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Surfacing
by multicgypsy
It took House the better part of the afternoon to fully emerge from his coma. It worked tirelessly and with all it's might to keep him safely tucked away inside his body; each time he managed to wrench his eyes open, he would find all the world swimming lazily around him, lulling him back into unconscious lethargy.
But his efforts left him relatively untroubled and calm, since he would just pass out before he could even acknowledge feelings of frustration that might be creeping up on him for not being able to wake up.
Cuddy would slip in on occasion, casually checking his vitals like she would any other patient. She would stand and watch his face screw up, brows furrowing from exertion, waiting to see if he would wake and wondering what he was dreaming.
His sudden vulnerability is almost amusing. However, it would be worlds more fun if the onset hadn't been House getting shot.
"House," She tried, "can you hear me? House?"
"Mmm..." he breathed, looking peaceful, and not hearing a word she says.
Time passes. Voices would softly rise up from the silence only to fade back into slice. The ebb and flow of unrecognizable sounds are soothing, and he can't keep himself awake. Damn.
He's frustrated now, he's sure enough of that now, comforted that he could finally feel certainty. Thankfully, not too comforted so as to drift back into drowsy silence yet again. He clenched his fist; forced his eyes open once again and this time, he could clearly make out the image of.
Maintaining vigilance by keeping his fist tight enough to feel through the haze, he lets his eyes close; he sighs. From what he saw, he is alone in a hospital room strewn with flowers and balloons; a bridal shop explosion.
He mused over this thought until he noticed that he had been carrying on a conversation. With a hallucination? No; Wilson. He stood by the bed, wearing a blue striped tie and an expression of mild concern. House did not remember him coming in, or even what they had been talking about.
"Are you feeling any pain?"
"Tired," he admitted. Then, as an afterthought, "morphine?"
"For today," Wilson told him, and dragged a chair closer to the side of the bed. The sound it made was grating and unpleasant, and House made a face.
"Bad transition," he moaned. Wilson's expression was blank, so House explained;
"From a hundred years of flowy... soft sounds."
"Do you remember what happened? Greg?"
"Tongue guy?" House listened his own voice; it was weak and faltering.
"After that." He probed tentatively, "Do you remember after that?"
House opened his mouth to talk, but pauses for a moment, breathing in, breathing out. At length, "Ohhhh."
"Yes?"
Reluctantly, "Gun guy."
After Wilson checked all the fancy machines and made sure that House was comfortable, he let himself stop being the doctor; now that his work was done, he could be the friend that House was presently too tired to repel.
"Cuddy will want to see you," he said, "now that you're awake." Apparently, there wasn't much of a switch between Doctor Wilson and Friend Wilson.
"Kill me," House groaned.
"But that's so unoriginal," Wilson said in his obvious joke voice. "Where's the fun in that?"
"Excuses, excuses," House dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. "Let her find her own way."
By dinner, House had grown bored with his infirm. The TV was on, but he wasn't watching, thumbing finger prints on the bed rail instead. His throat was bothering him, so Wilson had left him to rest a few hours earlier.
"Did you sleep?" he asked when he came back and saw House lazily staring ahead and ignoring the football game on the TV.
House shook his head and coughed. "Been sleeping for days. How many?"
"Five days. Today's the sixth. Does anything hurt?"
Trembling fingers explored the bandage on his neck, pressing gingerly, and he cleared his throat experimentally. "My leg?"
Reality struck Wilson a little harder than he expected it to. Of course there was a chance that the ketamine treatment would wear off; he knew that. What he didn't even bother acknowledging, being ever the hopeful Oncologist, was that the treatment might not even work at all.
"Your leg hurts?"
Confused, reluctant to be pleased by this realization, House answered, "No..."
Wilson let himself breathe again. "Then... that's good. The treatment must have worked."
"Or the morphine," he said wryly. "Ketamine?"
"Yeah. How did you even think of that?"
"Cuddy did it... wait..." He frowned, trying to clarify what happened in his head from what had actually happened.
"No, not that." He muttered, trying to assure Wilson, who was beginning to show signs of concern. "I just saw it."
"What was it?"
"Hallucination," he said quickly, dismissing it, not wanting to dwell on what was sufficiently creepy and haunting. "It's nothing."
Sensing his friend's discomfort, Wilson trusted him to figure it out on his own, and with that, he dropped the subject with only a mention of Cuddy. "She's going to want to hear about it later though."
"Thanks, Jimmy."
During the extended period of silence that followed, House cleared his throat again, rubbing absently at the side of his nick. He shifted, turning his head, moving his legs around in an attempt to get comfortable.
"Case today?" He said finally, as Wilson saw the tension in his body relax.
"It's Sunday." At House's classic raised-eyebrow expression, Wilson pulled an excuse out of his ass "Paperwork."
Silence, and then House chuckled, flinched, and pressed his hand over the bandage on his neck.
"I should tell Cuddy that you're up." Wilson said, changing the subject. No response from House. "Cameron was worried,"
"Fall to pieces, did she?"
"Well, Cuddy's a wreck, what with the whole shooting, having to cover up all the legalities. Having to find someone else to put on clinic duty."
But House was not interested in Cuddy. "The guy who shot me...?"
"Shot himself right after you."
House sighed deeply and let his eyes fall shut. "Good," he said, without spite, without bitterness. He was just relieved. This ordeal had undoubtedly shaken him.
"Fill me in?"
"Well, Cameron lost her head and actually ran to the other guy first. Instincts must have said to treat the patient, not the doctor."
"Aww, that's cute. I think she cares." He allowed himself a small smile. "How bad did she feel about it after?"
"She sat at your bedside for two days."
"I am impressed." House said, then added seriously, "But she's okay?"
Wilson affirmed. "Just scared. Don't mock the clich,, but we all were."
"That bad, huh?"
Wilson nodded, and knew full well that House would have jumped at the shot of teasing him. Would have called him a sissy and said something sarcastic, if he hadn't been on so many medications. But even if House had felt inclined to taunt, Wilson would have let him.
After all, can't a guy who almost died get a break? Wilson figured he would give House a week at most. Maybe two.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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