Wilson has a breakdown when House suffers an everyday accident.

After all of the trauma House has suffered, from the infarction to being shot, from the bus accident and deep brain stimulation, to being held hostage, Wilson can only laugh (to himself) when it is something so mundane, so banal that pushes him to the brink. If he could laugh that is, however, right now, the lack of oxygen to the brain was causing more immediate problems.

The evening had started off like any other. They both left the hospital, and it being a Friday, headed over to House's for their weekending tradition of beer and pizza. They arrived; House placed the pizza order, and retrieved two beers from the fridge for them both. They sat chatting about their top idiot clinic patients for the week; Wilson had one who had staple gunned her shaving cut closed, causing more problems than the minor shaving incident had given. House had pulled not one, but two produce products out of orifices, and had child brought in with suspected measles, but proved to be just marker dots made by the older brother on a dare.

After the pizza had arrived and was consumed, House went into the kitchen to retrieve another round of beers. Wilson heard the first beer top pop off, and then a strangled cry from House. Wilson was out of his seat in a second, running into the kitchen quickly. He found House bleeding, but conscious and alert.

"What happened?" Wilson asked, breathlessly. He was breathing awfully hard and he hadn't run all that fast from the living room.

"Bottle top caught my thumb. It hurts like a motherfucker, but it's not deep." House wrapped up his thumb with several paper towels and was about to head to the bathroom to locate a band aid. That was, until he took a good look at Wilson.

Beads of sweat had broken out along Wilson's forehead, and he had gone extremely pale. His breathing was coming in gasps and wheezes as he leaned on the fridge, still staring wide-eyed at House.

"Wilson. Wilson!" House stepped over toward Wilson and grabbed him by the arms. "Wilson, snap out of it!" House shook Wilson slightly, trying to get him out of this trance. "Wilson!" House, gripping him tighter, shook him harder and that seemed to work.

Wilson was no longer in a trance like state, but his legs buckled, causing him to fall to the floor on his knees, House still gripping his biceps. "Wilson. You need to stand up. Cripple here, I can't carry you. Come on. Come on damnit!" House managed to haul Wilson to his feet and half walked, half dragged him back to the couch.

"I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere." House headed to the bathroom to retrieve a band aid and came back a minute later. Wilson was still sitting on the couch, but he was still shaking violently, his head in his hands. He was breathing in ragged, shallow breaths.

"Wilson, I need you to nod if you can hear and understand me. Can you do that?" Wilson managed an unsteady nod. "Ok, any chest pain or tightening?" Wilson, tremors wracking his torso, shook his head, just struggled for breath. "Left arm or jaw pain?" Wilson once again managed to shake his head to the negative. His breathing was still rapid, which wasn't helped by the fact that he had his chin tucked into his chest. House kept his scathing comments to himself. He knew he wasn't exactly the best at comforting platitudes.

"Wilson, this is just a panic attack. It's ok. You are ok. Can you sit up a little more, so you can get some more air? Wilson lifted his head, and House saw that his face was lined with tears. House bit back a scathing comment. "I need you to try and relax. I'm going to get you some Ativan. I'll be right back."

House went to stand up, and Wilson grabbed on to his arm with a vice like grip. "Do-do don't go," he managed to stammer out. "Wilson, I'm just going into the bedroom. I'm not leaving ok?" Wilson nodded and released his grip on House's arm. House limped as quickly to the bedroom as he could, pulling out his medical bag, glad Wilson had stocked it for him recently. He wondered if Wilson had anticipated something like this happening to either of them. Wilson knew nothing of the thoughts that plagued him in the wee hours of the night; from faceless shooters and saw wielding surgeons. He shook his head at the thought and located the vial. He headed back out to Wilson, stopping at the kitchen for a glass of water and the beer that had set all of this in motion.

House sat down next to Wilson and opened the container of pills. He tapped out 2 and handed them to Wilson, who took them with an unsteady hand. He managed to get them into his mouth, and then shakily accepted the glass of water to wash them down.

House wasn't good at giving any kind of comfort or reassurance in the best of times. Knowing he was the cause of Wilson's anxiety filled him with unease. But he reached out and put his hand on Wilson's back and began to lightly rub up and down. Wilson's breathing was still ragged, but began to even out ever so slightly with the instigation of the physical contact.

House reluctantly kept rubbing his back, because he noticed the direct correlation of Wilson's respiration rate and House's touch. After about twenty minutes, the combined contact and Ativan got Wilson's breathing and shaking under control. Wilson sat up straight and wiped the tears from his face. I'm ok now. I'm sorry. I don't know . . . ." Wilson's voice trailed off and he prepared himself to be mocked.

House picked up his beer and took a long pull on it. The taunts are practically writing themselves here, he thought. For some reason, he just didn't have the heart for it. I'm getting soft, he thought. "It's a normal physical response for someone who has been under stress to undergo. You've been through a lot the past few months." Wilson just stared at House, his mouth partially gaping open. "What, no mocking, no ridiculing of how I cried like a baby because you got something a little more than a paper cut?"

House took another drink from his beer bottle as he thought how to respond. "Nah, too easy." He put his bottle down on the coffee table and stiffly stood up. "I'm going to bed. You should crash here. It probably isn't a good idea to drive with the combination of beer and Ativan in you." Wilson nodded and got up and headed toward the closet where the extra blanket and pillows were. "Hey, you, you can sleep in with me," House said awkwardly. Wilson just stared at him. "Well I want to make sure that the beer/Ativan cocktail doesn't kill you. It's easier on the leg if you are within poking distance."

House began heading toward the bedroom. Wilson thought for a moment, and followed. Moments later, after teeth had been brushed and clothes shed, the two lay in House's bed silently. "I thought I was going to lose you too," Wilson said quietly. "Huh?" "The hostage thing, I thought I was going to lose you. I thought you were going to be killed, and I don't know how . . . . I don't know what I would do."

House silently processed this for a moment, and then hesitantly reached out and put his hand on Wilson's shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere. And when that time comes, I'll haunt you 'til your dying day." House could almost hear Wilson smile at that. He felt Wilson turn over on his side and get more comfortable, contentedly sighing. House smiled to himself as he also made himself comfortable, and put an arm around Wilson. I'm not going anywhere Wilson, he thought to himself. I just got you back.