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Lost Sleep
by Mer
Egyptian Proverb: The worst things:
To be in bed and sleep not,
To want for one who comes not,
To try to please and please not
F. Scott Fitzgerald, Notebooks
After two weeks of sleeping - or not sleeping, as the case often was - on House's lumpy couch, Wilson was nearing the end of his reserves. He knew House's sleep patterns were even more messed up, but House seemed to enjoy taking blatant catnaps in the middle of the workday, preferably where Cuddy could find him. Wilson didn't have that luxury. Between his normal workload, patient emergencies, and running interference for House, Wilson didn't have time to curl up in the on-call room or snooze on his office couch for an hour.
On Tuesday, one of his patients went critical and he spent most of the night trying to stabilize her. On Wednesday, the board meeting went past ten and then, just as he was about to leave the hospital, another patient went into respiratory failure. He sat with the family until the patient slipped away just before dawn.
There was no point going back to House's apartment. His first appointment was in less than two hours and there were forms to fill out to mark the ending of a life. It had been nearly 48 hours since he'd last slept, but if he could just hold out a little longer, he could leave before House finished his shift and catch a few hours uninterrupted sleep at the apartment. If he got lucky, a case might show up that would keep House late.
He didn't actually see House until just before noon, when he strolled into Wilson's office looking disgustingly chipper. "What happened to you last night?" House demanded. "Hot date after the board meeting? Did you finally get lucky with Janecek?"
Wilson grimaced. Elizabeth Janecek made no secret of her dislike for House and everything associated with House, including Wilson. "Patient died," he muttered, trying not to feel envious that House had obviously had a full night's sleep.
"You'd think with all the caring you pour into their cases your patients would have the courtesy to die during office hours," House commented.
"I'll make sure to mention that during the admission process." Wilson rubbed his eyes when his vision blurred. "Is there something you need or did you just drop by to annoy me?"
"What if I needed to annoy you?" House replied. "It is one of my favourite parts of the day. You wouldn't want to deny me my simple pleasures, would you?"
Wilson was too tired to play. "Today? Yes. You can annoy me all you want when I've had a chance to sleep."
"It is more fun annoying you when you're asleep," House mused.
"That's not what I said," Wilson interjected, remembering House's last nocturnal prank. The couch still smelled faintly of urine. The beginnings of a tension headache hovered behind his eyes. "Go annoy your underlings. Or better yet, find a case and let me work."
"You're no fun when you're tired," House complained, but left without any more grumbling and even closed the door gently behind him. An hour later Cameron dropped by with a sandwich and an energy drink, which Wilson accepted and paid for gratefully. He wandered onto the balcony, hoping House might join him, but House wasn't in his office.
The combination of fresh air and caffeine revived him somewhat and he was able to face the afternoon with renewed vigour. By the end of his last appointment, however, the fatigue had come back with crushing force. Delivering a death sentence to a 20-year-old Princeton student didn't help. He was used to telling people they were going to die - it was a reality of his job - but that didn't make it any easier. Particularly when he was already emotionally and physically drained.
He had a stack of paperwork to finish before he could leave and he tackled it doggedly, but the words kept swimming on the page and he had to read each sentence several times before it made sense. Frustration built on top of fatigue and when his email program crashed while he was sending out next week's schedules, it was a struggle not to push his monitor off the desk in a fit of temper.
House chose that moment to barge in. "Afternoon, Jimmy," he proclaimed in an overly cheery voice. "How's tricks on death row?"
Wilson told himself there was no way House knew about that last appointment. Even House wasn't that cruel. "What do you want now?" he demanded, a sharp pain lancing his temples with every beat of his pulse.
"Is that any way to greet your bestest bud?" House was looking at him as if he were a particularly tricky diagnostic puzzle. His eyes virtually gleamed with anticipation.
Wilson took a deep breath. "Sorry," he muttered. "What do you need?"
House twirled his cane absently. "Why do you always assume I need something? Why can't I just drop by to say hi?"
"You never just drop by to say hi," Wilson retorted. "You don't do anything without a reason." He could tell House was in one of his quicksilver moods. He could only hope that House would get bored quickly and move onto someone who was capable of fighting back. He thought about paging Cuddy for help.
"You wound me, Wilson," House said, not looking at all wounded. "I send one of my minions to feed and water you and this is the thanks I get?"
Cameron had done all the work and he had paid for what she'd brought, but Wilson admitted that House should at least get credit for the gesture. "You're right. I'm sorry. It was a nice thing to do and I appreciated it."
"God, you're pathetic," House exclaimed. "Do you cave this quickly with your wives? No wonder they stomp all over you. Stand up for yourself, Wilson. Tell me I'm a jerk. Tell me to get the hell out of your office."
Wilson was happy to oblige. "You're a jerk. Now get the hell out of my office." He slapped his hands on the desktop for emphasis. Maybe, if he were lucky, House would even leave.
House looked delighted. "That's a good start. Next time, though, you should throw something at me. Much more dramatic."
Wilson couldn't take any more. "God, House. Just...just." He swallowed and tried again. "Why can't you leave me alone? I'm tired and my head hurts and I just want to finish this paperwork and go home." He tried to keep his voice steady and reasonable, but with each word he came closer to cracking. Finally he closed his mouth, looked down at his desk, and wondered if he'd ever learn to just shut up.
He knew House was staring at him - the weight of that penetrating gaze was as familiar as the slope of his lab coat over his shoulders. Still, he didn't look up, though he flinched when House took a step towards him.
House didn't say anything, just reached out and pressed the back of his hand against Wilson's forehead, and then took Wilson's pulse. "Go home," he said finally. "I'll take care of this." He gathered the files and tucked them under his arm and left without another word.
Wilson knew he should protest, chase after House and retrieve his files, but he barely had enough energy to stand up, grab his coat and shuffle towards the elevators. House wasn't in his office when he passed by Diagnostics, but his three fellows were sitting at the conference table, staring with varying degrees of irritation at Wilson's missing paperwork.
Wilson sighed and detoured into the conference room. "Sorry," he said reaching for the files.
But Cameron pulled them away. "It's all right, Dr. Wilson," she said, looking at him with the expression of concern she usually reserved for House. "We can look after it." The look she gave her two colleagues was an entirely steelier matter.
"We don't have a case right now," Chase agreed, somewhat less enthusiastically.
Wilson managed a tight smile, though even the muscles in his face ached. "I appreciate the offer," he said. "But this is my burden to bear." He rubbed the bridge of his nose, where the headache that had been building all day now ruled, and wished Cameron would just give him the damn files so he could go home.
But even Foreman, the fellow least likely to play along with House's games, was conspiring against him. "Why don't you take anything that's confidential and leave the rest for us," he said reasonably.
None of it was confidential - Wilson knew better than to leave sensitive information within reach of House - but it didn't matter. He held out his hand, waiting until Cameron finally handed the stack of files to him.
"House is going to kill us," Chase said mournfully, though he looked relieved to be free of the paperwork.
"House will get over it," Wilson replied dryly, fitting the files with some difficulty into his briefcase. He closed his eyes against a sudden wave of dizziness. A firm hand on his arm steadied him and he opened his eyes to see Foreman watching him carefully.
"How about I give you a ride home," he suggested.
Wilson was too tired to fight another battle, so he just nodded and let Foreman guide him down to the parking lot. Exhausted, he gave Foreman directions to House's apartment and closed his eyes, resting his cheek against the side window. He had just enough energy to drag himself to the front door when they arrived. He waved his thanks to Foreman and made it as far as the couch, curling gratefully into the cushions. The files could wait while he took a nap.
He dozed restlessly for the next hour, caught in the dark zone between sleep and waking, riding the current of images that weren't quite dreams, but weren't reality either. He opened his eyes and pushed sweat-soaked hair off his forehead. He was hot and sticky and his tie was strangling him. He pulled it loose and undid the top button of his dress shirt, breathing easier.
He was just dozing off again when the door opened and slammed shut and he heard House limp over to the couch. He could feel the other man watching him, but he was too tired to open his eyes.
House's uneven gait - so familiar to his ear - retreated and then returned a few minutes later. House settled down on the couch next to him, put his feet up on the coffee table, and then nudged him with his elbow.
"Sit up," House ordered.
"You're awfully bossy," Wilson muttered, but managed to sit up and look over at House. House handed him a glass of water and fished through his backpack for a small pharmacy of pills.
"This will help the headache," he said, shaking out two aspirin. He pulled out another bottle. "I want to start you on a broad-based antiviral."
Wilson took the aspirin, but refused the anti-viral. "I just need a good night's sleep."
"Which you won't get on the couch," House retorted. "You look like crap. And Foreman said you could barely stand on your own."
"I'm tired, that's all."
House pulled out a thermometer and stuck it in Wilson's ear. "You've got a slight temperature," he commented. "Could just be from sleeping in your clothes and getting overheated, or you could be brewing an opportunistic infection." A stethoscope emerged from the backpack next. "Breathe. Deeper." House listened to front and back carefully. "Lungs are clear," he said finally, sounding almost disappointed.
"Would you be happier if I developed a chest infection?" Wilson coughed experimentally, but it hurt his head, so he closed his eyes and tried to ignore House. It wasn't something he'd ever managed with any success before. He didn't think this time would be any different, so he wasn't surprised when House shook him roughly.
"Get up," he demanded. "I can't carry you and there's no way you're sleeping on this couch." He pulled Wilson's arm until Wilson was forced to stand up just to prevent his shoulder from being dislocated.
"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Wilson groaned. It was starting to become a mantra with him.
"Go into the bedroom, get at least eight hours uninterrupted sleep, and maybe I'll consider leaving you alone."
Wilson knew better than to argue. When House fixated on something, there was no shaking him loose. He stumbled towards the bedroom, so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. House followed behind him, one hand on his shoulder, steering Wilson when he listed slightly off-course. Wilson managed to pull his tie all the way off, but he couldn't get his fingers to work the buttons of his dress shirt properly, so House pushed his hands away and did it for him.
"I'm not taking off your pants," House muttered, but he watched critically as Wilson fumbled his belt loose and pushed his slacks down. He hadn't thought to take his shoes off, though and the slacks tangled around his feet. House sighed and pushed Wilson backwards onto the bed, shedding him of shoes, socks and pants. "You're pathetic," he complained, as he manhandled Wilson under the covers.
"But you love me anyway," Wilson joked, opening his eyes when House didn't immediately make a smart-ass comment back. House was watching him with an odd mixture of concern and affection.
"You'll never get me to admit it in court," he said finally, limping out of the room.
Wilson smiled and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in House's pillow. He was faintly disappointed that it didn't smell like House, though a faint whiff of dried sweat satisfied him. He dozed off, but woke almost immediately, when a car horn blared outside the window. He rolled over and stared up at the ceiling, willing his body to relax. His body co-operated, but his mind rebelled, ticking off all the things that needed to be done: review the results of Sladen's latest clinical trial; shortlist the next round of fellowship applicants; finish the budget analysis for Cuddy. Then he remembered that he hadn't resent the schedules before he left. He glanced at the bedside clock. It was nearly seven, too late to call his assistant and have her do it for him. It would have to wait until morning.
Everything could wait. He closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind.
Instead he was treated to a replay of his last appointment. He was in his office, explaining the results of the biopsy. He couldn't hear his own voice, but he could see the boy's eyes when he told him he had less than six months to live. Thank you, the boy mouthed. House owed him another ten dollars.
Wilson opened his eyes. The ceiling was an improvement.
He could hear a low rumble of sound from the living room and wondered what House was doing. He didn't care what House said; he could sleep better on the couch. The bedroom was too lonely. He got up and padded out to the living room
House turned his head at the sound of bare feet on the floorboards. "I said eight hours," he growled, muting the television. "It hasn't even been one."
"I can't sleep," Wilson whined, dropping onto the couch next to House. "I close my eyes, but my brain won't shut down." He thought House could at least understand that. He wasn't sure House's brain ever shut down.
"What do you want me to do about it?" House said unsympathetically.
"Nothing." Wilson stared at the images flickering on the television screen. He blinked and realised House was watching Strangers on a Train. "Turn it up," he murmured. "I want to watch."
"That will really help you sleep," House retorted, but turned on the sound. "Haven't you already seen this a million times?"
"Yeah. It's comforting."
"You think a movie about a psychopath killing someone because of a random conversation is comforting?" House cocked his head to one side. "I suppose the death of a cheating spouse is appealing right about now, but it could set a dangerous precedent for you. Wouldn't want your other ex - or future - wives to get any ideas."
Wilson rolled his head to the side to glare at House. "You're not comforting."
"And you find that surprising? Maybe I should get Foreman to give you a neuro exam. Clearly your brain function is impaired." He got up and limped over to the kitchen.
Wilson took advantage of his absence to curl onto the couch, resting his head on the cushioned arm and wrapping his arms around his body. He shivered slightly, cold in just his boxers and undershirt and pulled the blanket down from the back of the couch, draping it haphazardly around himself.
House stood in front of him, blocking his view of the television until Wilson grumbled and pushed him aside.
"That's not very nice of you," House chastised, settling down on the couch beside him. "I made you a nice cup of tea and everything."
Wilson raised his head and stared in surprise at the mug House was holding out to him. He cupped it in both hands and sipped cautiously. "You made me camomile tea?" he said, blinking in confusion. "Somehow I find that... disturbing."
"What's disturbing is that you brought camomile tea into my home." House watched him drink with a self-satisfied smirk that would have made Wilson suspicious if he hadn't been too tired to think clearly.
Wilson sipped slowly, letting the warm liquid seep through his body, and sighed happily. He would never admit it to House, but he kept camomile tea on hand because his mother had always made it when he was tired or sick. Just like Peter Rabbit. He finished and started to put the mug on the coffee table, then frowned when he noticed some non-dissolved crystals at the bottom. The tea hadn't tasted sweet. He dipped a finger in the crystals and touched it to the tip of his tongue. Not sugar. He looked up at House and the smirk registered. "Did you drug me?" He didn't know why he even bothered asking. "You drugged me!"
"Oh, relax," House snapped. "I didn't poison you. It's for your own good."
"House!" Wilson tried to stand up, but he couldn't kick his legs free of the blanket, so he settled for crossing his arms and glaring at House.
"Don't be such a baby," House said dismissively. "You said you couldn't sleep, I'm helping you sleep. You're not going to get addicted off one pill, Mary."
And that was why Wilson was never going to tell House about Peter Rabbit. He had once drunkenly admitted that he never took sleeping pills because he'd been traumatized as a child by an episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show. House had nearly choked on his laughter and tormented Wilson for weeks, until he'd found a new subject. "I was young and impressionable. And I was stupid drunk when I told you that story."
"You were stupid all right." House shook his head.
"You promised you wouldn't mention that ever again," Wilson complained.
"Hello. You're talking to the guy who just drugged you against your will." House was shaking with silent laughter and Wilson was glad one of them found the situation amusing. "I don't know why you believe anything I tell you."
"So it wasn't a sleeping pill?" Wilson asked hopefully.
"Well, since I never specifically said I gave you a sleeping pill, you'll just have to wonder."
"Sure. And I'll wonder if you just gave me something I might be allergic to."
"God, you're dim today," House complained. "Remember me? Your physician of record? I know your medical history better than you do. I even know the real reason you won't take sleeping pills."
Wilson sucked in a deep breath. "You don't know anything."
"I know about the night your brother Peter got sick. Your father was away and maybe your mother was having trouble coping and took one too many sleeping pills, because you couldn't wake her up. And God knows where your asshole older brother was, but you had to handle it all on your own. You had to call an ambulance, and then you had to keep your brother calm until they came and figured out that she was just sleeping deeply, that she hadn't OD'd. And then you looked after both of them by yourself until your aunt could drive down to stay with you. How old were you? Ten, eleven?"
"Eleven," Wilson whispered. "Nearly twelve.
"I thought you people didn't become a man until you were thirteen. Started kind of early, didn't you?"
Wilson remembered sitting by Peter's bed, watching him sleep restlessly. And then checking on his mother and watching her sleep as if she were dead. He wondered if she had taken her pills with camomile tea. "Peter has a big mouth," he muttered.
"Peter was just about as drunk as you were when you told me that ridiculous Mary Tyler Moore story. And he only told me because I was making fun of you when you wouldn't take a sleeping pill before your last wedding, even though you were a nervous wreck."
"And you knew all that and you still slipped me a pill. You son of a bitch." This time Wilson made it to his feet and stumbled a few steps before he was overcome by a wave of dizziness. He closed his eyes and willed the room to stop spinning. Vertigo, he thought. Always watching the wrong damn movie. He yelped in fear and surprise when a hand grasped his arm. He stumbled backwards and would have fallen, but House just tightened his grip and held him upright.
"Let's go back to the bedroom," House said, a gentleness in his voice that Wilson had never heard before.
Wilson pulled free. "Just leave me alone!" he shouted. "You've had your fun. You've made a fool of me." He made it to the closet and grabbed his jacket and keys.
"Where do you think you're going?" House asked reasonably. "It's February and you're in your underwear."
Wilson dropped his jacket and covered his face with his hands. He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't going to complete his humiliation by breaking down in front of House. Instead he just stood there, shaking, because there was nowhere he could go.
When House draped the blanket over his shoulders and gently pushed him towards the bedroom, Wilson gave up resisting. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared down at his hands. "Why did you do that to me?" he whispered brokenly.
House sat down next to him, almost close enough to brush shoulders. "Because you can't go on like this. If you don't get some sleep you're going to crack up."
Wilson lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. "I just want it all to stop. Just for a moment."
"Then let it stop. Stop worrying about the schedules, and the budgets, and all the kids you can't save." House stared down at Wilson. "Forget about the divorce. Forget about your fucked-up family. Forget about me."
"I can't." It was all on him and he was suffocating. The sleeping pill was starting to work, starting to pull him towards oblivion, but everything else was holding him back.
"Let go, Jimmy," House ordered. "Everything's fine. The paperwork's under control, your patients can manage without you until tomorrow, and lying awake fretting won't change the rest of it." He stood up and shifted Wilson's legs onto the bed and then draped the blanket over him. "Just close your eyes and let go."
Wilson closed his eyes, but it was all still there. "I don't know how." He could feel sleep tugging at him, but he knew if he let go, he would start to fall and never hit ground.
"Listen to me." House's voice was low, compelling. Wilson always listened to him. "It's okay to rest now. Peter's safe. Your mother is safe."
He was grateful House didn't lie and tell him Michael was safe. He tried not to think of all the people in his life he had failed to keep safe. Or happy. Or alive.
"Nothing will happen if you sleep. I promise you."
House never made promises he didn't intend to keep. Wilson breathed in deeply and let the air out slowly. He relaxed. He fell.
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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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