The cold bit into House's skin with a furious intensity, but he still stood passive on the patio, as though the fangs of winter had no hold on him. He was shaking ever so slightly, though he had discovered by now there was nothing he could do to remedy that. It was not from the cold, which was a sensation that could at least be amended. Drugs hadn't dulled the memories that were now emblazoned in his mind in bright neon lights, the sensation of the blood that had washed across his hands as warm as life itself. Those were feelings that he could not rid himself of, feelings which had led him to have tremors through his body, a shaking that refused to cease.

Despite this interruption to his normally broken functioning, he was still able to stand. The pain in his leg was as present as ever, biting into his thigh with the fury of all wrath, but he knew for a fact that he would be able to seek respite soon enough. The sun had left just a whisper of hope in the sky, promising to rise within the hour. For now, the sky was stained with hints of red and orange, just enough to light the way for those rising so early to work, a hundred cogs in the machine lead by the blood leaking from the heavens. Wilson was always one of them, in his office and tucked away from the outside world before brilliant white light made its way across the earth. The charming oncologist evaded this gentle kiss from the most wonderful star religiously, a star that had yet to light the way for all of mankind across the cold bricks of the hospital. This meant that House's friend would be arriving within minutes, turning on the lights to his office, and parting the shade that kept the indoors so secluded from the world that lay beyond.

And as always, House's estimation served to be incredibly precise. The lights beyond those shades turned on with a warm yellow glow, providing a bright contrast to the dull pre-dawn that enveloped his body. It was because of this new light seeping through the cracks that he could more clearly see the breath that left his mouth, the white mist drifting up towards the heaven without so much as a cry of lament. But House paid no mind to such trivial things, limping forward at a pace that brought about a recollection of an awkward stutter. But still he made his way to the glass door he had stood outside of so many times, and tapped his cane against the glass, an incessant pace that spoke of unrelenting urgency.

Holding true to his tried-and-true nature, Wilson was tearing open the shades in a matter of seconds, letting that passive light flood over his body. House knew from the start that he was anything but welcome here, that he was just as well a trespasser. The tight lines, the pinched brow of Wilson's face told him all that he needed to know without so much as a word. He was no welcome here at the hospital, not after his crimes against Chase, and against all of the people who loved the blonde so dearly. Though it was not as though he expected a different result, House was wounded deep within, as he always was by Wilson's anger. Yet instead of outright denial of access into Wilson's space, the oncologist relented, sliding the glass door open and allowing House to make his way in, however begrudging this action may have been.

By the subtle sound of vibrating glass coming from behind him, House knew that Wilson was anything but happy. The shades were just as soon shut again, hiding the patio from view, sealing the office off once more. It took mere moments for Wilson to stand in front of House, arms crossed like a disappointed mother ready to yell, his posture as jarring and rigid as stone. In fact, the tone of his voice only differed in volume from a deafening yell- each word still had a scalding and piercing effect, however hushed they might have been.

"What are you doing here? You know that you shouldn't be here, and Cuddy wants your head. If she finds out you're here, then you're dead. We're both dead" he hissed beneath his breath, and at this, House hung his head in a silent confession of shame. He was more than aware of the weight that he had put on all of those that were close to him, not just Chase, but Wilson and Cuddy and the rest of the hospital staff. His actions had been careless, and Wilson's words stung, but not so much he couldn't spit out one of the replies that he had spent the night formulating, though the delivery was a bit rough.

"I know, I know you're upset. You can chastise me all you want later. I actually came here with some things I thought you could use. For Chase" he managed to speak beneath his breath, using his left hand to dig into the inner pocket of his jacket. His eyes flickered to the ground as he did so, embarrassed by his admission that he had in fact done something for the intensivist, a blatant act of kindness. Of course he had- it was his fault that Chase had nearly died, and the guilt had been slowly eating him alive. Once his fingers brushed against the papers he had stowed away, he yanked them out, and tossed them onto Wilson's desk.

"Research" he explained pitifully, staring at the wrinkled paper instead of Wilson's piercing eyes, pupils that seemed to act as daggers to his very soul. "I researched mental health facilities that would be better for him than this place. I don't know how long he'll need, but these places have the best care in three states. There's two that I found that seemed to be the best. I'd like him moved to one of these as soon as he's well enough. I'll cover all costs for his stay."

Thankfully, Wilson didn't say a cruel word to follow up this explanation. Instead, he moved over to the desk where House had placed the papers, and took them in his hand, looking them over with a gaze that appeared thoughtful, though still slightly irked. But to House's surprise, it was only about five seconds later that Wilson threw them back on the desk, shaking his head angrily, as though the mere mention of additional assistance was enough to send him into a fit.

"You don't get it, do you?" his friend asked, his tone displaying a potent combination of disgust and apathy. At what exactly these feelings were directed, House didn't know. In fact, his heart dropped at the sound of such anger, however soft the words may have been.

"What's wrong?" House asked, trying to hide how wounded he was at the way his heartfelt efforts had been cast aside. He had truly put his heart into finding the two hospitals he thought would give Chase the best long-term recovery options, and he had felt nothing but truth as he had said he would pay for the entire experience. But it seemed that this was not enough to make Wilson somewhat at ease, as the oncologist was growing ever-more red in the face. The most unsettling aspect was how the brown-haired doctor managed to keep his voice level, despite becoming overwhelmed with a broad spectrum of emotions.

"He doesn't need some fancy hospital, or a whole team of doctors to psychoanalyze him. He doesn't need to be sent away from his friends for two years just so they can try and fix him. He doesn't need that. He needs us, House. He needs you" Wilson said softly, which was enough to make House freeze where he stood. The words felt like ice injected straight into his blood, the essence of his life becoming stone within his heart, compressing his chest and making it hard to draw a breath.

"What do you mean?" he asked, the words coming off his tongue as though they were as heavy as lead. In fact, they were hard to form on his tongue, words that did not wish to escape past parted lips. They were so foreign to him, not just the words, but the thoughts associated with them. What Wilson was suggesting was nearly unbelievable in the world that House had made for himself, a reality where feelings were a useless nuisance, just as lethal as a disease if left to fester.

"You know exactly what I mean, House" Wilson spit, throwing the papers that House had bothered to print onto the floor, discarding them as though they were trash. "You know what I mean, and you're just too much of a bastard to admit that maybe, just maybe, you have feelings. And that sometimes, it's okay for other people to feel something about you too. You know that Chase needs you here. He needs to talk to you."

"The hell he does!" House retorted, his face pinching up tightly under the stress, the desperation to escape the situation. "I'm the one who almost killed him. I'm the reason he's stuck here"

"That's not true" Wilson interjected sharply, his face still contorted into a visage of anger. "The only one who almost killed Chase was Chase. You didn't see what I saw. You didn't see him with his chest cut open like he was some piece of meat. You didn't have to patch up cuts deep enough to put your finger in. You weren't there. Let me tell you, I think he would have tried to kill himself if you handed him that knife or not. He was miserable, he was suffering, and he wanted out. How can you blame him for that? How can you blame yourself?"

"Because it was my negligence that let him get so far" House whispered back, leaning heavily on his cane before stumbling to the chair in front of Wilson's desk. Realizing that his own body was about to fail in the task of supporting his frame, he tried to allow the leather to interrupt his fall to the ground. He collapsed into the cushioned surface, and rubbed his thigh with his right hand, trying to ease the pain by just a bit, just enough to speak the words that were caught in his throat like burrs. "I'm the reason he was so bad in the first place. If I had done something, if I had so much as cared-"

"But that's not you, House" Wilson cut in once more, halting House in his tracks. "No one expected you to act any differently, much less Chase. This isn't because of you. No one noticed anything was wrong, at least, nowhere near as bad as it was. Not Cameron, not Foreman, not me. You aren't above not knowing those things. All I know is that his sadness, his pain, that is not your fault. It's no one's fault. Sometimes people get sad, sometimes people want to die, and we don't always know why" he finished, sadly, staring at the desk with a hollow expression in his eyes, as though the light had been stolen from their earthen depths. House followed suit, tracing over the grain of the wood with his eyes, as though they were the rolling waves of an ocean of agony. He knew that Wilson spoke the truth, that there was no set formula for suicidal intent. Sometimes it was obvious, and sometimes it struck clear out of nowhere, leaving nothing but shock and mourning in the wake.

"I just wish I had been able to help" House admitted as sudden moment of weakness washed over him, leaving him unable to filter the first words that came to his tongue. He was still unable to meet Wilson's eyes as he said this, a confession with incredible intent. Silence spanned between them for a few moments before Wilson spoke again, his tone still soft, as though he were now playing a comforting role. Once more he had assumed the position of mothering, this time as the warm arms to run home to.

"It's not too late, House. He needs to be surrounded by his friends, he needs that, not some facility where he's a number on a chart. You're someone that he looks up to, someone that matters to him. If you're there for him, it would make incredible worlds of difference. I'm positive."

To this, silence fell once more, like a suffocating blanket of darkness and thought that was thick enough to drown out the rest of the world. House couldn't imagine what in the world he could possibly say, how he could respond without exposing himself like a wounded child. Exposing how much his heart was aching at the thought of Chase's brush with death, that would be a drastic self-incrimination. He could not bear to imagine sitting by the bedside of his employee, looking at the pale and ashen face, coming up with words that could coax a man from the edge of a cliff.

Did he really mean that much to Chase? Was there any possible way that he, a broken and crippled man, could save a life? Not a life saved by medicine, by chemicals being pumped into a bloodstream, by incisions and by transplants, but by genuine human emotion. Was there any way that he could perhaps repair something so broke, so lost, when he felt himself to be just as damaged?

There was no way he could know until he tried.

"If you think you can sneak me into the psych ward again, get me past Cuddy, and into Chase's room, I'll talk with him. If this is the only thing that you think will work, and I mean the only thing, I'll do it. Not for you. Not for me. For Chase. He's a damn good doctor. It would be a shame to lose him, I was hoping to keep him around for at least a little longer."

Wilson smiled, and House felt sick to his stomach at the thought that Wilson had seen so easily through his cold facade. Despite the pride that Wilson had on his face, the thin smile painted over his lips, House could see the sorrow tainting his friend's brown eyes. He knew that it was disappointment and agony over this whole sorry state of affairs, perhaps over the reluctance with which House was acting. But there was nothing he could do to change the past now. All that he had was the future- not just his own future, but Chase's. A future of pain and of trial, but it was a future as long as Chase's heart was still beating.

Anything to save him, House thought as he stood, limping towards the door with an unusually strong sense of purpse. Anything in the world.

Thank you all so much for reading! A big thanks to all of those who have followed, favorited, and reviewed this story. Your undying support means the world and more to me. I hope to be bringing you an update to this story soon! I hope that you enjoyed, and I can't wait to bring you the next installment of this story. If you have any questions, comments, or critique, as always, feel free to shoot me a PM or drop a review. Thanks again!