Wilson gripped the barrier with both hands, wobbling heavily, and started to raise his foot.

From ahead of him, he heard a shout of his name, and then two footsteps, and—

"Ow!" he cried, as a large something impacted his chest, sending him flying against the brick wall, "What the hell?!"

"That's my question!" yelled house's voice, and Wilson was startled and pained by the sheer *loudness* of it. House was never that angry, "WHY THE HELL WERE YOU JUMPING OFF THE BACLONEY!?"

Wilson blinked, "what?"

"You were climbing off the baloney!"

"No I wasn't. I was coming over to your office."

House started at him. Then realized Wilson's eyes weren't focusing.

He waved a finger in front of his friend's face. Nothing.

Wilson was pale.

Of course.

House sighed, and carefully reached forward, brushing his fingers along his friend's cheek, "you can't see, can you?"

Wilson shook his head, "migraine. No more yelling?"

"You were climbing off the side of the balcony, Wilson."

God, that was a scary thought.

House's hand was still on his cheek.

He reached up, covering it with his own.

House helped him up, and got him safely back to his office couch, where he promptly stood, lunged wildly for the trash can—missing by three feet to the right—, and threw up.

House held him up, patiently, keeping him upright as he retched.

Wilson's hand clenched in his friend's shirtsleeve, tears streaming down his face.

"Okay, jimmy," murmured house, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, "let's get you lying down."

Wilson nodded, miserable, and house helped him back to the couch.

Wilson could smell the vomit from across the room.

Ugh.

He reached out, and found house's obligingly present hand.

"Have you got a patient?" he asked, quietly.

"Yeah. But it can wait."

"No, you should go back."

"No more balconies?"

"No more balconies."

"Still not leaving."

Wilson smiled, "I'm glad."