Angelfirenze came up with this idea and I couldn't NOT give it a whack.

Resurrection

It’s six o'clock on a Saturday, and Wilson stirs just a little. He refuses to open his eyes, lest the act contribute to an unwanted bout of wakefulness.

He can just barely make out a red glow from behind his lids, telling him that the sun is indeed already up. By the slight chill in the air, he knows that he’s got a few hours yet before he needs to be.

Although he wasn’t aware of it at first, only when it repeats itself does he realize that the sound of knocking is what interrupted his slumber.

He assumes the visitor -whomever they may be- has got to be for House. Because outside of the pizza delivery guy, few people ever come over merely to see him.

And House’s team has no regard for paltry notions like time and sleep. Their schedule is about life and death and the next clever idea. Whether it's night or day, or socially unacceptable is irrelevant.

“House,” Wilson lets out, eyes still closed. He's simply determined to sleep in this morning. He raps his knuckles weakly against the wall behind his head. “It’s for you.”

“You don’t know that,” House eventually mumbles, just loud enough to be heard. There’s a complacent sigh and a cane thumping against the carpeting.

It's quiet for half a minute, except for the slight impression of House making his way to the door. But within seconds of the it creaking open, there a loud thud, the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground.

Wilson is immediately awake, leaves the warm comfort of his bed and dashes barefooted down the hall.

As soon as he reaches the front door and he sees House’s lying unconscious on the linoleum, he immediately assumes the worst. It's got to be a drug overdose, a stroke or maybe just a garden variety heart attack. Or God forbid, perhaps House is been shot again. His mind is reeling with the possibilities. That is, until he actually sees what it was that prompted House to faint in the first place.

Wilson teeters, his own feet suddenly becoming unsteady. He's never fainted before, not really, not over something like this. Not that he's ever experienced anything like this, and apparently House hasn't either. But before him is and honest to goodness, living and breathing dead man.

He knows he’s not psychotic, because House obviously saw him too. Friends can share a lot of things, food, toys, an apartment. But they can't share a hallucination.

And even though there’s no answer that could possibly truly answer the question, Wilson asks, “what the hell are you doing here?”

He observes the older man, who sniffs and shrugs, never once abandoning his perfect posture.

“Well,” John remarks, nodding soberly towards the spot where House lay, “it was either that or he was going to hit me."