Rating:T for some language. This story continues the slash theme.

Summary: This is a sequel to my last story, 'Another Chance'…or you can call it a continuation…although you don't have to read that one before reading this one. Here's a quick précis of that story: Wilson was knocked out by a carjacker who subsequently drove his car into a pole, causing it to explode and burn. As a result, the police mistakenly assumed the accident victim was Wilson, reporting the grim news to the staff of Princeton Plainsboro. A couple of hours later, Wilson showed up at the hospital bruised and battered, the police's terrible faux pas was rectified (with much angst in the process), and he was left with a nasty concussion. More angst, slash and humor ensued (not necessarily in that order).

This story begins where 'Another Chance' ended… after Wilson has been released from the hospital and has just spent the night with House in his bed. I guess I should add that there was no sex, although our two boys did come close (no pun intended). Okay, that's about it.

Oh, one more thing. I feel I need to explain why I'm writing a sequel. The simple explanation is that I guess I wasn't finished torturing our favorite oncologist. Call me sick, but I was having too much fun. So, I'm indulging my perverse pleasures and writing this sequel.

Chapter 1

House couldn't concentrate on the medical journal in front of him. Finally giving up, he rested his head on the back of his chair studying the shadows as they skittered across the ceiling. His eye was caught by the orange glow of the digital clock. Glancing at it he noted the time…eight AM… and thought about his friend, James Wilson, who lay sleeping in his bed in the next room.

Discharged from the hospital the day before, he was still experiencing symptoms from his injury…. severe headaches, confusion, dizziness…. and what concerned House the most… uncharacteristic hostility that lead to angry outbursts. His neurologist, Dr. Jack Roth, had mentioned the possibility of post concussion syndrome, and House couldn't help but worry that his friend might be falling victim to this enigmatic disorder. Wilson had not had a good night, sleeping fitfully, tossing and turning until the early morning hours when he finally fell into a deep sleep. House was reluctant to wake him but finally relented realizing the importance of assessing his alertness and orientation.

Leaning heavily onto his cane, he dragged himself up from his chair, quietly groaning more from exhaustion than from the pain in his leg…the pain that had evolved over the years into a constant presence. Pausing, he leaned down and picked up his bottle of Vicodin from the coffee table, removing the cap with one hand and quickly swallowing a pill. He sighed as he reminded himself that the pills no longer took away his pain but merely diluted its venom. It was usually worse on mornings such as this …mornings when he hadn't slept the night before for whatever reason, this occasion being concern for his friend lying next to him in his bed.

Limping into his bedroom he took note of the stillness in the room except for the muted sound of Wilson's steady breathing. He limped towards the window tilting open the blinds allowing the morning light to stream into the room. Wilson was sleeping soundly on his back, his head listing to the side, one arm under the covers while the other rested across his midsection. As House sat on the edge of the bed, he studied his friend's face. The bruises on his cheek and forehead were fading only to be supplemented by ominous dark circles under his eyes, their grey shade appearing more exaggerated in contrast to his pale complexion. Sighing, he gently shook his friend.

"Jimmy, wake up," he said, his voice soft. Wilson quietly groaned, his arm twitching slightly. House tenderly shook him by the shoulders again. "Jimmy."

Wilson slowly opened his eyes, blinking as he attempted to focus. Frowning, he stared past the other man towards the window, a vacant look in his eyes. "Jimmy, look at me."

He shifted his gaze towards his friend, squinting as he attempted to recognize his face. House stared at him, his stomach knotting up from the confusion and trepidation he saw in his friend's eyes. His heart pounding, he lightly touched his cheek. "Jimmy, it's me." Wilson shook his head ever so slightly, uncertainty in his eyes.

"Don't do this to me," House murmured under his breath. He continued to stare into his friend's eyes for several moments lightly stroking his cheek, willing him to remember.


House sucked in his breath upon hearing his friend say his name. Recovering quickly, he smiled continuing to caress his cheek with his fingers.

"Morning," James said quietly, smiling tentatively as he reached up and squeezed his friend's hand.

"Do you know where you are?"

He furrowed his forehead. "Hospital?" House didn't reply, managing to keep his concern from reaching his face while the acid in his stomach threatened to sear his throat. James glanced around the room. "Oh…yeah. I forgot. We're at your place."

"How can you possibly confuse my castle with a hospital room?" House asked, attempting to keep the mood light.

James sat up slowly. "I have a note from my doctor." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn't recognize you," he said, his voice wavering.

House cast his eyes down towards the bed. "You know what Dr. Roth said… It can take time for you to…."

"Then why are you so worried?" James asked, interrupting him. House looked up to find the other man cautiously eyeing him.

"I'm not worried." He smiled. "My feelings are hurt. How would you feel if the guy you slept with the night before couldn't remember you?"

Wilson drew his legs up resting his arms across his knees. "You need to talk to me." He reached out and lightly brushed his friend's hand.

House squeezed his hand in return. "It's only been 72 hours. While it doesn't do much for my ego, it's still not unusual." James looked past him, nodding in understanding.

"Okay," he said quietly shifting his eyes towards House. He tilted his head as if something had just occurred to him. "I'm starving."

Brushing a piece of stray hair from his friend's forehead, House leaned onto his cane as he slowly stood. "I'll meet you in the kitchen."

A/N: Okay, I may be beating a dead horse here but I have some plans for Wilson so I intend to continue.