A/N: Sorry for the delay in getting this out. Things got a little hectic around here, but I hope to update a lot sooner next time.

OoOoOoOoO

Chase leaves the men's room and does his best to ignore the sounds of House's retching. Even though he's a doctor the sound still gets to him-makes him feel helpless in a way that he still hasn't entirely gotten over. In need of a distraction he wanders back to the diagnostic conference room and picks up Mrs. Spearman's file from where House tossed it and begins to review the case again.

It doesn't take long for him to become fully engrossed in the details of the case, so he's a bit startled when Wilson appears in the doorway seemingly out of thin air. "I was hoping you'd get a chance to take a look at that," he says.

Chase looks up at the other doctor and considers for a moment. Other than Cameron's meth inspired one night stand Wilson is the first person at PPTH to willingly spend time with Chase outside of work. He doesn't want to know if House was telling the truth about Wilson's motives, but he knows the question will bother him until he asks. He holds up the file. "Why did you ask me look at the case?"

"I thought that was obvious," Wilson says, "She's in ICU. You're an intensivist. I thought you could recommend the best course of action under the circumstances."

Chase sighs. He hates that House can reduce him to such paranoia, but he knows House's ability to do so is in no small part due to the fact that House is right so damn often. "So it's not because you think…something about me and House?"

"Is that what House told you?"

"Yeah. Look. I stopped over his place and tripped on some clutter…" Chase begins in an attempt to corroborate House's story just in case Wilson really is wondering.

Wilson cuts him off. "Why were you there?"

"What?"

"It's a simple question, Chase- unless, of course, you forgot to rehearse this part of the story with House."

Wilson watches as the young man's face goes from flustered to nervous to stricken before finally settling on righteous indignation. "I don't believe it. House was right." Chase stands up and hands Wilson the patient file. "You don't want a consult and you didn't want company when you invited me to dinner. You want to pry into House's business. Well, leave me the hell out of it!" he snaps before storming out.

Wilson is after him in a flash. "Chase, wait. House was right," he confesses as he tries to keep up with Chase's quick gait. "I was snooping. I don't expect you to understand, but House is an addict. Sometimes he gets out of control, and someone needs to look after him and make sure he doesn't fall into a downward spiral."

Chase stops. He understands Wilson's desire to control the situation all too well, but that doesn't make being manipulated for information any more palatable. "I get it," he says, trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone as best he can. "But there's nothing for you to be concerned about here. If you're concerned about House take it up with him."

Wilson puts a hand on Chase's shoulder. Chase startles slightly at the contact. "You know, if something did happen sweeping it under the rug isn't what's best for him. He needs to face up to it and take responsibility."

"You've already convinced him to detox. What more do you want?" Chase shrugs Wilson's hand off his shoulder and resumes his walk down the hall.

"I convinced him to detox?"

Chase halts again when he hears the obvious confusion in Wilson's voice. "Didn't you?"

"Wait. What makes you think House is detoxing?"

Chase shot Wilson a look like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "He's leaning on his cane far more than usual, which means the thigh is killing him. He's been sweating, shaking, puking, and I haven't seen him pop a Vicodin in the last three days."

Wilson is completely taken aback. "I never convinced him to detox," he says, "but I think maybe you did."

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When Wilson let's himself into House's apartment that evening he finds House shivering under a pile of blankets with a bucket nearby. He doesn't know what to say, so he simply sits down next to his friend and says nothing

After several minutes pass in silence Wilson finally nods towards the bucket and asks, "Do you need me to prescribe you an antiemetic?"

House pulls a hand out from under the mound of blankets and throws a half crumpled script onto the coffee table. "Chase already did."

"So why aren't you taking any?" Wilson asks.

"Didn't have time to get it filled."

"Or you're punishing yourself," Wilson points out.

"Are we back to accusing me already? In case you haven't noticed I have a nasty case of the flu, and I'm in no mood-"

"Only no stuffy nose, no glassy eyes…and you haven't hounded me for a Vicodin script all week."

"Fucking Chase needs to keep his mouth shut," House mutters.

Wilson flinches. "I never said-"

"No. You just assumed my pain was brought on by psychological guilt. Your new B-F-F is the one who wrote the script."

"You should be proud that you trained your minions well. The kid's observant."

"Yeah. After spending years with an addict he knows what withdrawal looks like. Fucking genius," House bites out sarcastically.

"He confirmed your coffee table story," Wilson informs.

"Told you so."

"Of course, he couldn't tell me what he was doing at your apartment to begin with…"

House shoots Wilson a glare. "Look. The pain was really bad and I took a few pills. He gave me a ride home. Okay? I asked him not to say anything, because I didn't want to listen to one of your lectures, but since I apparently have to listen to them anyway I may as well tell you."

Wilson looks down for a moment. He should have been keeping a better eye on House. "I suppose it's a good thing he had enough sense not to let you drive home," he says with a slight twinge of guilt.

"I had enough sense not to drive," House insists. "Chase just offered an appealing alternative to sleeping in the office."

"Did he also offer an appealing alternative to your usual Vicodin and hooker combo?"

House leans his head back on the couch and stares at the ceiling. "Yeah," he deadpans. "Have you ever really looked at that mouth?"

Wilson just stares at his friend until House grows visibly uncomfortable. "What?!" House snaps.

"Your voice," Wilson points out. "It lacks its usual level of sarcasm."

House's expression sours. "It's called dry humor, Jimmy."

"No. I know what your dry humor sounds like. That was more the tone you adopt when you're only half joking, which means that you're half serious."

"Despite what you may think of me I'm not really bastard enough to shove an employee on their knees and demand sexual favors," House says before qualifying his statement. "Unless, of course, said employee actually is a hooker, but they tend to just get right down to business."

"No," Wilson agrees, ignoring House's attempt at humorous deflection. "But you mentioned Chase's mouth, and you admit that you were intoxicated. So, I'm thinking that you kissed him. Chase had bite marks all down his neck, so kissing him obviously aroused you." Wilson paused before venturing carefully, "Are you detoxing because you're ashamed that you were turned on by another man?"

House glares daggers. "You're a moron!"

"Sooo…You were just pretending to be a vampire that day?"

"Chase is soo not a man, and I have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Well, Chase is pretty," Wilson concedes. "But something is bothering you."

House hunkered down under his piles of blankets and closed his eyes. "Right now the only thing bothering me is you."