New style... new fic, same results?
Alternate take on the end of Merry Little Christmas. House doesn't steal the pills, doesn't OD, Wilson still finds him on the floor... while helping House through the pain, Wilson realises something... this epiphany is long overdue. House Wilson friendship, of course! Rated T.

House has been on this floor far to many times... he has almost memorized the texture of the wood underneath his scalp, actually; that's what he entertains himself with in this particular position. When he is ruled by pain and hopelessness, he marvels openly about the insignificance of certain things even though he knows it makes him look either childish or insane.

Which he would hate, given that he wasn't already writhing on the floor.

He has played a couple of loose notes and topped them off with bourbon, accepting that nothing rivals the vicodin in terms of sweet, sweet release...

He's not supposed to be released according to Tritter. He may not have a real case against him, but through Wilson's twisted idea of chivalry, Tritter gained the ability to imprison him in something either way. It comes down to which would be worse.

It really is an unfair choice though: If they revoke his licence, he will have to drop his practise long before he could mean any harm to his patients, and if he has to detox off the vicodin and diagnose others through the pain he will kill patients knowingly.

He's surrounded by a halo of oddly expressive colours and the shrill cries of silence, which is more poetic than actually comfortable, and hears neither Wilson's voice on the answering machine nor his key in the lock some time later. He doesn't register Wilson inside the room until he is awkwardly pulled up and against something soft.

"Hey? House! How bad is it? Give me a number, House... one to ten." Wilson voice finally rings around the room, it sounds quite frantic even though he doesn't deserve to be scared.

"You... don't care..." He struggles to say. He's becoming reacquainted with his troublesome limb, which he usually forgets about in the limbo between the floor and the vial he can no longer rely on.

Damn Wilson for making him feel.

Damn Wilson for wanting to save his life so badly he ruins it in the process...

Wilson doesn't understand.

"Of course I do... don't say that. I'm only doing this because I do care! Let me help you?"

"You care... about me... clean. Not me... in general." His frame quakes against Wilson's chest, and he is promptly pulled closer to it.

"Yes I do, House... I don't care if you hate me, I'm here to help you..."

"By ruining... my life? There's hardly anything... to ruin! Ah..." He hides his face in Wilson's shirt as an involuntary reaction to the spasm that contorts the skin on his thigh.

Sweat is transferred between them and Wilson's chin nestles itself in the signature bald spot on his friend's head. His arms encircle House's chest as he mumbles mindless reinsurances.

"It won't be ruined if you try... it's okay, it's okay... hey, I'm here, just yell at me, it's okay." Wilson came here nearly fed up with the whole ordeal, ready to walk away... but it turns out he's not the only one who has had enough: he's experiencing just why House resorts to drugs. He theoretically knows. They mention it daily... but he hasn't felt it in a very long time.

Each pain filled tremor of House's body echo's through his flesh and their hearts soon beat equally erratically.

He's feeling it... and he highly doubts he would be able to bear it any longer than this epiphany will last.

"You'll make it through this... I'm an idiot and you can hate me, but you are making it through this." His tears get lost in sweat as House shakes his head violently.

"Why did you... do this if it... would make me hate you?" House presses out.

Wilson's arms tighten around him... when Wilson speaks he sounds passionate and sincere. "Fuck me, House! This isn't about me! Yes, it used to be. Yes, I started this whole thing because of my stupid, faulty perception of what you needed in your life and I am so sorry for ever thinking you would sacrifice patients to keep your pills, but you should have more than pain! More than pills! For God's sake, House... this isn't about the pills anymore, not about me: it's about the happiness you God-damn well deserve! And you can't be happy with the pills because you refuse to let anyone in! You're scared. Scared of anyone seeing how much pain you are actually in, but you know what? If I had seen this before, I never would've done this!"

"So it's... my fault?" House asks. What he doesn't know is that Wilson is speaking purely out of regret.

"No, House... all I'm saying is that I'm sorry I didn't see this before and I'm sorry for making you go through this, but... at the same time... there's no going back. And you don't have to give up... just let me in, let someone in and you'll get through this whole... thing, with whoever that may be, okay?" His hands are pulling up House's pant leg and hovering close to the thigh.

"If I take the deal... every day will be like this. I can't..." Wilson's hands start rubbing House's thigh, ignoring his protests.

It doesn't matter whether he's in or out... he's there.

"Yes you can. It will be hard the first months, but it will get better! From here, everything is up."

"Ah... okay, just, don't stop rubbing?"

"Sure thing."

Three hours later, House shows up in Tritter's office and takes the deal... Wilson is right beside him:

He's in.

TBC?

The style is not entirely new, but it's different than the other works!

Let me know what you think!