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“House!” James Wilson yells uselessly at the door to 221b baker street. It doesn’t answer, thankfully. Otherwise he might have to pay a visit to the third floor of PPTH- although he might anyway, because the amount of gut-wrenching worry coursing through his system is enough to drive him insane.
“House, you didn’t show up for work yesterday. No call or anything. I know…” He trails off, letting his knuckle drag down across the oak of the door.
“You’re mad at yourself. I get it. You should be. You should have gone to rehab three years ago, you shouldn’t have stolen my prescription pad. But it’s done now, and it’s not over until you work on it. Let’s talk. Please.” This winter had been the hardest Wilson had ever seen House go through. Worse than Stacy, worse than the reveal of Cameron’s intentions, only rivaled by the miserable winter they spent post-infarction. At least then House’s entire life wasn’t consumed with paranoia and withdrawal symptoms. Tritter’s constant surveillance and punishment of his coworkers, friends, and his best friend was- and still is- almost unbearable.
At least Wilson hoped it was for House, otherwise he’d just be an asshole. But at the same time… the situation was a strange mobius strip, where on one side Wilson hopes that House is feeling guilty and miserable for making everyone around him feel guilty and miserable, while on the other side, he just wants his best friend to be okay and back to ‘normal’, whatever that is for him. Anyways, he could psychoanalyze all he wants and still not understand the man 100% percent.
“House.” He calls out again, knowing there won’t be an answer. Instead he reaches into his coat pocket and grabs the spare key, turning it in the lock with an icy grating sound spawning from the inclement weather outside.
“I’m coming in. If you have a prostitute in there, at least put on some pants-” Wilson trails off as he enters his friend’s living room, because House is there.
On the ground, in the doorway to the kitchen.
There’s a split second as the world tilts violently around Wilson, all his doctorley capabilities and med school training flying out the window as he stares at the back of House’s head, bare against the hardwood floors. A couple of senses filter in through his haze. The freezing wind pelting against the slip of skin above his turtleneck. The industrial smell of nasal spray he had administered five minutes previously due to the light cold he had picked up in the clinic. The flashing light of House’s answering machine.
“House.” He manages to choke out. He leaps over the couch and drops to his knees at House’s side. His finger’s find his carotid artery amidst the vomit- vomit? Wilson feels around for a terrifying second before his best friend’s heartbeat responds, dull and 50 bpm below his usual, but there. A shaky, stuttering breath follows a moment after. Too shallow.
Wilson’s fingers are already dialing 911 while he scans the area for the pills, syringes, anything. There isn’t a clue to what House overdosed on- nothing obvious, at least. It’s probably Vicodin, but there isn’t a doubt in Wilson’s mind that he’s taken something else as well. How he even got the substances is a mystery, but it doesn’t matter right now.
“Hi, this is Dr.James Wilson, I need an ambulance from Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital to 221B Baker Street.” He gets out as fast as he can while simultaneously turning House’s head to the side and checking his respiratory rate.
“What’s your emergency? We just dispatched one to that address.”
“Overdose. P-probably on opioids, but it could be… House. House!” Wilson calls out, shaking the man. His eyes flutter, and he makes a groaning sound. Relief floods Wilson’s chest at the sign of humanity, but it’s quickly erased as House turns away and throws up anything that hadn’t already been purged from his stomach. The sight makes Wilson sick with a mix of anger, worry, and… he can’t even articulate how desperate he feels, and how much he wishes that the two of them were just watching WWE and eating chips or gossiping about nurses in his office or going for a long ride on House’s motorcycle-
“Sir? Sir, is everything alright? The ambulance is only four minutes away.”
“Yeah,” Wilson gulps, “He’s- one second.” He takes the phone away from his ear and puts his right hand on House’s cheek so they’re facing each other. Finally their eyes meet, and Wilson can’t help but think how he’s never seen so much of his icy blueish-purple eyes with his pupils so constricted.
“House, what did you take?” In response, his eyes roll into the back of his head. “House. I need to know- I need to know if we need to administer just naloxone or poly glycol too.” Wilson’s voice cracks, bordering on hysteria. This is not good.
“House-” He shakes him harder- “ Greg, naloxone or poly glycol?”
Finally he regains some semblance of consciousness, and makes eye contact with Wilson again. “Poly glycol.” He says after a moment, barely a whisper. “Hi.” Wilson gives him a pained look before glancing back down at his phone.
“Hero- uh, heroin. And opioids. Vicodin.” He wants to sob. Or maybe scream. But it doesn’t matter what he wants, not now. Not with his friend fading away at his fingertips.
“Administer… 200 ccs…” Suddenly he murmurs, attempting to sit up.
“It’s alright, Greg. Ambulance is on its way.”
“Differential?” Despite the horror of the situation, Wilson barks out a laugh.
“Hm, I don’t know, House. Overdose, perhaps?” He hums thoughtfully and leans his head into Wilson’s hand, sending a flurry of feverish shivers down his arm. He’s warm. A little too hot, but reassuringly warm.
“My chest hurts.” House says softly into Wilson’s hand. It almost reminds him of the oncologist’s second bachelor party, in which he got so drunk that House had to force-feed him white bread until he was coherent enough to breathe correctly.
“You’ll be fine,” It sounds empty, but he says it anyway, “You’ll be fine.”
“I’m sorry, James.” He looks up again, and Wilson finds his other hand cupping the back of House’s head. A distant voice asks him what the hell he’s doing, but it feels natural in the moment. Had he ever felt this soul-piercingly worried? House didn’t apologize unless he had truly done something wrong. Not for something like an accidental overdose.
“You…” He trails off, horrified by the realization. But Greg’s unconscious before he can even say anything, the EMS’s sirens are growing nearer and nearer.
“James Wilson?” Half of a pair of EMTs calls out, toting a gurney and a transportable AED and BVM.
“He’s right here.” He clears his throat and calls out, lowering House’s head to the ground. The medical team picks him up, and the doctor reflexively winces once he spots the crushed syringe and bottle that had been beneath House. Leftover heroin pools, running through the cracks of the floor and mixing with the vomit.
Someone drapes a blanket around him- they think he’s in shock. And he is- albeit for emotional whiplash and not physical ailment.
He follows the EMTs to the ambulance and loads himself in the back with House, who’s gone completely unconscious again. Some medical personnel asks him if he’s his boyfriend or spouse, and he doesn’t even have the energy to refute them. Instead, he watches House’s BP and BPM and the number of mgs of Naloxone and Poly glycol he’s given and the serial number on the IV bag because anything,
anything,
is better than thinking about how Gregory House just tried to kill himself.