His eyes shot open while he drew in a sharp breath. His bedroom was dark, remnants of his dream dispersing as he became more aware of his surroundings. The clock beside his bed read 2:39 AM, and he couldn't remember when he'd passed out.

Groaning, House rolled over onto his left side, massaging his thigh to try to ease the angry pain. It had to have been at least a few hours since he passed out - the amount of pain in his leg let him know he hadn't taken pain meds in a while.

He was slick with sweat and his mouth tasted bad. Racking his brain but not finding an answer, he tried to figure out what woke him.

"Bad dream," he mumbled to himself and sat up, hissing quietly as his leg protested the movement. He blindly reached to the table and grabbed his pill bottle, and felt the beginnings of panic set in. He rattled the bottle and felt only one Vicodin left, and he began to remember the night.

His pharmacy wouldn't refill his prescription so soon, as he'd just been given this bottle four days ago. He came home at eight and drank until he passed out, whenever that was. Which was why his leg hurt so bad, so early in the morning.

With his cane in one hand and the bottle in the other, he limped toward his bathroom, the liquor he'd consumed still slightly affecting his senses. He flipped on the light and grimaced, then dropped the pill into his mouth and swallowed with water from the tap. He splashed the cool water on his face, then put his forehead against the cool counter top. He was feeling like crap, but whether that was from the lack of Vicodin, the excess of liquor in his system, or the flu he'd had for a few days, he didn't know.

After limping back to his bed, he dropped onto his stomach and passed back out.

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"I'm not coming in today."

House held his cell phone carefully in his left hand while he wrapped his blanket tighter around his shoulders. Slowly, he laid back on the couch, leaving his right leg on the floor.

"Why not?" Cuddy asked, her voice sharp. "What's going on? You've called in the last two days."

House closed his eyes and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I'm too sick to come in."

"You've been too sick to come in for the third day in a row now, House. I didn't even hear from you yesterday. Wilson was the one who told me- at noon!- that you weren't planning on coming in. What in the hell is going on?"

House tried to remember the previous morning, but came up with nothing. He only remembered bits and pieces.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I called you yesterday. And I told you, I'm sick. I think I've got the flu."

"You got your flu shot last month, didn't you? You were supposed to."

"I must have gotten a different strain." House sat back up and rubbed his thigh absentmindedly. "If you need me to come in, I will. But I haven't been able to get out of bed or off my couch for more than a few minutes at a time. I'm actually sick."

Cuddy sighed and stayed quiet for a moment and House held his breath. He really was sick, and he really was too weak to walk around, much less ride his motorcycle and work. He wasn't going to go in whether she said he could stay home or not - he was just being reasonable.

"Fine. Call someone if you need antibiotics or anything. Stay in bed. Call me tomorrow if you can't come in." She hung up without a goodbye.

Sighing, House hit end on his phone and dialed a different number. After only two rings, Wilson answered.

"I'm not coming in today," House said, glancing at his watch. 9:05 am. Wilson would be at work.

"Thanks for keeping me updated."

"I'm really sick, you know."

"I'm sorry to hear that." House didn't miss the tone in his friend's voice, as if for some reason, he didn't believe it. "You're not calling me to tell me you're not coming in."

House sighed and closed his eyes. "I need more pills. My pharmacy won't refill my script for another week."

"A week?! When did you get the last refill?" Wilson asked incredulously. Just as House opened his mouth to confess, Wilson cut him off. "Just don't tell me. I don't want to know. You've been holed up in your bedroom for the last two days pounding down drink after pill after drink, haven't you?"

"You make it sound like a bad thing when you say it like that."

"I'm not doing it. If you're out, it's your own fault."

"Wilson, please?" House put his head in his right hand and sighed. "I haven't been like that. I've been drinking, yes, but not the entire day, and I have the flu, and I feel like complete shit, and all I want is for my leg to stop hurting so fucking bad so I can get more than two hours of sleep at a time."

"If I get you one week's worth of pills, I'm holding onto them."

"I'm not a three year old who will sneak as many Skittles as I can behind mommy's back if I have the chance," House snapped, and massaged the corners of his eyes as he felt a headache come on. "Fine. Fine. Do whatever you think you need to do."

House shut off his phone and dropped it onto the coffee table and fell back onto the couch. He wrapped his blanket around his shoulders tightly and closed his eyes.

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Some time later - he didn't know how much time had gone by - there was a knock at his door. He groaned and wiped sweat off of his face as he sat up. He grabbed his cane and forced himself to stand up as another knock sounded from his door. His leg screamed in protest at him as he limped to the door, and he swallowed back nausea that rolled over him because of the pain.

Wilson stood on the other side of the door, holding a paper pharmacy bag in one hand, and a grocery bag in the other.

"You look like you're detoxing," Wilson said when he got a good look at him, then followed House back into the living room.

"Well, I'm not." House dropped back onto his couch and dropped his cane. He put his head in his hands, exhausted from the short walk. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his body as sweat started to dry.

Cool hands touched the back of his neck, and he shrugged away from them.

"You're burning up."

"I didn't notice. Thanks." House snapped and looked up at his friend. Wilson dropped the pharmacy bag on the table in front of him.

"Have you eaten anything? You look like you've lost weight."

House shook his head and ripped open the bag and pulled out two bottles. One was an anti-biotic, the other was his pain medication. He pushed down the lid and twisted and almost sighed in relief when it opened and he saw the white pills staring up at him. He took three and swallowed them dry, then dropped the bottles onto the table and rested his head on the back of the couch.

"You need to eat. Here, I stopped at the store and got you some crackers and soup." Wilson rummaged through the plastic grocery bag and pulled out a box of crackers and put them on the table with a bottle of water.

"I'm not hungry. I want to go back to sleep. Thanks for the pills. Can you leave a couple for the rest of the day?" House didn't open his eyes, partly from his exhaustion, and partly because he didn't want to see the look on Wilson's face.

The couch sunk down a little as Wilson sat beside him. Again, Wilson put cool hands on his neck, but he didn't try to move away. They felt good against his hot skin.

"Does your throat hurt?" Wilson asked, and he pressed his fingers into his neck gently. House shook his head. "Not at all?"

"No. It doesn't even hurt a smidge."

"Your lymph nodes are swollen."

House opened his eyes wide and feigned fear. "Do I have cancer, doc?"

Wilson sighed and dropped his hands. He leaned over and picked up the bottle of antibiotics and the water and handed them to House.

"Just take the medication and rest. And eat something. I'll come back after work with the Vicodin. Make these last until then," Wilson said as he dropped three more pain pills on the coffee table.

House opened the water and took the antibiotics after Wilson left, then curled back up on the couch and waited for his pain meds to kick in.

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