Title:God Save Us All
Author:mmorgan317 - M
Prompt:22. General - Sarah causes Wilson to fall and injure himself (badly?) causing House to demand that the oncologist get rid of the cat for good.
Pairing:House/Wilson friendship
Category:Hurt/Comfort, Friendship
Rating/Warnings:PG-13/None
Words:5, 740
Summary:An injury has Wilson dodging House. Now, House is on a mission to figure out what has happened.
Disclaimer:Not mine, just borrowing.

Author'sNote:If, while reading this fic, you begin to look for a timeline in which to place this in – don't; it won't do you any good. There's really no set season this fic takes place in. Just an FYI.

He was almost sound asleep when he first heard the sound. Scratch-Scratch-Scratch.His ears perked up at the noise, and his nerves were instantly on alert. They pulled him from the warmth of his bed, to the kitchen, where he grabbed the heaviest skillet he owned. The steel black of the cast iron dulled the rays of moonlight that shone brightly through the windows of his living room, highlighting him as he crept quietly across the hardwood floors towards the sound.

Wilson winced as the floorboards croaked under his weight. Whoever it was could probably hear him coming now. The big oak outside the building scraped against the window as the November wind blew gently against its branches. The sound confused the oncologist for a moment causing him to turn toward it rather than the scratch-scratch-scratchthat came from somewhere in the hall. He blew out a huff of frustration when he realized his mistake and continued to trudge warily towards the hall.

Scratch-Scratch-Scratch.The sound came again and this time Wilson was able to pinpoint its exact location – the hall closet right beside the front door. It was an odd place for a burglar to hide but he wasn't wholly convinced that this was just any burglar; now he was convinced that it was just House pulling a prank to get a reaction out of him and, damnit, it was working. His hands were shaking with nervousness and the cast iron skillet within them was waving minutely in the air just above his head. His breathing, which was normally a calm, steady rhythm, was racing and ragged as he tried desperately to keep it quiet and normal.

As he reached the door, Wilson steeled himself for what was about to come out at him – a tall, wiry, scruffy man with a limp, a cane and crazed bright blue eyes. He wouldn't be surprised if the diagnostician had added a flashlight which highlighted only his face to the mix as well but with House you never knew what you were going to get. He took a moment to peer behind him, making sure there weren't any video cameras that where laying hidden anywhere in the vicinity then he slowly reached forward and opened the hall closet door.

A white ball of fury popped out of the door, pouncing on him with a ferociousness that rivaled a lion jumping on its prey. Wilson cried out as pain scorched through his left arm and side as sharp claws sliced through the tender flesh when Wilson turned his body in an attempt to dodge the attack. The cast iron flew easily out of his right hand, whistling through the air until it shattered the vase on the table behind him, the glass raining down upon the floor like crystal drops of water falling perilously out of the sky.

The attempt at dodging the attack worked but it didn't stop him from hitting his head rather hard against the edge of the rounded table on his way down to the floor. Almost absently, Wilson felt blood from the head wound begin to trickle down the right side of his face, splattering the cheery wooden floor with drops of crimson dark enough to match the staining. Just as he landed upon the floor with a very loud thud, the oncologist saw a streak of white with a bushy tail cut through the hall to the living room and under a couch where it would stay until things had calmed.

Sarah? He'd been afraid of Sarah? If it hadn't been for the pain pulsing through his head, arm and stomach, he would have laughed at the absurdity of the whole situation but he didn't think it would be wise to move at the moment – the little men with jackhammers in his head might actually decided they want to plant explosives and watch them go off.

Well you can't stay on the floor all night! He silently chided himself, grimacing when the mere action raised the pounding headache to an even deeper, more painful throb. With a groan he began the process of getting off the floor, careful to avoid putting his hands in any spots where broken glass from the vase lay. Just as he got on his hands and knees a sharp, stabbing pain raced through his lower back threatening to drop him back down to the floor. He didn't remember hurting his back but he wasn't going to argue with the pain that said otherwise either so he simply stayed how he was until the pain had calmed to a more manageable level. This wasn't the first time he'd injured his back so he was more than used to the processes it took to get from the spot that he'd landed in to upright and moving. The movement and strain pulled on the deep scratches, pulling apart what little clotting they had done and making more blood steadily drip over the shreds of his torn shirt.

Once he was upright, Wilson slowly started heading towards the broom cupboard where he could grab the utensils to clean up the mess he made. The shuffling of his feet echoed through the silent loft drawing Sarah out of her hiding spot under the couch and straight to the kitchen counter where she often waited for her evening meal. He gingerly raised a hand to pet the cat, rubbing the soft, white fur in assurance and comfort.

She mewed softly, blue eyes peering up at him as her head cocked itself to the right in apparent confusion. Normally he wouldn't mind giving her some extra kibble or catnip but at the moment he wasn't in the mood. Sure, it wasn't her fault she'd been locked in the closet but he still reserved the right to be grumpy about it.

Unused to being ignored, the cat jumped down off the counter and decided to wind herself in and out of his legs, tripping him up momentarily before he gently nudged her out of the way with his foot. He walked back into the hall and stared dismally down at the mess of broken glass, not even thinking about the cleaning he'd have to do. One thought rattled obsessively around in his brain…

What was he going to tell House?

Gregory House stood on the second floor leaning against the railing and staring down at the slow trickle of people coming through the front door. There was really only one person he was waiting for but it was still fun to stand where he was and toss grapes down at the maintenance worker who was currently mopping up the vomit spewed from a nine-year-old kid with the flu. His stomach rumbled unhappily and his eyes traveled down to the cluster of green grapes in his hands, disgust shining brightly in them. As a doctor he knew he should eat healthier – God knows Wilson's always trying to force him to do it – but, honestly, how do people satisfy their hunger with a fruit that is mostly water? He chucks another grape down at the worker as his brain recites one of his many mottos – people are morons.

Wilson finally arrived at twelve after ten, walking as though every step hurt and holding his left arm close to his torso. House watched him smile suavely at every concerned nurse that came up to him, easily brushing off their worry with an assuring smile and a twinkle of his eyes. He rolled his eyes at the display, took aim and fired.

The grape landed far from its intended target but it was close enough to smack the closest Bambi-like nurse in the back of her blonde head, causing the woman to turn her head around in search of the assailant. Wilson, normally by House's side when he assaulted members of the staff, wasn't fooled and looked directly at him with a warning glare. His mouth opened as he obviously gave Bambi some sort of explanation for the flying grape then gently pushed passed her and stiffly headed for the elevator.

House watched the oncologist shuffle his way to the elevator, his diagnostic curiosity peeking at the signs of pain exuding from the man. Somehow Wilson had hurt himself over the weekend and he was doing his hardest to hide it from everyone, including House. Silly Wilson – didn't he know that trying to hide an anomaly from House would only serve to make him extra curious?

The bell for the elevator dinged announcing the arrival of the car and drawing his attention from his plans to get the truth out of the stubborn oncologist to where the man gingerly stepped into the waiting car. Just before the door closed, House saw Wilson grimace and despite the brief stab of pain in his heart, the diagnostician felt his curiosity grow. What could have happened to Wilson over the weekend that he doesn't want House knowing about?

Wilson closed his office door behind him with a definitive thud. He shuffled over to the couch and dropped his briefcase on top of it, saving himself from having to bend down to both put it down and pick it back up at the end of the day. The pain in his back had eased a bit since last night but it wasn't enough for him to trust his ability to bend over.

He shrugged out of his sport coat, shuffled over to the coat rack by the main door and hung it on the metal peg. Out of habit, he rolled his sleeves up after he put the coat away. Angry red, deep, and linear scratches on his left arm instantly popped out at him making him automatically roll his sleeves back down so he could hide the evidence. He grimaced as the fabric rubbed against the blood-red lines, applying painful pressure to the arm.

Before he sat down behind his desk, Wilson peered outside the balcony door over to House's office, checking to see if House was watching him like he thought the man was. He'd seen the diagnostician watching him from the second floor with a curious eye; he knew House wanted to know what was wrong and was willing to spy in order to find it out. God forbid that he actually ask Wilson.

A flash of cherry wood and blue jeans disappeared from the glass door letting him know that he was indeed being watched but no longer was since he'd seen it. He smiled at the well meaning intentions of his friend but he shook his head in frustration. Why was it so hard for House to simply leave things be?

The ringing of his phone brought his attention back to his job. The caller ID told him it was someone from Robert Wood Johnson Medical School and he groaned aloud. They'd been calling him three times a week for the past four months, trying to get him to guest lecture for their oncology students. If there was one thing he hated more than telling a patient they were going to die, it would be speaking in front of a large group of medical students who would be just as naïve as Cameron but as arrogantly challenging as Foreman or House.

"This is Doctor Wilson," he answered professionally, hiding any hint of distress from his voice. He sighed when the equally professional voice on the other line announced that they'd like to have him as a guest lecturer in two weeks to a month and asked if he was available. How many times did he have to tell these people that he wasn't available? Maybe he should send the call to House – then they'd leave him alone.

Out of courtesy he checked his calendar, pleased to find it full for the next two weeks. After that things get a bit too open for his liking. As expected, after he alerted the young woman to his full schedule she asked about three weeks from now. He refused to groan but he did let his annoyance seep through in the rough tone his voice tends to take from time to time.

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure about three weeks from now," he informed her, flipping his calendar to the mentioned time to peruse it more closely. "It seems I might have some time on the 23rd but-"

"-That's great, I'll call your assistant and schedule you in," the woman interrupted, not willing to listen to his oncoming excuse.

The dial tone that greeted his ear wasn't a welcome one and he had to resist from slamming the phone down in anger. Great, just great!

He watched through the glass balcony window as Wilson soothed his latest patient's worries then escorted her out of the office. The stiff movements from this morning hadn't faded one iota; if anything they'd increased, making Wilson look as though he were the tin man in need of oil rather than the nimbly scarecrow he usual was. An anomaly caught House's attention as he watched his friend place an arm around his patient's back while he escorted her out – Wilson's sleeves weren't rolled up. For most people this wasn't strange but for Wilson, rolling up his sleeves as soon as he's entered his office was a morning (and afternoon and evening) ritual that House often loved watching.

The diagnostician cocked his head to the side and his eyes narrowed in studied concentration. Obviously there was more to Wilson's injuries other than a hurt back – and he was on a mission to find them out.

Wilson walked back to the seat behind his desk and gingerly sat down on it giving House his cue to jump out of his own office chair and to head over to Wilson's. It was time for lunch.

The balcony door opened with a flourish and a hydraulic bang, the chilled November air whipping through the office, stirring up spare papers and wrapping around Wilson with the gentleness of a lover but the cold of a freezer. Wilson let out a sigh as he heard the sounds of House coming into his sanctuary, the noise barely audible above the echoes of cars driving by, leaves scratching against the concrete with the wind and the mere sounds of House limping his way through the door and onto the couch. He wasn't really looking forward to House's well-meant but often annoying interrogations but since the older doctor was currently settling himself rather comfortably upon his black, leather couch there was no escaping it now. No, now all he could do was try to pretend that he was as fine as possible and try to come up with a convincing lie to cover the embarrassing truth.

"Buy me lunch," House announced almost managing to pout as he stared at Wilson.

"Here's a novel idea – why don't you go down to the cafeteria and buy your own lunch?" Wilson countered easily, pretending to put enough thought into the idea to make it trivial. He raised an elbow to the top of the desk and laid his arm down on top of it, shifting a bit of his weight from his back and tailbone to the supporting arm. His left arm soon followed easily stretching the tender scratches that marred his forearm and side/stomach.

"That's no fun," House answered immediately. He lowered his head to hide a grimace but Wilson saw the pain break through the barriers in the blue eyes before they'd turned downward. House's hand rubbed along his thigh, the long, pianist fingers stretched so far it looked as though the skin was barely covering them. There was a slight shake in the limb as it moved habitually over the scarred flesh of the thigh and for a moment Wilson wondered if it was from withdrawal or from the pain. He instantly dismissed the former idea; there was no way House would be going through withdrawal when he was still downing the Vicodin like it was the candy to which he often compared it.

Wilson's heart ached for his friend. He couldn't – and most of the time didn't want to try to – imagine the pain House felt every day of the week. All in the hospital saw how easily he caved to his body's demands for the narcotics and almost every single one of them thought he was weak for giving in but Wilson – and Cuddy as well – knew that he was actually so much stronger than the entire workforce of the hospital. It took a very strong man to withstand the amount of physical agony that the ruined muscle tortured him with daily. Most, including Wilson himself probably, would have given in a long time ago to the pain; merely succumbed to the pull of its strength and refused to get out of bed in the mornings, sitting in their homes drinking themselves into liver failure. Instead, House chose to get up and come to work, curing those he could, pushing boundaries most wished they could and then some, and coming home to nothing but pain and loneliness as thanks for his efforts.

A ragged exhale echoed loudly throughout the office and to Wilson's horror he found that it had come from himself. House's head snapped up, sharp, piercing blue irises focusing on him with worry and study fighting for dominance.

The human brain was capable of so much. It could convince your body that it was in agony when there was nothing actually wrong with it. It could make you think medicine was working when you were on nothing more than manufactured water. It could take you on journeys through the deepest depths of despair that it or your soul could conjure without wasting more than a few seconds, stealing your breath with its visions and tormenting impressions.

Unfortunately for him, Wilson's mind had chosen to do the latter while his friend had been sitting patiently, waiting for both the pain to calm and the oncologist to respond. It hadn't been a long trip but it had been one he never wanted to go down while sitting in House's presence everagain. Pity and sympathy were one and the same for the diagnostician and neither one were acceptable from anyone, including Wilson.

"It may not be fun," Wilson said, slowly drawing out the first part of his sentence for a hint of normalcy, "but it does ensure that I can afford dinner tonight when you invite me over as we both know you will."

House's eyes narrowed even further but after a few seconds longer he simply nodded his assent. "Fair enough."

He stood up and headed in the direction of the door, leaning heavily on the wooden cane that helped support him. When he noticed that Wilson hadn't automatically followed him, he turned around and stared at the oncologist.

"Oh, you meant now?" Wilson asked, feigning surprise to cover for the fact that he didn't actually wantto get up and move. House simply offered an eye roll as a response. Taking that as his cue to get moving, he pushed his roll-a-way chair away from his desk and gingerly stood up. He did his best to hide a grimace as stabbing pain pierced his mid to lower back but when he saw the lids around House's eyes twitch in an attempt to narrow without actually narrowing, he knew he hadn't managed it well.

Together the two men limped down to the cafeteria, each pretending their slowness of speed was to accommodate the other. No one paid attention to them as they shuffled into the room and joined the line to grab some food and pay. Wilson, wanting to make sure that House was actually the one to pay, grabbed himself a salad to go along with the turkey sandwich and fries he chose then left to grab a table, leaving House to explain to the cashier that he was picking up what Wilson grabbed as well as his own meal.

Wilson took advantage of House's distracted attention and allowed the pain he was feeling to show on his face and grimaced as deeply as the lines on his face could crease. He was grateful that no one else was around to see the look and quickly recovered in time to have House noisily place his tray on the table. The sound of cutlery slamming against hard plastic on top of a wooden surface bounced off every surface in the cafeteria, threatening to shatter everyone's eardrums and announcing the diagnostician's arrival in true Housian fashion.

Heads of everyone who had some spare time to get some food turned in the direction of the two men, their eyes narrowing when they saw who it was that had made the noise before they returned back to their conversations. Wilson winced at the fierceness of the glares but simply watched as House limped over to grab some extra napkins. The amount of weight he was placing on the cane hadn't changed from earlier in his office and the oncologist felt worry pull at him once again. He almost jumped up to grab whatever the misanthropic man needed but the instant he moved, intense pain shot through his back, trailing down the back of his legs and stopping him in his tracks.

House had just returned to the table when Wilson saw him place his cane awkwardly onto the floor, allowing the instrument to fly out from beneath him. Unfortunately the diagnostician hadn't ever learned to use his cane on the opposite side of his malady in case of instances such as these and he went almost gracefully down to the floor. Pain with the strength of Arnold Schwarzenegger circa 1980 on steroids clouded the blue eyes before he had a chance to hide it and Wilson almost cried for his friend at the sight.

"Well, aren't you going to help a pain-ridden cripple up?" House challenged managing to mix anger, hurt, and pain all into his voice.

Wilson's hand tightened into a fist as he debated actually getting up and helping the man off the ground. It closed tighter so that his well manicured nails were digging into the soft flesh of his palm when he realized the pain scorching through his own body was instantly telling him that no, he couldn't get up and help. It threatened horrendous consequences if he moved one inch.

Help in the form of Cameron came, the brunette bounding up to her fallen boss much in the manner of a fan fawning over a celebrity who had tripped. She extended a slim hand down to him, which he took with nothing but scorn for both her and Wilson in his eyes. House grimaced as his leg reminded him who was boss then shooed Cameron away with the excuse that he could hear Chase calling for her, wanting some lunchtime sex. The immunologist glared at her boss but did as she was bid, turned on her heel and left.

"What was with that?" House accused once he was seated across from Wilson. He didn't bother hiding what he felt as he asked the question, his demanding question dripping with pain but curiosity as well.

"What? I thought you were capable of getting up on your own," Wilson dismissed pathetically, averting his eyes from the dissecting glare of his friend. He knew that House could read him as easily as he filtered through a mess of symptoms to find a diagnosis and he really didn't want him seeing what he was thinking right now. Sure, considering the circumstances he probably should just admit to the folly of last night and therefore provide an excuse – a lame one in House's opinion no doubt but an excuse nonetheless – for not being able to help his friend but for some inexplicable reason he was sticking to his stubbornness and therefore was unwilling to tell the truth.

"In all the years that I've known you, you have never once left me to get up on my own when I've fallen," House reasoned out skeptically as he shoved three of Wilson's fries into his mouth. Wilson thought about countering with some sort of ridiculous answer but decided that it was best to allow his friend the break so that he could discern the rest and just get the humiliation over with. At this point in time, it was probably best just to tell House the truth rather than continue with this pathetic attempt at secrecy.

As usual, House swallowed his massive bite with one huge gulp, narrowed his eyes and came right to the point. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Wilson answered, the lie coming to his mouth so quickly his brain hadn't had time to stop it. He winced when he felt the rubber tip of a cane come into contact with his leg only to yelp then hiss when it slammed hard against his knee making him jump and jerk with the contact and pain seared throughout his back. "Okay, fine!" he conceded in a low growl, anger easily covering up the pain. "I fell and hurt my back last night, alright?"

"But that's not the whole story," House stated evenly, not even bothering to apologize for causing his friend pain.

"How do you know that?" Wilson countered defensively.

"Your shirt sleeves aren't rolled up."

"Yes, I forgot that that was indicative of some terrible injury," Wilson snarked, sarcasm oozing out of every single word. "Or, it could mean that I was cold and didn't want to roll them up today."

"It's cold outside, not in the hospital," House reasoned, stuffing his mouth full of a cold Reuben before he continued. "Outside it's a frigid thirty degrees but inside it's warm enough to allow Cuddy to dress like a hooker. For all the seasonal changes in temperature, you're never cold enough to keep your sleeves rolled down. Ergo, you're hiding something."

Wilson was about to come up with a counter argument when House's right hand shot out quick as lightening and fastened tightly around his forearm. The oncologist tried to yank his arm away from the grasp but that only served to cause House to tighten his grip, escalating it from merely uncomfortable and disconcerting to painful. He hissed when he felt the butterfly bandaging across his arm pull against the skin, slowly dragging the edges of the damaged skin further apart.

Sadistic though he may be, House was not the type of man that enjoyed hurting those he cared for and therefore released his hold on Wilson's arm, quickly drawing his hand away but instead applying pressure to Wilson's wrist effectively pinning the arm to the table while he unbuttoned the sleeve and gently rolled it up.

The teeny-tiniest flinch of his eyelids was the only sign of empathy or apology that he gave as he exposed the bandaged arm, the strips not bothering to hide the deep, long gashes that crossed from the front of his forearm by his wrist down to the delicate flesh of the underarm by his elbow. Butterfly bandages were only placed on the topmost part of the arm and a few were on the underside but the rest of the scratches were left alone to heal on their own.

Any moron could tell by the angle of the cuts and the alternating depth alone that the stupid cat had caused this but what House didn't know was what had happened and thatwas bugging him almost as much as the thought that his friend was injured and didn't tell him. He looked up into his friend's brown eyes demanding an answer while still pinning the arm to the table, hoping to keep the man from scurrying away before he got his explanation.

"It's nothing," Wilson dismissed. He pulled on his arm but House only held on tighter, almost cutting off circulation with his grip. Realizing when it was easier to give House what he wanted, Wilson sighed. "Sarah got locked in the hall closet last night. When I let her out, she jumped on me, claws out, and slid down before she hid under the couch."

"That explains the scratches but it doesn't explain the hurt back." House released his hold of Wilson's arm, satisfied that the oncologist wasn't going to try to run away. He inwardly winced at the red outline of his fingers around the sturdy wrist but outwardly he kept his features schooled in nonchalance, choosing to steal more of Wilson's food while he impatiently waited for the rest of the story.

Wilson rubbed at his wrist in hopes of returning circulation and ridding the joint of the pins and needles. "I tried to jump out of the way and apparently twisted my back, okay? Are you satisfied?"

House smirked in a fashion that said he'd known everything all along, his cerulean eyes twinkling with satisfaction. He didn't answer his friend's question knowing that his smile was enough to let the younger doctor know that, indeed he was at last content. However, he'd never been one not to miss an opportunity to embarrass his friend so he popped another bit of Reuben into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully on it then said, "Of course, that doesn't explain the rather unmanly shriek Nora heard coming from your place last night."

Wilson nearly choked on his bit of salad from shock and did his best not cough or splutter. He swallowed as calmly as he could and leaned back, grabbing a drink of water to wash down the rabbit food. "How do you know she heard anything?"

"I think the correct response would be, "That's impossible because I didn't shriek," but that works too." House's smirk spread to an almost unfriendly sneer when he saw that Wilson had recognized his mistake. "Don't worry. She wasn't asking me on a date." He waited for Wilson to suck another drink of water into his mouth before he subtly shifted to his right and added, "She called to see if I had been staying with you last night."

It was horribly disappointing when Wilson didn't spit his drink out but the then again, House supposed that was to be expected when one's been friends with him as long as the oncologist had. Instead, Wilson merely swallowed the water then eyed him warily. "Well. What did you tell her?"

"I said that if I'd been with you last night it wouldn't have been an unmanly shriek she would have heard, if you know what I mean." He winked crudely and Wilson rolled his eyes.

"So!" House announced loudly while Wilson dumped their trays and waited for him to catch up. "That only leaves you having been scared by something and since the only thing that seemed to have attacked you last night was your cat, that's what I'm going with. Of course, if you'd get rid of the damn menace, you wouldn't have had to worry about it."

"House, I'm not getting rid of Sarah," Wilson automatically argued. He didn't know how many times he and House had had this conversation – he didn't think there were enough digits to keep track. "Why are you so intent on me giving her up?"

"She's a danger to your health."

"She hasn't caused me any harm other than last night–"

"I'm not talking about your physical health," House interrupted, not giving him a chance to get going. "I'm talking about your sexual health. Having a diabetic cat around is like-"

"Like having a crippled drug addict around?" They had just arrived at Wilson's office and the oncologist shut the solid wood door behind them before sitting behind his desk.

"Oh, you – you're talking about me aren't you?" House questioned managing to sound like Wilson's quip was an adoration rather than a snark. Wilson offered a gentle smile via the corners of his mouth quirking upwards but didn't reply. House watched as he began to roll the sleeve of his shirt back down over his arm, wincing when the fabric rubbed against the cuts, and almost winced in empathy for his friend, almost. Now that he knew that Wilson was mostly alright, he could move on from being concerned to mocking him mercilessly. "Seriously Wilson, that cat is a danger to you and me."

"How is she a danger to you?"

"It crawls around your feet, trips you and suddenly you can't visit your immunocompromised kiddies and girlfriends sending Cuddy to my door demanding that I do yourjob."

"Oh that is a gross exaggeration," Wilson argued. "At most she would insist that you do my clinic hours."

"That's what I said." House looked so insulted at the mere thought of having to work more clinic hours that Wilson actually laughed. He groaned when the taped skin on his stomach stretched and the muscles in his back were pulled while his diaphragm expanded. He'd have to remember not to do that for the next few days or so.

"Probably best not to do that for the next couple of days or so," House said, echoing the thoughts within his mind.

"Thank you Mr. Helpful, I would never have known that."

"I do try to help wherever I can," House answered almost angelically. His pager shrilled and he sighed. "Gotta go. When mommy and daddy are away, the kids will play and it seems that they played with Aunt Cuddy's expensive MRI machine."

Wilson smiled at the sentiment that he and House were a couple but didn't comment on it. Bushy eyebrows formed one line across his forehead in confusion. "What are they doing?"

"Showing the medical students what happens when you stick a corpse with a bullet in his head in an MRI."

"Are these the same students that you were supposed to be teaching?"

House smirked. "She didn't specify as to how."

"No, but I'm pretty sure she did specify as to what. Didn't she want you to teach them patient histories?"

"I am. I'm showing them what happens when you don't take a good one." House limped out the balcony door before Wilson had a chance to stall him some more, leaving Wilson quietly and painfully chuckling in his chair.

As he settled down his laughing and began to focus once more on his job, Wilson had one main thought running through his mind: May God save us all from a bored Gregory House!

~fin~