House was concentrating. His right hand was in a fist, clasped tightly around a pencil, his left hand holding the paper in place. He shuffled the chair slightly closer to the desk, and tilted his head to view his work from another angle. The lines were shaky, and the letter itself oversized and lopsided, but it was his best one so far. It gave him a immense sense of accomplishment to look over at his first attempts and see how much he had progressed in the hour or so he had been working. A wide grin spread across his face, and he swivelled his chair around, pencil still grasped in his fist, grabbed his cane with his free hand and banged it against the floor a few times to get Wilson's attention (he had already learned that shouting did his throat no favours).

Wilson popped his head around the corner, looked around for House, and stepped into the doorway after spotting him. He was drying his hands on a dishcloth, and looked slightly exasperated, "What is it now, House?" he asked.

House smiled, rested his cane back up against the desk, and indicated with his hand that Wilson come over. Wilson sighed, but tossed the cloth onto the kitchen unit and strolled over to House nonetheless. "What is it House?" Wilson repeated.

"Look." House tore the page he had been using out of the note book, placed it in the pile and lifted his hand to start writing again.

"No, no, no!" Wilson shouted and snatched the pencil from House's clasped fist. "You don't hold it like that." Wilson sighed, rubbed his forehead with one hand, and demonstrated the correct way to hold the pencil with the other, "How many time do I have to show you? You hold it like this." He held the pencil out for House to take back, but House just gave him an odd look and shook his head.

"Can't," House stated.

"Can't what?" Wilson scowled.

House gestured at the pencil, and Wilson gazed down at it for a moment before looking at House again "You can't hold the pencil like that?" he asked.

House nodded firmly. Wilson burst out laughing. House pushed the chair away from the desk and inched it away from the hysterical Wilson, but he didn't make it far before Wilson had calmed down a bit, "Then why the hell are you even bothering with this crap?" Wilson picked up one of the sheets of paper House had been working on, it was covered in large, wobbly letters of the alphabet and monosyllabic word, and he shook it in House's face.

House pushed the paper away with trembling hands, and looked up at Wilson, his eyes burned and his lower lip quivered. "Happy Wilson," he whimpered.

Wilson snorted. "No, I'm not happy right now House."

House nodded, "Know," he pointed at the sheet of paper again. "Happy Wilson," he repeated.

Wilson paused, and looked at the paper again, "You thought this would make me happy?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. House nodded. "Then you're more crazy than we thought." Wilson turned to walk away, but House's shaky hands weakly grabbed his left arm and he stopped.

"Let go of me. Dinner's burning," Wilson said as he tried to pull his arm away. House's hands didn't budge. "I said let go of me!" He could smell the burning now. The food would be ruined now and he's have to start again from scratch. House's hands still didn't move. "God dammit, House. You'll set the kitchen on fire. Is that what you want?" House just stared at him with a bemused look, Wilson wasn't even sure he understood. But House still wouldn't let go, and it was really pissed Wilson off. "Let go!" Wilson screamed.

"No." House shook his head. "Pencil," he said, tilting his head towards the object in Wilson's left hand.

The smoke detector started blaring, and made both House and Wilson jump. "God dammit. See what you did House?" Wilson tried to pull away from House again, but he still wouldn't let go.

"Pencil," House asserted again.

"You want the goddamn pencil?" House nodded, "Then take the goddamn pencil!" Wilson shouted over the alarm. He wrenched his arm free of House's hold, adjusted his grip on the pencil and thrust it into House's left shoulder. House yelped in agony and drew back so fast he nearly tipped his chair over. Wilson completely ignored House and ran off into the kitchen. House whimpered and groaned in pain, his hand hovered inches from the pencil. He wasn't sure what to do; it hurt, it really, really hurt. But somewhere deep inside him, something was saying he shouldn't pull it out.

The pain won out in the end, and House yanked the pencil out with another yelp of pain, and threw it on the floor. The pain was still there, but now he was bleeding too. House panicked at the sight of his own blood, he whimpered, touched it, and tried to wipe it away, but more kept coming and he didn't know what to do. The smoke alarm was still roaring, he was bleeding all over his favourite shirt and Wilson was out of sight (the last time House had hurt himself, Wilson had been there to fix it up and keep him calm, and it hadn't been nearly as bad as this wound was).

House tried desperately to wipe at his watering eyes, but the blood from his hands got into them and made them sting, which only added to his panic. "Stupid pencil!" House shouted in frustration. He grabbed his cane with his good arm and used it to strike the pencil until it shattered.

The combination of panic, exertion and pain, was making it difficult for House to breathe. His, short ragged, panicked, breaths made it difficult to draw in enough air, and his hands trembled wildly as he tried to staunch the flow of blood still oozing from his shoulder.

The more he panicked, the harder it became to breathe, the harder it was to breathe, the harder it was to keep his hands under control, the harder it was to keep his hands in control, the more he panicked. It was a cycle with only two possible ends in sight; death, or Wilson.

Fortunately for House, the racket of the smoke detector had finally faded away and Wilson emerged from the kitchen looking flustered and carrying a med kit.

Wilson took one look at House, frightened, breating rapidly, hand clutching his wounded shoulder, face and shirt covered in blood, and it finally hit him, exactly what he had done. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. "House, I'm so sorry," he said as he cautiously took a step closer. House whimpered and tried to shuffle away without leaving the comfort of his chair.

Wilson saw fear in House's eyes and that disturbed him. "It's okay, House, I'm not going to hurt you." He held up his free hand in a gesture of surrender and took another step closer.

"No pencil?" asked House.

"No pencil." Wilson nodded, put the med kit on the floor and kneeled down next to House. House's eyes followed him closely, but he didn't attempt to pull away again. Wilson snapped on a pair of gloves and gently pulled at the hand House had covering the wound, "Can I look?" he asked. House shook his head. "Please? I just want to fix it, House." House averted his eyes, and thought for a moment, but he eventually let Wilson move his hand and take a look.

Wilson swallowed convulsively, House's shirt was covered in blood, but he couldn't really see the wound itself with House's shirt still on. "Um, House?" He gently prodded House's arm to take his attention off the injury, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to cut your shirt off, okay?" House just blinked at him. "Okay?" Wilson asked again. House nodded slowly. Wilson opened the med kit and rummaged around for a minute looking for the scissors, "Here we go." He pulled the scissors out and showed them to House, "I need you to sit still now, okay?" House nodded, and stopped fidgeting.

Wilson steadily cut the shirt, then smoothly peeled the drenched cloth away from the wound. He was relieved to see the bleeding had calmed a lot, and all things considered, the wound appeared pretty clean. House would need a couple of stitches, and to rest the shoulder, but would probably be fine in the long run.

Wilson carefully cleaned, stitched and bandaged the wound. House remained worryingly silent the entire time. "There." Wilson finished the bandaging and gently tapped House's arm to show that he was done.

"Thank you," House muttered.

Wilson smiled weakly. "No problem… and I'm really sorry House." He shoved the bits and pieces back into the med kit and picked the bloody shirt and shards of the pencil up off the floor, then went into the kitchen, stored the med kit back under the sink and threw the pencil, shirt and dirty gloves, cotton-wool and bandages in the trash.

Wilson then made his way to the bedroom, found House a clean shirt in the wardrobe and rummaged through a box in the back to find another pencil and shoved it in the pocket of his pants. Then he went back out to House.

Wilson helped House into the shirt, then pulled up a seat and sat at the desk with House. House gave Wilson a questioning look, but Wilson just smiled and pulled the pencil out of his pocket. When House saw the pencil he pushed away and almost panicked again, but Wilson carefully handed it to him and said, "Why don't you show me what you can do?" House calmed almost instantly, smiled, nodded and hesitantly took the pencil.

If past experiences were anything to go by, House would forget about the incident fast enough, all Wilson would have to do would be to make sure he didn't mention it to anyone before that happened.

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This is a oneshot for now, but I might expand on it in the future.

Intended as post Head & Heart (I.E, House became brain damaged from the DBS), but that may change, should I ever expand it.