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Crash
by ir0nically_no
The first thing that Wilson is aware of is the absence of sound. Not quite silence - there's a certain dull hum that may or may not be real, hovering uncertainly in the air - but the noticeable lack of any real noise. He's not entirely sure where he is, so he doesn't quite know what he should be hearing, exactly, but he's certain that he should be hearing something.
Next is the pain. Those few seconds of blissful confusion are gone, all thoughts of sound pushed out of his brain by the burning and the squeezing and the throbbing. He tries to moan, or make some other sort of loud, obnoxious and possibly hopeful noise to demonstrate his suffering to anyone that might possibly be present, but can only manage a throaty grunt. His breath is shallow and loud, exaggerated by that eerie absence of sound. Movement is out, he finds, as he attempts to twist slightly in order to make himself at least a little more comfortable.
It is then that he realises he's upside down. His head scrapes unmercifully across the cold floor as he writhes in his seat and his knees attempt to reach his chest, aided by gravity and hindered by the seatbelt that's keeping him in place.
So he's in a car.
He opens his eyes cautiously, managing only a squint through the pain that continues to pulsate through his entire body. Everything's fuzzy, which makes him feel slightly sick. It's dark, but a dull glow filters through the windows - probably from a street lamp of some sort. He can't remember what road he was on, or even where he was heading - can't even recall how he ended up roof down on the tarmac. The dashboard is illuminated softly in orange and he can see the road that stretches out ahead through the spider web of glass that is now his windshield. It is so void, so vast and so lonely that Wilson vaguely wonders if he'll ever get any help. He's sure he should be more worried, but the incumbent, pressing pain almost dulls any instinct that he might usually have felt to panic.
He blinks once, twice and tries to focus his vision, sharpen the blurry edges, but all that does is send a pinching ache up to his forehead. Then, without warning, the glinting red of blood jumps out at him and suddenly, it's so vivid that it's all he can see and he's not quite sure how he missed it before. It's everywhere - erratically spread across the glass in front of him, the dashboard, his jeans. His blood.
And now it's all becoming much too much, much too fast. His brain, which had previously been operating at the pace of a snail, suddenly jolts into life and there's a rabid fear that begins to course through his body and mingle with the pain and the helplessness and the dizziness, forming one large tidal wave of emotion and sensory activity. He can't breath, can't see, can't make a sound and even if he could, there would be no one around to hear him. The absence of noise is deafening, until he realises that it's his own breathing - still shallow, still loud - echoing through the empty night. And still, that's just as deafening, even more terrifying. It vaguely occurs to him that he is a doctor - he should know what to do, but he can't seem to reach any of his medical knowledge. It's too far, takes too much out of him.
The lonely road to nowhere still lingers in front of him. The dark, empty stretch of it is almost mocking - he's never going to get rescued, never going to see anyone (but who is `anyone'?). A fleeting thought of death passes through his mind, entirely unwarranted, and he bats it away immediately. Think of happier things, happier times, he tells himself. Still, his mind remains a mess of small, unrelated details, telling of nothing. As he focuses on remembering, the adrenaline that had previously been pumping through him ebbs away and exhaustion begins to pull at him. His eyes fall shut and he slowly gives in. Finally, all energy is gone, leaving nothing but the pain and musings of white coats, glass walls and limping.
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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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