A/N: My inspiration just came from sitting on my computer chair. This never happens. Hope you enjoy this----the scene between our two favorite doctors that David Shore never gave us!

DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to David Shore and are not of my original creation.

"We're not friends anymore, House. I'm not sure we ever were."---Wilson (5X01 "Dying Changes Everything")

All of the lights were off, and it was better this way. A glass of vodka lay atop the glossy cover of the monthly Jersey's Modern Medicine magazine. The cane had been thrown aside, abandoned somewhere on the kitchen floor. Blue eyes stared in oblivion, as if in a pensive state. One would've detected shameless tears threatening to fall if they had looked at Gregory House.

This wasn't about his pride. If he was in a room with a million people, he--for the first time--wouldn't care if his emotions were being put on display. This went deeper than that. This one actually hurt, for once, more than a minute:

James Wilson had walked out his life.

House had expected it. A little after the incident with Tritter, it was becoming almost suspicious that Wilson was still around. But the midnight pizza and beers kept happening. The banter traded when one would visit the other's office was still a daily ritual. House had fallen into routine and never noticed. He never noticed that the snide remark about Wilson's marriage history may have been a bit too harsh , he never noticed that perhaps, for once, Wilson would've liked to have had a nice lunch without worrying about it being stolen away. He never noticed because Wilson was still there.

Then when the crash happened, House was sure Wilson was done with him. He even made a pathetic attempt to try to salvage what was left of Wilson's respect for him when he offered to risk his life for Amber's sake. But to no avail, she had died. Wilson had walked away then, but even so, House knew he would come back.

And he did come back---only to say goodbye.

It didn't dawn upon House until he saw the empty office and packed boxes. Wilson was really leaving. Not only that, but he had taken something away from House. Something worth more than the thousands of dollars House had owed him, more than all the lunches he had nibbled from.

He had taken away the very existence of their friendship.

"We're not friends anymore, House. I'm not sure we ever were."

Wilson's last words repeated over and over in House's head. He had downed two Vicodin shortly after, and another pair when he came home. Dull the senses and make the world hazy, this seemed like the most appropriate action.

He reached over from the couch and picked up the glass of vodka. He popped another pill and shot it straight down with the alcohol. With force, he threw the empty glass aside. It hit the bench of his grand piano, breaking the glass into little shards.

Minutes passed and he waited for the drugs to take effect. He wanted to be numb, he wanted to be a coward and run away from his repressed guilt. His senses were slowing down rather rapidly. With great effort, he took out his cell phone, and dialed the only number, the only person who's voice he would want to hear should he die from an over-dose. At the moment, he really didn't care. At the moment, his pride had fallen.

It would've surprised him if Wilson were to pick up. Chances are he was ignoring him. He waited. House waited, and when Wilson didn't pick up, he dialed again. He dialed again, and again, and again, until he finally heard a voice from the other line.

"What, House," Wilson had stated, with no emotion. House tried to regulate his breathing.

"Mmm s'ry," he managed to say, his breathing shaky. Wilson was silent for a few moments. With every passing second, House felt himself become more and more heavy. He heard Wilson sigh, then--

"Are you crying?" Wilson asked, this time with an actual hint of curiosity. House breathed in, nearly falling off the couch.

"Downed alotta…," House started, desperately trying to keep himself conscious. "Downed alotta pills…and vo-ka…ann mm s'ry, Jimmy...mm so s'ry," House began to close his eyes, and from the other line, although it sounded so far away, he could make out Wilson's voice. "Stay there, I'm coming," he might've heard. But if Wilson was coming or not, he wouldn't know. Within seconds, he had passed out on the floor.

The next thing House remembered was someone's hands propping his back against the cold bathroom counter, on the floor. Light slaps landed on his cheeks, and with a great deal of strength, House opened his heavy eyelids. Everything was blurry, but the figure in front of him was no doubt Wilson. Who else wears a coat in the middle of summer, he thought.

Wilson held his chin firmly, as House's head kept bobbling down.

"We need to get the pills out of your system, okay buddy?"

Definitely Wilson, he thought No one on earth but Wilson would break up a friendship and come to their rescue the very same day. He felt his mouth open and a finger stretch inside. Whether it was his or not, he couldn't tell. Momentarily after, he was throwing up, leaning over the toilet bowl. He felt Wilson's hands rubbing his back in circular motions. This continued for the next few minutes. House kept his head bent down and retched out whatever his body was letting him.

"That's it," Wilson whispered., as House let out what would hopefully be the last of retches. He coughed as he backed away from the bowl and attempted to rest his back on the counter. His head immediately rolled over to Wilson's chest. Wilson pushed back his damp hair, and threw an arm around House's back as he lay there, panting.

It took a few minutes for House to get control of his breathing. When he did, he tried to take in where he was. Wilson was holding him. No, better yet--Wilson was there.

"You're….," House whispered. "You're…here."

An almost-immediate "Shh" issued from Wilson's mouth, as he started to slowly rock House's frail body.

"Yes, I'm here, House. I won't go anywhere," he replied.

House swallowed and attempted to talk again. "Jimmy, I'm so sorry," his voice cracked. Wilson shushed him again.

"It's alright, House. I'm here, okay? Just rest," Wilson assured.

House closed his eyes and Wilson continued to rock him. They stayed on the floor for a while. Whether House was crying or not, he couldn't tell. But it was in that very moment where he found peace. Wilson was holding him, and at that moment he knew….not everything is conditional.

You're in the arms of an Angel; may you find some comfort here

A/N: Reviews, please. I might do a second piece, to show Wilson's POV. Lyrics used from Sarah McLaughlin's "Arms of an Angel". May you all have an angel somewhere to help you through the loneliest of nights! Thank you!