Wilson lies on the hard floor of House's apartment, his body twitching with the muscles spasms that still wreck him. It is obvious to House that he isn't going to get anywhere near the bathroom. Every effort Wilson makes to move is draining his ebbing strength, and his will. After his outburst he seems to collapse back into the floor, as if all the darkness, and all the rage, that he's been holding in for so long has finally gone now that he's found a target for it, and there is nothing left to sustain him. No anger, no hate, nothing.

House looks across at him, Wilson's words are still between them

House wants for one moment to leave Wilson to it, to leave him here, on the ground in his own filth.

Wilson twitches again and his head turns towards House. His hollow eyes look out of an ashen face, dry lips working to try and form words, his pain is eating him alive, leaving nothing but the core of him, all persona gone. He tries again to move and arches his back, calling out in a scream that shatters House's hurt.

House levers himself painfully to his feet and hobbles to the supplies, picking up a clean diaper and turning it over in his hands, he'll do this because he must, and Wilson can't. He kneels down beside Wilson and tugs at his tracksuit pants. Wilson feebly bats at his hands again but his strength is fading and House gets his pants down.

He cuts the wet and soiled diaper off to make his job easier and pulls it away from Wilson's body, steadfastly putting out of his mind that he is changing his friend's diaper. Wilson is making small sounds of protests and House looks up to see that his face is wet with tears.

"It's okay," he says, the words of reassurance he hates in others coming to his lips easily, because Wilson needs them. "It's okay."

He picks up a clean cloth and carefully wipes around Wilson's ass and genitals, his hands brushing lightly over the forbidden areas, his touch as professional and detached as he can make it. They rarely touch, not even a handshake, or a clap on the back, he feels it's wrong to force this intimacy on his friend, but he needs this for himself, he needs to try and ease Wilson's distress somehow.

He puts the clean diaper on, and carefully pulls up the pants, knowing that every touch of his hands and the cloth on the sensitised skin adds to the agony. When he's given Wilson back a little of his dignity his hand lingers for a second on one hip.

"Thank you," Wilson says, his mouth hardly able to form the words, then his eyes close and for just a few minutes he's taken away from the pain by an exhausted sleep. House slumps down beside him, resting his back against the couch. He can't lift Wilson by himself, that will have to wait until Wilson can help, until he can crawl back up to the couch to endure more torment.

House closes his eyes, his own head lolling back. He'll rest while his patient rests, he'll sleep while his friend sleeps.

He'll be there when he's needed.