Zombie
Title: Zombie
Prompt #54: Wilson isn’t getting enough sleep, and because of the sleep deprivation, he keeps injuring himself in minor ways.
Author: rslworks
Word Count: 2470
Disclaimer: not mine
Tags: accident-misc, insomnia
Running a little late, James Wilson walked briskly through the front doors of PPTH and made a beeline for the receptionist. She saw him coming and pulled his messages, signalling that she was just writing up another one. While he waited, a familiar voice ricocheted off the walls behind him.
“Good morning, people! What a glorious new week we’ve been given! And all of you chose to spend it here with me. I’m sincerely touched!” He roughly shouldered Wilson at the counter before sticking out his hand for his own pink memos.
“Morning House, you’re up early,” Wilson offered listlessly, trying to thumb through his messages. Not usually a problem, today he had to set his briefcase on the floor and use two hands due to the enormous white gauze and tape bandage covering the end of his right index finger. House wasted no time.
“What the hell is that?” he mocked.
Wilson tried to turn away and keep reading but House circled him, staring at the injured finger.
“It’s nothing, House. Leave it alone.”
Yeah, right. House slapped his cane on the counter and grabbed Wilson’s right hand for a closer look.
“What a piece of crap! You used your dominant hand to wrap this?”
Embarrassed, Wilson yanked his hand back and grabbed his briefcase. “House, only you can make me completely exasperated within two minutes of getting to work! It’s a gift, isn’t it?”
Grinning, but signalling capitulation, he tried again. “Come on, Wilson. Let’s heist an exam room and look at that thing properly, shall we. Although it’s a shame I’m going to have to ruin your masterpiece.”
“Give it a rest, House,” he groaned, following him nonetheless.
Wilson had effectively shaved the tip off his index finger with a carving knife the evening before, mistaking it for just another piece of celery. They joked about how they could use the alteration of his fingerprint to good advantage and after painful disinfecting, House applied a more discreet bandage. After tolerating a little more ribbing about his culinary skills and an admonishment to stay out of the kitchen for a while, Wilson thanked House and headed up to his office. While House made light of the finger, he did not fail to notice the puffy pouches under his friend’s eyes.
House went down the hall at two minutes to 12:00 looking for a lunch partner/meal ticket since his own wallet was again conveniently empty. He found Wilson staring intently at his computer screen.
“Must be a fascinating report, cancer man,” he commented as he closed the door. Not getting the usual smart retort, he stepped closer and waved his fingers between Wilson’s nose and the screen.
“Are you asleep with your eyes open? I thought only horses could do that!”
“That’s the sleep standing up thingy, and I wish,” he finally replied, “I keep rereading the same paragraph.” He scrubbed his face with his hands and rubbed his sore eyes.
“Under slept?” House asked.
“Very. Night before last I got about an hour in total, and last night, not a wink. Longest night of my life.” He got up and stretched. Let’s get lunch. I need more coffee.”
While they ate House tried to weasel out of Wilson what was keeping him up nights, but he didn’t seem to have a clue. One thing House did know though, was that by the end of their meal, he was sick to death of hearing his pal yawn between bites of food.
“Do me a favour and take a sleeping pill tonight, will you?”
“No way, House. Those things are unpredictable and habit forming. The natural remedies I’ve tried -“
“Aren’t working!” House snarked. He looked up as the cafeteria cashier came over to them with more coffee, smiling widely at Wilson.
“Oh, Dr. Wilson,” she interjected. “I thought you could use a second cup of fresh black coffee for the afternoon.” She placed it on his tray and patted his shoulder affectionately as he smiled his thanks. House did an exaggerated eye roll and stuck his finger down his throat as the poor woman walked away.
Ignoring this, Wilson argued on. “True, but there are lots of other things I can try before pills.” Wilson gave him a profoundly dirty look and rose from his chair, tray in hand. He must have risen too quickly however because he found himself surprisingly light-headed.
“Whoa,” he closed his eyes.
“Watch it!!” House warned, seeing the tray tilt dangerously.
“Ahhh! Ouch! Damnit!!” Wilson cried in alarm. The entire cup of scalding coffee had washed over his left hand.
The same cashier, her attention still on the handsome oncologist, came rushing over with a cold, wet washcloth, draping it over the hand Wilson now sat cradling.
House instantly plucked it off. “Hey! Is that clean? This is all your fault, by the way!”
He chased her away with his best glare and turned back to Wilson who was rocking back and forth, cursing under his breath.
“Now will you take a pill?”
“No!” he gasped.
The bedside clock read 3:45 am in angry red letters as Wilson checked it for what felt like the two hundredth time that night. He’d inspected the ceiling for cobwebs by moonlight. He’d gotten up and shut out the moonlight so the bedroom was entirely black. He’d forced himself to wait till 9:00 pm to actually get into bed, and he’d had two cups of camomile tea despite the risk of a full bladder getting him up later. The night before he’d tried warm milk which he found rather disgusting and learned that counting sheep was a really stupid thing to do with ones time.
He flopped over onto his back again with a heavy sigh. This is crazy. I have to get some sleep! Why can’t I sleep? He now felt too tired to sleep and too exhausted to get out of bed and do something else. He thought fleetingly about a warm bath but was afraid he might nod off and drown. 3:46 am….
Finally he heaved himself out of bed, the aforementioned bladder making the decision for him after all. When he was done in the bathroom, he parked himself in front of the TV hoping an infomercial or two might bore him sufficiently to send him off to la la land. Somewhere between purchasing a set of steak knives he really didn’t need and scoffing at a line of ‘miraculous’ skin care products he must have fallen asleep because at 7:02 am he was abruptly roused by traffic noises from the street.
An hour later he plodded through the hospital doors and made his way to his office. Despite a stiff neck and dry, burning eyes he was determined to get on with things. He managed to work quite productively at his desk in the hour or so he had to himself before most of his administrative staff and coworkers arrived. Promptly at 9:00 am he called his assistant Catherine and asked her to move as many of his surgeries and biopsies as was possible to another day. Brown could tackle anything that was urgent.
He knew he was being stubborn about addressing the insomnia, but he was far too responsible to risk a patient by walking into a surgical suite anything less than alert. He made rounds, saw a few patients with no difficulty and was back in his office by 11:15. House was waiting for him on his couch.
“Hey,” Wilson offered, smiling.
“Hey yourself,” House replied, checking him out as he shed his lab coat and sat behind his desk. “You seem pleased with yourself. Get any sleep last night?”
Wilson exhaled slowly and rubbed his eyes for a moment. “Oh, maybe an hour and a half. But, I’m here and everything’s under control.”
House had a faintly quizzical expression on his face that Wilson couldn’t quite pin down.
“What?”
“Hmmm?” House feigned.
“Is there something wrong with what I said?” Wilson asked.
“No, not at all. If you’re good, I’m good, but if you don’t shave your face soon, people might have trouble telling us apart.”
Wilson’s hand shot up to his face. “Crap! You’re the first one to say anything. You think anybody else noticed?”
House just shook his head. “You need to get some sleep. You’ve missed more than one appointment with the razor there, dude.”
Point taken, Wilson retrieved his spare shaving kit from a desk drawer and headed down the hall to the washrooms. He heard House say something about getting an early lunch when he was done, but he wasn’t too sure. He was beginning to get very, very tired now and wondered how he would find the strength needed to face the rest of the day.
House and the team acquired a new patient just after lunch, so he forgot being “dissed” in the cafeteria until Wilson trudged into his office about 3:30 pm. The look on James’ face openly dared the team to comment and they simultaneously buried their noses in their respective copies of the patient file. House motioned to his side of the diagnostics room and Wilson fell heavily into House’s favourite chair.
“I sent you to shave your face! What did you use? Some sort of farming implement!”
Wilson just waited, head down, hands on hips in case there was more. When there wasn’t, he looked up at House.
“I think I’ll try that hormone, Melatonin tonight. It’s non-addicting and relatively free of side effects, I’ve read. STOP STARING!! My eyes kept going out of focus!”
House was trying to be good, but his bright blue eyes were moist with suppressed laughter. This seemed to anger Wilson more than outright ridicule and he abruptly got to his feet and tried for the last word.
“If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my office for the rest of the day, soaking the tissue paper off my face!” Howls of laughter exploded from Diagnostics as Wilson turned on his heel and fled.
By the end of the day House’s patient was undergoing treatment favourably and he decided to take a break and check on his harassed BFF. Not finding him in his office, he gave up and decided to use the bathroom instead. Swinging the door wide, he stopped short as Wilson almost staggered into him, trying to get to the door. He looked terrible. Sweat was pouring down his ashen face and he was bent forward in obvious distress.
Frightened, House dropped his cane and grabbed Wilson’s shoulders. “What is it? Are you having a heart attack? Take a breath!” He felt for his friend’s carotid pulse, only to have his hand pushed away and his jacket lapels seized and yanked. “Wilson! What’s wrong?”
“Help...me!” he shrieked, unable to stand up straight.
“Okay, calm down. You’re sweating bullets! If it’s not your heart, where does it hurt?”
It was hard to hold Wilson up without the support of his cane and the two appeared to be doing some awkward dance around the bathroom.
“Oh God! I’m caught…my zipper, it…” he panted, still hauling down on House’s lapels.
Realization dawned on House and he burst out laughing. “You didn’t! You idiot!”
“HOUSE!!” Tears were leaking from Wilson’s eyes.
“Okay, okay! Sorry!” Try as he might the smirk just wouldn’t go away, but he realized he had to do something. “Lay on the floor, you’re almost there anyway. Just let me see how bad it is!”
“Lock the door!” Wilson squeaked out.
“Scuse me?”
“House! Lock it!”
He acquiesced to humour the stricken oncologist and lumbered over to the door. Wilson was holding himself in a tight ball, hands deep between his legs.
“Okay, Wilson. Uncurl. I have to see!” House dropped heavily to his knees and tried to pry Wilson’s hands away. “Calm down before you hyperventilate!” he finally shouted at him.
Wilson’s hands went from his crotch to embedded in his hair, and he tried to lay back.
“Oh yeah,” House began, whistling, “You’ve really done it. There’s a fair bit of scrotum stuck in that zipper!”
“Do something….” Wilson pleaded mournfully, trying not to move anything below the waist at this point.
House scratched his head and sat on the floor to stretch his leg out. “Well, I could get one of the team to run down to the ER for some local anaesthetic and we could try to back the teeth off slow and steady,”
“Yeah?” came a weak response.
“Or, I could use a scalpel and cut the skin away from the zipper and suture you up after - under the same local anaesthetic, of course.”
“Oh, God…”
“Or,” House added, forging ahead, “If you really can’t wait for the cavalry, I can just rip that zipper back down again and hope for the best! Might be fastest, but I can’t guarantee we don’t make it worse.” He shuddered for effect.
“No, please, no,” Wilson moaned, looking utterly wretched. House saw and didn’t have the heart to subject him to more.
“Okay, Jimmy. Seriously, your scrotum - your choice! What do you want me to do?”
He opened his eyes for a moment and looked at House. “Anaesthetic,...scalpel…sutures. May want kids…one day.”
House pulled out his cell phone and called Foreman.
Later, having sworn Cameron to secrecy, Wilson was hidden away in the corner bed in the ER, curtain drawn. Emergency surgery over and done with, James was wearing a hospital gown and resting quietly. He opened his eyes when he heard the curtain swish aside, and House approached, balancing two coffees in one hand. He set them down and raised the head of the bed slightly.
“Where are my clothes, House?”
“Yours is decaf,” he offered, ignoring the question and handing him his coffee.
Wilson looked disappointed but he was thirsty, so he took it anyway and drank deeply.
“Yuck. Decaf sucks,” he complained after a bit, though he had sucked back the whole thing. “Nasty aftertaste.”
“Sorry,” House answered, feigning sympathy, “The 10 mg of Zolpidem I spiked it with probably isn’t helping, either.”
“The what??!”
“Not hearing it Wilson! You can get eight hours of heavily medicated sleep right here in the ER. No more walking dead impersonations. Cuddy’s orders.”
If there was further argument, it was postponed. Wilson had drifted off already, empty cup still in hand. House gently lifted the paper cup from his curled fingers, lowered the bed, and pulled the hospital blanket up around his shoulders. After threatening the night nurse with beheading if anything woke the Chief of Oncology, he limped away; happy in the knowledge the testicle jokes would begin tomorrow.
Prompt #54: Wilson isn’t getting enough sleep, and because of the sleep deprivation, he keeps injuring himself in minor ways.
Author: rslworks
Word Count: 2470
Disclaimer: not mine
Tags: accident-misc, insomnia
Running a little late, James Wilson walked briskly through the front doors of PPTH and made a beeline for the receptionist. She saw him coming and pulled his messages, signalling that she was just writing up another one. While he waited, a familiar voice ricocheted off the walls behind him.
“Good morning, people! What a glorious new week we’ve been given! And all of you chose to spend it here with me. I’m sincerely touched!” He roughly shouldered Wilson at the counter before sticking out his hand for his own pink memos.
“Morning House, you’re up early,” Wilson offered listlessly, trying to thumb through his messages. Not usually a problem, today he had to set his briefcase on the floor and use two hands due to the enormous white gauze and tape bandage covering the end of his right index finger. House wasted no time.
“What the hell is that?” he mocked.
Wilson tried to turn away and keep reading but House circled him, staring at the injured finger.
“It’s nothing, House. Leave it alone.”
Yeah, right. House slapped his cane on the counter and grabbed Wilson’s right hand for a closer look.
“What a piece of crap! You used your dominant hand to wrap this?”
Embarrassed, Wilson yanked his hand back and grabbed his briefcase. “House, only you can make me completely exasperated within two minutes of getting to work! It’s a gift, isn’t it?”
Grinning, but signalling capitulation, he tried again. “Come on, Wilson. Let’s heist an exam room and look at that thing properly, shall we. Although it’s a shame I’m going to have to ruin your masterpiece.”
“Give it a rest, House,” he groaned, following him nonetheless.
Wilson had effectively shaved the tip off his index finger with a carving knife the evening before, mistaking it for just another piece of celery. They joked about how they could use the alteration of his fingerprint to good advantage and after painful disinfecting, House applied a more discreet bandage. After tolerating a little more ribbing about his culinary skills and an admonishment to stay out of the kitchen for a while, Wilson thanked House and headed up to his office. While House made light of the finger, he did not fail to notice the puffy pouches under his friend’s eyes.
House went down the hall at two minutes to 12:00 looking for a lunch partner/meal ticket since his own wallet was again conveniently empty. He found Wilson staring intently at his computer screen.
“Must be a fascinating report, cancer man,” he commented as he closed the door. Not getting the usual smart retort, he stepped closer and waved his fingers between Wilson’s nose and the screen.
“Are you asleep with your eyes open? I thought only horses could do that!”
“That’s the sleep standing up thingy, and I wish,” he finally replied, “I keep rereading the same paragraph.” He scrubbed his face with his hands and rubbed his sore eyes.
“Under slept?” House asked.
“Very. Night before last I got about an hour in total, and last night, not a wink. Longest night of my life.” He got up and stretched. Let’s get lunch. I need more coffee.”
While they ate House tried to weasel out of Wilson what was keeping him up nights, but he didn’t seem to have a clue. One thing House did know though, was that by the end of their meal, he was sick to death of hearing his pal yawn between bites of food.
“Do me a favour and take a sleeping pill tonight, will you?”
“No way, House. Those things are unpredictable and habit forming. The natural remedies I’ve tried -“
“Aren’t working!” House snarked. He looked up as the cafeteria cashier came over to them with more coffee, smiling widely at Wilson.
“Oh, Dr. Wilson,” she interjected. “I thought you could use a second cup of fresh black coffee for the afternoon.” She placed it on his tray and patted his shoulder affectionately as he smiled his thanks. House did an exaggerated eye roll and stuck his finger down his throat as the poor woman walked away.
Ignoring this, Wilson argued on. “True, but there are lots of other things I can try before pills.” Wilson gave him a profoundly dirty look and rose from his chair, tray in hand. He must have risen too quickly however because he found himself surprisingly light-headed.
“Whoa,” he closed his eyes.
“Watch it!!” House warned, seeing the tray tilt dangerously.
“Ahhh! Ouch! Damnit!!” Wilson cried in alarm. The entire cup of scalding coffee had washed over his left hand.
The same cashier, her attention still on the handsome oncologist, came rushing over with a cold, wet washcloth, draping it over the hand Wilson now sat cradling.
House instantly plucked it off. “Hey! Is that clean? This is all your fault, by the way!”
He chased her away with his best glare and turned back to Wilson who was rocking back and forth, cursing under his breath.
“Now will you take a pill?”
“No!” he gasped.
The bedside clock read 3:45 am in angry red letters as Wilson checked it for what felt like the two hundredth time that night. He’d inspected the ceiling for cobwebs by moonlight. He’d gotten up and shut out the moonlight so the bedroom was entirely black. He’d forced himself to wait till 9:00 pm to actually get into bed, and he’d had two cups of camomile tea despite the risk of a full bladder getting him up later. The night before he’d tried warm milk which he found rather disgusting and learned that counting sheep was a really stupid thing to do with ones time.
He flopped over onto his back again with a heavy sigh. This is crazy. I have to get some sleep! Why can’t I sleep? He now felt too tired to sleep and too exhausted to get out of bed and do something else. He thought fleetingly about a warm bath but was afraid he might nod off and drown. 3:46 am….
Finally he heaved himself out of bed, the aforementioned bladder making the decision for him after all. When he was done in the bathroom, he parked himself in front of the TV hoping an infomercial or two might bore him sufficiently to send him off to la la land. Somewhere between purchasing a set of steak knives he really didn’t need and scoffing at a line of ‘miraculous’ skin care products he must have fallen asleep because at 7:02 am he was abruptly roused by traffic noises from the street.
An hour later he plodded through the hospital doors and made his way to his office. Despite a stiff neck and dry, burning eyes he was determined to get on with things. He managed to work quite productively at his desk in the hour or so he had to himself before most of his administrative staff and coworkers arrived. Promptly at 9:00 am he called his assistant Catherine and asked her to move as many of his surgeries and biopsies as was possible to another day. Brown could tackle anything that was urgent.
He knew he was being stubborn about addressing the insomnia, but he was far too responsible to risk a patient by walking into a surgical suite anything less than alert. He made rounds, saw a few patients with no difficulty and was back in his office by 11:15. House was waiting for him on his couch.
“Hey,” Wilson offered, smiling.
“Hey yourself,” House replied, checking him out as he shed his lab coat and sat behind his desk. “You seem pleased with yourself. Get any sleep last night?”
Wilson exhaled slowly and rubbed his eyes for a moment. “Oh, maybe an hour and a half. But, I’m here and everything’s under control.”
House had a faintly quizzical expression on his face that Wilson couldn’t quite pin down.
“What?”
“Hmmm?” House feigned.
“Is there something wrong with what I said?” Wilson asked.
“No, not at all. If you’re good, I’m good, but if you don’t shave your face soon, people might have trouble telling us apart.”
Wilson’s hand shot up to his face. “Crap! You’re the first one to say anything. You think anybody else noticed?”
House just shook his head. “You need to get some sleep. You’ve missed more than one appointment with the razor there, dude.”
Point taken, Wilson retrieved his spare shaving kit from a desk drawer and headed down the hall to the washrooms. He heard House say something about getting an early lunch when he was done, but he wasn’t too sure. He was beginning to get very, very tired now and wondered how he would find the strength needed to face the rest of the day.
House and the team acquired a new patient just after lunch, so he forgot being “dissed” in the cafeteria until Wilson trudged into his office about 3:30 pm. The look on James’ face openly dared the team to comment and they simultaneously buried their noses in their respective copies of the patient file. House motioned to his side of the diagnostics room and Wilson fell heavily into House’s favourite chair.
“I sent you to shave your face! What did you use? Some sort of farming implement!”
Wilson just waited, head down, hands on hips in case there was more. When there wasn’t, he looked up at House.
“I think I’ll try that hormone, Melatonin tonight. It’s non-addicting and relatively free of side effects, I’ve read. STOP STARING!! My eyes kept going out of focus!”
House was trying to be good, but his bright blue eyes were moist with suppressed laughter. This seemed to anger Wilson more than outright ridicule and he abruptly got to his feet and tried for the last word.
“If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my office for the rest of the day, soaking the tissue paper off my face!” Howls of laughter exploded from Diagnostics as Wilson turned on his heel and fled.
By the end of the day House’s patient was undergoing treatment favourably and he decided to take a break and check on his harassed BFF. Not finding him in his office, he gave up and decided to use the bathroom instead. Swinging the door wide, he stopped short as Wilson almost staggered into him, trying to get to the door. He looked terrible. Sweat was pouring down his ashen face and he was bent forward in obvious distress.
Frightened, House dropped his cane and grabbed Wilson’s shoulders. “What is it? Are you having a heart attack? Take a breath!” He felt for his friend’s carotid pulse, only to have his hand pushed away and his jacket lapels seized and yanked. “Wilson! What’s wrong?”
“Help...me!” he shrieked, unable to stand up straight.
“Okay, calm down. You’re sweating bullets! If it’s not your heart, where does it hurt?”
It was hard to hold Wilson up without the support of his cane and the two appeared to be doing some awkward dance around the bathroom.
“Oh God! I’m caught…my zipper, it…” he panted, still hauling down on House’s lapels.
Realization dawned on House and he burst out laughing. “You didn’t! You idiot!”
“HOUSE!!” Tears were leaking from Wilson’s eyes.
“Okay, okay! Sorry!” Try as he might the smirk just wouldn’t go away, but he realized he had to do something. “Lay on the floor, you’re almost there anyway. Just let me see how bad it is!”
“Lock the door!” Wilson squeaked out.
“Scuse me?”
“House! Lock it!”
He acquiesced to humour the stricken oncologist and lumbered over to the door. Wilson was holding himself in a tight ball, hands deep between his legs.
“Okay, Wilson. Uncurl. I have to see!” House dropped heavily to his knees and tried to pry Wilson’s hands away. “Calm down before you hyperventilate!” he finally shouted at him.
Wilson’s hands went from his crotch to embedded in his hair, and he tried to lay back.
“Oh yeah,” House began, whistling, “You’ve really done it. There’s a fair bit of scrotum stuck in that zipper!”
“Do something….” Wilson pleaded mournfully, trying not to move anything below the waist at this point.
House scratched his head and sat on the floor to stretch his leg out. “Well, I could get one of the team to run down to the ER for some local anaesthetic and we could try to back the teeth off slow and steady,”
“Yeah?” came a weak response.
“Or, I could use a scalpel and cut the skin away from the zipper and suture you up after - under the same local anaesthetic, of course.”
“Oh, God…”
“Or,” House added, forging ahead, “If you really can’t wait for the cavalry, I can just rip that zipper back down again and hope for the best! Might be fastest, but I can’t guarantee we don’t make it worse.” He shuddered for effect.
“No, please, no,” Wilson moaned, looking utterly wretched. House saw and didn’t have the heart to subject him to more.
“Okay, Jimmy. Seriously, your scrotum - your choice! What do you want me to do?”
He opened his eyes for a moment and looked at House. “Anaesthetic,...scalpel…sutures. May want kids…one day.”
House pulled out his cell phone and called Foreman.
Later, having sworn Cameron to secrecy, Wilson was hidden away in the corner bed in the ER, curtain drawn. Emergency surgery over and done with, James was wearing a hospital gown and resting quietly. He opened his eyes when he heard the curtain swish aside, and House approached, balancing two coffees in one hand. He set them down and raised the head of the bed slightly.
“Where are my clothes, House?”
“Yours is decaf,” he offered, ignoring the question and handing him his coffee.
Wilson looked disappointed but he was thirsty, so he took it anyway and drank deeply.
“Yuck. Decaf sucks,” he complained after a bit, though he had sucked back the whole thing. “Nasty aftertaste.”
“Sorry,” House answered, feigning sympathy, “The 10 mg of Zolpidem I spiked it with probably isn’t helping, either.”
“The what??!”
“Not hearing it Wilson! You can get eight hours of heavily medicated sleep right here in the ER. No more walking dead impersonations. Cuddy’s orders.”
If there was further argument, it was postponed. Wilson had drifted off already, empty cup still in hand. House gently lifted the paper cup from his curled fingers, lowered the bed, and pulled the hospital blanket up around his shoulders. After threatening the night nurse with beheading if anything woke the Chief of Oncology, he limped away; happy in the knowledge the testicle jokes would begin tomorrow.