This isn't going to be a slash story, but see how easily I could turn it into one? Don't worry; I won't. Even if I do think that House and Wilson need to spend more quality shower time together.

Chapter 43

Wilson sat in the shower with House, who was practically in his lap. When enough time had passed for them both to adjust to the temperature of the water, Wilson felt safe enough to make it a little colder. House wasn’t shaking anymore, but Wilson didn’t want to take any chances. Any fever high enough to cause seizures and vomiting was too high. He figured the best thing he could do was stay in the shower until he was certain that House’s temperature had dropped a few degrees.

Wilson’s clothing was now completely soaked through, his tie plastered awkwardly to his chest. He could feel the weight of his pants, pulling at his legs. He began to wonder what he would do when House did regain consciousness, and demanded to know why he was naked and they were in the shower together.

Wilson chuckled to himself, considering the jokes that House would have made, back when he was still willing to speak. Holding him now, Wilson could feel -and not just see- how thin and frail the other man had become. He’d never really noticed, or maybe he hadn’t wanted to. House had always seemed so solid and so self-assured. Underneath his clothing he was just a human being, as vulnerable and mortal as anyone else.

House was stirring a bit, but his eyes still hadn’t opened. Wilson checked his pulse, periodically. He wasn’t tachy and he didn’t seem nearly as feverish, but he wasn't at all lucid. Wilson had no idea how he was going to get his friend out of the shower, but he knew they couldn’t stay in there forever. It had taken all of Wilson’s strength to drag him in there in the first place.

Before Wilson could speculate any further, House moaned and began stretching his legs against the shower wall.

Wilson drew a hand back up to his friend’s head, which wasn’t quite so hot anymore. They had been in there for about forty minutes, so he figured it was safe to shut off the spray. He spoke softly, still maintaining his grip.

"House...can you hear me?"

"Mmm..."

House arched his back, trying to orient himself in the cramped space. He gradually became aware of Wilson’s presence, but didn’t seem terribly worried about the fact that he was naked. Regardless of House’s lack of concern, Wilson felt compelled to explain himself.

"You’ve got a high fever, House. I had to bring the temperature down..."

House struggled to turn, so that he could confirm the fact that Wilson was really there behind him. He wasn't altogether certain that he wasn't still dreaming. His hands groped clumsily, finding the bar that had been installed for his safety.

"I cuh...cuh...called you..."

Wilson couldn’t help being shocked that House was actually making an effot to speak to him, although he was pretty sure that it was because he wasn't totally aware of what he was doing. He actually sounded genuinely afraid, like a child that had just woken up from a particularly frightening nightmare and needed reassurance that it wasn't real.

"I know...I'm sorry I wasn’t here."

House moaned again, pushing himself backward against his friend. The shower was really only intended for one person, so he was probably not terribly comfortable.

"Mmm...sssick."

Wilson felt a pang of guilt. He knew that, even if House had been aware that he was coming down with something, he’d be too stubborn to tell anyone about it. Wilson had willingly taken on the responsibility of caring for his friend, so he knew that House’s current condition was at least partially due to his negligence. He should have found a way to let House know he was going to be late, or sent someone to check on him.

Now that the water was off, Wilson was beginning to get chilly. He knew that he needed to get them both out of the shower, and soon.

"I’m going to try to stand up, and I need you to help me."

House made some inarticulate noise, which Wilson read that as an affirmative. He counted to three out loud, before making an official attempt to stand. House wasn’t really trying to walk, but he wasn’t completely dead weight either. Wilson managed to drag him out into the bedroom, practically flinging him onto one side of the bed. Wilson tossed a blanket over him and went back to the bathroom to strip down to his underwear. He deposited his sopping wet clothes into the bathtub and grabbed a few towels to dry off his friend.

House opened his eyes a few times, while Wilson used a towel to absorb the remaining water off of his body. House seemed to be trying to form words, but no sounds left his lips.

Once Wilson had decided that House was dry enough, he got himself into some fresh clothes and ran to his car to get his official doctor’s bag. He'd carried one for emergencies, pretty much since the day he'd graduated from medical school. He rarely ever found the need to use it, but always believed it was better to be prepared. It contained basic first aid supplies, a spare stethoscope, a tympanic thermometer, a blood pressure cuff, a suture kit, disposable syringes and several sealed vials of epinephrine and lidocaine that had probably expired over five years ago.

Wilson figured that House just had a garden variety virus, that had only been exacerbated when he'd become stranded in the tub. He still wanted to give him a basic exam to make sure that he didn't need to take him to the hospital -better to do it now when House was too out of it to fight him on it.

Wilson was relieved to find House's temperature to be only a hundred and two. For some reason, it had seemed much higher. He had some mild fluid build-up in his chest, which Wilson determined was probably due to an upper respiratory infection.

Wilson put a fresh pair of sweats and a t-shirt on his friend and got him situated under the covers. He brought back a bottle of Gatorade and some soda crackers, as well as some aspirin for the fever.

House struggled to open his eyes, but even the dim light of his bedside lamp was making them burn. His surroundings were soft and warm, and the bathtub had been hard and cold. He was pretty sure that he had been moved.

House had snatches of images in his mind, but they were so dark and sketchy. He was still trying to piece together which portions were dream and which were reality.

House laid there on his bed, quietly. There were sounds in the apartment, but they were Wilson's sounds. He began to feel safe again, and to remember a little more. Something scary had happened, that much he was sure of. It had been late and Wilson hadn't come home yet. Wilson had lifted him out of the tub and gotten him dry again. House wondered if Wilson had seen the blood or even Dr. Foreman, or if those things had just been a trick of his mind. House desperately wanted to reach down and touch his legs to confirm that they were still there where they were supposed to be, but he didn't have the strength.

House opened his eyes again, searching for Wilson. The light assaulted them again and they fell shut. Tears formed and burned behind his lids. It was because of the light, he'd told himself. It was a natural reaction to photophobia.

Finally, Wilson was beside him again, making him sit up and drink something. It didn't taste right, but nothing ever tasted right when you were sick. He drank it anyway. He took the four aspirin that were placed into his hand and obediently nibbled a few of the saltines. He couldn't keep his eyes open for very long. Wilson went on talking softly, about a patient of his that had passed away. Despite the sadness that was there, the presence of his voice was soothing.

After a while, the talking stopped and Wilson turned out the light. House had almost been lulled to sleep, but his eyes snapped open when he heard the click of the lamp. He searched through the darkness for his friend, but his eyes hadn't yet adjusted. He flung an arm out and grabbed onto something, something that he hoped was connected to Wilson.

Now that the lights were off, House wasn't entirely sure just how safe he really was. If Foreman had gotten into his apartment once, he could very easily come back. House knew that if he couldn't scream or yell for help, he could be killed or maimed -right there in his own bed- and Wilson wouldn't know about it until it was too late. He couldn't take any chances.

Wilson frowned, peering through the darkness at his friend.

"Hey...what is it?"

It wasn't that he'd expected a verbal esponse, but the urgency with which House was tugging on his sweats had him a bit concerned. House moaned softly, the first real noise that he'd made since he'd been moved.

Wilson rested on the edge of the bed, House's hand still securely attached to the waistband of his pants. He wasn't really sure what House wanted, but it seemed like he didn't want to be alone.

Wilson looked at the clock. It was already past one. If House wasn't feeling well, maybe he should just call in sick and stay home with him. He was going to be useless on only a few hours of sleep. As a doctor, Wilson had often been forced to work when poorly rested. Somehow, he'd never gotten used to it.

He rubbed the back of his neck. He was exhausted and ready to crash. Currently, House was sprawled across the center of the bed. Wilson poked his friend, gently.

"Hey...If you want me to sleep here, you're going to have to move over a little."

After a few seconds, House made some effort to scoot his body over. Wilson peeled back the covers and slid in next to him, trying to get comfortable. Once he was still, he felt House grab a corner of his long-sleeved t-shirt and hold it tight.

He didn't let go until morning.