Melancholy Without Hope

more of arhh 's Amnesia AU for bishojo_kitsune 

                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. 

Written for bishojo_kitsune, who is a pest wonderful friend and wanted more Amnesia fic. This story is part of arhh's Amnesia series and goes AU during the events of Sick

No doctors were harmed in the writing of this story.


Wilson let himself, hesitantly, into House’s apartment. It was as untidy as usual; with the addition of crumpled tissues, water bottles, and a half empty glass of juice on the coffee table in the living room. House was nowhere to be seen, but he could hear what sounded like congested snoring coming from the direction of House’s bedroom.

Wilson quietly walked down the hall, and opened the partially closed door. House was sprawled across the bed, his forehead glistening with sweat. There were once again crumpled tissues everywhere, and a water bottle on the night stand, along with House’s ever present Vicodin. It didn’t look like it was helping the fever the older man obviously had. Wilson wondered how long House had been alone; how long since it had been since his last dose.

Wilson left the bedroom and headed into the bathroom, and returned with a damp, cool facecloth. He placed it on House’s forehead, as he sat on the edge of the bed. He reached for House’s wrist to take his pulse, to make sure it wasn’t too rapid.

The coolness of the cloth and the sudden touch woke House. He startled, practically jumping out of his skin. He croaked out “Who are you? Where’s Wyatt?” He began to cough and reached for the water bottle on the nightstand and drained a fair amount of it.

Wilson watched with a mixture of amusement and worry. What if House really didn’t know who he was? No, he thought to himself, this was just one of House’s poor excuses of a practical joke. “House, it’s me Wilson. You know that, obviously. Knock off the game. It isn’t funny.”

House stared at Wilson, not understanding, or seemingly recognizing the man at all. He quickly reached for one of the crumpled tissues on the bedside table and sneezed violently several times. Wilson looked around to see if there were any more tissues, which of course there weren’t, and reluctantly pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to House. “Here.”

House took the soft cloth and sneezed twice, cringing in pain. He attempted to blow his nose after, but found that it just made his head ache and gave up. He sniffled and stared at Wilson once again. “Wby are you here? Wyadd tolb me whad I did, what happed. Why would you cobe here?” He winced, his leg and his head causing him considerable pain. He reached for the Vicodin bottle and dry swallowed three, not even recognizing the look of disappointment that quickly crossed Wilson’s face.

“I came here; I came here because Cuddy told me to. She told me you had no memory of what happened to Amber.” He paused on saying her name. Amber. “She said maybe if I forgive you, you’d get your memory back. But I don’t think you’ve lost your memory. I think you’re just doing what you always do, acting like an ass!” Wilson’s voice rose as he had gone on and was practically shouting. At that moment, Dr. Wyatt returned from the store and barged in to the bedroom. “What in the bloody hell is going on here?”