Author’s notes: Very short, because I wanted to try my hand at House fanfic. If you want to read it as pre-slash, please do. But it’s really only House/Wilson friendship.


Being friends with Doctor Gregory House meant getting grey hairs far earlier than one might otherwise get them.

Doctor James Wilson sighed deeply as he sat down in the chair next to House’s bed. House’s burnt hand lay in clear view and Wilson could not quite tear his eyes off it. Red and blistered, it looked angry against the white covers.

Wilson thought of the times House had scared him before.

There had been the infarction, which had been the first time. God, he had been scared then, but he had kept a brave front – he did not want to appear weak – and quietly supported House as he recovered.

Then House had been shot, in broad daylight – and Wilson’s heart had stopped for a moment that felt like an eternity.

Then there was the time when House had not answered his phone, when Tritter had been after him. When Wilson had gone to his apartment and found House on the floor, lying in his own vomit. A sense of shame came over Wilson – he had simply left his best friend there. But it had made him so angry – House had stolen a dead patient’s pills! Still, it had frightened him, enough to have him come back a few hours later and check up on him again.

And now, House lay still in the hospital bed with a blistered hand and a heart that had stopped for nearly a whole minute.

Wilson ran a hand through his hair, eyes flitting to the screen monitoring House’s pulse. It beeped steadily.

He wondered what he was supposed to feel about the man on the bed. Anger? House had electrocuted himself. Worry? He was worried, that could not be denied. Sad. Why did House feel the need to do these things?


He had basically pushed his best friend to attempt suicide. House had been in near death situations before – he did not need to go there again.

Wilson’s heart constricted at once as he looked at House. It hurt to look at him.

House stirred. Wilson stood and walked to the end of the bed, leaning his elbows on the wooden end of it. He watched a frown of pain pass over House’s face. It did not surprise Wilson – the blistered hand must hurt. And there was always the leg.

House opened his clear blue eyes for a moment. They fell shut again – perhaps the room was too bright or the pain was too intense, or perhaps House simply did not want to be among the land of the living. Perhaps a part of House did, after all, want to die.

The thought frightened Wilson – he could not imagine life without House. The verbal sparring, the games, the movie nights with beer and pizza. Wilson had little else, with three crashed marriages behind him. Now only the job, and his friendship with House, remained.

Without House, he would be alone.

He watched House in silence, studying the lines of his face. They changed as House frowned in pain – or perhaps annoyance at life in general.

Then he opened his eyes once more and blue eyes met brown. For a moment, Wilson basked in the reassurance that House was still there, he was still alive. He had not left Wilson.

Then anger and worry pushed the brief happiness out.

“You’re an idiot.”

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