Days

Two days later, House is stiffing a cab driver on a tip and hobbling happily to the privacy of his apartment.

Around the same time, Wilson's realizing binge drinking only makes the hours he's conscious hurt more.

Wilson chugs water and coffee to clear out his system while House savors the first long drink of expensive scotch.

As reality begins to blur pleasantly for House, it thuds heavily into focus for Wilson. He wants answers.

House falls into the stupor he's been looking forward to for days; Wilson visits the headstone he'd chosen for her with a dozen of the freshest roses he can find, then slips quietly into work to photocopy her chart. He wants to find a deserving target for his feelings in it.

He finds the same thing House dreams about: nothing.

The next day, it's officially been a week, and Wilson's no closer to coping with her death in a healthy manner than he has been.

House wakes up with a headache he knows can't be attributed entirely to alcohol consumption; he prescribes water, television, rest, and more alcohol.

They order the same greasy pizza for lunch, neither feeling guilty about being at home and disheveled at noon on a week day.

Wilson reluctantly does laundry. At a quarter after three, his therapist brings up the possibility of getting a new place. He makes four calls before the realtors stop answering their phones for the day, reminding himself that he shouldn't feel like he's leaving her each time he dials a new number.

House has to TiVo his soap because he's too far gone to follow the plot. But that's not new to him.

Wilson sits alone with all the lights on and wonders when he'll start to feel normal again. When he'll stop shuttling between despair and rage. He knows it's going to take time, but he hopes that time will pass quickly.

House sleeps on his couch amid a growing number of glass bottles. He doesn't waste his time with such a hope.

When Cameron calls and asks if he'd like to have coffee and talk, Wilson feels good when he says yes. Later, after talking to someone who's willing to listen without charging him for it, he feels good enough to cook himself a decent meal.

But he can't stop himself from feeling miserable that he's got no one to share it with, or from lying awake for hours because he can't sleep.

House wakes up to a message from Cuddy asking if he's all right and telling him, more importantly, that she's left a Vicodin refill for him at the pharmacy. He calls a different cab company for a ride to pick it up, just manages not to puke all over the backseat, and ignores the angry driver whose tip he remembers to forget.

They end up staring at the same UFC match at two a.m.

It's been ten days.

By the two week mark, the novelty of constant drunkenness has worn off for House. He's as certain as he's ever going to be that he hasn't had any more seizures. He gets dizzy, but not badly so. The headaches have begun to taper off, and anyway, they're nothing he can't conceal. Even the laceration on his head has healed, though the drill holes still need more time.

So he goes back to work.

Foreman eyes his backpack and bike helmet suspiciously but says nothing. House curtails the welcome back comments with a snappy remark and they fall into the rhythm of a case.

He discovers Wilson's not back yet after he gets hungry and finds no Wilson to pay for his food.

It's an easy case; he's got it wrapped up with a fancy bow by the end of the day. He wants to know why Wilson's not healing tumor-ridden bodies, so he goes to Amber's apartment and knocks.

"Why aren't you healing tumor-ridden bodies?" he asks when Wilson answers.

House takes in the 'I don't care about life' clothing—sweat pants, junk t-shirt—along with the raccoon-lined, pothead-colored eyes and greasy hair. He assumes that because he's had time to push the incident out of his mind, Wilson's had time to do the same.

"House," Wilson says tiredly, "go away."

"Answer my question," House counters. "They're not going to heal themselves."

Wilson sighs heavily. "I need some time."

House stares disbelievingly. Surely Wilson's skin isn't this thin.

"It's been—what?—two weeks?"

"I need more time that," Wilson says as he closes the door. "Alone."

"It's not healthy to be alone all the time," House calls. "You said that, not me."

But he hears Wilson walk away and he's still too high from having solved the case to press the issue.

He goes home and drinks so much that he skips work the next day.