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A strangled cry escapes House’s throat as the knife slashes viciously over his ruined thigh, skirting the chunk of missing muscle by mere centimeters – but still running ragged and raw through the snarled mass of scar tissue below it.
He lets out another howl of pain as he slumps against the wall of the alley, his leg knocking roughly against the brick. The mugger who held him up in the first place flees in the blink of an eye, his wallet in hand, but that’s the last thing on his mind right now. All his senses are occupied by the searing, unending torture that thrashes through his body; House can hardly even breathe as the new wound screeches at him, not even able to distract him from the old pain – instead, it only multiplies it, a dual wave of blinding torment with no end in sight. He’s sweating, shaking from head to toe and on the verge of passing out - he’s in no state to drag himself inside. His head is already spinning.
With unsteady fingers, he just about manages to disentangle his phone from his pocket, unsure how he even manages to open it. Wilson’s his most recent call, and he presses dial, praying to every nonexistent deity he can think of that he picks up. His arms tremble with the effort of holding the device up to his ear, the dial tones barely audible beneath his pained, fragile gasping.
Then there’s a click and that familiar voice rings out warmly into the chilled evening air. House could cry with relief.
“W’lson,” he slurs, unable to force his tongue to move properly, “help... m’in the alley...”
House ignores the concerned babble from the other end of the line as – its duty now done – the phone clatters from his hand, settling a few feet away. The agony consumes him now, only growing more fervent as though it’s furious that help is on the way.
A low keen reverberates through his chest, the splitting ache too much to bear now. With one final, desperate sob House keels over sideways, eyes sliding shut as darkness consumes him.
Wilson hangs up the phone now that he’s here and hurries out onto the pavement in front of House’s apartment, not even bothering to lock his car behind him. House’s words had been vague, and as he enters the alleyway beside the building he prepares himself for the worst.
Immediately, he spots the slumped-over shape propped limp beside the wall. Wilson rushes over as fast as his legs will carry him, immediately dropping to kneel beside him. Numbness rushes through him at the sight of House so lifeless, and with ice-cold fingers he scrambles to find a pulse, a choked noise of relief as he feels it fluttering. Weak, but alive.
Now he turns his attention to the rest of House, eyes catching on the dark red stain that soaks out through the gash in his jeans. His stomach turns at the placement of it – no wonder House passed out; it’s not massively deep, but it’s long, splitting open a hefty chunk of his scar and aggravating the old wound with a vengeance.
For a moment, his thoughts flit to what the fuck even happened - it looks like a knife wound of some description - but Wilson firmly pushes it away in favor of calling an ambulance first and foremost. He doesn’t know if he can handle doing this by himself, too stunned by panic and fear.
He hastily grabs House’s phone from where it lays beside him and is about to begin dialing when there’s a low groan. His head flies up to look at House, whose glazed-over eyes are hazily blinking open.
“Oh, thank fuck,” Wilson chokes out breathlessly, reaching down to clutch one of House’s hands to his chest. It would probably be better to use that hand to stop the bleeding, but he’s not exactly thinking straight right now. “It’s okay, House, I’m here. I’m gonna call an ambulance, okay?”
House seems somewhat out of it, which is understandable given the circumstances. But as he processes Wilson’s words his face crumples in terror, tears welling up in his eyes – a sight so unfamiliar that it stops Wilson in his tracks.
“No hospital,” House wheezes out in a small, scared voice, squeezing his hand so tightly that Wilson fears he may burst. “They’ll- they’ll take it, they’re going to take my leg-”
“Nobody’s going to do that,” Wilson tries to reassure him desperately, but it’s no use. House just shakes his head and lets out these high-pitched, pained little noises, and Wilson can’t find it within himself to protest again. He’s never seen the man look so frightened in his life.
He’s going to have to do this alone.
First order of business is getting House somewhere safe and warm, away from the dirt and grime of the unkempt alleyway, so with almost inhuman strength he cradles House bridal-style and lifts him into his arms. The phone and House’s cane lay forgotten to the wayside as he steadily climbs to his feet. House barely seems to weigh anything in his hold – distantly, Wilson thinks that this might make for an interesting paper about hysterical strength once House recovers.
And he will recover. Wilson is going to make sure of it.
He whimpers softly as he’s carried to the safety of his apartment proper, Wilson shushing him gently as though he’s a spooked horse. He lays House down on the couch, uncaring whether or not blood will stain the fabric.
He’s glad that he stocked multiple first aid kits in House’s place, no matter how much the other man had bitched and moaned and whined at the time – he rushes off to grab the nearest one, checking that everything he needs is there and washing his hands before returning swiftly to House’s side.
“I’m going to cut your jeans off,” Wilson informs him, ignoring the way his voice wavers. His whole body is hepped up on adrenaline, his need to keep House safe going into overdrive. Using a little pair of fabric scissors he slices away the denim around the fresh wound, then goes for an alcohol wipe next.
This next part is going to suck so incredibly bad. The gash needs cleaning ASAP – House was out there for a good ten minutes or so before he arrived, and God only knows what was on the knife. It’ll hurt, but it’ll be so much worse if he gets an infection, so it needs to be done.
“This is going to sting a little.”
House stares up at him blankly, his breathing sharp and shallow, barely even comprehending his words – then the expression morphs into a twisted yowl of agony at the first contact of the wipe against his skin.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Wilson murmurs wetly, blinking away his tears as House yells out, clenching his fists and trying to curl in on himself. He knows that right now, even the lightest touch must be sending shockwaves through House’s ragged form, the pain incomprehensible – in fact, he’s not even sure if House is fully present. His eyes seem to glaze over with the agony, not a flicker of recognition passing through them as he looks desperately up at Wilson.
“P-puh,” House stammers out through his choked-off sobs, “please...”
Wilson can practically feel his heart shattering into pieces. House looks confused, utterly betrayed, entirely out of it. His usual boisterous presence is reduced to the tiny fragile creature in front of him, so lost and scared and in pain, but he knows that if he doesn’t clean the wound now then they’ll both regret it. Biting his lip, Wilson keeps dabbing away at the cut, trying his best to mentally block out House’s agonized cries.
As he reaches the deepest part of the wound, there’s another awful wail – then the front of House’s jeans blooms into a dark wet patch, the scent of urine clinging heavy in the air. It’s the kind of control that Wilson has only seen him lose once or twice before, right when the infarction was still fresh and he was in too much anguish to even be aware of his own body. It sickens him to see it happen again – for House to experience such a humiliating blow to his ego, even if he’s not present enough to realize it – but he grits his teeth and keeps going.
It’s five more torturous minutes before he’s finished with the wipe. House sobs brokenly, clinging to Wilson’s arms, begging him to stop the whole while. It hurts so much to see him reduced to this, for him to be so lost in the pain that he can’t even cling to his usual persona, can’t even think.
But the worst part is that it’s not even over yet – Wilson still needs to dress the wound, and he knows that no matter how gently he applies it, it’s going to be agony on the sensitive scar tissue.
They’re in for a long, long night.