stretcher. He wasn't fazed by the questions they asked or the answers he provided. What he focused on, however, like a stream of sunlight in a shadow, was the single bullet lodged in the shower tile, a reminder that reached up, like a clenched fist, and squeezed on House's windpipe.

He had used the gun, House realized then.

He had just missed.