Shut Your Eyes (rp for The Eighth Doctor)
Wilson coughed a little and grimaced. He knew he should've been in the dining room by now, according to when he'd told the Doctor they'd meet for lunch. It was certainly around lunch time now, he was sure. It wasn't that bad, he told himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and gripping onto the counter with his other hand. It'd go away.
The lunch he and the Doctor had scheduled wasn't exactly anything important; Wilson just enjoyed his friend's company and wanted to update him on the situation with House. It was certainly the Doctor's right to know that things were a bit better between them after everything else he'd heard from Wilson. And, what's more, Wilson knew he'd be glad to hear that he and House had smoothed things over in some way. But with every passing minute since he'd woken up that morning, Wilson felt worse and worse. He'd expected things to be difficult - after all, he'd spent a very, very long time doing nothing but drinking. As a doctor, Wilson knew what to expect from alcohol withdrawal. That wasn't to say he was prepared for it, though.
Whatever physical symptoms had first presented a few days ago and been noticeable - such as during the encounter with House - were now multiplied in severity. The nausea was making any idea of lunch impossible, and the headaches were bordering on migraine pain now. Worst of all was the shaking. Even as Wilson pushed himself up from where he'd been crouching in front of the toilet, he could feel his arms and hands trembling. There was no ignoring it now. He'd tried to do a crossword puzzle the previous night to keep his mind off it, because his craving was making it harder and harder to sleep, and the pencil just wouldn't cooperate. He'd gotten frustrated and given up, feeling indignant and ashamed of his incapability.
Holding a fork and trying to eat in public this way wasn't something he could even consider. As much as he hated to simply not show up, Wilson suddenly wasn't sure he could leave his room. He hated staying inside it these days, but he knew better than to push himself. The Doctor would understand. God, he felt exhausted. His eyes watered and stung from the convulsions and after rinsing his mouth and splashing his face, Wilson made his way back out of the bathroom. His legs weren't steady and standing was causing the pain in his skull to sharpen, so he crawled onto the bed hastily.
It wouldn't last, he told himself. He could get through it. This was the worst of it, he thought. And he wasn't going to give in. He'd just try and sleep, just try and close his eyes and keep them closed. By tomorrow, he knew he'd feel better. The insomnia, the sweating, the pulsating headaches and the small bouts of fever...this was the height of it. After this, he'd just have to keep his mental issues in check. The physical could only last for so long.
But as he curled onto his side and crossed his arms over his stomach, Wilson was too aware of how sick he felt to shut his eyes. Instead, he stared at the wall and kept his jaw clenched to try and ward off the nausea, unable to think about anything except how very far away tomorrow morning felt. As well as regret the ruined plans he'd made with the Doctor, of course. Images of House going through a withdrawal tenfold the pain and misery of the one he was experiencing flooded his mind and Wilson tried to shut out the guilt. He couldn't digest all of that right now. And he'd get through this. Without House, or anyone, because Wilson didn't care for the idea of being seen like this - trembling and pale. It'd go away. Nothing horrendously terrible.
It'd go away. Chronic drinking wasn't smart and cold turkey was a bitch. But it'd go away.
The lunch he and the Doctor had scheduled wasn't exactly anything important; Wilson just enjoyed his friend's company and wanted to update him on the situation with House. It was certainly the Doctor's right to know that things were a bit better between them after everything else he'd heard from Wilson. And, what's more, Wilson knew he'd be glad to hear that he and House had smoothed things over in some way. But with every passing minute since he'd woken up that morning, Wilson felt worse and worse. He'd expected things to be difficult - after all, he'd spent a very, very long time doing nothing but drinking. As a doctor, Wilson knew what to expect from alcohol withdrawal. That wasn't to say he was prepared for it, though.
Whatever physical symptoms had first presented a few days ago and been noticeable - such as during the encounter with House - were now multiplied in severity. The nausea was making any idea of lunch impossible, and the headaches were bordering on migraine pain now. Worst of all was the shaking. Even as Wilson pushed himself up from where he'd been crouching in front of the toilet, he could feel his arms and hands trembling. There was no ignoring it now. He'd tried to do a crossword puzzle the previous night to keep his mind off it, because his craving was making it harder and harder to sleep, and the pencil just wouldn't cooperate. He'd gotten frustrated and given up, feeling indignant and ashamed of his incapability.
Holding a fork and trying to eat in public this way wasn't something he could even consider. As much as he hated to simply not show up, Wilson suddenly wasn't sure he could leave his room. He hated staying inside it these days, but he knew better than to push himself. The Doctor would understand. God, he felt exhausted. His eyes watered and stung from the convulsions and after rinsing his mouth and splashing his face, Wilson made his way back out of the bathroom. His legs weren't steady and standing was causing the pain in his skull to sharpen, so he crawled onto the bed hastily.
It wouldn't last, he told himself. He could get through it. This was the worst of it, he thought. And he wasn't going to give in. He'd just try and sleep, just try and close his eyes and keep them closed. By tomorrow, he knew he'd feel better. The insomnia, the sweating, the pulsating headaches and the small bouts of fever...this was the height of it. After this, he'd just have to keep his mental issues in check. The physical could only last for so long.
But as he curled onto his side and crossed his arms over his stomach, Wilson was too aware of how sick he felt to shut his eyes. Instead, he stared at the wall and kept his jaw clenched to try and ward off the nausea, unable to think about anything except how very far away tomorrow morning felt. As well as regret the ruined plans he'd made with the Doctor, of course. Images of House going through a withdrawal tenfold the pain and misery of the one he was experiencing flooded his mind and Wilson tried to shut out the guilt. He couldn't digest all of that right now. And he'd get through this. Without House, or anyone, because Wilson didn't care for the idea of being seen like this - trembling and pale. It'd go away. Nothing horrendously terrible.
It'd go away. Chronic drinking wasn't smart and cold turkey was a bitch. But it'd go away.