The barren wasteland of frozen ground is still; people don't venture out for fun. It's too cold, the world too hard. Unforgiving. The snow has turned grey and black, unable to stay pure.

Can anything?

Wilson sits on his couch, his neck turned severely, looking out the window. His gaze slides over nothing and everything; his view is out of focus, the iris letting the pupil remain tiny. He likes the swirl it creates, likes the soft focus the world has taken on. No sharp corners, no angles. But a noise behind him breaks the crystalline beauty of his hazy world; his eyes move reflexively and the pupil opens, letting in as much light as it can.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?" It's House. Wilson doesn't turn, doesn't acknowledge the presence that stands illuminated behind him, letting in zebra-stripes of light. Instead he looks down at the passersby; they move through the world quickly, brushing off the chill that clings to their warmth as they enter buildings or cars.

"Wilson." The tone is expectant, almost curious.

"Headache, House." It's a lie, but it doesn't matter. His voice is steady, so it may as well be true.

"Want a Vicodin?" Wilson hears a rattling as House reaches for his pocket; he winces almost imperceptibly at the ricochet of pills.

"I'm fine, House. Just Go." It's a thin voice that arcs up through his vocal chords; an empty sound that rebounds in House's ears.

"You've been an oncologist how long, Wilson? Patients die. Get over it." House moves to hit the light switch, but his hand is stopped by Wilson's voice.

"Don't turn on the light. Just get out." Still Wilson faces the window; his reflection is hazy, gives main attributed but leaves the details misty.

"Pathetic." It's not a scathing tone; it's not even a raised voice. But Wilson's head dips, and House leaves, satisfied.

Wilson remains there, looking out at scenery that has infected him. He's cold, so cold; it's seeped through his skin, sinking down under each layer until it reached his internal organs. The cold stays there, encasing the wet hot confusion that is his body. It fights to stay normal, to remain at homeostasis, but he can feel himself slipping, letting the cold in more each day. He looks down at the palm of his hand and sees the lines. They look deeper in the silver light that bathes him; moonlight turns the small pill in his hand a dark blue color. Like a reflex arc, his hand moves up and back, toward his mouth. The pill is deposited and he swallows, hoping chemical reactions will help him forget the day.

House is right; he's too old for this. He's seen people die, even held their hands as they did so. But sometimes, when they're so young, it just gets to him. And they were young today.

But it's time to go. So he gets up and walks down empty corridors, listening to the soft tap of his shoes. The clinic doors open to release him and his breath is taken by the freezing wind, pushed back into his lungs. He coughs, once, twice, and can breathe again. The walk to his car is too long, but he makes it, gets in and shuts the door between himself and weather that would like nothing more than to cradle him, to hold him in its arctic arms until his blood freezes in his veins.

The thought is forgotten when he starts the car and blasts the heat. He waits a few minutes, letting the air caress his numb face before he pulls away from the hospital.

He speeds, though he knows he shouldn't. But it's late, and though the hotel is bleak, he wants to sleep. Wants to shut his thoughts off, wants to forget existence for a few hours. He just needs a break, that's all. Then he can get up and start it all over again, the day-in, day-out, soul-numbing work that has become monotony. He wonders if it's normal to see death as monotonous, if someone can see it everyday and come out unaffected. He knows he hasn't.

His thoughts are interrupted by the neon flashing of red and blue lights; an ambulance and police cruiser sit on either side of the road. Wilson slows to a crawl but is waved through by a bored-looking cop who flicks his hand up and down impatiently.

So Wilson drives on; the familiarity of the road lets his mind sink down into a trance and he's 'home' soon enough. He walks briskly through brittle air, clutching his coat so tightly to his body that he's half hugging himself, fingers anchored into his sides.

The concierge greets him as he walks into the too-bright lounge of the hotel; Wilson offers a polite smile and continues to his room, where he takes too much Tylenol pm and watches some sort of Lifetime movie of the week. The film is almost over when the drug seeps into his system, coating his cells with delicious drowsiness. He gets up, shuffles into bed clumsily and lets his eyes close. He drifts away smoothly, relinquishing control of his body.

Images begin to form in his mind; they become autonomous as he slides into a deep sleep. He's driving again, moving past the accident on the side of the road. This time, the policeman stops him, asks him if he'll be alright.

"What are you talking about?" He asks, looking up at the cop. He tries to go on, tries to drive away, but his head is so heave, so warm….something drips across his forehead, over his eye and he's falling, falling into a red and black swirl that tosses him like a rag doll.

Then there's a voice above him, a voice that says everything will be alright; it's ok, Wilson. Just relax. It'll be over soon. He tries to identify the voice; it's distinct, one he knows, but he can't place it.

A flash of blue eyes appear in his mind; he wakes for a split second then rolls over, sighing quietly.

A tow truck pulls off to the side of the road where a police cruiser waits. The driver gets out and begins to hook the car up; when he finishes, he asks for the owner's name.

"Registered to Gregory House," the cop says. "Give me your card; we'll put it in his possessions so he can claim it when he wakes up."

The tow truck driver surveys the car; it found a resting place in the trunk of a tree and crumpled like tin-foil.

"If he wakes up," the driver mutters, before getting back in his truck.