Chapter Text
The first thing Wilson becomes aware of is the pain.
Not the sharp, clarifying pain he’d sought with the scalpel—that pain he’d controlled, measured, understood. This is different. Dull and throbbing and everywhere at once. His chest, his arm, his head. Even breathing isn’t his own—there’s a tube down his throat, a machine doing the work for him.
The second thing he becomes aware of is the weight on his right hand.
Wilson’s eyelids feel like lead, but he forces them open anyway. The room swims into focus slowly—white ceiling, fluorescent lights turned low, the rhythmic beep of monitors. ICU. He’s in the ICU.
And House is asleep in the chair beside his bed, slumped forward with his head pillowed on his arms on the mattress, his hand wrapped around Wilson’s.
Wilson stares at their joined hands for a long moment, his foggy brain trying to process this. House doesn’t do this. House doesn’t hold hands, keep vigil, or show up when it matters. Except—
Except he’s here.
Wilson tries to move, and the ventilator immediately protests—alarms shrieking, his body reflexively fighting the foreign object lodged in his throat. House’s eyes snap open. He’s already moving, his hand finding Wilson’s before the panic can fully take hold.
“Easy.” House’s voice is rough, scraped raw from hours of disuse. “You’re intubated. Punctured lung. Fighting it only makes it worse.”
Wilson’s eyes are wild, animal-bright with fear.
“I know. I know it sucks. Just try to relax. Let it do its job.”
Wilson forces himself still, though every instinct screams to tear the tube out. The ventilator pushes air into his lungs with mechanical precision. Wrong. Invasive. He wants to ask how long, wants to know what happened, and wants to tell House to leave before Wilson destroys him, too.
House seems to read something in his expression. “Thirty-six hours since the accident. They’re hoping to extubate you tomorrow if your oxygen levels stay stable.”
Wilson closes his eyes. Tomorrow. He has to endure this until tomorrow. Has to lie here with everyone knowing what he did, what he is.
“The team knows,” House continues, his voice flat and clinical now. “About the accident. About the—” He gestures vaguely at Wilson’s bandaged wrist. “Cameron’s been crying in the hallway. Foreman keeps asking about your scans, just in case it was some sort of absence seizure thing, but... y’know. Sort of cut-and-dry with you tearing up your arms there.”
Wilson’s chest tightens around the ventilator tube. They all know. Everyone knows he’s pathetic, broken, weak. The reliable oncologist who holds dying patients’ hands has his own covered in self-inflicted scars.
House stares down at their joined hands like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Cuddy wants me to talk to the psychiatrist, too. Apparently, my ‘coping mechanisms’ are ’a cause for concern.’” He makes air quotes with his free hand. “I told her to shove her concern somewhere anatomically unpleasant.”
The door opens, and Cameron walks in. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and when she sees Wilson’s open eyes, her face crumples slightly before she gets it under control.
“You’re awake,” she says softly, moving to check his monitors. “That’s good. That’s really good. Your vitals are stable. Oxygen saturation is improving. Chase thinks they can extubate you tomorrow morning if you continue to progress.”
Wilson tries to look away, but Cameron’s hand is gentle on his shoulder.
Her eyes drift to his bandaged arm, and her expression does something complicated—pity mixed with worry mixed with something that might be fear. Like she’s looking at a patient who might not make it. Why would she look at him like that?
“The psych consult—Dr. Richardson will want to see you once you can speak. It’s standard protocol for—” She stops. Swallows. “For this kind of situation.”
Wilson closes his eyes. Of course. Of course, there’s a protocol for when doctors try to kill themselves. Mandatory psychiatric evaluation. Probably a 72-hour hold. His medical license would get flagged. Everyone at the hospital would be whispering about poor Wilson, so sad, such a shame, we had no idea.
“I’ll let him know you’re awake,” Cameron says quietly. “We’ve all been worried.”
After she leaves, House is quiet for a long moment. Too quiet. Wilson opens his eyes to look at him, and there’s something off in House’s expression—something distant and hollow.
"She's right, you know. But now you're awake, and I feel—” His hand is still wrapped around Wilson’s, but it’s mechanical now, autopilot. “Nothing. I’m looking at you, and I know I should feel relieved. Grateful. Something. But there’s just—” He gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Static.”
He stops. His hand is still wrapped around Wilson’s, but it feels mechanical now, like he’s going through the motions.
“Emotions are exhausting,” House continues, almost conversational. “Burn through them too fast, and you hit empty. Run out of gas. Except there’s no station to pull into. You just coast on fumes until you stop.”
Wilson’s chest seizes. He did this. Broke House too. House, who’s already held together with Vicodin and spite, pushes everyone away because abandonment is inevitable. And Wilson just proved him right.
People leave. People break—even the ones who are supposed to stay.
The older doctor stands abruptly, dropping Wilson’s hand. “Be back.”
He moves toward the door, his gait more uneven than usual, his cane clicking against the linoleum. Wilson tries to make a sound, tries to call him back, but the ventilator tube makes it impossible. He can only watch as House walks away, and the numbness that’s been hovering at the edges of Wilson’s consciousness rushes in to fill the space.
This is better. House should leave.
Should get as far away from Wilson as possible before Wilson’s particular brand of broken contaminates him completely.
The door closes, and Wilson is alone with the machines and the fluorescent lights and the crushing weight of everything he’s done.
He stares at the ceiling. Thirty-six hours, House said. Thirty-six hours since Wilson failed at the one thing he’d actually committed to doing. He can’t even kill himself properly. Can’t do anything right.
His eyes track to the IV line in his left arm—saline drip, maybe some antibiotics. The clear tubing snakes up to the bag hanging beside the bed, and Wilson stares at it with a strange, detached clarity.
Air bubbles in an IV line. That’s what kills people sometimes. Embolisms. The bubble travels through the bloodstream, lodges in the heart, lungs or brain, and everything just stops.
It would be easy.
Wilson’s right arm is splinted, bandaged, and useless. But his left arm—the one with the IV—still works. His fingers twitch, testing the limits of movement. The restraints are loose. They’re always loose in the ICU because patients need to be moved and adjusted during rounds.
His hand moves to the IV tubing. Touches it. The plastic is soft and pliable.
Wilson’s medical brain catalogues the process with detached precision. He’d need to introduce air into the line. Not much. 10-20 millilitres would be enough. He’d bite through the tube, suck in air, and let it enter his vein. Simple. Clinical. The kind of death any doctor would understand.
His fingers wrap around the tubing. Pull it closer to his face. The ventilator tube makes it awkward, but he can manage. He will make this work.
The emptiness inside him is so vast now that it feels like a physical thing, a black hole consuming everything—guilt and shame and the bone-deep exhaustion of pretending to be fine for so long that he forgot what fine actually felt like.
House is gone. The team is outside, probably discussing him because he’s just a case now, instead of a person. Everyone knows. Everyone’s looking at him differently now—poor, broken Jimmy. Better to end it. Better to finish what he started on that bridge.
Wilson brings the IV tubing to his mouth. His teeth find purchase on the plastic. Just bite down, just—
The door bursts open.
House is there, moving faster than Wilson’s seen him move in years, his cane clattering to the floor as he lunges for the bed. His hands wrap around Wilson’s wrist, yanking the IV tubing away from his mouth.
“Shit,” House snarls, and his voice is nothing like the empty flatness from before. Now it’s raw, furious, alive. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to—”
Wilson tries to pull away, tries to get the tubing back, but House is stronger, his grip bruising as he pins Wilson’s arm to the bed.
“Cameron!” House shouts, not taking his eyes off Wilson. “Cameron, get in here now!”
The alarms are going off—Wilson’s heart rate spiking, his oxygen saturation dropping as he fights against the ventilator, against House, against everything.
Cameron runs in, and her eyes go wide when she sees the scene—House holding Wilson’s arm down, the IV tubing stretched between them, Wilson’s teeth marks visible on the plastic.
“Get restraints,” House orders. “Real ones. And find that goddamn psychiatrist.”
“House, what—” Cameron starts, then stops as she processes what she’s seeing. “Oh god. Oh god, Wilson—”
“Now, Cameron!” House’s voice cracks like a whip.
Cameron moves, calling for help. Nurses rush into the room, proper restraints are applied, and someone checks the IV line for compromise.
House doesn’t let go of Wilson’s wrist until the restraints are secure. Even then, he stays close, his body blocking Wilson’s access to any of the medical equipment.
Wilson’s vision is blurring—from lack of oxygen, from tears, from the sedatives someone’s pushing through his IV. He tries to fight, but his body won’t cooperate anymore.
House leans over him, and his face is—god, his face is—
“You don’t get to leave like that,” House says, and his voice is shaking with rage. “You don’t get to wake up and immediately try to—” He stops. Takes a breath. “I told you thirty-six hours ago that I need you. I meant it. And I don’t care if you hate yourself right now, I don’t care if you think the world would be better off without you, I don’t care about any of the bullshit your sick brain is telling you. You’re staying.”
Wilson tries to shake his head, but the sedatives are pulling him under.
“You’re staying,” House repeats, and now there’s something desperate underneath the anger. “Because I’m not doing this without you. I’m not—I can’t—”
The world is going dark around the edges. Wilson can see House’s mouth moving, but he can’t hear the words anymore. Can’t feel anything except the distant sensation of falling, of being pulled down into darkness.
The last thing he registers before the sedatives take him completely is House’s hand wrapped around his wrist, holding on as if he lets go, they’ll both drown.
When Wilson wakes again, it’s to fluorescent lights that are too bright and restraints that are definitely not loose. His wrists are secured to the bed rails with padded cuffs. A psychiatrist is sitting in the chair where House had been—some brunette middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a clipboard.
The ventilator tube is gone. He can breathe on his own now, though it hurts.
“Dr. Wilson,” the psychiatrist says gently. “My name is Dr. Richardson. I’m glad you’re awake. How are you feeling?”
Wilson stares at the ceiling. His throat is raw. His chest aches. His wrists throb.
“House?” It comes out as a rasp.
“Dr. House is in the hallway. He’s been—” Dr. Richardson pauses. “He’s been quite insistent about staying close. But I needed to speak with you first.”
Wilson closes his eyes. “No.”
“I understand. But we do need to talk, Dr. Wilson. About what happened. About the bridge, and the self-harm, and what you tried to do with the IV line.”
Shame burns through Wilson’s chest. “I just want—I want it to stop.”
“What do you want to stop?”
“Everything.” Wilson’s voice cracks. “Feeling like this. Being like this. I’m supposed to help people, and I can’t even—I can’t even keep myself alive. What kind of doctor does that make me?”
“It makes you human,” Dr. Richardson says gently. “It makes you someone who’s been suffering from severe depression, probably for a very long time, and who needs help.”
“I don’t deserve help.”
“Why not?”
Wilson opens his eyes, staring at the acoustic tiles above. “Because I’m the one who helps. That’s my job. I’m the oncologist who sits with dying patients. I’m the friend who listens to everyone’s problems. I’m supposed to be—”
“Strong?” Dr. Richardson suggests.
Wilson’s throat is too tight to answer.
“Dr. Wilson, you work in oncology. You carry the weight of hundreds of terminal diagnoses—you counsel grieving families. You fight battles you know you’re going to lose, over and over again. That kind of work—it takes a toll, and it’s not a weakness to admit that.”
The tears come before Wilson can stop them, hot and shameful, tracking down his face.
“I can’t—I can’t keep doing this,” he whispers. “I can’t keep waking up and pretending I’m fine. I can’t keep smiling, nodding, and telling patients it’s going to be okay when I know it’s not. I can’t keep being the person everyone thinks I am when I don’t even know who that is anymore.”
“Then we’ll figure out who you are,” Dr. Richardson says. “Not who everyone expects you to be.”
Wilson shakes his head. “There’s nothing underneath. That’s the problem. I’m just—empty.”
“You’re not empty, Dr. Wilson. We can help you.”
“I don’t want to be helped. I want—” Wilson stops. Swallows.
“I want it to be over.”
There’s a commotion in the hallway—raised voices, House’s distinctive snarl cutting through the general hospital noise.
“I’ve been out here for two hours. Either let me in or I’m coming in anyway, and we both know the only thing stopping me is your misguided belief that I’ll respect boundaries.”
Dr. Richardson sighs. “Your friend is very persistent.”
“He’s not my friend.” Wilson stops. “He shouldn’t be here. I’m just going to drag him down with me.”
“Is that what you think? That your depression is contagious?”
“I think—” Wilson’s voice breaks. “I think House is barely holding himself together on the best days. And this isn’t the best day.”
“Dr. Wilson, I’ve been speaking with Dr. House. He’s expressed very clearly that he wants to be here. That he needs to be here.”
“He doesn’t know what he needs. He’s high half the time and miserable the other.”
“And yet he sat with you. He caught you before you could hurt yourself again. He’s out in that hallway right now, threatening to break down the door.” Dr. Richardson leans forward slightly. “Whatever you think about yourself, whatever your depression is telling you—he doesn’t believe it. And maybe, right now, you need to borrow his belief until you can find your own.”
The door opens, and House limps in without waiting for permission. His eyes go immediately to Wilson, scanning him with clinical precision—checking the restraints, the monitors, the oxygen cannula.
“You look like hell,” House says flatly.
“You look worse,” Wilson rasps.
“Yeah, well. I’ve been standing in a hallway for two hours listening to you tell a psychiatrist you want to die. It’s not exactly been a spa day.”
Dr. Richardson stands.“I’ll give you two some time. But Dr. Wilson, we’ll be talking more””
After she leaves, House stands at the foot of the bed, gripping his cane so hard his knuckles are white. He doesn’t come closer. Doesn’t sit. Just stands there, staring at Wilson with an expressionthat’ss equal parts fury and something that looks dangerously close to fear.“” An IV line”, House says finally, and his voice is low, controlled, which is somehow worse than if he were yelling. “You were going to kill yourself with a goddamn IV line while I was in the bathroom trying to figure out if I could keep doing this.”
Wilson looks away. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, you’re sorry. Well, that fixes everything.” House’s voice is razor-sharp with sarcasm.“I’m sure the air embolism would have been very apologetic as it stopped your heart. Sorry for killing you, Wilson, but you seemed really committed to the bi. “What do you want me to say?
“I want you to explain the logic,” House gestures with his cane, his movements sharp and agitated. “You wake up, I leave for five minutes—five minutes to take a piss, by the way—and you immediately try to worm your way into cardiac arrest. What part of that seemed like a reasonable plan?”
“I wasn’t being reasonable.”
“No kidding. You were being an idiot.” House limps closer, his cane clicking against the floor. “And before you get all weepy and offended, trying to kill yourself by biting through medical tubing while intubated and restrained is objectively stupid. You’re an oncologist. You know better ways to do this.”
Wilson’s jaw clenches. “What do you actually want me to say?”
“I want you to say you won’t do it again!” House’s voice cracks, rising despite his obvious attempt at control. “I want you to say that this—” he gestures wildly at the restraints, at Wilson’s bandaged arm, at everything “—isn’t going to happen again the second I leave the room!”
“I can’t say that.”
House’s face does something complicated. “Can’t or won’t?”
Wilson stares at the ceiling. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah, Wilson, it actually does.” House moves to the side of the bed now, looming over him. “Because ‘can’t’ means your brain is so screwed up you don’t have impulse control, which is a medical problem I can work with. ‘Won’t’ means you’re making a choice, which makes you a selfish prick.”
“Then I can’t.” Wilson’s voice is flat. “Every time I wake up, I wish I hadn’t. You being here, and Cameron crying, and everyone hovering, and all of this—” his voice rises, strained “—it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want to be alive anymore.”
House’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. “Ecstatic. This is exactly how I wanted to spend my weekend—playing suicide watch with my best friend.”
“Then leave. Nobody’s forcing you to stay.”
“Right. Because that worked out so well last time.” House’s voice is acidic. “I left. You tried to aerate your bloodstream. Clearly, my leaving is a great strategy.”
Wilson turns his head to look at House, and there’s something desperate in his expression now. “What do you want from me, House? You want me to pretend I’m fine? Smile, nod, and say, “I’ll never do it again.” I don’t have that in me.”
“I want you not kill yourself for the next twenty-four hours,” House snaps. “That’s it. That’s the incredibly low bar I’m setting. Don’t die today. We’ll worry about tomorrow when we get there.”
“And if I can’t even manage that?”
“Then you stay in restraints until your brain chemistry unfucks itself enough that you can.” House’s tone is light, and it is clearly not the right response for Wilson.
“But it doesn’t matter,” Wilson starts, and there’s something primal in his voice now. “So what if the team cares? So what if there are treatments, medications, and therapy? None of that changes the fact that there’s nothing left for me.”
“Then don’t pretend.” The diagnostician’s voice is harsh. “Stop smiling. Stop being what everyone expects. Be whatever the hell you actually are instead of this—this performance you’ve been doing.”
“And then what?” Wilson’s laugh is bitter. “Then I’m the crazy oncologist who can’t handle his job? The doctor who had a breakdown? The guy everyone whispers about in the hallways?”
“Yes!” House slams his cane against the floor. “Yes, that’s exactly what you’ll be! And you know what? That’s better than being dead. You can’t be dead, Jimmy, not when—”
“Not when what?” Wilson demands. “Not when you need me? Greg. Your need doesn’t fix me.”
“I know that!” House’s voice cracks again. “I know my need doesn’t fix anything. I know I’m a selfish bastard who wants you alive because I can’t function without you. But you know what else I know? I know that depression lies. I know your brain is telling you that everyone would be better off without you, and that’s bullshit. I know you think you’re empty, but you’re not—you’re sick, and sick can be treated.”
Wilson closes his eyes. “I don’t want to be treated. I want—”
“You want to die, yeah, yeah–I got that.” House’s voice is bitter. “You want to drive off bridges and cut yourself and inject air into your veins.
The younger man’s hands clench in the restraints. “House… you don’t understand.”
“Oh, I don’t understand wanting to die?” House’s voice rises again, sharp and mocking. “I don’t understand waking up every day in agony and wondering why I bother? I don’t understand staring at pill bottles and doing the math to figure out what would be enough? Please, Wilson, enlighten me about pain and suffering. I’m clearly a novice.”
“Well, why are you still here?” Wilson’s voice cracks. “If you get it, if you understand how pointless this all is, why are you standing there trying to convince me to stay alive?”
“Because you did! You sat with me,” House answered. “After the infarction. After Stacy left, every time I wanted to eat a bullet, every time I couldn’t see a reason to keep going, you sat with me. You sat there and listened to me say horrible things—things I meant, by the way—and you didn’t leave. So now it’s my turn to be the masochist who sticks around.”
Wilson’s throat is too tight. “That’s not a reason.”
“It’s the only reason I’ve got.” House shifts his weight, grimacing. “Look, I’m not going to stand here and give you some inspiring speech about how life is beautiful, and you have so much to live for. Life is pain, most people are idiots, and we’re all just killing time until we die anyway. But you—” He stops. “You swerved. On that bridge. At the last second, you swerved.”
“So?”
“So part of your malfunctioning brain still wants to live. And I’m holding onto that part until the rest of your brain catches up.”
Wilson stares at him. “You can’t just—decide that.” Something in his chest cracks a little—not enough to let hope in, but enough to let some of the crushing pressure out.
“Watch me.” House’s voice is sharp. “You’re under psychiatric hold. You’re in restraints. You have about as much autonomy as a potted plant right now. And until your brain starts producing the right chemicals again, I’m making the calls.”
Despite everything, Wilson feels something that might be the ghost of exasperation. “You’re impossible.”
“And you were almost a vegetable. So here’s what’s going to happen: You’re going to stay in this room. In restraints. With twenty-four-hour observation. You’re going to start taking antidepressants that will make you nauseous and dizzy and probably kill your sex drive—not that you were using it anyway. You’re going to talk to a psychiatrist who’ll ask you boring questions about your childhood. And you’re going to hate every second of it.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You can’t refuse. You’re not competent to refuse.”
The door opens, and Foreman walks in, followed by Cameron and Chase. They all look exhausted, worried, but trying to maintain professional composure.
“Hey,” Cameron greets softly, her eyes going to the restraints, to House standing guard beside the bed. “We wanted to check on you.”
Wilson wants to tell them to leave, to stop looking at him like he’s broken, to forget they ever saw this. But his voice won’t work anymore.
“He’s stable,” House announces. “Physically. Mentally, he’s a disaster, but that’s not exactly news.”
“House,” Cameron warns.
“What? I’m being honest. Wilson tried to kill himself by giving an IV line a blowie. That’s pretty much the definition of cuckoo-crazy.”
Foreman steps closer, his expression carefully neutral. “How are you feeling, Wilson?”
“Like I’m in restraints being lectured by House,” Wilson says flatly.
“Not your typical weekend, I’m guessing.” Foreman’s attempt at lightness falls flat. “Look, we know this is—we know you’re going through something. And we want to help.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Wilson rasps. “Any of you. This isn’t your problem.”
“Shut up,” Chase says, and his accent makes it sound almost gentle. “You’re our colleague. Our friend. This absolutely is our problem.”
Cameron nods. “We’re not leaving.”
Wilson closes his eyes. The weight of their concern is suffocating. He wants them to leave, wants to be alone, wants to—
“I know what you’re thinking,” House says, reading him like always. “You’re thinking that you don’t deserve this. That we should all just let you die in peace. But you know what? We’re not going to. So get used to being uncomfortable.”
Wilson’s hands clench in the restraints. “I hate you.”
“Yeah,” House says, and there’s something almost fond in his voice.
Foreman exchanges a look with Cameron. “We should let him rest. But we’ll be back. And House—” He fixes House with a pointed stare. “You need to rest, too. You look like death.”
“I’m fine.”
“You haven’t slept in almost forty hours,” Cameron shoots back. “And you’ve been standing for—House, your leg—”
“Is my problem. Not yours.” House’s voice is sharp. “I’m staying.”
“Then at least sit down,” Foreman says. “You’re going to pass out if you keep this up.”
House looks like he wants to argue, but his leg is clearly screaming. He lowers himself into the chair beside Wilson’s bed with a grimace, his jaw tight with pain.
“There. Happy? I’m sitting. Now get out.”
The ducklings file out, leaving House and Wilson alone. The former shifts in the chair. His cane clatters against the leg.
Wilson laughs—a short, breathy sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “This is insane.”
“Not any more than my usual work.” House stares at the monitor above Wilson’s head. “You’re a patient with a disease who needs treatment. The fact that you’re also my—” His fingers drum once against his thigh, then stop. “The fact that I know you doesn’t change the diagnosis.”
“I'm also your what?”
House’s gaze drops to his cane. He traces the handle with his thumb. “The person who makes this tolerable. Work. Life. All of it.”
Wilson blinks rapidly. His jaw works, but nothing comes out.
“So here’s the deal.” House straightens, voice crisp again. “You stay alive. I stay annoying. We get you on meds. We get you stable. And then maybe—maybe—we can have a philosophical discussion about the meaning of life and whether it’s worth living. But not today. Today, you just don’t die. That’s the only goal.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then I sit here and make sure you don’t have a choice.” House’s hand tightens around the cane until his knuckles blanch. “You can hate me for it. You probably will. But you’ll be alive to hate me, which beats the alternative.”
Wilson watches House wince as he settles deeper into the chair, watches him ignore the tension in his own jaw, the way he’s gripping that cane like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
“This is insane.” Wilson’s voice comes out softer this time.
“Yeah.” House’s eyes close. His head drops back. “But we’re doing it anyway. So shut up and let me suffer in peace.”
The monitors beep. Footsteps echo somewhere down the hall. House’s breath catches every few seconds, a hitch he’s clearly trying to hide.
Wilson stares at the restraints on his wrists, feels the ache spreading through his lymph nodes, the fire beneath his arms. House hasn’t moved. Won’t move.
That may be enough.
It may have to be.