Disclaimer: Don't own. Just playing with my House and Wilson dolls. I feel like Gillie on SNL. I broke Wilson...Sorry. ;)

A/N: All medical information was researched, but is only as accurate as the internet and my comprehension. Written for sickwilson_fest. Thanks to my beta, bookfan85, for all her help.

Sorry, the first couple of chapters are sad. Hang in there…

The "Sun Room" was the last place the staff checked for patients. The scruffy man observed this phenomenon during the first week of his stay, and often used the room as his refuge. As an added precaution, he maneuvered his wheelchair away from the picture window and into a dim corner where he could read his book undisturbed while playing hooky from physical therapy.

But there was one man who would seek him out wherever he hid. There was radar and night goggles. Gregory House was the exclusive possessor of Wilsonfrared.

Not that the search for his friend had been quick. Wilson's temporary residence was one state and two counties over. The secretive bastard had shunned all of his attempts at communicaticating, but Cuddy was overseeing the bills, and bills had remit addresses.

As House closed in on the shadowy target, he heard a surreal game of Jeopardy playing in his head:

Category: Best Friend.

The Answer: Car Accident.

The question buzzer went off in House's mind: Why did this have to happen to Wilson?

Straightening his shoulders and exhaling a deep breath, House reminded himself that infarctions and bus accidents do happen, and black ice next to steep embankments doesn't play favorites with cars, even if it is a Volvo.

House thumped around sofas, tables and chairs, drawing closer.

Looking up when he heard the familiar sound, Wilson fought hard not to flinch, and snapped the book closed, dropping it on the table next to him. His hands locked onto the handrims of his wheelchair preparing for a quick getaway should House…behave like House. Wilson, acknowledged him with a curt nod.

Choosing a chair from the table, House scraped the wooden legs along the floor, and sat directly across from Wilson. Blue eyes scoped out the man before him.

This Wilson was not his Wilson. He resembled a refugee from a homeless shelter. His face bore a week's worth of stubble, the hair greasy and overdue for a haircut. His clothes were an "Old Navy" fashion disaster: stained maroon sweatshirt, dark gray sweatpants, sagging athletic socks, and old mustard-colored leather slippers on motionless feet.

While recovering from the accident at the hospital House feared Wilson's intrepid behavior and equanimity was all an act, but he never realized how much until now.

House had watched Wilson as the specialist summarized the spinal cord injury. Wilson listened and nodded with the detachment of a consulting physician.

"T-9, incomplete…paralyzed from the waist down…excellent facilities to help you adapt…live a productive, independent life."

He sat by Wilson's bedside pretending to be engaged in his psp while Wilson coolly interpreted the prognosis in his best bedside manner to his distraught parents, "There will be some adjustments, but my life won't change."

House barked orders to his team on his cell phone while keeping his eyes on idiot co-workers, daring them to say something stupid in their bid to show sympathy. There was no need, Wilson handled inquiries and comments with perfect composure, mirroring back their remarks, "I'm lucky to be alive."

Between soap operas, Wilson did his caregiving best, and encouraged House to go home and sleep.

Sometimes they both were quiet, lost in thoughts about how to behave like everything was normal when nothing would ever be again. What would happen to their friendship if Wilson was the needier one? When the silence went on for too long, Wilson would rouse himself and chide, "You're too quiet. Are you worried Cuddy's going to give me your parking space? My old one is close enough. I'm doing fine."

The first glimmer of proof House had that Wilson was not doing fine was the day Wilson left Princeton-Plainsboro. Walking behind the entourage, he watched his friend assure well-wishers that he could not wait to start rehab in order to come back to work in record time.

The staff faded away at the entrance and only House and Cuddy remained at the patient loading area.

Cuddy could see House needed a moment alone with his friend, so she murmured a few words as she kissed Wilson on the cheek and walked away.

Only House stood at the van as the driver guided Wilson onto the lift.

House began, "You know I'm not good at this, tell me what can I—"

"For once, there's nothing I want you to do, House." All affability drained away as his mouth turned downward and the brown eyes became shiny. Wilson fought to regain his self-possession, swallowed, and lied. "I'll call you."

And when four weeks had gone by, and he didn't, House applied the information he discovered hiding in Cuddy's bottom file drawer, and went after Wilson.

An admittance clerk acknowledged that a Dr. James E. Wilson was a patient, not a practicing physician at Shadelands Rehabilitation Center. Another call a day later, a few masterful fabrications, and he was speaking to one of Wilson's physical therapists who eventually spilled the details, summing up with one simple platitude. "You know doctors make the worst patients."

Not Wilson. Perpetual boy scout and overachiever.

Finding a back door into the center's computer files, House reviewed Wilson's medical record. Undeniably, the disabled enabler was making little physical progress, and hid the fact that he'd used antidepressants. A drug was prescribed that Wilson had taken long ago that no longer was effective. Either the meds still had no efficacy, or a cheerful plant was in the vicinity of Wilson's room.

Checking on his team, House was assured that his patient was recovering, and emailed Cuddy that he was taking a leave of absence. Going on a top secret consult.

He went home, threw some essentials in a backpack, and twenty minutes later wind raced across his cheeks as he honed in on Wilson.

And now Wilson sat staring with lusterless eyes waiting for House to make the next move.

House knew his own weaknesses. Human interaction headed the list, but there was no way he could sit by and watch his friend disintegrate into particles of self-pity. Wilson would never allow the same situation to happen to him. His loyalty and friendship was what pulled House through the infarction and Stacy's leaving.

Payback time.

"Wilson, you look like crap."

A hint of a half-smile twitched at Wilson's mouth, and he scratched his hairy cheek.

"Aren't you flattered by the way I look?"

"Stubble does not make the cripple." House ran his cane up and down pointing at Wilson's attire. "Certainly not the clothes."

"These clothes are…easy to put on." Wilson plucked at his sweatshirt and looked away.

"How much harder would it be to wear clean matching sweatpants with clean sweatshirts? From your therapist's notes, you take all day putting on the same outfit." House recited in a sing-song voice. "'Dr. Wilson refuses to get up in the morning. Dr. Wilson complains that his exercise regimen is too strenuous. Dr. Wilson insists he's too tired to attend classes. He had trouble sleeping.'"

House was hoping for an angry rebuttal, instead his friend answered in a low voice, "What would you know?"

"I know Dr. Wilson is a self-pitying wimp."

Still no debate.

House leaned forward. "Insurance isn't going to pay for you to hide here the rest of your life. After a month you can barely transfer out of bed by yourself."

"You have no right looking at my medical records." Wilson's face turned pale, he angled his wheelchair and prepared to leave; House stood up, towered over his friend, and blocked his path.

"But I do have the right. I'm a full-time consulting member of the staff as a Wilson wrangler. You're slow progress is cutting into the director's bottom line. He can't wait to move you off his books. He's offered me free room and board for my services." Pulling a set of keys from his pocket, House jangled them to support his claim.

"The keys to your kingdom, Wilson. Don't bother pulling that 'doctor' shit with me like you did on the nurses and therapists."

Eyes widened in surprised, and dry kindling began to flame from the dark depths, "You? You're going to be in charge of my therapy?! How many days…? No. How many hours did you spend doing your physical therapy?"

"Doesn't matter." House looked at the floor and answered calmly, "I got back on my feet because you were at my side. Now, I'm returning the favor."

Wilson looked up, his mouth open in disbelief.

"Starting tomorrow I'm lighting a fire under that comatose ass of yours so you get back to work at Plainsboro."

tbc…

Thank you for reading. All comments welcome.