A/N: …hello? Surprise? I don't even know what to say. Two years. It genuinely feels like I updated last month; my sense of time truly is atrocious. I don't have an excuse besides being an *extremely* slow writer. I think slime mold could probably beat like 1000 words a year by just inching its way across the keyboard… anyway, I'm back. I'm back? Yeah I'm back (for now)! Chapter 4 has at long last arrived and I think it finally makes some sense, so here it is!

Disclaimer - I am not employed in the medical field in any way and will be taking a somewhat "Houseian" approach in the depiction of both the medicine and the general functioning of a hospital and its staff. That is to say, I'm writing whatever fits within the narrative and isn't so outrageous as to be full-on fantasy realm handwave-y nonsense. Because fiction is cool and otherwise it would probably be another two years, so…*imagination* (insert Wilson's speed jazz hands here)!

"I have learned now that while those who speak about one's miseries usually hurt, those who keep silence hurt more."

― C. S. Lewis

"...no single, individual moment is in and of itself unendurable."

David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

[10:46 am]

Wilson left his office shortly after Cuddy's request, taking a meandering route down to visit House. He stopped in on a few of his patients, making small talk until it was clear he was overstaying his welcome with Mrs. Alvarez. She had supposedly fallen asleep mid-conversation and was now pretending to snore. As he left the room, however, he saw her crack open one eye before "waking up" completely with a look of relief. Deciding he'd put it off for long enough now, he finally asked a passing nurse—he knew they would know which room to avoid—for House's location. As he neared it he heard each fall of his dress shoes echo in his ears off the polished linoleum, and he adjusted his tie with a nervous tug, his fingers rubbing against the grain of the fabric. At last he found himself facing room number 204. House had a private room, a rare occurrence in his hospitalization history that he was sure to appreciate.

The door gave a slight creak as Wilson hesitantly pushed it open to see his best friend lying in a hospital bed. "House?"

"Go 'way," House muttered, his speech muffled by the pillow covering his face. "Sleeping."

At least Mrs. Alvarez had the sense not to speak while 'asleep.' "Clearly not," he said from the doorway.

"No thanks to you," House replied, the pillow still in place.

Wilson stepped into the room, closing the door carefully behind him and taking a deep breath before speaking again. "Cuddy tells me you didn't do anything stupid this time—aside from checking yourself out AMA, of course."

"You believe her?"

Wilson looked at him for a moment. "No—" he started, before he was interrupted.

"Of course, what did I expect," House muttered.

"—I believe you," Wilson finished.

"Oh."

Wilson's hand came up to rub the back of his neck. "Can we please talk?" he asked.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Will you at least remove the pillow?"

House pushed the pillow down off of his face and onto his chest, directing his gaze towards the ceiling rather than looking at Wilson. "Happy?"

"Quite."

"Wonderful."

Wilson paused for a moment before asking,"Are you okay?"

"Never better."

Wilson sighed. He'd take anger — hell, he'd take a full on punch to the face. Anything but the sheer apathy that seemed to be dominating House's current emotional state.

House returned his gaze to the ceiling and a heavy silence fell, neither man knowing what to say next. Wilson's eyes wandered around the room, trying to find any point to focus on besides the man he had come to speak to. As time ticked by he felt his heart rate rising and pressure building into an urgent need to move. Now. Finding himself unable to remain still any longer, he began pacing back and forth in front of the doorway while tossing occasional jerky glances at House, who averted his eyes after watching the ceaseless movement for a while.

House piped up before he could decide what he could possibly say next. "Planning to talk, or can I sleep?" The fingers of one hand were fidgeting with the edge of his pillowcase.

Wilson threw his hands up in the air. "I don't know! I don't know, House, I really don't know." The words flew out almost of their own accord as he stopped pacing, freezing where he stood.

"Got it, you don't know," House muttered. His fingers had stopped playing with the pillowcase and he was now simply clenching the fabric tightly in his fist.

"No. I don't. Tell me, House, what the hell am I supposed to do, exactly, because I. Don't. Know—" Wilson was interrupted by House's cellphone. Apparently one of his fellows thought to bring it along. "Are you going to answer that?"

"Nope."

The sounds of manic guitar playing filled the room as Crazy Train continued to blast from the tinny phone speakers. Wilson rolled his eyes, reaching over to answer it himself. If they hadn't hung up yet, it must be something important House was avoiding. Otherwise he would have taken the call just to annoy Wilson. Cuddy and I are practically the only ones who call him, and we both know where he is. And that's not his team's ringtone...unless he's changed it...no, he wouldn't. It's House.

House's eyes widened as they flicked towards the phone, then to Wilson's outstretched hand, and he grabbed the phone a split second before Wilson's fingertips made contact with it. He glared at the screen for a moment as if willing it to turn to dust in his hands before sighing in resignation and accepting the call.

He started talking as soon as he had the phone to his ear. "Still alive. Kind of in the middle of something here. Yeah, I know, I — perfect. I'm fine. No, I'm not alone; Wilson's here. You don't believe me? Oh, for fuck's sake, Nolan, here, just talk to him yourself." House passed the phone to Wilson with a huff, and Wilson snatched it up.

"Hello? Darryl? It's James. Yes, I'm with House. I see…well, I—" he was cut off as House snatched the phone back.

"See? Told you. See you next week, maybe. Can't really move at the moment…it's just the damned leg, okay? Great…bye." House hung up the call and dropped his phone back onto the bed, dragging the pillow back up over his face as he did so.

Wilson watched him for a moment, trying to study him a bit more closely. Which was rather difficult with his expression hidden by white linen. "So what was that all about?" he asked, giving in to the need for an attempt at proper adult communication with the man.

"He was just...concerned," came the muffled reply.

Wilson marched over and pulled the pillow away unceremoniously, ignoring House's sounds of protest and tossing it onto the tile floor with an irritatingly soft thump. "Care to tell me why your psychiatrist is so concerned that he asked if I thought you were a danger to yourself? And I thought you weren't seeing him anymore?"

"Wilson…" House said softly.

"You didn't tell me you went back to therapy," Wilson continued, oblivious to the sound of House's voice, his tone growing more accusatory, his hands coming up to his hips. "I didn't know you needed — you could have talked to me too, you know! You don't always have to keep everyone in the dark!"

"I called him up after this," House said reluctantly, gesturing to his heavily bandaged leg. "I know it was idiotic, you don't perform major surgery alone in a damn bathtub—"

"Clearly you didn't know that last week, you could have died!"

"Oh, spare me the lecture, I don't care, I—later. Please?"

Startled at the rare use of "please," Wilson stopped, looking affronted. "What?" he asked indignantly, hands still planted on his hips.

House said nothing in reply. He simply let his eyes drift closed with a soft sigh, as though the plea had taken all that he had left.

Wilson looked, really looked, at his friend for the first time since walking into the room. God, I'm an idiot. House's face was pale, deeply lined, dark circles standing out under sunken eyes — the man looked utterly exhausted, and Wilson felt a jolt of shame. Pain could take a lot out of a person, something he should be familiar with after years as an oncologist. Hell, after years of knowing House. And yet here he was, confronting House when he was at his most vulnerable. He was sure this certainly wasn't what Cuddy had in mind when she asked him to visit.

House's eyes were still closed, but his face was twitching, his brow furrowed. Wilson recognized the nonverbal signs of pain. It was a language developed over years of experience, unspoken cues that spoke volumes. Wilson was hit by the sudden realization that he didn't even know why House was back in a hospital bed.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"Dunno. Ask my mom."

"I meant in the hospital, not on Earth."

"Guessed as much," House said. "Turns out muscle spasms and a two-time major surgical site isn't a great combination. Who knew? Sounds like PB&J to me. Anyway, yadda yadda yadda, muscle spasms, the wound dehisced. Boring case, but that's the end. They closed it up again and stuck me here for monitoring. Oh, there's also a touch of cellulitis to tie it all up nicely."

"Jesus, House."

He watched as House's right hand made a sudden jerky movement as if going toward his thigh before clenching into a tight fist by his side. The monitor marked his heart rate much higher than it should be at rest—99 and rising.

"You all right?" he asked, voice full of concern.

No reply. House turned his face to the side, away from Wilson, his eyes screwed shut. The monitor now showed 135 bpm, with no signs of slowing.

Wilson checked the chart by House's bed and made a decision. "I'll be back in a minute, all right?"

"'Kay," House replied through clenched teeth.

Wilson turned and walked out, throwing one last glance at the man before leaving. "Excuse me," he said to the first nurse he saw who wasn't already occupied. He didn't recognize her. "Have you got a spare minute?"

She paused, looking up at him like a deer in the headlights. Definitely new. "Um—yes. I do. I'm sorry, it's only my second day; still getting my bearings, you know."

"I understand," Wilson replied. "The patient in room 204, Gregory House—he's not due for another dose of morphine until 2, but would you please give him 20mg intravenously, and 10mg of Baclofen as well? I've already written the order in his chart; I would administer the meds myself, but…" he paused for a moment. "I got a page about another patient I have to go check on."

"Of course," the nurse said. "Room 204, 20mg morphine and 10mg baclofen, IV—I'm on it, Dr."—she looked at his badge—"Wilson!"

"Thanks, I really appreciate it," he said. She scurried away, and he headed down the hall, praying to be able to just get into his office and close the door without encountering another human being along the way.

Naturally, he ran into House's fellows not 30 steps later.

Thirteen was at the lead. "I told them not to bother, but they wouldn't listen. Your turn," she said.

Taub went first. "We need to see House."

"He's sleeping," Wilson replied.

"He can sleep later, we have a patient."

"Since when does House turn down a patient in favor of sleep?" Chase asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Look...he really needs the rest. I know about the patient, just…give it an hour, at least. He's not going to be of much help even awake now with the morphine he's on."

"Morphine?" Taub said.

"It was necessary. As is the Xanax I'm about to go take, if you'll stop trying to get to your boss so I can stop being a goddamn bodyguard. Sorry." He flushed.

"Yeah, you should really go take that Xanax," Thirteen said, an odd mixture of amusement and concern flashing across her face, the corner of her mouth shooting upwards while her brow creased.

Wilson gave a curt nod, turned on his heel, and fled the scene with as composed a walk as he could muster. Upon reaching his office he shut the door, heart pounding and head spinning, and opened the bottom drawer of his desk, feeling around until his fingers hit a small cylindrical object. He pulled the bottle out and unscrewed the cap, pouring out one white pill. He grabbed an old plastic water bottle from the floor and chased the pill down with the last few remaining drops, then all but collapsed down into his chair, folding his arms on his desk and lowering his head, waiting for the calming effects to kick in. He didn't have any more patients in imminent life-or-death situations for the time being, and his only appointment wasn't until 1. He resolved to remain where he was until then.

House turned his head as the door to his room creaked open again. A young woman in scrubs came in so quietly he was convinced she was actually walking on her tiptoes.

"Hello, I'm Camille," she said, her voice more of a squeak than a fully phonetic formation. He watched as she skimmed over his chart. "It's nice to meet you—Mr. House? Gregory? Do you have a preference?"

Clearly she was new, House thought. Usually he would have a field day with the unsuspecting nurse, but somehow he just wasn't feeling it right now. "No," he said shortly, not bothering to correct his title. She seemed to freeze and before her neurons could burst from the effort of choosing a form of address, he found himself adding, "Greg is fine." He turned away again as the pain in his leg flared and he pressed the back of his head into the bare mattress, his pillow still lying forgotten on the floor where Wilson had tossed it. "Is there a reason for your presence?" he finally ground out through clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry, Mr…Greg, I—Dr. Wilson sent me. I have your medications. Morphine and Baclofen."

Her eyes flicked over to the monitor and House watched her eyebrows shoot up as she took in his vitals. He didn't need to see the numbers to know his heart rate and BP were high enough to cause concern.

"You should be feeling better after this," she said, taking out a syringe and filling it from the bolus of morphine. "May I have your arm?"

He obediently offered it, still avoiding eye contact. She found the vein and quickly pushed the drug, then filled a syringe with the Baclofen dose and repeated the process. House flinched as the cool liquid entered his bloodstream, burning slightly. "Sorry," Camille said, "I know it's unpleasant, but the medications should take effect soon."

He didn't respond. The remaining muscles in his right thigh were still locked in a battle against each other, the surrounding nerves joining the fight intermittently. His eyes darted over to her and away again in a split second, then over to the abandoned pillow.

"Would you like your pillow back?" she asked, following his line of sight and noticing it lying on the floor.

He nodded mutely, and she walked over to the closet and pulled out a fresh pillowcase, replacing it quickly before handing it off over to him. He positioned it behind his head and leaned back with a sigh as the spasms in his leg began to let up, the drugs finally taking hold. "Thank you," he said softly, closing his eyes and giving in to the pull of sleep.

[2:00pm]

Wilson knocked lightly on the door, pushing it open slowly. "House? You awake?" he asked.

House turned his head, looking up groggily as Wilson entered the room. "Thanks f'r the meds," he said.

"Are you…stoned?" Wilson asked, raising an eyebrow at the slightly slurred speech.

"Ummm maybe a little," House replied, his brow furrowing.

"Maybe I should come back later."

"Stay, 's wearing off. I jus' woke up, gimme a minute for brain function to return."

"Were you able to get some sleep?"

House nodded. "Yeah," he said, yawning widely. "Did'n—didn't realize how much I needed that... Look, my appointment was s'posed to be at 10:00 — I didn't show up, obv'sly. Nolan was just doin' his psych thing. I mighta made a reference…I might have told him about the bathtub thing…he interpreted that in a particular way…"

"He thought you were suicidal, House."

"He may've taken it that way."

"I don't know if I should even ask right now, but," Wilson paused, running a hand through his hair, "Are you?"

"I…I don't know."

"You don't know if you want to die?"

"I don't know that I want to kill myself. But the idea of not waking up tomorrow has a certain appeal to it." A heavy silence fell over the room, the few steps between the two men becoming more like the Grand Canyon with every passing second. "Wilson…" House finally said softly. "I don't think I cared. I realized it was probably a mistake, and I called everyone, but if no one had answered, if no one had come — and it was really starting to look like the most likely scenario — if that had been it, if the pain had stopped that night…but it didn't, and I— I kind of wish it had?"

House's voice had grown progressively softer as he spoke, and Wilson almost had to strain to catch the last few words. Clearly the drugs still had a bit of a hold on him if he was speaking this openly, but Wilson would be damned if he didn't try and continue the conversation. It was the most House had directly disclosed about his mental health or lack thereof since Mayfield, and that was only after full-blown hallucinations. House had never volunteered anything beyond that.

He found himself stumbling backwards as if bowled over by the weight of the words alone. "You wanted to die? You want to die? God, House, I — I —"

"I just don't want to fucking live like this."

"Is there a difference?"

House grew quiet once more.

"Greg," Wilson said hesitantly. This felt like a first-name situation, although the name felt foreign as it passed over his tongue. House was the figure, Greg was the man, and they were both one and the same and fire and ice. "Greg," he repeated, feeling the consonants and vowel fight for some semblance of normality, crashing into each other. "I'm sorry. I'm — I don't know what else to say."

House's expression flipped to confusion. Bafflement, even. "What do you have to be sorry for? You didn't carve up the damn leg like a Thanksgiving roast, or —"

"I haven't listened to what you've been telling me for years. I've heard the words you've spoken to me, but nothing else."

House still looked confused. The expression was so out of place on the man's face that Wilson found himself fighting the urge to break into uncontrollable laughter. He felt positively manic, and he knew he looked the part, suddenly pacing to and fro, tracing a path across the floor and muttering to himself, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand while the other clenched and unclenched at his side.

"Will you sit the hell down?"

Wilson froze, looking around and finally plopping down into the chair a couple feet from House's hospital bed. "I'm sorry."

"So you've said."

"I should have been listening, and I should have responded properly. I've been treating you like a junkie because that's what you've been presenting yourself as. I saw what you wanted me to see for so long that somewhere along the way I forgot that you are still in pain, and I should have known better. I mean, shit, the Tritter fiasco alone — regardless of the rest of it, I walked into your apartment and I saw you lying there, and I left. I left you lying in a puddle of vomit after an obvious overdose. You could have aspirated, you could have died, and I looked at you, turned away, and walked out the door. I left your apartment, I left you alone like that."

"So that was real," House said, his voice sounding somewhat detached.

Wilson clenched his jaw against a sudden burning sensation in his eyes at House's reaction. "It was real. I need to know—was that an intentional suicide attempt?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know, or you don't want to admit it?"

"I don't know," House repeated in a monotone voice. "Morphine's wearing off, by the way. Hope you've had a productive conversation with my drugged up ass." He turned his head away.

Wilson paused. "Do you want me to leave?"

House gave a small shrug.

"I'm—I really am sorry," Wilson said. "I didn't—I can't change the past. Leaving you in that state was unacceptable. I don't know what else to say."

"Then stop talking," House muttered.

Wilson sighed. "I should go."

House remained silent. Wilson turned and walked out, his heart pounding against his ribcage.