Suspicious Silence

[moose_mcmoose]

Title: Suspicious Silence (written for the Sick!Wilson_fest)
Author: moose_mcmoose
Prompt: 18. House is concerned when he wakes up and doesn't hear Wilson up and about, and discovers that Wilson got sick or injured during the night and wasn't able to call out for help, e.g., passing out and hitting his head on something, delirious with fever, etc.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Category: sick!Wilson, crossword-puzzling!House, mentions of food, Napoleon and French military history.
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 NO character death. I'm proud of myself. Some use of strong-ish langauge.
Words: 1909
Summary: It's on the prompt
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be as the world conspires against me.
Beta: My dear friend PMB! Thank you PMB! Again.

 

It was six fifteen in the morning. The time when Wilson's stupidly loud toe nails would click and crunch their way through the apartment as he massacred them with clippers.

At six fifteen this morning it was oddly quiet. House opened his eyes and strained his hearing, hoping to catch the muffled crack of clipped nail but there was only silence. He shrugged before settling back down into his pillows. Wilson's timing had been off lately so it wouldn't be surprising if he was a little late getting up this morning.
.
.
.

It was six thirty. The time when Wilson usually flossed his teeth, seemingly with cheese wire. That was the only way to explain that awful, cringe-worthy sound of his enamel being scraped.

House was awake now. Not awake enough to physically get out of bed but awake enough to be aware of his surroundings.

He wasn't enjoying this eerie silence. Even if he wasn't flossing, Wilson would surely be up by now either padding around looking for clean clothes or cooking breakfast. House settled on giving Wilson another fifteen minutes before he would begin his investigation.
.
.
.

It was six fifty. The time when Wilson would usually be blow-drying his hair in front of the bathroom mirror. House had heard nothing, not even that awful, incessant humming that Wilson insisted on doing while getting dressed.

With care, House limped his way to Wilson's bedroom door. He was just about to push the door ajar with his cane before he heard a strangled groan coming from behind the closed bathroom door on the opposite side of the hall.

“Wilson?” House gently knocked the door with the bottom of his cane. He heard another gargle of what he thought were words as he pressed his ear up against the door. “You okay in there?”

As much as he didn't want to pry in on Wilson in the bathroom, House really didn't have a choice. So he took a deep breath, hoping that when he opened the door he wouldn't be faced with the sight of Wilson jerking off or doing something equally as personal with himself.

“I'm opening the door now okay? So put it away if you've got it out.” House grasped the door knob in is right hand, chuntering prayers for Wilson to have his pants on when all was revealed. He gently pushed the door and slid his head in through the crack between the heavy wood and the frame.

Wilson was on his back on the floor, knees bent to the side, one arm propped against the bath tub, the other splayed out onto the bathroom rug. Much to House's horror, Wilson's pants were around his ankles but fortunately his underwear were still firmly in place, although they left little to the imagination.

House flicked on the bathroom light, illuminating the tiles and the limp looking body upon them.

Wilson groaned before attempting to move. All he managed to do was move his arm from the bath tub and then flop it back down again with a heavy thud.

“Okay. So you're not getting up any time soon.” House dropped his cane and limped his way to the younger man before placing a hand on his forehead. “Holy...” Wilson's skin was frighteningly hot. House mused whether it was possible to use Wilson's forehead to make breakfast this morning but decided against it. “Wilson!”

Wilson's eyelids fluttered.

“I'm gonna prop you up okay?”

“I need to stop the razor.” Wilson mumbled; his head lolling to the left.

“The razor?” House merely shook his head and continued by pulling Wilson up from the floor. He rested Wilson's back on the side of the bath tub before grabbing a thermometer from the cabinet above the sink. 101.4 rose to 102.6 which rose to 103.7.

“House. We need to get off the plane.”

House just nodded in agreement. Wilson was feverish and seemingly delirious; he didn't have time to work out why, he just needed to get Wilson's temperature down. He started the taps on the bath, grabbed a towel from the rail and threw it into the descending tepid water. “We need to get your temperature down before your brain boils in your head. You up for that?”

“Are we still on the plane?”

“Wilson, we're not on a plane. We're on the bathroom floor and you aren't wearing any pants. Do you remember what happened?”

“It rhymes with train.”

“Yes and then John Candy comes along in an auto-mobile.” House squeezed the excess water out of the damp, green towel and placed it over Wilson's head. “Now open your mouth.” He slipped the thermometer back into Wilson's mouth. This time 104.2, way too high for a damp towel to do anything.

“The razors have stopped. I'm so happy.” Wilson smiled, an odd, dense looking grin --so convincing that House was sure if Wilson auditioned for the part of Dopey he would have got it on the spot.

“Good for you. Now we need to get you to the hospital. You're spiking a fever. Not to mention you're talking utter crap.”

Wilson was absurdly entertaining in the ambulance. Mumbling, laughing and pointing at God knows what. House had learned many things that would no doubt be used for future messing and blackmailing purposes.

He learned that at the age of 22, Wilson drunkenly urinated from a third floor window for a $10 bet. Apparently he succeeded by being able to piss into a friend's shoes from such a great height.

Wilson also declared that his favourite animals were llamas and that he hated American Football. Two things House did not know before this particular trip. They were now duly noted and stored in his mental inventory.

When they arrived at PPTH, they were met off the ambulance by a flustered looking Cuddy.

She clicked her way towards the two emerging doctors. “Is he okay?”

“He'll be fine. If only I could get him to stop talking then we would both be fine.” House hobbled slowly behind Wilson, who was being pushed into the ER on a gurney. Cuddy followed suit. “He was spiking a fever so I thought it was better to be safe than sorry.”

Cuddy guffawed. “You? You thought it was better to be safe than sorry? This is House I am talking to here right?”

“Would you rather I had left him sweating and delirious on the bathroom floor? Cos I could have done that and you'd be one department head down.”

“Just keep me updated on his condition okay?” The lines around Cuddy's mouth tightened as she shot House a glare before stalking off back to the sanctuary of her office.

******************************************************************************************************************************************************

The walls in Wilson's private room were yellow. Yellow was the colour of cowardice and vomit. Why yellow was deemed appropriate for hospital decoration was something House never understood and would continue not to do so.

House adjusted himself in the ridiculously uncomfortable visitor chair that was placed in the right corner of the room. He'd been here a good five hours, nodding off for about two of those, and sending Taub and Thirteen on random errands for the other three.

Wilson was sleeping. Through a combination of IV fluids and IV antibiotics, his fever had dropped to a more respectable 100.6; the delirium has subsided much to House's joy, not just because it indicated improvement in Wilson's condition, but because it meant Wilson actually stopped babbling about planes and whales. He was still flush in the cheeks and House could just make out the line of sweat tracing across the younger man's forehead, but it was a far cry from the shuddering, feverish wreck that he found legs akimbo on the bathroom floor.

House whipped up the newspaper that Taub had brought him only a few minutes earlier and began his battle with the crossword.

He managed to scribble his way to fourteen across before Wilson grumbled his way into consciousness. House was always surprised at how loud Wilson was when waking up from any sort of slumber. A mumble here, a rub of the face there and then the final cacophonous, nasal groan before the lights went on and somebody was home.

“Afternoon.” House peered over the top of his spectacles and absent mindedly scrawled in the answer to fourteen across.

"Mmmm.” Wilson lazily opened his eyes and turned his head to face House.

“Six across. A battle in the Napoleonic Wars where France defeated the Austrian army on Italian soil.” House glared at Wilson expectantly.

“What?”

House rolled his eyes. “A battle in the Napoleonic Wars...”

“No. No. I mean what am I doing here?”

“Oh. That? I found you collapsed on the bathroom floor this morning, sweating all over that nice new rug you bought. And you managed to vomit on the toilet and not in the toilet. Nice job.” Two down was duly scribbled in on House's crossword.

“I am okay though, aren't I?” Wilson's heart rate bumped up a few notches. His ability to worry with the best of them was not being helped by his current situation.

“Relax. You're fine. I only brought you in because you spiked a fever.” House chewed on the stubby end of the pen. “You have a lovely case of pyelonephritis.”

That blank, vacant look of realization presented itself on Wilson's face. “Explains why I've been pissing razor blades for the past two days.” He shifted under his blanket.

“And you didn't think to do anything about that because everyone pisses razor blades every now and again.”

“I thought it was nothing.”

“Well that worked out well for you.” House folded the newspaper before settling it down on the stand next to him. “Next time your brain tells you something you do the complete opposite. That'll decrease the likely hood of illness or death. Now go back to sleep. Your idiocy is grating already.”

Wilson sighed before dropping his head further into the lumpy pillows. “Marengo.”

“What?”

“The Napoleonic battle was Marengo. Napoleon kicked ass in Italy.”

“Since when do you read French military history?”

“I've never read French military history.”

House paused, inviting Wilson to go on with his explanation of how he came into holding such facts.

“Chicken Marengo. You've never cooked Chicken Marengo?”

“No and neither have most straight, middle aged men.”

“It's named after the battle. Apparently Napoleon wanted a quick meal after the battle and that's what his chef knocked up. Hence the name.” Wilson smiled smugly at his own knowledge.

“That's it? His chef knocked it up. God Wilson. I thought the story would be remotely interesting, like Napoleon killed a man with a chicken on horseback or something.” House rose out of his chair and grabbed his cane that was hanging on the end of the hospital bed. “I'm gonna get a coffee. Please, for the love of God, do not bore any nurses with that story while I'm gone.”

Wilson placed his left hand over his chest and saluted with his right. “I promise.” Although, he was sure when House got around to trying his dish it wouldn't seem so boring any more.