A/N: Whew! Go Kelly Clarkson go! The idea came to me while reflecting on Monday's episode. This fic will probably be the weirdest thing you've ever read—I can't really identify it as a songfic, a filk, a one-shot, etc. because I changed up various parts of the lyrics and…oh, whatever. Have fun reading! Note: The opinions expressed in this angst are solely those of a Dr. James Wilson, and the author should not be in any way responsible for his depictions of certain scenes and/or characters.

Disclaimer: If I owned House, would I even bother writing a sarcastic disclaimer?

"Twenty-seven year old female…does she have a birthmark on her right shoulder blade?"

And that's where it all started. That's when Wilson, the strongest, sunniest, most optimistic oncologist fell apart. It wasn't just sadness, no. It was horror. It was a terrifying emotion, enveloping all of his other senses. It was the tears the flowed through his body on a regular basis, drying up. It was not caring about anything because his everything was being taken away. It was mental death.

Death for two.

Seems like just yesterday
You slept and talked to me
I used to stand so tall
I used to be so strong…

He was so scared. So very, very scared. His life had been wiped clean—there were now only two people in the entire world he cared anything about—House and Amber. And House was losing his place at the top very, very fast.

…Your arms around me tight
Everything, it felt so right
Unbreakable, like nothing could go wrong…

There was absolutely nothing he could be sure of anymore. How the hell had Amber gotten on the bus with House? She had her own car. She could've driven. She could've been spared! It was House's fault. It was all House's fault.

Now, I can't breathe
No, I can't sleep!
I'm barely hanging on…

Wilson buried his head in his hands, ignoring the worried arms of his boss and tossing Cameron's fruitless words aside like an unwanted present. It wasn't fair! Amber shouldn't have gotten hurt! It should've been him. It should've been him! House should've gotten hurt, not Amber! It was his fault she was on the bus…he was cheating! It wasn't her fault. It wasn't Amber's fault at all. It was his. It was House's fault.

Here I am, once again
I'm torn into pieces
Can't deny it, can't pretend
Just thought House would leave us alone.

When he thought of her, Amber, lying in some bed, somewhere, with injuries covering the whole of her beautiful, perfect body, he screamed. Screamed as hard as he could. Cuddy's eyes set alight with fear, and she quickly motioned for everyone to leave the bus. Wilson didn't even notice when each filed past. He didn't see House stay behind. No one else did, either.

Broken up, deep inside
But you won't get to see the tears I cry
Behind these hazel eyes…

Now, it was. All House's fault. He must've invited her over. He had to have. They had slept together. She had ridden home…on the bus. But she never got home. She would be lucky if she ever saw the inside of her pretty little loft ever again. Wilson couldn't believe it. He had trusted House! With everything! Absolutely everything! And this happened? House had thrown everything away? It didn't matter anymore that the trust was ruined. But if Amber died…so help him, House would live in hell.

I told you everything
Opened up and let you in
You made me feel true despair
Now, twice in my life…

How would he get through work? How could he pretend to care about anyone else, when his girlfriend lay, sick, on some table in some hospital? He couldn't do it. He simply couldn't do it.

Now all that's left of me
Is what I pretend to be
So together, but so broken up inside…

Suddenly, Wilson was overcome with rage. How dare he? That BASTARD! Wilson beat his fists against the shaded bus windows. He didn't feel the blood pouring from his knuckles, all he felt was anger. Anger for House, anger for the bus, anger for everything. Then, almost as quickly as it had come, the anger vanished, and Wilson began to sob. Ugly tears fell down his cheeks, matting at his worn face and streaking across his features.

He gasped. He couldn't catch his breath. He was chocking. He was dying. He was dying.

'Cause I can't breathe
No, I can't sleep
I'm barely hanging' on…

Wilson's body slunk to the side of his seat, his arms hitting the floor in a simultaneous crack. It was sickening. House bolted up. What had happened? Had he stopped crying yet? House was met with his answer upon limping over to his younger friend.

Wilson lay sideways, blood from his hand pooling around his arms and staining his shirt. His brown eyes were shaded over, and his face held no expression. House's mouth dropped, but was promptly closed again. He reached over and grabbed a wrist. Pulse. There's a pulse. He stared at Wilson's chest. It was predictably rising and falling. Slowly, unsteadily, shakily, but he was breathing.

Here I am, once again
I'm torn into pieces
Can't deny it, can't pretend
Just I could save you the pain.

Broken up, deep inside
But you won't get to see the tears I cry
Behind these ice blue eyes.

House lifted Wilson's dreamland body into the aisle and cleaned up the blood as best as he could. He slipped his shirt off and wrapped it around Wilson's hand, to protect it. There was nothing he could do but wait for his friend to wake up. So, he closed his eyes, laid Wilson's head in his lap, and fell asleep.

Swallow me then spit me out
For hating you, I blame myself
Seeing you it kills me now
No, I don't cry on the outside

Wilson considered blinking, but he wanted to think first. Why was he on the floor? He didn't remember that. Nevertheless, soon everything was playing back in slow motion. Cuddy, himself, trying to save House. Hadley, Kutner, shuffling through the bad news. Himself, screaming, yelling at House. It was all his fault.

Wasn't it?

Of course…right? It wasn't a coincidence. They must've gotten together. They must've had sex. So why did he feel so damn foolish?

Wilson opened his eyes. House lay above him. He was sleeping. Well, he looked like he was sleeping. His eyes were bloodshot, and his shirt was covered in blood. What the…started Wilson, until he looked down at his own hands and recognized the crude bandage that had been placed there to prevent further bleeding. He tried to move without making any noise, but the second he lifted an arm House snapped awake. "Hey."

Wilson's eyes became overcast. "Why. Why was she on the bus?"

House looked above Wilson's head, past the aisle and out the door. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

He looked down. It wasn't with anger, but it wasn't without emotion, though to which Wilson couldn't quite put his finger on. "I mean, I don't know. I don't remember."

"Did…did she come home with you?"

"I don't know."

"House! This is my girlfriend! Did you or did you not sleep with her?"

"Wilson. I…I can't tell you. I don't know. I don't remember. I can't answer."

"You can try!"

Here I am, once again
I'm torn into pieces
Can't deny it, can't pretend
Just thought you were the one
Broken up, deep inside
But you won't get to see the tears I cry
Behind these hazel eyes…

House looked almost as if he were going to cry, almost as if he had heard Wilson's thoughts, his doubts, his nightmares. But he didn't cry. "No." he paused, taking a dry breath. "I can't." House stood up without wiping the blood off his body and limped off the bus, leaving his cane-replacement in the backseat and his best friend in the aisle.

Behind these ice blue eyes…