House nor Wyatt followed Wilson to the front door. They heard his footsteps echo through the apartment and the front door close shut. House reclined against the headboard, his breathing labored, as he had to breathe through his mouth since he was so congested. He attempted to blow his nose again, but it was too much effort and caused him too much pain.
Wyatt poured him a glass of juice and gave him some Sudafed. “This should help,” he said. House downed the pills and the juice and snorted at Wyatt, which caused him to sneeze again. “Bless you,” Wyatt said, slightly concerned. “I should have taken your temperature before you drank the juice. Oh well. It will have to wait. Why don’t you try to rest?”
“Whabt, no lectdure about whabt was gobing on width Wilsond?”
“Would it matter, Gregory if I were to offer my opinion on the matter?”
House rolled his eyes at the use of his proper name.
“No, I suppose it wouldn’t,” Wyatt continued. “You need to get some rest. Sleep now and I’ll have some nice soup ready for you for when you wake up.” Wyatt gathered the bags he had brought in and headed out, closing the door gently behind him.
House laid back and stared at the ceiling. His head was killing, his leg was killing, and he felt like shit. He hated being sick in general, and being sick and in pain just made him even more irritable. Tack on a bus crash, killing his best friend’s girlfriend, and now losing said best friend, and it made for an unusually miserable House. He sighed, and continued to stare at the ceiling, and waited for sleep to overtake him.