A/N: thanks to usomitai and sabinelagrande!

Part One: Fall to Winter

1.

At the beginning of everything, on that first morning, Wilson wakes to the sound of a dog howling.

It's just after five am and he's disoriented by the smell of unfamiliar sheets before he remembers for the hundredth time, hotel. He's absolutely sure the dog must be part of his dream until it starts up again -- a mournful noise that rises and falls; it sounds almost human.

Wilson rubs his bleary eyes and wonders what sort of idiot brings a howling dog to a hotel.

After a quick shower, Wilson makes his way down to the lobby and stops to fill his travel mug with stale coffee from the breakfast bar. He considers complaining about the dog, but both clerks are in the back office staring intently at the TV, so he doesn't bother.

The morning outside is clear and bitterly cold, the first real taste of winter coming early in the fall. Ice crystals glitter on every surface, coating the parking lot in a thin sheet of white.

Wilson fumbles with cold-numbed fingers for a few seconds before he manages to get the car key in the lock. The door resists and then opens with a startling crackle of breaking ice. The ensuing silence is so profound that he pauses for a moment, looking curiously around the parking lot, before getting into the Volvo.

Wilson's drive to work is also strangely quiet, save for the unusually high numbers of emergency vehicles that pass him. Coffee shops and newsstands that should be bustling with early morning professionals and students stand empty and shuttered. It's so surreal that Wilson wonders if he's gone through some sort of time warp, maybe slept for three days and woken up on a Saturday assuming it was Wednesday.

Maybe he's still dreaming, he thinks. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a dark shape -- a dog? -- slip between two buildings and disappear into an alley. He turns quickly to get a better look, but only succeeds in fogging up the side window with his breath, obscuring his view.

Wilson finally makes it in to work, although he has to pull over at least four more times to let ambulances pass, all of which seem to be converging on Princeton Plainsboro.

Through the glass doors, he can see that the main lobby is bustling with activity. There's definitely something going on today. Wilson wishes he'd thought to turn on the radio in the car, but it just hadn't occurred to him.

He stops just inside the doors and is almost immediately stepped on by a frayed-looking nurse. "Sorry," Wilson mutters. There must've been some kind of major disaster? That's the only thing he can think of.

Wilson doesn't immediately recognize any faces, and he'd feel guilty keeping anyone from responding to an emergency, so he weaves his way delicately through the busy crowd to the little news and gift stand in the corner of the lobby. The young guy, Tim, who's working the counter, is usually up to date on the latest PPTH news.

Wilson manages to make it to the counter without spilling his coffee. He looks around then raises his eyebrows questioningly at Tim.

"Crazy in here today, huh doc?"

"Yeah," Wilson agrees. They survey the chaos in silence for a few moments. "Um, do you know what's going on?"

Tim smirks at him. "Didn't watch the news this morning, huh?"

"I, uh, woke up late and--No, I didn't."

"Apparently," he pauses dramatically, "And I know this sounds crazy, doc, but apparently... people started turning into wolves last night."

Wilson nearly chokes on the sip of cold coffee he was attempting to swallow. "Uh, what--I thought you said--Sorry--" He coughs a few more times, trying to clear his throat. "Um, seriously?"

"Totally. Scout's honor, doc." Tim holds up two fingers to show he's serious. Wilson has no idea what the scout sign, or whatever it's called, looks like.

Now he's absolutely sure he's still dreaming. He takes another sip of what must be imaginary coffee, as if that might wake him up.

"I know, man -- it's crazy." Tim shakes his head. "First, people thought it was some kind of mass hallucination, you know? Like some kind of gas released by terrorists that made people see things. Or just mass hysteria, or something. Who knows? But then people started coming in to the ER with bite wounds. Like from actual wolves, ya know?"

Wilson nods. He's still waiting for his alarm clock to wake him up.

"Then the cops were all, like, it's a pack of wild dogs or something. But people coming here swear they saw it happen -- they saw people actually turn into wolves. I mean, fuck."

They both turn towards some sudden shouting. A team of doctors and nurses are pushing a gurney through the lobby towards the elevators. One nurse presses a bloody towel to the patient's neck.

Wilson squeezes against the counter to give the group room to pass. He watches until both team and patient disappear into the elevator.

"The ER's full," Tim supplies. "Do you know Sarah?"

Wilson has no idea who Sarah is, but he nods anyway.

"She was up here earlier and she said they've had a lot of heart attacks and strokes to deal with. Along with all the bite wounds. The shock and all, I guess."

Everything seems real. Wilson thinks he'll probably have to accept that he's not dreaming. "So did you, uh, see anything?" he asks.

"Me? No, doc. Sorry." Tim shakes his head like he's disappointed. "My shift started at five and everything was perfectly normal around here then. It was actually pretty empty until they started bringing the first people in."

As if on cue, a group of police officers in uniform appear at the lobby doors. A few of the men are struggling to hold up a blanket containing what looks like a huge dog -- one enormous paw hangs limply over the edge. A female officer trails behind the rest, eyes fixed on the still form in the blanket. The group begins shouting for help as soon as they enter.

A doctor -- Wilson thinks his name is Morris -- runs to intercept the officers, shaking his head. He's soon joined by a nurse and another doctor and the two groups begin to argue in earnest.

Wilson can't quite make out what they're saying, but it's obvious the doctors don't want to admit the... patient to the hospital. The men lay their burden gently on the floor and things immediately get more heated.

Wilson approaches slowly, drawn to the form lying motionless on the blanket. He crouches down to get a better look.

The creature still looks incredibly dangerous, even though it's obviously dying. The fur is jet-black and shiny, marred by what appears to be a gunshot wound just behind the creature's front leg. Blood bubbles up with each rapid breath.

The wolf's eyes -- and this is no dog, Wilson's absolutely sure of that now -- are fixed and staring. The white fangs are streaked with blood.

Wilson does the only thing he can think of, even though he knows it's too late. He picks up an edge of the blanket and presses it against the wound.

"He's dying, isn't he?"

Wilson looks up to see the female officer standing above him. She's staring at the wolf, tears glistening in her eyes.

Wilson's once-clean, white cuffs are now soaked with blood. He can feel the wolf's breathing slowing beneath his hands and he knows that the right lung has collapsed. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"We were just--We were getting ready for our shift. In the locker room. And I was talkin' to Sam about--about a party he was throwing for his little girl, Alicia. She's his youngest. She's turning five."

Tears are streaming down her face, but she makes no move to wipe them away. Her words tumble out now, barely louder than a whisper.

"And Sam was talkin' and then he just--he just fell. Like he passed out or something. And I turned around and shouted for the guys to get help and when--when I looked back... Sam was gone. And this thing--this thing was layin' there were Sam was. And it--he started to get up and..."

"I swear I didn't know. I didn't know it was him." She looks up at Wilson and her eyes are empty. "I just--I just drew my gun and--and I shot him. I shot Sam."

Wilson can't think of anything to say, so he just keeps pressing as Sam the wolf takes one last, shuddering breath and dies under his hands.

2.

The wolf first wakes just after dawn. He blinks sleepily in the soft light and, because it's unreasonably early, curls into the blankets, and goes back to sleep.

The second time he wakes, the room is much brighter -- warm light falls across the bed and onto the floor, illuminating the dust motes that eddy in front of his eyes. He watches them lazily, thoughts moving slowly and strangely.

He has no conscious awareness of who he is -- he just thinks of himself as the wolf -- or where he is. He only knows that he's alive and sleepy, and that everything in this place smells of home.

He dozes until he can no longer ignore the need to pee. Then he extricates himself from the warm nest of blankets he's made in the middle of the bed, stretches, shakes himself off, and yawns hugely. He steps carefully to the edge of the bed and jumps down.

There's a sudden, sharp pain in his back leg when his foot hits the floor, and he whirls around, whimpering, to bite at the spot that hurts. As soon as he does, he realizes it's an old injury -- the pain is familiar even if he cannot remember how or when it happened. The wolf licks carefully at his leg until the ache fades from his awareness again.

He limps awkwardly on four legs across the bedroom and into the bathroom, claws clicking out an uneven rhythm against the hardwood floors. The scent of urine is much stronger in here. He sniffs around the edges of the room until he identifies the source of the smell -- the toilet. Then it takes him a while to figure out how to lift his leg -- he turns in place a few times, paws slipping precariously on the tile floor -- before he finally manages to relieve himself.

He stretches and shakes once more, loose skin flapping and scattering old, dry hairs around the bathroom. Now that he feels better, his thoughts turn to a new matter -- he follows the enticing scent of food out of the bathroom and down the hallway.

3.

House isn't answering his phone and his office has been dark and empty all morning. Wilson decides to wait until lunchtime to begin panicking. And after that deadline passes with no sign of House, he decides to go looking for the man. Cuddy's made it clear that all personnel are needed during this crisis, but Wilson slips down to the basement and out through the ER entrance as emergency crews rush in with another patient.

The street in front of House's building is as deserted as the rest of Princeton -- all the smart people are locked safely inside their homes. Wilson glances nervously around -- no werewolves or any other monsters in sight -- before making his way quickly up the steps and through the outer doors.

He knocks a few times. The hallway smells faintly of mildew and onions. He's never noticed it before.

"House? Are you alive in there?"

There's no answer.

Cold adrenaline rushes through his body, making his heart pound. He reaches up and grabs the spare key from House's latest and most obvious hiding place.

"I'm coming in. Okay?"

The apartment is cold and dark inside, slightly musty. The curtains are drawn and there's no telltale scent of morning coffee in the air. Although Wilson can't see any signs of violence or disorder beyond House's usual mess, he knows instantly that something's wrong. He takes a tentative step inside. House's backpack, cell phone, and keys are on the table just inside the door. His cane is leaning against the wall. Wilson picks it up, just in case.

"House?"

There are no signs of the man. Wilson glances toward the kitchen. Nothing. He starts down the hallway leading to the bedroom, walking slowly past the overloaded bookcase, hardwood floors creaking under his feet.

House's bedroom looks normal -- the comforter and sheets are in disarray and clothes are strewn on the bed. When Wilson gets closer, he identifies them as a pair of boxers and an old t-shirt. He pokes at the lump of blankets with the end of the cane, but House isn't hiding under there.

He has a sudden, horrible fantasy of House, transformed into a drooling monster, reaching out from the darkness under the bed to grab at his ankles. He backs away slowly, feeling like a horny teenager in a slasher flick about to meet a grisly end.

"House? You under there?" God, he feels like an idiot. But he leans down and checks under the bed anyway, gripping the cane tightly. He's relieved to find nothing but an old box and some books.

Wilson sighs and scrubs at his face, looking around in exasperation. Maybe House just decided to go out this morning, without his cane, cell, and keys for... no reason.

He walks across to the bathroom and flips on the light. It smells bad in here and Wilson identifies the odor instantly as urine. There's a large yellow puddle near the toilet.

"Oh, God! House, what the hell--"

There's a sudden low, groaning sound from the living room and Wilson nearly drops the cane, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He takes a few deep breaths and stays absolutely still, listening for anything else, but he hears nothing.

Wilson decides he has no choice but to head back down the hallway toward the living room because that sound could have come from House -- though Wilson has no idea how he could have missed him on the way in -- and because that's where the door is. He peers around the corner of the hallway into the living room, wincing as the floor gives a particularly loud creak. And there's nothing -- the room is just as empty as it was before.

He's about to relax, about to blame the groaning on old pipes in old buildings, when he hears it: There's a quick scrabbling, like claws on a hardwood floor, and then a soft sigh from behind the couch.

"Oh, fuck." Wilson can barely produce more than a whisper. He knows he's being an idiot -- the CDC guidelines, released just this morning, state that you should not, under any circumstances, approach affected individuals, and common sense dictates the same -- but he has to see for himself. He walks slowly around the end of the couch, holding the cane out in front of him as some sort of feeble defense.

A huge wolf is stretched out along the front of the couch, head resting on its front paws and back legs under the coffee table, apparently sleeping.

Wilson is certainly no wolf expert -- this is only the second one he's actually seen in person and the first was just this morning -- but it looks... normal to him. Certainly, it doesn't appear to be in any distress. The fur is a mottled brownish, grayish color, darker on the back and fading to a dirty white on the belly and around the muzzle. The wolf's coat looks slightly scruffy, like it had started shedding and then stopped. Wilson counts the animal's respirations as the chest rises and falls because he's not sure what else to do. He's just started to get closer for a better look at the right leg, which looks a little odd, when the wolf suddenly lifts its head.

Wilson freezes. The wolf yawns hugely, revealing a terrifying collection of yellowing teeth, smacks its lips sleepily, and looks right at him.

Wilson can only mutter, "Oh, shit," because he can't deny that the blue eyes staring back at him are House's.

4.

The tall creature left quickly, smelling of fear.

Strange. The tall creature is part of the pack. And this is the pack's territory. The wolf can't sense any hidden danger lurking. So why was the creature so afraid?

He hauls himself up -- the side of his hip and his joints ache slightly from spending hours on the hard floor -- and walks slowly around the perimeter of his territory. Nothing seems to be out of place. He recognizes his own scent and the tall creature's scent -- now that he's been reminded of it -- along with a few others. Unfortunately, the smell of food is still tantalizingly out of reach, contained inside hard shells he can't open. The wolf paws at them again for a few seconds, sending one rolling across the floor, before giving up.

He wanders back into the bedroom, turns a few times on the rug before lying down, and falls asleep.

Some time later, noises wake him -- the front door opening and then voices. The wolf lifts his head and sniffs the air. The tall creature is back. He's brought another creature with him, who also smells familiar. And, more importantly, there's a food smell, as well. They've brought food. At least this is worth getting up for.

The two creatures are talking in low voices when the wolf comes in. They freeze when they see him. Both creatures -- the darker one, the one the wolf knows best, and this new, light-colored one -- smell like fear, so the wolf decides to be cautious.

He approaches slowly in the most non-threatening manner he can think of: head down, tail low. This is his place and they should come to him, but the wolf is clever and resourceful when he has to be, especially when there's food involved.

Both creatures stand rigid against the door as he approaches.

The wolf smells each creature in greeting, but neither makes a move to greet him back. Why are they acting so strange? There's no danger here that he can sense. And they've brought food -- a wonderful smell is coming from the package the lighter-colored one is holding. They should be happy.

The wolf wags his tail to show that he, at least, is happy.

Instantly, the two creatures relax. They start talking again. The wolf watches, head cocked, waiting for them to decide it's time to eat. They keep talking and now one is gesturing at the other. The wolf is hungry, but he can be patient. He lies down and puts his head on his paws, waiting, eyes moving from one creature to the other.

Finally, they stop talking and move slowly down the hallway. The wolf gets up and follows them. The light-colored one takes the food out of the bag -- the wolf can't help drooling at the scent of meat -- and the darker creature has a little bottle that rattles when he shakes it. The wolf can't see what they're doing -- they're too tall. He whines loudly in frustration.

At last, they notice him! The dark creature turns and talks soothingly to him. He has food in his hand and he waves it as he moves down the hall slowly. The wolf wags his tail again and follows. When the creature throws the meat into the bathroom, the wolf leaps after it. He gulps it down whole and looks back to see if the creature will offer him more.

He does. And the wolf eats that piece, too, and then another after that. The two creatures talk again, before throwing the rest of the meat to the wolf. The last piece is so large, that he's forced to gnaw it into smaller chunks before swallowing it.

Now that he's eaten, the wolf is sleepy again. The two creatures shut the bathroom door, but he doesn't really mind. This place is as good a place as any to nap. He turns a few times, curls up on the small rug near the shower and, within seconds, he's asleep, dreaming of food.

5.

Wilson and Chase stand outside House's bathroom, waiting silently.

He'd decided to call Chase after first considering and rejecting Cameron -- too emotional, though Wilson thinks that's probably sexist of him -- and Foreman -- who he thinks probably wouldn't come anyway. And Chase has proven to be a good choice. He'd arrived almost instantly, after promising Wilson he wouldn't involve Cameron, at least not yet. He hadn't freaked out, and had simply asked what Wilson needed him to do. Together, they'd gone back to the hospital and picked up a prescription for diazepam. And then they'd driven by Chase's to pick up a steak after searching fruitlessly for an open grocery store.

Ten minutes pass with no noise from within. Wilson cracks the door open far enough so they can both peer inside. House -- and Wilson's still getting used to thinking of this creature as House -- is lying on his side, sleeping soundly. Or Wilson supposes he's sleeping. He's really not an expert on what wolves look like when they're asleep.

Either way, the Valium they'd dosed him with seems to be doing the trick. House had certainly eaten it happily enough. In Wilson's experience, convincing House to take drugs had never been the issue.

"Do you think he's--" Wilson was going to say 'okay', but that doesn't seem appropriate. "Um, stable?"

Chase shrugs. "How should I know?" Wilson gives him a pained look and he puffs out a breath. "Sorry," he mumbles.

"One of us should probably go in there and check his vitals."

Chase just stares at him like he's lost his mind, so Wilson holds up a hand. "I'll do it."

"I've got your back."

"Great." He eases his way slowly into the bathroom, taking care to step softly and deliberately. "House?" He's not sure why he's whispering, but it feels safer, somehow.

There's no movement from the large, furry lump on the floor except the steady rise and fall of his chest. Wilson has no idea how to evaluate an animal, so he decides to start there -- he checks his watch and begins counting breaths. "Respiration rate is... twenty. Does that seem normal?"

"Seems reasonable."

Now he has to figure out how to get a heart rate. He's seen Hector's vet do this dozens of times over the years. How difficult can it be?

"Chase, House keeps a stethoscope somewhere on one of the bookshelves in the living room. Could you get it for me?"

"Sure."

"Oh, and get something to poke him with. Something long. Like a cane or... whatever." He's damn well not going to reach within biting distance without making sure House is well and truly out of it. He might have seemed friendly before, but they've just drugged him -- he might be a little grumpy now.

Chase returns with the stethoscope and one of House's canes. He hands both through the door to Wilson. "Poke him near his eye. See if he blinks," he whispers.

"Really?"

"Saw it on a nature show. About hyenas, I think."

Why not, Wilson thinks. He extends the cane and taps gently at House's eye right near the corner. Nothing -- just the barest flutter of lashes.

He gives Chase one last bewildered look, then walks quietly over and crouches down by House. He has to lean over and brace his right hand between House's head and his front legs to get close enough to use the stethoscope. If House decides to wake up right now and rip his throat out, Wilson's making it extra easy for him.

But House doesn't stir when Wilson touches him. He listens for a minute to the steady beating of his heart. "Sounds okay," he decides. He sits back on his haunches, considering.

"So... now what? I mean--Are we even sure that's House?" Chase asks. "He seemed awfully... friendly earlier."

Wilson glances back at him.

Chase shrugs. "Sorry, it's just that I'd expect House to be a little more grumpy as a wolf."

"I know what you mean, yeah. It's strange." Wilson had thought getting House to the hospital would be a good idea, but now he's not so sure. Chase has a point, he realizes -- he has no idea what to do next. Though, right now the bathroom seems like a pretty good place to keep him. "I guess we wait for him to wake up."

6.

House wakes up on the bathroom floor, naked.

Oh shit, he thinks, and Fuck! And then he wonders how bad it's going to be. Is he going to have to swallow his pride and call Wilson to come help him? Or can he manage to drag himself into the bedroom alone? And, fuck, where's his phone, anyway? Probably with his clothes.

He lifts his head carefully to look around. Both doors are closed, which is... strange. Normally, he never bothers. Was he taking a shower? He doesn't remember taking one. In fact, he can't remember doing anything this morning. And where the fuck are his clothes, anyway?

It takes House more than a few seconds to realize that his leg is not particularly painful. He reaches down and touches it gently, runs his hand over the scar. There's nothing - only a dull ache that he associates with a bellyful of painkillers. He doesn't remember taking any, though. His head maybe? But he doesn't feel anything there, either, and his hands come away clean -- there's no blood. Interesting.

House pushes himself slowly into a sitting position against the cold tiles, groaning when his stiff muscles protest. Blood rushes back into extremities that have been twisted into uncomfortable positions for too long and he starts to shiver.

How long has he been lying here? It feels like hours. House rubs at his forehead with a shaky hand.

There's shuffling on the other side of the door leading to the hall, and then a distinct footstep. House freezes.

"House?" The voice is hesitant. And familiar. "You okay in there?"

"Chase!?" Things are starting to get seriously wacky. House wonders if he's taken any really good drugs lately and just forgotten about it. Kind of defeats the purpose if that's the case. Or maybe not. It might explain his current lack of pain. "What the hell are you doing here?" He manages to get his legs working well enough to stand up, unsteadily. "And didn't I fire you two months ago?"

"Um, yeah--I, uh--Wilson called me and--Look, it's a long story." Chase doesn't even have the decency to sound nervous about breaking into his boss's -- ex-boss's -- apartment. He just sounds tired. "I'm going to get you some clothes. I'll be right back."

"Wait, Chase! Just--" But Chase is already stomping away into the bedroom. "Damn it," House mumbles. He grabs a towel from the rack and arranges it awkwardly around his waist.

He notices the smell first, face wrinkling at the stench, then the pool of urine around the toilet. He's been know to have bad aim on occasion -- particularly when intoxicated -- but he can't ever remember missing this spectacularly before. Must be drugs then, he thinks, though he still can't remember taking anything.

Chase is back. He cracks the open the door before House can stop him and holds a pile of clothes out, waiting. House shuffles over and takes them without saying anything. To his relief, Chase shuts the door.

"I'll be in the main room," he calls, voice muffled. "Come out when you're decent."

There's a hint of sarcasm on that last word, and House chuckles to himself in appreciation. Chase has come a long way from the sniveling little suck-up he'd been when he first came to work at PPTH. And he's a halfway decent doctor, too. There's a tiny flash of pride when he thinks that he's responsible for at least some of that.

House stumbles into the clothes Chase brought -- an old t-shirt and a pair of jeans. No underwear. Kinky.

When he's dressed he makes his way out into the living room, supporting himself carefully against the wall in case whatever happened in the bathroom happens again. He doesn't trust the fact that he feels so normal. Better than normal, actually - he feels good.

He can hear Chase talking to someone, presumably on the phone: "Yeah." A pause. "Just about ten minutes ago, I think." Another pause. House stands in the hallway, waiting. Chase glances over. "Okay. Yeah, I've got it. See you soon." He flips the phone closed.

"Wilson, I presume."

"Yeah. He's coming over. He should be here in a few minutes," Chase says.

"Okay." He draws it out. Chase is still standing in the middle of the room, just watching him. House waits to see if he'll say anything else, maybe offer up some explanation for why he's here, but he doesn't. "Want to tell me what's going on now?"

"Not really. You feeling all right?" Okay. House takes it all back: new Chase is just as annoying as old Chase. He's starting to get pissed off.

"I feel fine." He flings himself recklessly down on the couch in protest. "But I'd feel a whole lot better if you'd just tell me what the fuck is going on. You can start with what you're doing in my apartment."

Chase just turns around and heads into the kitchen. "I'm getting a drink. You want one?"

House shrugs, though Chase obviously can't see it. None of this makes any sense. Maybe he's suffered a massive concussion or some kind of overdose and he's just too far gone to realize it. Reality seems real to him -- the smooth leather of the couch under his hand, the groove in the floorboards his big toe is resting on, the familiar, faint smell of old cigars -- but he's been fooled before. Everything seemed real back then, too.

It takes him a few seconds to realize Chase is standing in front of him, shaking a glass in his face. House glares at him. He grabs the glass and drains it in one gulp.

He almost misses the look of relief that crosses Chase's face, the subtle release of tension in his shoulders. Almost, but not quite.

"What was in that?"

Chase is surprised for only second -- he's always been a good liar. "Bourbon, I think." House gives him a look. Chase sighs. "Diazepam. Ten milligrams," he admits.

And that's pretty interesting, too.

7.

Wilson's just finished checking up on the last of his regular patients in the Oncology ward -- even during a crisis, people still have their cancer treatments to deal with -- when he gets a call from Chase. House is awake.

He'd hated to leave House -- and he felt guilty about leaving Chase alone with a potentially dangerous animal -- but he'd had responsibilities that needed attending to. And he'd kept in regular contact with Chase throughout the day.

Wilson checks his watch -- it's nearly four in the morning. PPTH started getting the first reports of people changing back, and worried families dragging in their loved ones who'd spent all day as an animal, at around six this evening.

Chase called at about the same time to inform him that House had apparently changed back, as well, and was sleeping soundly -- the Valium was still working.

He signs the last chart and hands it over to the exhausted charge nurse, then heads out to his car. The streets are empty and it doesn't take him long to get to Baker Street. He pulls his overcoat on snugly before stepping out of the car. The day that was just bitter cold has turned downright nasty with the setting of the sun. Wilson can practically feel his breath freezing, tiny flakes brushing against his face, as he rushes into House's building.

He knocks once and steps inside, shutting the door behind him. Chase is sitting in a chair next to the TV and House is on the couch, slumped down but still mostly upright. He nods to Chase and steps around the front of the couch to get a better look at their patient.

House is pretty groggy, but he's awake. He rolls his eyes up to Wilson -- which seems to take more than a little effort -- and says, "You."

"How's he doing?" Wilson asks. He feels pretty guilty about dosing House without his consent, but he's not taking any chances. CDC guidelines are recommending full sedation and confinement for those affected with... with whatever this is.

Chase comes over and stands next to him. They both look down at House, who seems to be trying very hard to glare at them, though he's mostly failing. "All right," Chase says. "He seemed lucid when he woke up. A little confused. But that's normal, considering the circumstances. Basically, he's been his usual, pleasant self." He pauses, considering. "He hasn't asked for any Vicodin yet."

That's strange, Wilson thinks. "I wonder if that's a good sign."

"Or a bad one," Chase suggests.

House closes his eyes and waves at them sloppily. "Continue talking about me like I'm not even here," he slurs. "It's totally not annoying at all."

"Sorry, House." Wilson sits down next to him. "We just--We're worried about you. That's all."

He reaches across for House's wrist -- the pulse there is a little slow, but steady and strong. The fact that House doesn't immediately yank his arm away -- he just stares blankly down at Wilson's hand -- is a good indication that he's pretty wasted.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on? Or do I have to guess." House puffs out a breath and rolls his head back against the couch cushion. "Let's see. You and Chase slipped me a mickey and had a little party while I was out of it. Hope you guys had fun." He lifts his head back up to stare earnestly at Wilson. "Tell me, Jimmy: Am I still a virgin down there?"

Same old House, Wilson thinks. It's comforting in a way. "We need to get you to the hospital. There are some tests--"

House is shaking his head. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on."

"I still think this is a bad idea," Chase says. "What if it happens again? There's no way to isolate--"

Wilson cuts him off. "I'll deal with it. It'll be on me if something happens."

Chase stares at him for a long moment then throws up his hands. "Fine," he says.

Wilson turns back to House, who's watching the two of them curiously. There's usually one surefire way to get him to do anything. "I'll make a deal with you," he says. "You let me drive you to the hospital, and I'll tell you everything on the way there."

House chews on his lip thoughtfully. "Deal," he says.

First, they have to stuff House into some warmer clothes for the drive -- button-down over t-shirt, pea coat, hat, and scarf -- and, of course, he makes the process as difficult as possible. Then they lead him, stumbling, down to Wilson's car. Chase has to go back for House's cane and then, again, to lock up the apartment after House complains loudly about his neighbors stealing his stuff. Finally -- after Wilson thanks Chase for all his help -- he and House are on the road.

He waits until the turn onto Witherspoon then he takes a deep breath and tells House everything -- everything he can remember, anyway -- about the day. It takes him a long time to get through all of it. Wilson parks and they sit in the rapidly cooling car until he finishes.

"And, uh, that's everything." House is just staring at him. Wilson hates it when he does that. "I think," he adds, lamely.

"Huh," House says.

He's obviously taking his time processing everything Wilson's just said. The drugs, no doubt, aren't helping. Wilson decides to just not say anything in the meantime. He wipes some barely-noticeable dust off the edge of one of the heating vents.

House finally shifts in his seat. "So you really believe all that." He scratches at his chin, casually. "You've actually seen this happen? People turning into dogs?"

"Wolves," Wilson corrects him.

"Whatever."

Wilson sighs. "No, not personally," he admits. "Other people have, though. And I've seen the--" He gestures. "The--What happened after. I saw the wolves -- I saw you! In your apartment--you were--" He's starting to get agitated. He takes a deep breath to calm himself, closes his eyes, and starts again slowly. "I know what I've seen -- I'm not crazy. Other people have seen the same things, too. And I've treated over nine people for bite wounds today, which is a pretty unusual injury for Princeton, New Jersey. It's not just me, House."

"Okay," House says mildly.

"What?"

House rubs the side of his nose in that annoying way that means he's just humoring you. "So, people actually turning into wolves. That's, like, way more likely than the possibility that you just hallucinated everything, right?"

"House, it's not just me! Are you seriously saying the entire world imagined the whole thing? Everyone, everywhere just happened to have a sudden, simultaneous hallucination? And not just that -- oh, no! We all imagined the same damn thing?"

"Well, I didn't see anything," he says petulantly.

"Right," Wilson laughs. "You were too busy pissing on the floor and--and sniffing Chase's crotch!"

House gives him a dirty look.

"Okay, okay-- I don't know what's going on." Wilson rubs at his neck in frustration. He knows how crazy this sounds. And maybe he's being unreasonable expecting House to just accept it. To trust him, for once. "I just think it would be a good idea to get some blood work and do... other tests," he finishes lamely.

House scoffs. "Looking for what? There's nothing wrong with me. Aside from the whole drugging thing, but I'll let that slide."

"House! You were a wolf this morning!"

"So says you. I don't remember any of that."

Wilson throws up his hands in frustration. There's no point in arguing about this because House will never stop. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Look, let's just--let's just get inside where it's warm, at least. We can talk about it in there."

House finally agrees -- the cold must be getting to him -- and they make their way into PPTH and up to House's office.

Wilson wants him to watch the news. He knows that every channel is showing some variation of the same thing -- reports from around the world, scenes of chaos in the larger cities, interviews with those who witnessed the phenomenon, instructions from the CDC and national and local authorities on what to do and where to go if you know someone who's been affected, and there's a video, repeated endlessly, of someone actually changing.

Wilson leans forward to get a better look -- he hasn't actually seen it happen yet -- but the video is extremely anticlimactic. There's a grainy image of a wolf, then the camera jiggles a bit, and suddenly a naked man -- offensive parts blurred-out -- is lying in the same spot. That's all -- no pop, no flash, no smoke, no nothing. It's disappointing, somehow. This is the way the world ends, Wilson thinks.

The upside is that House now seems convinced that something is definitely going on, though he hasn't decided yet what that something is. After about an hour of silently flipping channels, House turns the TV off and sits back. Wilson waits patiently for whatever profound response House comes up with.

"Huh."

"You already said that."

"I did?" House squints at Wilson. "When?"

"In the car."

He thinks about it for a moment. "Then I guess I should say 'hmm' instead. Wouldn't want to repeat myself."

Wilson shrugs. "Seems reasonable," he agrees.

House pushes himself carefully to his feet. He's still slightly wobbly, but Wilson resists the urge to help him. He's suddenly got that determined look on his face -- the one he gets when there's a puzzle to solve. Wilson knows it all too well.

House walks over the white board, picks up a marker, stares into space for a moment, then writes 'Werewolves' in big letters at the top. He eyes the board critically for a moment, nods, and lowers himself slowly into a chair at the conference table.

Wilson sits down across from him, looking back and forth between House and the board. House has that faraway look in his eyes. Wilson's pretty sure it's not entirely due to the diazepam.

"You got a diagnosis yet?"

"Not yet. Give me a minute," House mumbles.

Wilson's tired -- he wants to sleep so badly -- but he really wants to get those tests done, too. House seems perfectly normal. He's still obviously slightly impaired, but that's expected.

Wilson checks his watch again, impatiently. It's six-thirty -- the first hint of gray light is visible through the windows. It's usually one of his favorite times of day -- the end of night's hold on the world and a new start -- but not this morning. He's just not ready for a new day. He rubs his tired eyes with the heels of his hands.

"House?"

"Hm?" House is still lost in thought, his eyes distant.

"You're not going to figure this all out right now. Especially not when you're stoned. So will you just let me draw some blood?"

"No." House pulls at his lip, thinking. "When did it happen? What was everyone doing?"

"House--," Wilson groans. He slumps down in his chair and covers his face with his hands. "I don't know what everyone else was doing. I was asleep, in bed, alone." Like I want to be now.

"Well, that's boring. And someone has to know. What did the news say? The papers?"

"House--"

"You don't even know what to look for yet, so how do you expect to find anything? What labs are you going to order?" He looks at Wilson, waiting for an answer.

Wilson doesn't really have one. He's not an expert in these matters. He's always known his enemy by name before, been able to recognize the clues it leaves in the human body. Maybe House is right -- maybe they just don't know enough yet. But he has to do something.

He shrugs. "I think we should start with the basics, run a CBC and a chem panel. Then go from there."

House is staring into space again. "We don't know enough yet." He says it so slowly; Wilson knows he's come to some sort of decision.

He gets up again. Wilson almost jumps up when he lists to port unexpectedly, but House manages to recover. "Go down there and ask around. Try to find out when it happened. And get me a coffee, too, while you're at it." He rubs at his forehead. "I can't think like this."

"House--" Wilson knows it's no use, but he tries anyway.

"After you get back we can talk all about your stupid tests." House disappears around the corner into his office. "I'm going to see what I can find on the internet."

Wilson's been dismissed. He heads out to the elevators and down to the lobby. The hospital is absolutely quiet compared to yesterday, and the few people he does pass look like the walking dead. He decides to stop off at the bathroom before doing House's bidding.

He's shaking his hands dry when his reflection catches his eye over the bathroom sink. He looks terrible -- pale face and dark eyes floating above a pink scrub top. But he thinks it's forgivable because everyone looks terrible this morning. He examines his ears. They seem normal, even if he can't remember ever noticing what they looked like before -- no points, no fur. He snarls at the mirror. No fangs. He's fine.

Wilson checks his watch. It's almost seven now. He's been awake for more than 48 hours. He doesn't feel up to going back for round two with House. Doesn't feel like wrestling him for a blood sample. He scrubs at his eyes and thinks about finding some coffee instead.

He wanders back out into the lobby. There's no one manning the little coffee booth there. Wilson guesses that all the non-essential staff have been told to stay home today. He'll have to head back up to the lounge -- someone is sure to have made a fresh pot.

He smiles at another tired-looking nurse as he passes by the clinic and Cuddy's office. Both are dark and empty -- the clinic doesn't normally open until eight, anyway. He's pretty sure Cuddy hasn't gone home. She's probably attending some hastily assembled meeting upstairs, discussing policies and procedures. Wilson doesn't envy her the—

His thoughts are interrupted by shouting from upstairs, above the balcony. It sounds more panicked than he'd expect from trained professionals dealing with a medical crisis. The nurse he passed just a few seconds ago runs by, beeper sounding.

"Hey!" Wilson manages to stop her before she rushes up the stairs. "What's going on?"

"I don't know -- page just says '911'."

There's more shouting now, from two different wings. It's happening again, he thinks and then, Oh God, House!

He takes the stairs two at a time up to the fourth floor and dashes around the corner just in time to see a security guard drawing his gun outside of House's office. Wilson nearly panics when the man raises the gun and points it through the glass.

"Wait. Please--" The guard looks over, startled, but his arm doesn't waver. Wilson can see that the other man is just as terrified as he is. He tries desperately to remember the guard's name. He knows the names of practically everyone on this floor, all the regular staff -- he's fucking great with names -- but he can't remember this guy's name. "Please. Don't shoot. I'm--I'm a doctor," he stammers. He's gulping down air, trying desperately to catch his breath, to stay calm.

The guard takes a deep breath and says, "I came around the corner and he--he jumped at me. Hit the glass. Scared the shit out of me." His hands are shaking.

"I know. He doesn't know what he's doing." Wilson walks forward slowly. His heart is racing. "He's--he's a patient. Please, don't shoot."

The guard takes another shaky breath and says, almost to himself, "that glass is super thick. There's no way he can get through." Finally, he lowers the gun and turns to Wilson. "I'm so sorry, man. I overreacted." He wipes a shaking hand across his brow. "I'm sorry. But, damn."

"It's okay." Wilson feels like collapsing with relief.

"Jeez, I--I almost shot him. I almost shot a person," he says quietly.

"It's okay," Wilson says again. He knows he's repeating himself, but the rush of adrenalin is making it hard to think of anything intelligible.

The security guard's radio suddenly crackles with static, making both of them jump. He yanks it off his belt and thumbs a button. "This is Arn. Go ahead." There's a frantic voice on the radio, barely audible, but Wilson manages to make out 'third floor' and 'assistance'. "Got to go," Arn says, slipping the radio back on his belt. "You need any help up here, doc?"

"No, I'm--I'm good, thanks."

"Okay, doc." He's already running for the stairs. "And sorry again!"

"It's okay," Wilson says weakly.

When he's sure the other man is gone, Wilson walks carefully toward House's office. There's a small smear of blood on the glass about three feet or so from the ground. The wolf -- House, Wilson corrects himself -- is pacing in a clumsy circle at the back of the office, near the desk.

When he sees Wilson at the glass, he stops and stares, swaying slightly. There's a little bit of red on the end of his nose where he must have smashed it, but otherwise he looks fine. Still slightly stoned, if a wolf can look stoned.

"Hey," says Wilson quietly. Now that the shock is wearing off, he's beyond exhausted and he thinks maybe he's finally used up any capacity to be terrified. The next horrible thing that happens will get absolutely no reaction from him, he decides.

He slumps against the cool glass and slides down until he's sitting with his back against it, head in his hands.

He sits that way for a few minutes, breathing calmly and wondering if he'll just fall asleep right here in the hall, when there's a soft thump against the glass at his back. He peers over his shoulder.

House is leaning up against the glass on the other side, so they're pressed back to back. Wilson thinks they must look like the world's strangest Siamese twins.

House looks back at Wilson and whines mournfully, low in his throat -- it sounds like a lament.

"Yeah," Wilson agrees.