Disclaimer: Just playing with my House and Wilson dolls.

A/N: Speculating and creating a scene from spoiler information. Slightly different style than my usual. Hope you like.

Nearly midnight, the front door swung open, and in the dim light House could make out the corrugated Wall of China Wilson built. Neatly stacked three-high book boxes began in the entry and continued like a newly constructed highway to the back wall of the living room. Two smaller cardboard bypasses were erected along its flanks. Several marked "Storage" and almost an equal amount of boxes labeled "Donations," flaps splayed open like spent bloom. A few silk ties gleamed under the moonlight. Apparently, Wilson had been sublimating his inability to help his friend and patient, Tucker, and began paying off his lost wager by packing up the apartment.

House nodded in silent tribute toward the miniature fortress and went to his room, hearing the creaking of a bed as he passed by Wilson's room. House congratulated himself on his wily plan. Wilson needed something to keep him busy right now, get him over this latest loss. Unfortunately, House knew this was only a stopgap measure. At this point, dismantling the Winchester Mystery House might not be enough to distract Wilson. He was coming undone. At the moment, the pushmepullyou of their relationship had the elasticity of a brittle rubber band holding together a decade old love letters.

Sound carries throughout small apartments. Wooden floors and empty bookshelves cause the expanding of wooden joints, scuffling, or even the clearing of a throat to amplify, especially in the early hours of the morning before neighbors wake up and water rumbles through pipes in the walls.

Footsteps and thumps woke House out of his sleep. He crammed a pillow over his head and waited for the racket to abate, but he could still hear and almost feel the echoes vibrating through his bed. Pulling away the covers, he headed to the living room, bracing himself along the wall instead of relying on his cane.

As House reached the living room, he could see Wilson at the small dining room table, the kitchen light illuminating him. He was in his pajamas, hair mussed from sleep, or possibly from tossing and turning. He was filling a box with a cunning tower of pots and pans nesting within each other.

House stood at the opposite side of the table and concentrated his annoyance into two words. "Must you?"

Wilson's head came up. The face tired, dark circles emphasizing the brown eyes that shone with ghosts and shadows, but the voice was evenly calibrated.

"Did I wake you?"

"Of course not. I live to get up at four in the morning to hear jazz played on kitchen utensils."

"Sorry, I couldn't sleep." Wilson said evenly, but did not make eye contact as he returned to the kitchen, pulling open cabinets and plucking out mixing bowls and a lidded casserole. The glass top was reverently wrapped in newspaper. "This was hers."

"Great, now it's yours. Couldn't this wait until I left for the hospital?" House asked, trying the more direct approach to get his point across.

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. "There's still a lot to do."

About to vent a torrent of sarcasm about the ridiculous hour, roosters and cockmanship, an imperceptible vibe caught his attention. Possibly, it was the slight tremor in Wilson's fingers, the hunch of his shoulders, the sideways glance accompanied by a huff of breath. House wanted to bite off his tongue. He had slipped into his everyday persona and forgot he was on call for his best friend.

"Wilson?"

"House, I want to get this done. I-I need to do this."

House stared. He thought this project would do Wilson good, but he miscalculated. This was not what Wilson wanted or needed right now. No more than the twin towers needed jets ripping through glass and steel girders. He didn't want to be Wilson's Wilson, but he had to ask. "How much sleep did you get?"

"Enough."

"Two hours? One or less? None of the above?" House queried. He wasn't backing down.

Wilson planted his hands on his hips in defiance, but his body language stuttered, and the restless hands sought phantom pockets. Finally, he found refuge by bracing his arms against the table, his head lowered as if he was counting the rings of a tree stump, or praying.

"When I sleep, I dream of dead patients." There was silence and a wavering sigh. "And Amber."

"So you see dead people. You're talking to the expert."

Wilson did not look up.

House tried again in a more serious tone, "That's normal. Turner was a reminder about everything bad that's happened in the last couple of years."

"No. You don't understand. The dreams are fine. They're…good." Wilson stood up. His eyes were damp. He attempted and failed at a smile. "The bad part is when I wake up and realize…everyone's gone…again."

Wilson did not wait for a response, but returned to the kitchen, bringing back towels and tucking them in among the pots. He worked as if House had left the room.

To sleep, perchance to dream. Perchance to off oneself. House did not want to hear what Wilson was telling him. He could imagine the little explosions each death caused somewhere within him. "Forget about the packing. I'll call the moving company and have them do it. There's no hurry to unpack either. We can live for six months on paper plates, take-out, and the microwave."

"It's fine, House. Go back to bed. I'll be done by dawn."

"No, Wilson." House moved along the perimeter of the table, cutting the distance between them by half.

"I'll be quiet."

House heard the shake to the voice. Wilson was crumbling. He dared another step.

"Packing gives me time to think."

"Think about what?" House challenged.

Wilson hesitated then answered, his voice husky with emotion, "My relationships, my job. I'm little more than a grim reaper."

Wilson was clearly hurting and House was out of his depth, but he couldn't stand by and watch another tower he had always relied upon to be in his life, collapse into a cloud of dust. His own natural reserve made him self-conscious for lacking less grace than King Kong as he breached the personal space between them. He took a deep breath, pulled Wilson into his arms, and talked softly and reassuringly as if both their lives depended upon it.

"People die. You know that. You've had a run of bad luck and a friend that's a self-destructive jerk, but I'm here for you. Just hang on and we'll work this out together."

.

~fin~

Notes:

The Winchester Mystery House was the home of Sarah Winchester, the Winchester rifle heiress. She began building her Victorian home in 1884, and continued construction until she died in 1922. The house contains 160 rooms.