AN: Welcome to the prologue! This fic is set in season 6. House has moved back into his own apartment and Sam and Wilson are dating.

This is the prologue of a 4-chapter long Hilson-centered fic! The rest is already written and I will upload chapter 1 once it hits four or five reviews. I find them very constructive. Thank you for reading!

Wilson knew something was wrong as soon as he stepped into the building. For one thing the door to his best friend's apartment is left slightly ajar, an unprecedented occurrence, and for another there is the faint sound of groaning emanating from House's living room. Wilson makes his way down the hallways as slowly as a hunter would advance upon his prey, scared that a sudden movement would spook House but even more afraid of what he might find inside the apartment. Frightening images reel through his mind, images of House writhing on the floor, clutching his leg, unable to stand up. Worse yet he imagines House, on the floor, still in pain but this time with an empty Vicodin bottle beside him, his eyes tinged with yellow. Wilson pause for a moment and leans against the wall, trying to prepare himself for what he will see. At least he's alive, he muses, he's making noises. He tries to add the open door to the equation. Did House forget to close it in his pain? Or was it a robbery? Was House groaning on the floor with a bullet wound through his stomach? He has to fight the bile rising in his throat.

He inches closer yet. He knows it's fairly impossible to smell something from so far away but he swears he can detect a faint trace of sweat and whiskey. He knows he should burst into the apartment and save House from whatever it is he is doing to himself but there is a faint mystery in the air that forces him to proceed slowly, gently. By the time reaches the crack of the door, he's holding his breath, preparing for the worst. What he sees when he peers in is almost enough to make him sigh with relief but he does not allow himself the luxury of making noise. It's House, half-naked, on a chair, having sex with a girl. Not that Wilson is particularly happy to have witnessed his best friend in this position but considering the alternative scenarios the present situation makes him happy enough to break into a Fred Astaire number. He averts his gaze quickly, glad that he has not burst into the apartment.

House got a girl…or a hooker, whatever. They got into it and forgot to close the door. Wilson wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He just forgot that I was gonna come over tonight. That's it. He is prepared to sneak off quietly and leave House to it. He envisions the huge empty apartment, an omelet and Animal Planet. Sam had the nightshift on Tuesdays which is why Wilson had accepted House's invitation to watch Monster Truck to begin with. There is a small tug at the corner of his heart when he realizes that House has once again managed to make him sick with worry and then leave him alone and miserable for the evening but he shoves these thoughts away. Just be happy that he's alive.

He is inching away when he hears the soft moan of the woman. "Oh, Greg."

He knows that voice. He thinks he knows that voice. He had looked away so quickly before…he looks again now, really looks, through the space provided by the open door. House is sitting in the chair that faces the door, as casually as if he is sitting there entertaining guests and the woman who is moving on top of him, facing him, straddling him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she makes love to him has very unmistakable blonde hair. Wilson has to stare at her naked back, her curly hair and her familiar movement for a good minute before he allows himself to accept what was happening. His best friend is having sex with his ex-wife and live-in girlfriend right in front of him.

Everything is very still. Sam was still moving and moaning on top of House but everything in Wilson's world loses audio. He feels his heart against his ribcage but he can't hear it, he can feel the burn of nausea traveling up his throat and knows that he is breathing hard but can't help it. He has to tear them apart or else run far far away but he is rooted, transfixed.

Quite surreal, he observes. And then he sees House note his presence. House's head tilts away from Sam's shoulder, where he has been resting it since Wilson arrived and his eyes looked straight into Wilson's own. They are not shocked or dismayed; they are wild, dark and bloodshot. There is such a look of pained concentration on his face that Wilson has to stop himself from laughing. He did not imagine that anyone could look so morose during sex. The two men regard each other for a minute, an hour, a lifetime before the eternity of silence is broken by Sam.

"Greg," she almost screams his name and kisses the side of his face tenderly, "I'm about to—what are you looking at?"

She follows House's unwavering gaze to the door where Wilson is standing and suddenly everything returns to normal speed.