Disclaimer: I don't own them. *sniff*
A/N: Unbeta'd. If self-harm is something you'd prefer not to read, please turn back now.
Wilson wasn't suicidal by any means.
Yes, he kept a scalpel locked away in his nightstand. And yes, he used it to carve into his flesh, but only shallow cuts. He would watch in amazement as his tension and stress escaped his body through a thin red line streaking across his thigh. When his therapy session concluded, Wilson would clean the cuts and hide the scalpel away until he needed it again.
Eventually the sessions began to have less of an effect, so Wilson began cutting deeper, upping the dosage, as it were.
Of course he still wasn't suicidal… yet.
House had always suspected Wilson was keeping a secret from him, even after discovering he was taking anti-depressants. Three years later he'd literally uncovered that secret when he'd stolen Wilson's pants, discovering lines of scars marring Wilson's upper thighs. He put off dealing with that revelation in favor of dealing with the speech that could send his best friend to jail.
Two weeks later House stood in his best friend's doorway, watching as he retrieved an object from his nightstand. Before Wilson could damage himself further, House broke the stillness of the night.
"I'm here if you need to talk."
"You've been spying on me?"
"When I stole your pants at the conference… I saw the scars."
"Well pretend you didn't and leave me alone."
"I'm not one of your puzzles."
"You need to feel something? Is that it?"
"I feel plenty."
"Is it easier to cope with physical sensations than your emotions?"
"Something like that."
House joined his friend on the bed, carefully prying the scalpel from his grasp. He gently wrapped his arms around Wilson and pulled him into a firm embrace. "Can you feel this?"
Wilson nodded, pressing closer to House's chest.
"Is it enough?"