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Friends aren't supposed to leave, House thought. Friends were supposed to stay and help when it got hard. He wasn't a usual friend, he admitted that, but he had always thought of Wilson as one. Where was Wilson when he was here, in this much pain? Where was Wilson when he needed him most?
He looked at his hands. Maybe he had finally done it. Maybe he had finally lost his best friend.
*
God his leg hurt.
He almost laughed at the thought. Of course his leg hurt, he was bloody detoxing. And it was bloody annoying.
Please try to hold on a bit longer.
It was his Wilson voice inside him - well, that's what he called it anyway.
Okay, Wilson, okay.
*
He wished he was dead. Or in a coma. Preferably one with dreams. About Wilson. God, he missed his best friend. He wished that he had told him how he felt. That yes, he had hallucinated having sex with Cuddy, but that he couldn't help but imagine him under him.
He couldn't help himself, but God, he was in love with Wilson.
*
Sometimes he'd dream. Dream about his life back at PPTH. Well, his life with some small differences of course. He and Wilson would be together - that was quite obvious to him - and Cuddy completely forgotten.
He'd dream of him and Wilson laying in bed, post coital, panting slightly. Wilson would want to cuddle, of course, and he wouldn't have a problem with it. He'd never admit it, but he liked those sleepy, lazy cuddles. Anything that his Jimmy was prepared to give him, he'd take it.
*
The worst thoughts came drifting up towards the end of the day, right before he'd get his painkillers. The pain would flare up and make his mood unbearable. It was moments like this that House couldn't help himself but imagine the moment he'd tell Wilson how he felt only to see that beautiful face contract with disgust and watch hate fill his eyes. It were moments like this he felt the most heartbroken, lost. Those were the moments he was determined never to tell Wilson.