I own nothing but the plot. Many thanks goes out to my great beta, lilmissmimi :)

With his right arm wrapped around Wilson's waist – though House had a habit of calling him Jimmy or James at home, especially when they were in bed – House snuggled into his pillow and closed his eyes with a soft sigh.

"Are you falling asleep?" Wilson asked quietly, lifting his right arm up above his head so House could move closer to him. After a moment of adjusting and getting comfortable again, Wilson lowered his arm so that it was lying on House's body. His fingers started playing idly along House's bare upper arm.

"No," House answered, stifling a yawn behind his hand. He closed his eyes and relished in the feel of Wilson's shirt and body under his cheek. The TV was on across from them, and when House opened his eyes, he was disappointed to see one of Wilson's shows starting. "I hate this show."

"Oh, you love this show. You love this show for a number of reasons. That exterminator is smokin, for one."

"He's a cross between Tommy Lee and a heroin junkie," House grumbled, and moved his head so he was looking up at Wilson's face. Wilson was watching the TV raptly. "Jimmy, we can do anything right now, and you want to watch The Exterminators?"

Wilson squeezed House's upper arm for a second before his fingers started trailing up and down his skin again. "I had a really long day."

House snorted. "I was at work all night last night, and I spent all day at the clinic when I wasn't dealing with another patient. I've had a long day." House winced as he forced himself to a sitting position, his leg protesting. He leaned forward until his lips were a breath away from Wilson's, and he stared deeply into Wilson's eyes. "James, come to bed."

"I'm in bed. Move," Wilson said, closing the space between them and placing a quick kiss on House's lips. He put his hands on House's upper arms and moved him aside before lowering his feet onto the floor. "Do you want anything from the kitchen?"

"A hooker," House said, crossing his arms over his chest and pushing his lip into a pout. Wilson sighed and stood up from the bed, shaking his head as he moved out of the bedroom and into the hallway.

A second later, the lights went out in the apartment.

"Karma, Jimmy! Karma!" House cried triumphantly, jumping off the bed, careful to put his weight on his good leg. "God so did not approve of you rejecting me like that!" House moved toward the hallway, and realized in the doorway that the apartment was quiet. "Jimmy?" He called, a smirk playing on his lips as he moved down the hall toward the kitchen. "Where are you?"

A loud crash in the kitchen startled House for a moment before he turned the corner into the living room. "You better not have broken anything of mine," he said, squinting into the dark kitchen, trying to find the shadowy figure of his partner. The silence made his pulse started to pick up, and he strained to hear around him. "James?" He shuffled into the kitchen, his feet sliding along the cool tile. "Wilson?" He asked, then stopped when his feet hit something – someone – on the floor.

House dropped to his knees, trying to keep his weight on his good leg as he bit back a groan from the pain shooting up his bad one, and ran his hands up the torso until he found the gasped, startled. "What did you do?" He asked shakily, pressing fingers into Wilson's neck to find a pulse, his fingers sliding on what he could only assume to be blood.

When he didn't find a pulse, he started rummaging through Wilson's pockets, trying to find his cell phone or pager. He found neither, and groaned loudly, placing hands on top of Wilson's chest to start compressions. "Don't die on me. I can't even see what you did," he muttered, shaking his head as tears started stinging his eyes. "Wait here. I need a phone," he said to Wilson's still body, unsure of why he was telling an unconscious person to stay put, but knew he was fighting off shock.

He gripped the nearest counter and pulled himself up, the pain in his leg making it almost unbearable to take a step forward. Just as he took an uneasy step, the lights in the apartment came back on. House looked down and moaned, his stomach rolling at the sight in front of him.

"What happened?" He asked softly, falling to his knees again, the pain in his leg forgotten with the phone. Adrenaline started coursing through him as he touched Wilson's bloody neck, knowing it didn't matter if he called an ambulance now or in an hour. "You didn't cut your own neck," House said to himself, and just as he turned to empty his stomach onto the floor, movement behind him made him let out a scream.

House shot upright in bed, blinking past the sweat and tears that were in his eyes. He dry heaved once at the dissipating memory of the dream – nightmare – and he rolled onto his side to stare at the clock beside his bed. It was just after midnight; he'd gotten home just over an hour ago, and had been asleep barely thirty minutes, if that.

Despite having only slept half an hour, the memories of the events that took place during the day came crashing back. House brought the heels of his hands to his eyes and put pressure to his head, quietly cursing to himself about how he was behaving.

Minutes passed before House managed to force himself upright. He moved slowly to the edge of the bed and lowered his feet to the floor. He hung his head, and tears stung his eyes again.

All he could selfishly think about was what would happened to him if Wilson died, destined to live the rest of his life alone, in this shitty apartment.

"I won't live long without you," House said to the empty room, wiping a rogue tear from his cheek slowly. He raised his head and stared into the dark.

With the thought, I don't even know what I'm doing at home, House willed himself to stand up and he grabbed his cane from the side of the bed. With a wince, he moved forward, completely aware that his body was exhausted and sore, and the Vicodin he'd taken before bed was making him feel like he was floating. I need to get to the hospital. I can't stay here, he thought, flipping the light switch on to find his clothes.

After a minute of changing into jeans and a (probably) dirty shirt, House pulled on his shoes and grabbed his car keys. If shitty sleep was going to happen to him no matter where he went, he'd rather spend his night at the hospital than alone at his place.

----------**-----------

The lights in the hospital room were mostly off, with the exception of the emergency lights and soft light above Wilson's bed. The room was also empty of anyone but Wilson, which was a relief to House. The nurse briefly explained that Cuddy had given Wilson's parents the option of staying at the hospital – as visiting hours were over – but they'd declined the offer. The idea of staying all night in uncomfortable furniture or on-call beds reserved for doctors had been unappealing to them, and House wondered why they would leave, but he didn't care enough to think about it.

After all, he had left. Why couldn't they?

House found himself staring at Wilson's still body, watching his chest rise and fall with the ventilator. The room felt hot and too small as he stood there, taking in Wilson's battered face and bandaged head. His arms, resting above the blanket, had bruises and road rash. He wondered why he hadn't noticed the minor injuries earlier, but the events of the day were so blurred in his own memory that he couldn't remember it all. Wilson's other injuries had been more serious.

Not for the first time, House was thankful no other parts of his body were seriously injured.

Only his leg and head, he thought sadly, and reached out to touch Wilson's shin lightly. He half-expected the man to jerk awake, and was disappointed when he didn't.

The door to the room opened slowly, and House turned his head away from the intruder to wipe his face in shame. It was one thing to openly cry, but another thing entirely to not know you were crying until you were caught.

"I thought you were going home."

House cleared his throat and glanced at Thirteen sideways, watching her take Wilson's chart. He kept his eyes on Wilson as her hands worked confidently, testing Wilson's reflexes, checking his pulse, feeling for a fever. A twinge of jealousy – actual jealousy – sparked in House, but he ignored it; he had no reason to feel that way.

"I thought it would be rude to go home, since I'd hire a hooker if I did," House answered in a low voice, not wanting to wake Wilson up. There was a small chance he'd wake up anyway, even if he screamed in his ear.

"Do you need anything?" she asked, writing on the chart for a few seconds, then hung it back on the bed. She raised her eyes to his, waiting for an answer.

"A real bed," he said, gesturing to the chair that changed into a bed. "My leg can't handle that thing at all."

"Patient beds aren't much more comfortable," she said, her voice quiet. "I'll try to find one, though."

House nodded and sat down beside Wilson's bed as she left the room. He raised his hand to Wilson's bruised cheek and brushed his knuckles over his skin gently. The side of Wilson's mouth twitched as his hand moved, and House watched, fascinated that his touch made his partner almost smile, even in his drug-induced sleep.

Watching him, he wanted to wake him up, to talk to him and know right this second if he was okay. Instead, he let his hand fall from Wilson's face and he nervously started picking at the blanket, unsure of what to do with his hands. Wilson was going to be okay – the only option Wilson had was to get better – but he was having a hard time trying to figure out what to do with himself until Wilson did wake up and come home.

Minutes dragged on as House waited for Thirteen to show up with a bed. Wilson's vitals never changed, but every few seconds a part of his body would twitch: his fingers, his left foot, and once, his whole hand. It was a relief to see him moving, even if it wasn't on purpose.

I just need you to wake up, House thought in despair, tightening his hands into fists on top of the blanket. Never in a million years did he think he'd be here as a patient's family. I'm the one who should be here, struggling to survive. You don't deserve this. The thought made him lower his head over the bed in shame. Things happened for reasons nobody could explain, and he knew this was a terrible accident. The last thing he needed to do was bargain or wish it was him in that bed instead, because the fact of the matter was House probably wouldn't have survived the accident.

The doors opened again, and House looked up, moving his hands from the bed to his lap. Thirteen glanced at him, smiled, and turned her back to grab the hospital bed. He watched her pull it into the room, and he stood from his chair to move it out of the way as she got closer.

"The last bed on the floor. If we get any emergency patients tonight, we'll have to get it from you," she said apologetically. House nodded, not trusting his own voice, and waited until she had the bed positioned near the window before speaking.

"Has he woken up since the surgery?"

"No. But he will. We're lowering his pain medication tomorrow," she explained, and raised her hand briefly before dropping it to her side. House wondered if she was going to try to comfort him.

"You don't have to give him the pain meds. Just get the same amount and toss them to me. I can always use more," House offered, raising his eyebrows innocently. She smiled again and shook her head, but wisely stayed quiet.

House pursed his lips and glanced at Wilson. The dream – nightmare – he had before he came back to the hospital flashed through his mind's eye, and he wished he was at home with Wilson, watching stupid TV shows and griping about it.

"Once he wakes up and his head injury checks out, he'll be out of here in no time," Thirteen said quietly, and this time she did put a hand on his shoulder. House shrugged it off uneasily, and she sighed. "Why don't you try to get some sleep?"

"I don't need you mothering me," House snapped, glaring at her for a moment before lowering his gaze back to Wilson. "I'm fine. This whole thing is overkill. He should have come home already."

"So the bleeding in his brain could kill him in bed?" Thirteen asked, and House saw her fold her arms across her chest, fully indignant. "Even you wouldn't take a chance like that."

"Regardless," he said, waving his free hand through the air. "I would have known if something was going on. A subdural hematoma can heal on its own without a drain. He probably would have been fine."

Thirteen nodded and patted his shoulder again before leaving. He didn't know if she was agreeing with him, or trying to placate him, but the best thing she could do was walk away without speaking. No matter what she said, he would've been angry.

Once the door closed behind her, he dragged the bed she brought for him beside Wilson's, as close as he could get it, before lowering the rails on both beds. He sat down and watched Wilson's chest rise and face with the ventilator's help.

"It's bad enough that I work here," House said to his unconscious partner, placing his cane against the bed. "But now I have to stay here overnight, too. You demand so much of me."

The only answer House got was the sound of the machines, and he sighed. After briefly looking over Wilson's vitals, making sure for the hundredth time that he was as okay as he was going to be, House laid down on his bed. He pulled the blanket up to his chest and rolled onto his side so he could watch Wilson's face.

Carefully, he reached across to the other bed and put his hand beside Wilson's. He tentatively put his fingers on the back of Wilson's hand and trailed the pads of his fingers over the pale skin.

Minutes later, he was asleep, his fingers intertwined with Wilson's.

----------**----------

House was barely listening to what his team was telling him in the office the next morning. They were explaining the symptoms their latest patient was showing, and for once, the mystery didn't grab him. Instead, he paced the length of his outer office, glancing at the white board out of habit more than anything else, waiting impatiently for the page – or phone call – from Cuddy, telling him Wilson was up.

He wanted to be there. Part of him needed to be there. His ducklings had all told him at varying points of their differential that it wasn't necessary for him to be here. Foreman said he could handle it, and while House had made some vague insult toward Foreman's intelligence, he knew deep down that the neurologist certainly could handle all of this.

It was just too much for him. He had felt himself shut down at some point during the early morning, after he'd slept for a few uninterrupted hours. Listening to the ventilator and the heart monitor, mixed with the quiet hush of the hospital had put a worm of doubt inside his head. It was infuriating for the pure fact that House knew nothing was wrong with Wilson, not anymore, and he still couldn't shake that writhing worry and doubt from his head.

So instead he left Wilson's room (after a quick peck on his forehead) and started his day hours early. After debating whether he should cause a scene by showering in a random patient's bathroom, he went to the nearest locker room and quickly rinsed off before throwing his dirty and wrinkled clothes back on.

It wasn't like he had to impress patients or anything.

The cafeteria was full of employees and families of patients who looked like they'd held all night vigils beside a bed. Many of them were haggard and tired, their clothes as wrinkled as his.

House found himself agitated that he was lumped into the third category of 'an employee who has a family member at the hospital'. Wrinkled work attire suddenly seemed worse than just rumpled street clothes; he felt like every eye was on him, people knowing just by looking at him what his story was.

I'm not dressed like an employee, he told himself repeatedly before grabbing food and coffee – and, sticking with tradition, using Wilson's cash from his wallet to pay.

Breakfast in his office was quiet without his team, and by the time he'd finished eating and filling out paperwork for his last three patients (one was long overdue), the team had assembled around the table, casting furtive glances in his direction.

While work normally kept his mind off of his personal life, it didn't today and he badly needed it to. Wilson's family was probably back, waiting beside his bed for the first signs that the head injury wasn't life-altering.

Seeing Foreman and the rest of the team here meant they all had either willingly relinquished their roles as Wilson's doctor, or Cuddy had stripped them of their duties.

When he asked, Kutner said nervously, "It was a little of both. Cuddy had this case for us, and to be honest, we don't want to mess him up."

House rolled his eyes, but knew it was for the best. If something happened that ended up being their fault, he would fire them all and never look back, except maybe to blame Cuddy for not pulling them from the case. They were too involved emotionally – even though there wasn't a relationship or even a friendship between Wilson and the team – and it was the best option for everyone.

"This is childish, even for you, House," Taub said finally, the tone of his voice all but demanding House's attention. He glanced up, realizing that he'd been staring at the floor and scratching his head for some time. "Just go back to Wilson."

"Wilson's not dying. This patient is. He has a large support system in the room right now, and I'm sure they've pulled their schizo son out of the hospital to be here too. It's a warm, loving time for them that doesn't need to be crushed with me there. This patient has no one."

Foreman snorted as he drank his coffee, keeping his eyes locked on House as he swallowed it. Then he said, "So what you're telling us is you are here to help with this patient because you want to be here for this stranger instead of your boyfriend. That your boyfriend has enough love, so you're spreading your love to our 75 year old loner. How thoughtful of you."

"Thank you. I thought so myself," House said with a slight bow, then resumed his pacing throughout the room again. "Now, will someone do something productive here? I hate that I'm the only one creating any kind of energy in this room."

They should have woken him up by now, House thought nervously, glancing at his watch. The fellows began rustling papers behind him, preparing to run off to perform tests, and he took his opportunity to leave, deciding that he was done waiting.

Whether or not Wilson was ready to wake up, or his doctors were comfortable with doing it themselves, House was fed up. He was going to wake Wilson up himself, regardless of what anyone else thought.

I'm so sorry this is sooooooooo late! My internet went out for a few days, and it's still a bit wonky, but it's better than nothing.