House doesn't even see the punch coming. He crumples to the floor, more dazed than hurt. AS he rubs his head, he sees Wilson, bent double, clutching his right hand. It's unbelievable.
"You idiot. Who punches someone in the FOREHEAD?" Wilson can't answer, his features are contorted with a combination of pain and sheepishness. "Is it broken? It's broken, isn't it. Come on."
House retrieves his cane and forces himself to his feet in stages. He grabs Wilson's wrist and gives it a dispassionate inspection. "Fourth metarsal. Boxer's fracture. Let's get an X-ray. AT least it's your right hand. Have you NEVER been in a fist fight before?"
They are halfway to the ER, and HOuse has already given him lessons on the proper way to throw sucker punches, discussed the pros and cons of casting the fracture, and arranged for vegetarian take-out ot be delivered to the ER before Wilson even has a chance to speak. He opens his mouth to say something, and then thinks better of it.
This. This is what he has missed.