Title: Needed

Author: lornesgoldenhair

Genre: House MD

Pairing: House/Wilson friendship and later Slash

Timescale: Early Season 6

Rating: T to be safe. M in later parts.

Date of Creation: September 2009

Summary: Wilson waits for House to return from the Mayfield. This is my first venture into the world of H/W. Be gentle and feedback is loved :-)

Spoilers: Through to Season 6.

Distribution: , otherwise just ask.

Disclaimer: Not mine. David Shore owns everything.

For a moment he held the cell phone level with his heart before daring to let out the breath he had been holding. In the silence of the apartment he could still hear House's words, metallic over the line, a faint echo in the background. Wilson imagined him hunched over a patient phone in a hallway, listening to Wilson say 'No,' and felt the tie of their friendship jerk and heave between them. He pictured House's face in the shadows, eyes trained on the receiver in his hand as his only friend abandoned him to whatever the Mayfield had in store.

He dropped back to sit on the edge of the couch, not wanting to imagine more, unable to lean back into the comfort or the warm area in which he had been seated as the call had come in. A two minute phonecall and his head was a jumble of emotion. His thumb traced the edge of the cell and flipped it softly over and over in his palm. Wilson swallowed and sandwiching the cell between both hands brought them to his face in prayer, his nose pressed against his fingertips, his lips close to the place where he had last heard House's voice.

'I'm doing the right thing,' he reminded himself and the quiet room.

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Not a single visit. Dr Nolan had advised against it. House didn't need to be encouraged to kick against the system, he would be too tempted to enlist Wilson as his partner in crime, and Wilson, full of guilt and his pathological need to show he cared, would of course comply. And then later House was co-operating. Having therapy. Engaging. And Wilson's arrival might be enough to knock him off course. House was 'finding himself' and 'dealing with issues' or some such psychobabble, and to be faced with his old friend might cause him to retreat in embarrassment and self loathing at what he feared he had become. He feared vulnerability most of all, and in particular being weak in the eyes of others. No, Dr Wilson, a visit would not be in Dr House's best interests.

So Wilson waited each week for a telephone call. Not from House, never from his friend. Since the night Wilson had said 'No,' House had not attempted to contact him again. Instead Wilson waited each week for Dr Nolan to update him. He received summary letters through the post and if he wished could access the notes but he never did. As House's medical proxy Wilson could pull the 'entitled to know' card and managed to convince himself that he was just monitoring progress but at the same time he loathed to pry into House's private therapy. Secretly he suspected he was receiving almost as much therapy from Dr Nolan as his friend was and he wouldn't want House overhearing that.

There was progress it seemed. But Wilson regarded it with cynical eyes. There was little he had not been through with House over the years and although the psychiatrist sounded convincing enough on the phone he could not shake the knowledge that he simply knew House better than anyone else. He knew what he was capable of, and deception was a strong point. He could manipulate if he needed to and House needed his medical license; he needed to comply with treatment. He could smile and make nice when he had to. Progress. Until Wilson saw it for himself he couldn't quite bring himself to believe.

Dr Nolan made reassuring noises and told Wilson he had expected as much. That House's behaviours had conditioned Wilson to expect his failure, his reversion to the path of least resistance, that it would take work on Wilson's part too to establish trust, to expect House to do well. House was the same; he expected no-one to have expectations of him. It would take time to adjust to the idea of Houseian self worth.

'We're discharging him later today,' Dr Nolan's deep voice intoned, 'I believe he's ready and I'm happy to recommend his license be reinstated in due course. '

Wilson's eyes were on the blotter on his desk, his mouth suddenly dry.

'Dr Wilson?'

He started and drew breath. House was coming home.

'Um.... that's... that's remarkable,' he said flatly. Doctor speak. Remarkable. Remarkable didn't express one iota of what he felt. New research was 'remarkable,' test results were 'remarkable,' 'remarkable' was scientific, cold and worthy of 'remark.' 'Remarkable' was empty of feeling. He could sense Nolan's analysis down the line before he spoke.

'That's a very interesting reaction,' he commented. 'Care to expand?'

Wilson chewed his lip and looked back at the blotter.

'He just didn't say... It's not quite how I imagined this would happen.'

'How did you imagine it?'

'I... I'm not sure,' he confessed. 'I guess I thought he'd call me or something, 'Wilson, come get me,' I mean I dropped him off there... it seems natural that I'd go and get him... right?'

'He 'springs the joint' and calls his sidekick to aid him with escape?' a warm chuckle across the miles.

Wilson's lip twitched and a short laugh escaped him. 'That's what I do,' he said sadly.

'He doesn't need you to do that anymore,' Nolan confirmed and Wilson pressed his lips together to prevent any noise escaping him. There was no malice in Nolan's words and yet Wilson felt a sharp pang in his gut when he heard them. He looked briefly upwards before allowing his head to fall into a nod. He should be pleased, shouldn't he?

'I...have to go,' he said.

'Mmhmm,' a kind noise laced with unspoken understanding. 'Dr Wilson?'

'Yeah?' short, more breathless than he had expected the word to be.

'He'll contact you.'

'Sure, thanks.' He flipped the cell shut, suddenly needing to end the conversation. He'll contact you. Would he? He hadn't so far and it had been weeks. There was a chance that if House really was healing he simply didn't need his enabling friend any more. What was it House had said? 'You're attracted to the bright shine of my neediness.' Wilson smiled sadly at that. The pair of them were as messed up as each other, perhaps House had identified Wilson as part of his dysfunction and decided to leave dysfunction behind. Perhaps he was doing now what Wilson had tried to do after Amber's death, move away, move on. Perhaps House associated him with pain, with the infarction and with Vicodin, with Amber and hallucination and loss. Perhaps he had changed, made progress, perhaps he wanted to be healthy. Perhaps Wilson wasn't healthy?

Wilson swept his hand across his face and towards the nape of his neck, kneading the tension which had gripped the muscles there.

House wouldn't change. There would be a reason for this silence. He wouldn't be nearly as healed as Nolan made out and he'd reappear in Wilson's office demanding a 'script with some crack theory about his rehab. He'd dismiss the whole thing and regain his license and lurch through life as screwed up and demanding as ever before. And Wilson would be there to pick up the pieces and drive him home from bars and have his food stolen just like he always had been. He would still play his role; he would still have his place. He would still be needed.

He stopped massaging, his inner monologue calming him slightly, and let his hand fall back to the desk, fingers covering the cell phone.

Just call me.

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Too many fries. The sideplate burgeoned with them. Wilson picked at one and then sliced his baguette into two. He only ever ate half; he always ordered twice as much as needed. He glanced up around the cafeteria and then back at the table and the cell phone which looked bleakly back at him. Picked it up, flicked it open, checked it had a signal. Put it back down again. Flicked it open, checked the time. One thirty. Flipped it shut. He ate another fry, took a swig of soda.

Movement beside him and Wilson jumped, locked eyes with Foreman.

'Oh... hey,' he muttered, he tried to quell the disappointment and picked at the lettuce sticking out between the bread.

Foreman plonked himself opposite and cocked an eyebrow at his colleague.

'No appetite?' he asked.

'Not really.'

'Heard House was coming out,' he said conversationally. The weight of his words hung in the air expectantly.

Wilson glanced up quickly. 'Who told you?'

'Cuddy,' his tone matter-of-fact. Foreman lent forward and pilfered a fry from the sideplate. Wilson's jaw twitched.

'Right,' Wilson said.

'You heard from him?'

'No,' a grumbled admission.

'Figures...'

'How?'

'They way you keep checking your damn cell phone kind of gives it away,' Foreman's knowing smile was irritating him. The way he stole another fry irritated him more. Wilson lent across the table and removed the fries from Foreman's reach.

'Did you want something?' Wilson asked struggling to keep the pleasant tone in his voice. Foreman looked at him steadily for a moment before withdrawing a file.

'Consult,' he explained. Wilson let out a long breath, pulled the blue file towards him. Foreman sat back, knitting his hands together in his lap, watching coolly as the oncologist leafed through the papers. Every now and then his eyes flickered to the dark screen of his cell.

'He'll call,' Foreman said by way of reassurance but Wilson pretended not to hear, straining to focus instead on the patient's blood films.

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'It's very treatable,' he was saying, the words falling from him on autopilot, his sympathetic expression fixed mask like over his features, 'After the surgery we'll give you a short course of chemo, the side effects aren't pretty but there's a five year survival of 80%,' the mask shifted to an encouraging but understanding smile, 'I know it must be pretty scary right now but...'

The cell phone blared from his desk and Wilson paled, his heart leaping. He looked back at his patient, a young woman with taut features and eyes that pleaded with him to make things OK again. The screen on the phone flashed insistently, 'Private Number.'

'I.. um... I'm sorry I really have to take this,' he grabbed for the phone and stood too fast, chair screeching back and hitting his cabinets. He was on the balcony in seconds scrabbling to open the cell.

'House?'

'Wilson?'

His heart rate slowed. Cuddy.

'Have you heard from him?' she asked.

'No.'

He looked out across the courtyard beneath him, subconsciously scanning the crowd milling in and out of the building. He looked beyond to the grounds of the hospital, golden light of early fall evening picking out the colours of the trees. It had been May when he had left him at the psych hospital. Now the leaves were starting to turn and there was a chill in the air.

'I think he got out around lunchtime,' Cuddy was saying, the smallest hint of concern in her voice, 'I thought he would call... one of us?'

'Well he hasn't,' Wilson snapped slightly, his eyes moving from one person to the next.

'We'll I'll let you know if he does,' she was trying to sound kind. Wilson muttered a thanks and a curt goodbye and closed the cell again. He glared at it, resentful of the start it had given him; he could feel the slightest tremble of adrenaline in his hands and a prickle of sweat on his back. Behind the glass of his office he could feel his patient's eyes on him, waiting quietly, needing him to go back and reassure some more. He rested both hands on the parapet and took a few steadying breaths before heading back inside.

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He had gone home via House's office at around seven. It had been in darkness, nothing disrupted; held in suspension for its owner's return. Papers in an in tray stacking slowly, envelopes Cameron had opened in his absence labelled carefully with post-its. 'Completed,' 'forwarded,' and 'for review.' The battered lounger in the corner uninhabited, the TV silent, the standby light from the computer monitor blinking slowly, a single orange glow like a heartbeat, like something slept there. Furniture creaked as the room cooled, the heating timed for 'off' when the day shift left. Wilson stood in the darkness and breathed in the smell of polish and carpet cleaner and the faintest trace of someone who had once been there. He rested a hand on the back of House's chair and waited, eyes flickering shut, hand finding its way to his cell, turning it, turning it, the weight of it solid in his palm.

He opened the blank screen, found a number.

House, do you ever charge your cell?

It recharges? I just keep buying new batteries.

Two rings, three. Voicemail.

'This is House. Leave a message. I'm probably ignoring you.'

'Hey...' his voice struggled for volume so he cleared his throat, 'Hey, House, it's me. I heard you got out today so um... I just wondered how you were doing. We should... catch up...' Wilson's words trailed off and the tone sounded.

'We should catch up,' he repeated to the room. 'That is so lame.'

He drove past Baker Street, slowing at House's apartment. No lights. The engine ticked over as he considered knocking on the door.

I'm probably ignoring you.

Wilson looked up at the dark windows and felt his hands grip the steering wheel. He still had a key, he could check. Perhaps House was sitting in there in the dark.

And then what? The guy is just out of an institution, maybe he wants some space. He's had to share a room, he's had to divulge all his innermost secrets, participate in 'group,' maybe he just wants his own bed and a bit of peace. Maybe he wouldn't react well to Wilson wading into his living room. Maybe he just didn't want company. Maybe, just maybe...

Maybe he doesn't need me.

Wilson pressed the gas pedal and drew away.

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The beer had gone warm. Wilson was in the corner of his couch with the bottle resting against his stomach. He'd had perhaps three sips before his mind had clouded over with thought and he'd left the condensation from the glass to leech through his shirt and cling to him coldly. It was after midnight. House was probably asleep by now, wherever he was. Cuddy had called again around ten with no news. She had muttered platitudes about giving House time; he'd talk to them when ready.

'Shouldn't we be more concerned than this?' Wilson had asked exasperated, 'he's just out of the unit and he's contacted none of his friends. We have no idea where he is or what he's doing, he could be anywhere...'

'Dr Nolan wouldn't have let him out if he wasn't sure House was safe,' Cuddy spoke slowly, emphasising 'safe.'

'Dr Nolan doesn't know him like we do.'

'Dr Nolan has spent the last four months getting to know him, he probably knows things we don't, he's the best in his field and we should trust him. House will have follow up, he'll have appointments to attend, they'll be keeping an eye on him.'

'They're not keeping an eye on him tonight.'

'He's probably exhausted. I know this is hard but we have to be patient. He'll contact us.'

'People keep saying that but...'

'He'll contact us, James, if he needs to.'

She spent another ten minutes arguing with him before hanging up. Unbelievable. How could she be so calm? Wilson had toyed with driving back to Baker Street and then debated with himself as to why he found that idea so difficult. If House wasn't there it would do no harm. If he was and didn't let Wilson in, Wilson wasn't sure he could cope. In the end something inside him needed House to come to him and something in him doubted that he would. He peeled the warm bottle from his shirt and took a large chug of it, eyes heavy with the fatigue of worry.

Wilson scooted lower on the couch and tried to settle himself there, the faint chimes of the mantel clock ringing in the back of his mind. He didn't want to go to bed and lie there under empty covers. His place had always been on the couch.

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Tap tap tap.

Chime.

Wilson's eyes shot open and flew to the clock. One thirty.

Tap tap tap.

The wood trembled a little under the knocking.

'House?' he asked himself.

The knocking stopped and with it Wilson, half way to the threshold. He ran a hand through mussed hair and fidgeted with his shirt hem, untucked and creased around his hips. He smoothed it down and noticed the beer label had leeched colour on the cream fabric. A shuffle from outside, a hesitant noise.

Wilson unhooked the chain and drew back the door.

House's eyes met his immediately.

Wilson waited, his hand suspended on the door frame, looking at this person before him whom he had watched vanish into the Mayfield months before. He couldn't say a word, he didn't know what words meant anymore and could only feel the rush of adrenaline and nausea and fear in his guts. And there was relief too. In those seconds he took in every detail. The new grey in House's shorter hair, the new lines around his eyes, his height and breadth, the hunch of one shoulder as he leaned on his cane, the ridiculous T-Shirt he wore. Big yellow smiley face, colours faded but still perceptible. Fading out or fading in? Wilson's eyes flickered over and around him as though checking for damage.

'House,' he managed.

'Hey,' House's eyes were wary. Blue and wary.

'I was worried, Cuddy.... I mean... we didn't hear from you...' Wilson babbled.

'I went for a walk.'

Wilson raised his eyebrows. 'Your leg...?'

'Hurts.'

'So you went for a walk?'

'I've been a little cooped up,' House said grimacing. He glanced over Wilson's shoulder into the apartment and then down at his cane. Wilson followed his eye line and found his knapsack slung at his feet.

'Have you been home?' Wilson asked.

'No,' a short simple answer, an uncomfortable shift of weight. A pause, and one House seemed to struggle to end for a second but he did nonetheless. 'Last time I was there...' he started, his jaw working with the effort of divulging vulnerability.

Wilson nodded in understanding and relieved House of the need to expand further. Now it was his turn to look back into his apartment and he kneaded his lips together trying hard to gauge the situation. Weeks had past, he had stayed away, he had told House 'No,' he wished he could help but he couldn't... and now he didn't know where to begin. Weeks of wishing he could just see the man, talk things through, do his 'thing' as the communicator in the friendship, and here he was in the small hours of the night, face to face with him and completely unable to start.

'House...' he tried.

'I need somewhere to stay,' House blurted out quickly, 'That isn't my apartment,' he clarified. House dragged his eyes quickly from the floor to look at Wilson. There was something lost in there seeking the familiar.

'Well... '

House's face twitched in an awkward show of suppressed emotion. 'I need... someone around me. It's part of the deal, you get discharged and then...' he trailed off looking off to the side.

'They'd prefer you to have someone... close?'

'Apparently it helps me 'readjust' or something,' House dismissed, 'Anyway I figured you'd be the one. I doubt Cuddy will want me anywhere near her after my little show of the imagination and you know its protocol or whatever that we Crazies have a babysitter so...'

'Dr Nolan never mentioned...' Wilson stopped, pinned by House's gaze begging him not to finish.

Just go with the story Wilson, go along with the charade and he'll be in here raiding your fridge and watching your movies and being House. Question this and he'll be out that door again.

Wilson nodded, accepting the knowledge that passed between them silently. The door moved under his hand before he could finish the thoughts and then House stooped and grabbed his bag, limping past to the couch and collapsing there. He paused for a second before reaching for Wilson's warm beer.

Wilson leaned against the door, closing it with a click under his weight, watching as the life came back into his apartment. Watching as House manoeuvred his right leg over his left until his sneakers were propped on the coffee table. Watching him help himself to the remote, settle into the couch, fight with Wilson's stupid scatter cushions.

'It's good to see you,' Wilson said to House's back and was rewarded with a grunt of acknowledgement. 'I'm sorry I couldn't visit.'

'Better you didn't, I was busy being crazy.'

He stepped around and eased himself onto the couch. 'So was I...' he laughed lightly.

'Couldn't cope without me huh?' House turned his head slightly to regard Wilson's profile. His friend's mouth opened and then shut again as he cast his eyes towards the ceiling with a slight shake of his head. With a shrugging gesture Wilson confessed 'I missed you,' and his hands fell again to his lap.

He waited for the derisive mocking or the sharp one liner but nothing came.

After a beat Wilson looked up to meet House's steady open gaze.

'No comeback?' he asked.

'No,' House said simply.

Wilson and found the words were coming easier now. 'Well I did miss you. I think I... surprised myself with how much.'

He checked House's reaction, just the steady gaze, unflickering and unreadable. He decided to go on, opportunities like this didn't come often.

' I thought you would call today and when you didn't... well... I was worried too much had happened, House, that too much would change, that you'd changed... that we....' he hesitated before drawing strength from House's strangely encouraging silence. ' I didn't know what to do for the best, if I should come find you, if you would want me to come find you...I didn't know what you would need?'

House's lips twitched into a smile, fleeting and then softening at the edges, reaching his eyes, holding the look until Wilson glanced down to find a warm hand covering his own.

'Always with the pathological caring, Wilson. Well let's see,' House drew a breath and listed, 'Cuddy held my job, my license is pending, my shrink is happy with me and I'm not seeing dead people anymore...'

'Always a bonus,' Wilson conceded, his voice falsely light, his eyes on the hand over his. Still there. It gave a squeeze and he felt a rush of warmth travel the length of his arm to his heart. The jittery feeling which had sat with him since morning racked down a notch or two. Wilson sagged a little in his seat.

House's voice was gentle under his humour, the volume lower than before. 'Wilson, I'm back on your couch, drinking your warm and slightly flat beer, I know you tivo'd the L Word while I was 'inside' so...' his eyes flashed with amusement and a kind of honest ease Wilson barely recognised in his friend. He wanted to reach out there and then and check this was really House. But he didn't need to because the weight of his hand held Wilson steady, connected him, reassured him in a solid physical way even as Wilson sought words.

'So things are ok?' the urgency escaped into his question and he caught House's eye again with a hint of embarrassment. God he was pathetic, the bright shine of his own neediness betraying him.

House looked at him curiously, patiently, mind ticking, reading him.

'Not yet. I spent the best part of the day trying to figure this out,' Wilson's concern knit his brows briefly. House laughed softly before looking back at his friend.

'Relax. I've got it figured, as always,' Wilson's frown faded slightly before he continued. 'As of now I officially have everything I need.'

House released his hand with a long stroke of his thumb across the palm, never moving his gaze from Wilson's, never letting go of his eyes.

The warmth in Wilson's heart moved to his smile.