House smiled in his sleep.
Wilson watched. He knew their different circadian rhythms were wreaking havoc with House’s usual schedule. He knew he had to leave soon. He couldn’t help wondering what dreams churned through that dangerous mind.
It was good to know he was happy, even if it took unconsciousness to get there.
He knew House’s daylight demons. The dead patients. Stacy. The pain that Vicodin only held at bay.
Did he dream of himself whole? Were there lovers who didn’t betray him? Did every case end with a cure and a solution?
Does he ever dream of me?