AUTHOR: Captain Divine
SUMMARY: Three months after the incident, Wilson has finally fallen into the routine of taking care of House.
SPOILERS: None in the chapter. . .
DISCLAIMER: NOT MINE!
A/N: No clue. Seemed like a good idea at the time, please review if you'd like me to continue.
House had never been easy to deal with before the incident, and Wilson was sure he was being difficult on purpose afterwards. And now, as House sat on the floor between his legs, amusing himself with his big tennis ball, Wilson thought about how they had come to be this way.
Wilson remembered the day he found House lying on the kitchen floor, half-dead. He'd slid across the floor on the blood, collapsing beside his friend. He'd slapped House a few times, called for an ambulance, and put those years of med school to use.
He'd found the source of the bleeding (the head, multiple slashes and a rather large gash across his stomach) and applied pressure, realizing how much he hated EMTs. He noticed the blank, open stare in House's eyes, the obvious crack in his skull, and the possible culprit for that wound, House's own cane, snapped in two. When the ambulance arrived, he'd ridden with House over to Princeton General, where Wilson was told to wait outside as he went into surgery.
Four phone calls, a cup of coffee, and three and a half hours later, the Chief Surgeon, a man called Dr. Taylor, informed him that the bleeding had be stopped and he was now in the ICU for recovery, but had become hypertensive during surgery and had to be shocked back to life when his heart stopped. Wilson had thanked him for his service and rushed off to see House, but was denied access to the ICU for the time being.
So he had made some more phone calls, telling Cuddy and House's team what had happened. They'd asked questions he couldn't answer and answered questions he couldn't think of. Afterwards, Wilson had paced and thought, and thought and paced.
It wasn't until days later, when House was stable enough to be transferred to Princeton-Plainsboro for further observation under Dr. Cuddy, that Wilson would finally find out what really happened to his friend.
Well, House wasn't one to talk when Wilson was finally allowed in the ICU to see him. He didn't expect him to be, but was secretly hoping that House would wake up and make a crack about his protectiveness. He needed to be reminded that the world was still there.
The DA had informed Wilson that they "were doing all they could to solve the case". That wasn't nearly good enough for him, and he called the New Jersey state Police Department every day until they threatened to drop the case.
Wilson had ceased his calls.
But one day, while he sat in his office, in the middle of a meeting with a patient, his cell phone had rung, and he scrambled to pick it up, quickly excusing himself from the room and went out on the balcony. "Hello?" he had answered, his voice shaking.
"Dr. Wilson? This is Detective Carlson from the NJPD. There's been a breakthrough in the case," the voice had said on the other end, his voice resonating without emotion.
Wilson's breath had caught in his throat for a moment, and he had to wait a moment to speak. "Yes?" he finally had choked out.
"Would you rather come down to the station?" Carlson had proposed, but Wilson was quick to oppose.
"No!" he had shouted, then realized how rude it sounded. "Sorry, I just. . .could you just tell me now?" Wilson leaned against the brick half-wall that separated his balcony from House's.
"Alright. After some further investigation of the apartment and some tracing of phone calls, we've discovered that Gregory House had some pretty serious deals with some pretty serious people. Part of the New Jersey mob, I believe. After some sketchy transactions, supposedly a black market Vicodin purchase according to some support by Detective Tritter, Mr. House apparently didn't pay his end of the deal. His apartment was obviously entered by force, and after some further examination of Mr. House's body," Wilson had cringed. "We found evidence of rape."
It was the last part that really hit Wilson hard. He had stared forward, toward the door to his office, and watched his patient fidget nervously. He didn't speak, only thought. No, House couldn't be raped. He's too. . .strong for that.
But Carlson wasn't done. "And, I apologise, Dr. Wilson, but the evidence shows that this wasn't the first time."
Wilson had felt his throat close up and a burning sensation pushing at his eyes. He nodded, then realised that Carlson couldn't see him. "Okay," he said, for it was the only word he could think of.
"That's all we've got for now," Carlson said. "I'm very sorry. We will call you if there's any further developments."
And he had hung up.
Wilson had still held the phone to his ear, the dial tone piercing the silence. He finally snapped the phone shut and crossed his arms, diverting his eyes to the ground. He had studied the patterns in the bricks, and conjured up House's shadow standing beside him on the other side of the wall.
He had smiled to himself, remembering the first time House had kissed him. It'd been right here, on the balcony, each one of them on their own side. Wilson had been stressed and House had been all but in a forgiving mood, for his patient had gotten worse, and his team was missing the most obvious clue to solving the case. They'd both gone out there simultaneously.
Neither of them had spoken, they only looked out into the fading sunlight. Wilson had found it in himself to walk closer to the dividing wall, and House and followed his lead. They stood as close as the wall would let them be, and looked at each other.
It was quick and neat, but meaningful. Their lips simply brushed together and their hands stayed at their sides, but it was something they'd both wanted for a long time.
They never told anyone about the kiss or the relationship that followed, and no one seemed to notice. Wilson knew someone would find out someday, but as long as he could come home to House, it didn't matter.
And then, as Wilson stood, imagining House standing beside him, consoling him, he had gone back into his office, told his patient that their meeting would need to be rescheduled, and had went straight to the ICU, and had spent the remaining hours of the day by House's side, watching the tubes breathe, the medicine fix and the man sleep, mulling over the information he'd been told.
Months had passed since those days, and Wilson tried not to remember the days in-between. House had finally awoken, and slowly recovered from his flesh wounds. But he never spoke. There were meetings with psychiatrists and conferences with specialists, but never once did House speak. Wilson had taken him home to his apartment, making sure it looked exactly the way it did before the incident. House had never shown any apprehension or fear, remaining complacent. He did what Wilson told him to, let Wilson dress and bathe him, all without the normal refusal and opposition Wilson had come to know from his friend.
And as they sat together, in the office of another psychiatrist Cuddy had made an appointment with, House silently playing with his ball, as innocently as a child, Wilson caressing House's hair absentmindedly, the world went on around them.