House MD Fanfiction

Bang, Bang

Hilson, not!smut, 1,665 words
By: bananacosmicgirl

Bang.

Bang.

That was all he knew, all he’d heard. He hadn’t been in the clinic – when was he ever in the clinic? – so he wasn’t there to see it, to see the madness, the madman, the gun and the shots. He hadn’t seen the bullets, fired in rapid succession, traveling through the air and hitting the target standing the closest as that person tried to protect the ones behind him.

Always protecting.

He only saw it now, the picture frozen before his eyes, a black and white photograph with red details – far too much red… He stared, unable to move, and he wasn’t really needed, because there were doctors, other doctors, already working on the fallen—

On Wilson.

There was a pain in his chest, and for a brief moment, he wondered if he was having a heart attack, but no, that wasn’t it. This was just— this was the feeling of his heart breaking at the sight of his best friend, lying unconscious in a pool of his own blood. One bullet had come far too close for comfort to his heart, the other one ripping through the right side of his stomach – House noted this as the doctor he was, though the thoughts were distant.

He couldn’t begin to think about what it could mean – though he worked at a hospital and saw death every day, he’d never thought much of it, not in terms of Wilson. Wilson didn’t die. He wasn’t supposed to. Wilson was supposed to be there, always, for House. If anyone was going to die, it was House.

His heart stopped when Wilson’s did, although the doctors didn’t shock House as they did Wilson. They had him on a gurney now, working quickly and efficiently, though House wanted to scream at them to work even faster.

Goddamn it, Wilson couldn’t die.

They wheeled him away and House followed, leaning heavily on his cane to stay upright at all, his legs barely supporting him.

A hand on his arm and—

“House, perhaps you should—”

House snarled, no words forming, because for once, he didn’t know what to say.

Cuddy didn’t look surprised; she’d had to say something, had to do something, and telling House he didn’t have to run after Wilson was one thing to do when she felt helpless. The rational part of House’s brain knew this, but that part was rarely in control and definitely not right now.

But then there wasn’t much more to do but wait. They – his colleagues, he supposed, though he had never and would never view them as such – had wheeled his best friend into surgery and now House could do nothing but watch from observation as they sliced into his skin and tried not to fuck up too much.

Wilson’s heart stopped twice, and House couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t even pray, because he’d always said there was no God, and why should he start now, when God was obviously absent – he’d let Wilson get shot!

When the hours had passed, when they had sown Wilson back together again, when his heartbeat showed steadily on a machine and ventilator helped him breathe, House could finally sit by Wilson’s side and stare, and wonder why he was sitting there at all, because it obviously didn’t help. He’d snap cruelly at anyone attempting to talk to him, anyone suggesting that maybe perhaps he should go home, because no, he shouldn’t, he should be here, by Wilson’s side, because that’s where he belonged. That’s where he’d always belonged.

The doctor in him kept careful track of Wilson’s vitals, studying the chart and the machines, knowing what drugs they were keeping him on, knowing how long he would sleep because of them.