It's nearly a week later when House barges into Wilson's office unannounced, knocking the door shut behind him with his cane, not seeming to notice or care that Wilson's on his way out, file in hand. "I was talking about the drugs."

"When are you not talking about the drugs?"

"The thing. I said. I was in pain, you ordered drugs."

"House."

"So it wasn't 'I love you' in an 'I love you' sort of way. It was in an imminent morphine sort of way."

"House."

"I don't love you."

"House."

"Just so we're clear."

"How's your hand?"

"Crispy."

"You're an idiot.

"So you've pointed out, repeatedly."

"It doesn't take me a near-death experience to be able to admit that, House."

"I don't have any morphine."

"Lie to yourself all you want, but we both know it's not about the drugs."

House looks at him for a long moment, but his eyes drop first, and all he can do not deny it as he edges for the door.