Chapter Text
The first thing Wilson noticed was the headaches. House seemed to have a headache every day of the week. It even affected their morning routine; House typically enjoyed being intimate in the mornings, but today was different. Wilson woke up to House groaning in pain, clutching not his leg but his head.
“Greg? What’s wrong?” Wilson asked, concern evident in his voice.
“Migraine. Ouch,” House replied through gritted teeth. It was a recent occurrence, which worried Wilson a lot because his partner never got headaches. Wilson placed a hand on House’s chest.
“What do you want?” House flinched.
“Get your hands away from me!” House shouted, then immediately looked apologetic. “Sorry, head hurts.”
Wilson blinked, this had been happening regularly lately. House would get a migraine and then lash out at Wilson. Ruminating about House’s behavior wasn't an option because Chase texted that House had a case.
“Care to drive me?” House asked. “I don’t think I can drive.”
“Okay,” Wilson replied, worry creeping in once more. House admitting he couldn't drive was a first. “Let me change.” House nodded.
They got to the hospital in record time despite House's worsening headaches. Wilson dropped House off at the front entrance and sent a text to Cuddy: ‘Greg not doing well, don’t bother him with clinic duty.’
Wilson saw patients, assisted in surgeries, and did paperwork. He didn’t see his partner until he barged into his office looking haggard. “Good afternoon to you too,” Wilson said sarcastically as House went straight to his couch and slept.
Wilson didn’t even know what he wanted to do now. He wanted to ask House what was wrong, what happened, but House was clearly exhausted. So he sat there and did paperwork, resolving to observe House more closely because something was very wrong.
The next week passed with House’s headaches steadying: headache, sumatriptan, headache again. Today was Wednesday, and House was having a bad day. Wilson sat in House’s chair at his office, looking at his partner worriedly.
“We’re leaving to pick your mother up tomorrow from the airport, Greg,” Wilson said.
“Is she coming?” House looked at Wilson with perplexity.
Wilson wanted to march House to an MRI right at that moment. He just had a bad feeling about this combination of symptoms. Headache and forgetfulness in his partner who never forgets anything.
“Greg, tell me you're joking,” Wilson implored.
“No, I’m not. I don’t know if she is coming.”
“I just told you yesterday. Geez, are you seriously okay?” Wilson said, jokingly touching House on the arm.
“I’m fine, Wilson,” House replied.
Wilson sighed. He knew Greg; when Greg said he was fine, he was fine. He dragged his chair over to House’s desk and sat beside him, holding House’s hand, until Cameron opened the door with an update on House’s patient on her lips. But when she saw Wilson, she interrupted, “It’s Wagners, ANA confirmed it.”
House looked to Wilson. “Head hurts, take me home.”
Cameron looked at House and Wilson worriedly. “Okay,” Wilson said, helping to gather House’s things to head home. Wilson shooed House’s employees out.
House heaved his body with a sigh. They walked side by side to Wilson’s car.
Two weeks later, after his mom had gone home to Kentucky, Wilson noticed that House’s symptoms were worsening: forgetfulness, headaches, loss of coordination. One time, while they were at work, Wilson tossed a can of coke to House, and the can clattered to the floor as House failed to catch it.
House looked shocked, fear evident in his eyes too.
They were eating when House spaced out for twenty seconds mid-conversation, staring into the distance.
“Greg?” Wilson waved a hand in front of House’s eyes.
“What was I saying?” House asked, looking at Wilson with confusion.
Wilson felt a growing pit in his stomach. Please, God, no. He prayed to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in, that his best friend and partner would be saved from... deep down, he knew what this was.
A couple of days later, while they were at home on the weekend, Wilson woke up to a commotion outside their bedroom. The first thing that popped into Wilson’s head was that someone was intruding on their privacy. Wilson got up, but as he exited the bedroom, he ran towards House at the piano, seizing, his body bent at an unnatural angle.
Wilson rushed to the cordless phone on the side table and called 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“I’m Dr. James Wilson. I work at PPTH. A forty-seven-year-old man with a history of seizures and headaches is having a seizure.”
“What’s the address?”
“221B Baker Street, and tell the ambulance not to take this patient to PPTH.”
Wilson could hear the ambulance approaching. It was good because House was waking up from the seizure.
“Jimmy, what’s going on?” House asked weakly.
Wilson wiped away tears and cradled House’s head. “You had a seizure, Greg?”
“Huh!” House mumbled.
“Dr. Wilson?” The EMTs entered the room.
One EMT checked on House while the other spoke to Wilson. “Princeton General?” The EMTs knew House.
“Okay, I have admitting privileges there,” Wilson said. “I would like to stay with him, if that’s okay.”
“Okay,” the EMTs said in unison.
They loaded House into the ambulance, and Wilson followed him inside. “Greg, everything is going to be okay,” Wilson reassured.