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Down A Dark Hole
by gena
He hated mornings. He hated that last little shred of unconsciousness that lingered just long enough for him to recognize it as being pain-free before the whole collapsed like a blackhole around him, drawing him deep into a world of hurt. House bit back a moan and tried opening his eyes.
"Thank God," a male voice breathed beside him. Normally a male voice coming from the vicinity of his shoulder, breathing those two words in his ear, meant Jimmy had stayed the night. Unfortunately the voice wasn't that of Wilson and once his eyes were partially open House figured out they were nowhere near his bed. That was both good news and bad. Good, because going to bed with Eric Foreman wasn't something he planned to do any time in the near future and waking up beside him in a place not his bed meant - House wasn't sure but knew instinctively it was a bad thing. "House? Can you hear me?"
"You're speaking, aren't you?" House meant it to come out with his usual snapping sarcasm but he was surprised by the breathy, whisper-like quality his voice seemed to have taken on. And even then that surprise came a close second to the fact he was lying on something cold and lumpy and the pain in his leg was really only a dull ache compared to the sweeping wave of agony radiating up from his chest and back and sticking at the base of his skull.
"Just lie still," Foreman ordered and House was only too happy to comply. He closed his eyes, forcing his brain to link everything up to this point. He remembered - a patient. Some woman with - an - infection. They needed to find out the source. Yes, he had sent Foreman - no, he and Foreman had gone to his place place. "House, I'm pretty sure you've got a couple of cracked ribs," Foreman said. "You might be bleeding internally, and more than likely you've got a concussion." House sucked in a shallow breath and let his mind search through his body for all possible injuries. He found the ribs with no problem since they were a red hot poker grinding against his chest wall. His head felt as if someone had buried an ax in the middle of his skull which made thinking a real challenge and his leg felt as if someone had jabbed a knife down to the bone and then twisted it around. All in all, about an average day. When he could summon the strength, he opened his eyes again and looked at Foreman.
"Headache. Ribs are cracked," he wheezed, adding, "but no vital fluids being bandied about. You?"
The younger doctor was lying on his side, facing House, his dark skin looked ashen even in the shadowed light and blood covered the right side of his face like a mask. House could hear the strain in his voice when he answered, "Fractured talus, pulled ligaments." House slowly lifted his arm, it seemed weighted down, so heavy just dragging it made him pant with effort and that in turn sent the fiery rod crashing about inside his chest again. "You need to lie still," Foreman admonished, sounding for a moment like his normally pissed off self.
"No, I need this," House gasped. His hand closed over the pill bottle in his jacket pocket. It took a lot longer than usual to pry the cap open using just his thumb and snaking one finger down the mouth of the bottle nearly caused him to drop it but he retrieved two Vicodin from the nearly empty bottle and began the slow process of lifting them to his lips. An eternity passed in swirling black dots before his eyes but then the cool little shapes were between his teeth and he was crunching them with a sigh of relief. "Want - one?" He asked, lifting the bottle to where Foreman could see it.
"I don't-" Foreman broke off with a grunt of pain. "Yeah," he said, sounding breathless, "yeah, gimme one." House forced himself to move, holding the bottle out. Foreman took one, swallowed and fit the cap back on before placing it in House's jacket pocket again. They lay silent for a while, just the sound of their ragged breathing echoing off closed in walls and high overhead the occasional sound of a bird.
House let the Vicodin do its job and as the pain began to fade he could concentrate on what had happened. They'd come looking for something. He remembered talking to Wilson about a patient. Was that today? Images kept shifting inside his brain; the whiteboard, a woman, his team arguing. The woman had an infection - he'd wanted to know the source. He remembered making fun of Foreman, implying he kept working for House because it honed his break-in skills not his medical ones. There'd been more discussion - or abuse - depending on who you asked, then House had decided to accompany Foreman on the adventure. Wilson had popped in, listening in his usual affable way and offering his own take on the situation. He'd even volunteered to come along on this one since all he had on his plate was paperwork. House fought down a spurt of gratitude that he'd declined that offer, if something happened to Wilson - he pushed the thought away before it could form. They'd headed out, Foreman wanting to take the sports car he drove to compensate for all kinds of shortcomings but House had goaded him into riding bitch on his bike. "Where are we?"
"You don't remember?"
"I'm not sure. We searched the house and then -" He couldn't quite reconcile where they were with how they'd gotten there. "This is a tank of some sort?"
Foreman edged closer, his hand brushing House's face, his dark eyes suddenly large and staring into House's. House glared, then winced, pain flaring as his ribs protested the slight movement. "A neighbor told us about these storage tanks, how the kids use to play in them." He paused, obviously waiting to see if House remembered. "We were checking out the possibility Mrs. Henderson had searched down here for her son, Charlie, some time within the last month."
"There was a sound," House said slowly, "something cracking. We - fell."
"Right through the rotting boards," Foreman confirmed. His hand settled on House's forehead again but House found the strength to knock it away.
"Shit," he growled. "We fell and now we're doc-in-a-can."
"Something like that," Foreman agreed. He propped himself up on both elbows, careful to keep his left leg from moving as he looked around.
"This is just great. I can't believe I'm stuck in a hole," House griped, "Of all the things I could have planned to waste my day doing, this is bottom of the list, literally the bottom. I could be perfecting my yo-yo tricks, highlighting my hair, harassing people, so many fun things to do but instead I think I'll just idle away the hours lying here staring up at the - is it getting dark?." He was silent a moment, breathing as easily as he could after his rant and waiting for a wave of dizziness to abate.
"Yeah," Foreman said. "You've been out for a little while." He didn't need to comment on how worrying that might be. The warm glow of afternoon sun was giving way to deeper blue, the shadows inside the tank turning a velvety black along the walls. House turned his head, gaze sweeping over shadowed walls before looking up at the hole overhead. They'd walked across the tank without realizing it, grass and weeds hid the rotting wood planks but there, right above him, was what appeared to be an old trap door. It had given under Foreman's weight and House, off balance on the suddenly slanting wood, had toppled in after him. He could remember a bright flash of pain as he hit the lip of the trap door on the way down, obviously the source of his cracked ribs and concussion. The neighbor had described the tank as an old cellar but it appeared much larger than a normal cellar would be, about ten feet square, and a little deeper. It had a dirt floor covered with all kinds of debris; rotting piles of wood, old furniture, trash, clothing, and broken bottles. The concrete walls were damp and covered with mold and the unmistakable scurrying sound meant rats and other vermin had made the place their home. House saw that he and Foreman had landed in the only place where a fall might not hurt as bad as it could. They were lying on a mound of dirt and clothing, a tattered mattress stuck out from the tangle of fabric and it was that which had probably saved their lives. Foreman saw his scrutiny and said, "You landed on me."
"It's why I keep you around," House said. "Neurologist and landing pad. You try your cell?"
"Yeah, no signal."
House struggled with his, frowning at the little screen. "I think you weren't the only thing I landed on." He shook it a couple of times then tossed it down beside him. A small shiver passed though him, sending another jolt of pain through his chest and head. With the sun going down it was getting chilly inside the dank chamber. He looked over at Foreman and saw he, too, looked cold. "Can you reach that paper?"
"Yeah," Foreman wheezed, scooting himself a few inches on his elbows, grabbing a bundle of newspaper. House fumbled inside his jacket again, drawing out his lighter. Wilson always condemned his habit but House figured even the oncologist wouldn't fault him at this moment. He braced his ribs with an arm and pushed himself up. "Goddamnit!" he hissed and tried to control the spasm going through him. He couldn't draw a breath as the pain reached a crescendo, caught and held like a piercing note, all he could do was ride it out. It set his head to pounding harder and his stomach lurched, almost emptying with a gagging gasp.
"House," Foreman growled.
"Shut up," House wheezed. "I know what can happen." A punctured lung wasn't something he wanted to experience but despite the way it seared away his breath he could tell it hadn't happened. He closed his eyes, riding out another bout of dizziness. Cracked ribs were nothing, barely a blip on his notice, it was the growing pain in his leg and back that had him worried. He couldn't move his right leg at all and his left tingled as if it had fallen asleep. He handed over the lighter. "Hope you weren't just the token black kid in Scouts."
"I wasn't." Foreman made short work of starting a small fire. It wasn't much but it warmed the cool air. "I got a merit badge."
"And an arson record?"
"Do you ever shut up?" Foreman glared at him and with the firelight gleaming on his dark skin, his mouth a grim line and his eyes full of some simmering emotion, he looked very intimidating.
House wisely shut up, leaning back on his elbow. He frowned, looking around the tank again and asking, "Where are we?"
"House?" Foreman paused, squinting through the flames at his boss. "You okay?"
"Of course," House snapped. He blinked in the dull light, looking around. "We're in a hole," he murmured almost to himself. "I want out."
"They'll find us. I mean it's not like we -"
"Fell off the face of the Earth?" House suggested. "It's pretty much exactly like that. God, I hope some moron doesn't steal my bike while we're rotting down here."
"Is that all you're worried about?"
"No, I'm worried about the ozone layer, the rain forests and world peace," House said. "But none of those cost me five Gs."
"I thought Wilson paid for it," Foreman said. He'd tried to avoid the whole House & Wilson Weird Relationship thing, but the money-bike-patient part of it had been shoved in his face at the time. Why House would need to borrow money from Wilson was beyond him, the man made a fortune as one of the top diagnosticians in the country. Of course, more disturbing was the fact Wilson would willingly hand over the money with no signs of physical coercion, blackmail, or obvious mental problem. No, Foreman corrected himself, being House's best friend was more than enough proof that Wilson suffered from some kind of mental deficiency.
"Had to give the money back," House growled, sounding more pained than the ribs could account for. He waved a hand vaguely, "Wilson likes to make my life difficult." A shiver ran down his spine and he stifled the groan that threatened to break free.
"By loaning you money and expecting it to be paid back?" Foreman surmised. He shifted around, using some of the trash to elevate his throbbing ankle. "I'm sure your bike will still be there when they realize we're missing."
"Did you see those people?" House said with scathing accuracy. The area, not all that far out of Princeton, looked like some third world country; old rusty cars on blocks, crumbling buildings, and barefoot kids. In truth he'd felt a little apprehensive about the neighborhood himself, but would never admit it. House hadn't seemed too concerned, but he never seemed to fear any situation and nothing kept him from being his usual abrasive self even faced with the possibility of some kind of mob violence. House did a little shifting of his own as he tried to find a more comfortable position. Foreman studied him, House appeared to be hurting despite the Vicodin, he was obviously dizzy and every time he moved his right leg he'd made a small sound of pain. If he could keep House talking they had a good chance of getting out of their predicament without serious complications. Still, being down in a dank hole wouldn't be good for him. "When people have nothing but want and an opportunity to alleviate some of that presents itself in the form of a cool motorcycle, not a big stretch to think they'll take it."
Foreman bit back the urge to throw something tangible at House and instead settled for, "So you know poor people, huh? Your fancy pilot daddy take you down to the ghetto to visit the poor kids?"
Even in the slowly dimming light Foreman could see his expression; the normal why-do-I-have-to-put-up-with-idiots face he wore when doing a differential diagnosis. "I grew up roaming the streets of Cairo, crawling through bombed out buildings in Germany and Japan - places still devastated by war more than a decade after it ended. I've seen more poverty than you'll ever see and I know how people react when they want something. Don't play the poor-me card, Foreman, it won't work."
Unwilling to be baited like that Foreman changed tact "We'll be out soon. Wilson and Cameron knew we were checking out Mrs. Henderson's environment," Foreman pointed out, "one of them will be worried about you." He hadn't meant for it to come out sounding quite so - petulant. Did he really care that despite being a complete bastard House had people who actually cared for him? In fact, for a misanthrope House had more than his share of people who looked out for him; Wilson, Cameron, Cuddy, while he had to fight and claw his way along without aid. It rankled in a way Foreman couldn't even describe. His father would claim it was some kind of Divine Will, God's way of demonstrating there was good in even the lowest of creatures but Foreman was convinced it was because House must be a good lay. The rumor mill practically ran on stories of Cuddy and House having not only done it but produced some kind of hideous love child. And then there were the stories about him and Wilson; those were actually more believable than House and Cuddy, Wilson at least seemed devoted to him. And he couldn't count out Cameron, if her looks held any more longing she'd wind up in the next county over.
"My fan club," House said as if reading his thoughts. "I'm sure Cameron will be hiring bloodhounds within the hour."
"And Wilson?" Foreman shot him a knowing look.
"Jimmy will pine," House said, with a dramatic sigh followed quickly by a small gasp. "Whenever we're apart he goes into a decline. Sad really. Makes him want to go out and get married just to avoid the heartache of being alone."
Foreman snorted a laugh. "Yeah, Wilson is like that." Stars could be seen twinkling distantly overhead. "I think Cameron gets a little jealous, you know?"
House tossed a bit more trash onto the fire, building the flame and causing sparks to rise like tiny earthbound stars wishing only to join their kin. "It happens."
"Do you love her?"
House looked startled. "No."
"You love him?"
Both expressive eyebrows climbed, and House's blue eyes rounded. "Why, Eric, are you insinuating I might not be as straight as the proverbial arrow?"
Foreman ducked his head, suddenly interested in feeding the flames himself. After a pause he cleared his throat and said, "I'm just saying you and Wilson appear - close. It's natural to wonder - how close."
House gave a weak shrug and the silence between them stretched until finally, in a voice barely audible over the crackling flames, he said, "You ever have a best friend? I never did - before." Foreman had wanted House to talk just as a precaution with the concussion, though he would probably be easier to deal with in a coma, but this weird, almost confidential thing was kind of freaking him out. He hadn't expect an answer - no, he realized, he hadn't expected a real answer and the fact that House had offered one made him wonder if the situation in which they found themselves was more serious than he'd assumed. He risked a glance over at House, his eyes appeared nearly black in the firelight and there was something in his expression that made Foreman almost feel sorry for him.
"My best friend in high school, Terrence, he was everything my parents were afraid I'd become," Foreman said, "I idolized him." He could feel the weight of House's gaze settle on him from across the flames but the older doctor didn't respond. "He taught me to boost cars, and went with me when I broke into the Felker's house." He gave a nervous laugh, "I got caught but Terrence grabbed the shiny and hightailed it." He stopped, remembering that night, the fear of what his father would do to him had been nearly paralyzing, more so than his fear of going to jail. But damn, the look on Terry's face when he'd agreed to do the break-in, the respect in those dark eyes had made him feel invincible. "I did my stint in juvie but by the time I got out - Terrence had been killed in a drive-by."
He heard House draw a breath and though he knew what was coming still flinched. "Very sad, you two being star-crossed lovers and all. You had a whole Romeo and Juliet-scared-straight thing going for you - except for the straight part."
"Yeah," Foreman sighed and whatever he felt for House slipped back inside like a kicked dog. "That's my deal."
"Oh come on," House snapped. "Why would you feel something for him? He didn't accept you unconditionally. Your buddy used you, ran out on you and left you to face the cops. If you hadn't gotten caught Wilson would still be raggin' me to hire Affirmatively."
"You don't know shit, House," Foreman snapped but somewhere in the back of his mind he could picture Terrence's eager face, his gaze riveted not on young Eric but on the bag filled with jewelry and cameras. They fell silent, each staring into the meager flame, watching it flicker against the encroaching dark. Foreman sighed, and saw House shiver again then press both hands to his forehead. "Okay?"
"Cold," House said. Foreman saw him wince, hands clutching at his head for a moment as he groaned, "I didn't do anything wrong." His voice sounded lighter, younger, as it echoed off the walls. Foreman blinked, caught off-guard by House's sudden non sequitur. He'd moved closer, peering at House through the meager flames. House had begun shivering almost continually and looked pale and drawn, his breathing rasped painfully in his lungs and Foreman realized House hadn't shifted his legs in over an hour.
Foreman frowned. "House, is your vision blurry?"
"If I need a neurologist I'll let you know," House snapped.
"We both know you need a neurologist," Foreman muttered, "I bet your parents wanted your head examined as a child." House eased himself down so he way lying on his back, head turned towards the small fire but his eyes were closed.
"My folks thought I was - special," he said almost smugly, giving the last word particular emphasize.
Foreman froze, taken aback. He'd often entertained the notion that there was something - different - about House's mind. The man was a genius, no doubt about that, but the way he perceived the world, the way he thought and processed thought was unlike anything Foreman had ever encountered. House exhibited some of the basic characteristics of mild autism like limited social skills and obsessive behavior and Foreman had even seen him show sights of stimming; the repetitive movements some autistic children used to combat too much stimuli. To anyone who had ever watched House bounce his tennis ball off the wall or twirling his cane, or sit curled over his cane tapping his forehead on the smooth handle hour after hour, it would be a normal assumption. Still, he didn't lack language skills, just the opposite in fact with a command of nearly a dozen foreign languages and a way with English that could peel varnish at ten paces.
"I can see how they would," Foreman said. House gave a wheezing chuckle. "I bet you were a handful."
"Let's just leave it that my parents only had one child for a reason," House said still smiling.
"My parents wanted a dozen, but it's just me and my brother," Foreman said quietly.
"That would have been rough," House said, brows raised in disbelief, "she can't remember the names of just two kids now."
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Foreman shouted. "My mom has Alzheimer's. Why is that something to mock?" Fist balled, Foreman struggled not to lash out.
"Because it's holding you back."
"Holding me back?" Foreman opened his mouth, shaking his head in an attempt to form some kind of answer. "Holding me back? My god, why do you think I chose neurology? I want to understand what's happening to her. I want to discover a way to bring her back!"
"You want to save your mommy from the darkness," House mocked. "How? By working for me? By taking Marty's offer when I piss you off too badly? No, that's just what you tell yourself." House paused to get his breath. He closed his eyes and went on, "You're too scared to face the fact she's not going to be saved, Foreman. Nothing you can do about it."
"So I should just make jokes and get on with my life?" Foreman knew arguing with House was like trying to toss a net over a wild animal, just when you thought you had him he darted off in an unexpected direction.
"Do wha'cha want," House slurred. "Just don't pretend you're doing this all for your mom. You can't hold on to her," House said and his voice, though soft, filled the dark corners of the tank. "Someday there might be a cure but it won't come in time to save her, don't fool yourself into thinking it will. It'll come from someone who throws convention back in your face and says "what the hell?"
"That's not me?" Foreman asked.
"You're too rigid, you think in safe terms. I'm trying to break you of that bad habit." House broke off, breathless from his rant and went back to rubbing his brow. "Your respons-sibility is to people you can save. Life is life, Foreman. If you're alive you're still in the game."
"And able to make jokes out of tragedy."
"One of the perks - of being alive," House admitted. He let his hand drop from his head. "Don't treat the disease as if it is the person, it's not." He fell silent, leaving Foreman to think about what he'd said. Foreman looked up at the slice of night sky so far overhead, watching stars that seemed to wink just as mockingly as House. They'd been down there over six hours as far as he could estimate, night had fallen and with it the temperature. The small fire they'd managed to build had eaten up most of the fuel close enough for them to reach and Foreman could feel the cold seeping deep into his bones, sapping his strength. House had to be feeling it even worse, he'd take two Vicodin, but cracked ribs and a concussion would be causing him agony by now. Foreman looked around for the hundredth time, he longed for the cozy warmth of his bed but could see nothing that would help get them out of there. House made a muffled sound of pain and shifted restlessly.
"House?"
"Don't get your hopes up," House panted, "I'm still breathing." He voice shook a little and when Foreman looked over at him House had his arm curled protectively over his chest, his face looked ashen and he couldn't stop shivering despite the clammy beads of sweat clinging to the hair around his temples.
"I don't think anyone's going to find us tonight."
"That's a shame," House said. He sounded exhausted but he managed to extract his pill bottle, "Cause I'd always imagined going out in a blaze of glory - two hookers, a full bottle of scotch and Coleman Hawkins on the stereo." His arm shook violently as he lifted it to swallow the last pill. "Guess it'll just be you and my cor-corpse in the morning." He sighed. "Tell Wilson he can sell my stuff. Maybe it'll make up for all the money I've scammed off him over the years."
"You're giving up?" Foreman asked incredulously. "After all that shit about still being in the game."
"Not my rules," House said. "My body has been in the penalty box for a few years now." He closed his eyes against the dying firelight and sighed. "What do you call a cow with no legs?"
Foreman stared at him. "House? You're not making sense."
"Ground beef," House said. "It's a joke, Foreman."
House making a joke just seconds after insinuating he wouldn't last through the night - yes, things were normal. Foreman cast around for something else to stave off the silence, the cold and the darkness creeping closer and closer. "I think Chase and Cameron are having it off with each other." He heard House shift again and when he looked over saw he'd opened his eyes. He normally didn't care to speculate on his co-worker's sex lives, but dire times called for dire methods. "I was in the lab waiting for Connor's results on Tuesday and Cameron came in all flushed."
"That's not proof," House pointed out.
Foreman smiled, "Two minutes later Chase came in and I noticed they had on the wrong lab coats." He paused and his smile got wider. "Chase had on Cameron's and Cameron had on Chase's."
House breathed out a pain filled laugh and his eyelids fell shut. Foreman grinned. The tiny fire flickered, causing the shadows to dance wildly and the tank felt even colder. "I hate being cold," House whispered. Foreman had to lean closer to hear him. "Too many nights sleeping - outside."
"Sleeping outside? House, stay awake. Keep talking." Foreman hitched himself a bit closer, gently shaking House's shoulder. "Why did you sleep outside."
"Toughen up." The way he said it sounded like he was imitating someone, not mocking them.
"Your dad?"
"The Colonel," House corrected.
"He made you sleep outside?"
House shuddered, "Punishment. Hate the cold." The flames flickered again and then like the last of their hope, went out, and the cold crept forth to fill the darkness.
***
James Wilson scrawled his signature on the last line of the last form of the last file and tossed his pen down with a sigh. He could feel the mammoth headache lurking behind his tired eyes just waiting for any excuse to burst through his skull and tried to contain it with both palms pressed firmly against his closed eyelids. He drifted along on the exhaustion of a full case load and no time off. Bone weary. His mom use to say that and he realized now that was exactly what he felt - as if his bones had turned to jelly and if he attempted to stand any time soon he would be reduced to a sweater vest covered puddle under his desk. He dropped his hands from his face and picked up a bendable giraffe figure and twisted its legs into knots. All afternoon he'd been antsy and restless, starting a dozen projects and unable to concentrate on any of them. Something felt off, he felt off.
With a resigned sigh he tossed the plastic toy into the heap of other similarly knotted figures and opened the bottom desk drawer. He spent a minute pawing through his collection of antacids, cold medicine, muscle relaxers, his inhaler, prescription bottles, absently noting he needed to refill his sleeping pills, before finally picking out the bottle of migraine medication. He downed the small pill with a sip of cold tea, and forced himself to relax. House called him pathetic for expending all his energy on hopeless cases and as the years went on and it took a greater and greater toll, Wilson found himself wondering if his friend might not have a point. He pushed that thought away and files were soon collected, put in order and tucked into his briefcase. He dug deep, found the strength to get to his feet, grabbed his coat and headed out the door.
A lone figure sat in the Diagnostic Medicine conference room staring at the list of symptoms on the whiteboard. Wilson pushed open the door and walked inside. "Where's House?" He asked, peering into the darkened office.
Cameron tossed him a look over her shoulder. "I thought he left."
"No," Wilson said, wandering over to frown at the list, fitting pieces together but knowing he didn't possess the rare genius solving this mystery required, "We're going out to dinner." He pretended not to notice the tightening of her lips or the quiet disapproval in her eyes. "I don't know why he gets so caught up when we have plans." He ran a hand through his hair as the headache ratcheted up another notch. "Damn."
"It's his job." Cameron's patronizing smile didn't hide the pointed nastiness of her tone. "Solving the puzzle means everything to him." She went back to studying the whiteboard but Wilson could see her hands clenched into fists.
"Not everything," Wilson reminded her and a wave of satisfaction swept through him when Cameron flinched. Neither spoke again, Wilson stood there deciding if letting House stay the night on his office floor would be worth the petulant and spiteful attitude he'd be greeted with tomorrow morning. Something on the table caught his attention. "Isn't that Foreman's?"
Cameron glanced over, her brows rose to her bangs. "Yeah, that's his briefcase. He must have forgotten it."
Wilson felt something in his gut tighten as the unease which had been with him all day gathered force. "Have you seen either of them since they came back from their reconnaissance?"
Cameron met his eyes and for the first time in a long time Wilson didn't see anger, just fear. "No," she whispered. "I haven't."
Foreman's car sat in his parking space but the handicapped slot near the hospital entrance held only the telltale marks of burned rubber. Wilson squatted like some urban guide and stared at the thread pattern. Cameron reigned in the urge to roll her eyes; Wilson always took his role of House Whisperer too seriously. "They should have been back by now," he said quietly but his words echoed in the still night air like the tolling of a bell. He rose, dusted his hands and headed for his Volvo.
Cameron trotted to keep up. "I'm sure he's fine. I mean, Foreman is with him, what could happen?"
"Do I really have to answer that?" Wilson stopped at his car, looking at Cameron. "Do you want something?"
"I'm coming with you."
"No, you're not."
Cameron crossed her arms and glared at him. "If," she stressed the word, "something is wrong you might need help." Wilson looked as if he wanted to argue but with a resigned sigh he nodded and unlocked the doors, waiting until she had belted herself in before heading out of the parking lot. They drove in silence for several blocks before Wilson reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his cell. He hit the speed dial and waited as it rang.
"We should call the police, not House."
"Who says I'm calling House," Wilson said. "I thought I'd order a pizza. You like pepperoni?" After a minute he snapped his phone closed. "Foreman isn't answering. Damnit! If I panic and call the police he'll kill me." He drummed his fingers on the wheel as they waited at a light. "It's better to check this out," Wilson said, nodding to himself, "he might have just gotten a lead on something. Help will be only a few minutes away if it's something I - we - can't deal with." Having reassured himself, Wilson glanced over at Cameron. She spared him a look then pulled out her own phone and also hit speed dial. Wilson sucked in a deep breath through his nose, holding it until he could force his shoulders to relax. More road passed in stony silence before Cameron closed her phone and tucked it into her pocket, never looking at Wilson though he raised an inquiring brow in her direction. She fiddled with her seatbelt before impulsively reaching for the radio. Wilson couldn't hide his smirk when the speakers blasted Zepplin at deafening levels. "Sorry," he shouted and snapped it back off. "House is nothing if not consistent."
"I suppose his being missing is his fault too," Cameron said.
"More than likely."
Cameron continued to fume in silence as Wilson drove. His headlight cut a swath through the darkness and just when it seemed the hum of his tires was the only sound in the world she spoke again. "You're not special," she said. "You do know that? I mean, there are other people who get him."
"Yes, I know," Wilson said a bit distractedly. He slowed the car, peering at a road marker before signaling and turning. "There are whole university courses churning out House experts. I once set in on lecture called "The House Lexicon". Mind you I thought it was something about Superman, little did I know it would change my life."
"How can you be so flippant?"
"It's easy when the only alternative is being a bitch," Wilson snapped. "Look, Cameron, we really don't need to fight right now. House needs help, we both agree on that, let's leave it there."
"One of these days you'll be wrong," Cameron said.
"I usually am," Wilson said. "He's not some broken soul you can mend with love and a caring heart, Cameron. He's arrogant, greedy, petty and thinks he's above the laws set for mere mortals. Sure, he's suffered, he's in agonizing pain everyday, he's always felt alone and unloved but he uses it to get what he wants - what he needs, just like we all do." The road passed through a shabby neighborhood and Wilson slowed again to check the address he had written down. "You look at me and see someone who shoves House around, manipulates him for unknown reasons but that has never been the point of our friendship. Do you honestly think House doesn't know when I manipulate him? House, the master manipulator? He would have dropped me a long time ago if that was what I'm about." Wilson shot her a glance, his gaze assessing her willingness to believe him. "What House and I have isn't something you'll understand. I don't always understand it myself, but I know it works. He doesn't need pity or sympathy, he needs someone like him, someone capable of taking his crap, someone who can deal with it and move on." He took a deep breath. "Never think I don't care. I'll do everything in my power to protect him, and if you never believe another word I say, believe that." He pulled to car over and killed the engine. "Now we can sit her while you berate me for being a shitty friend or we can get our asses out there and look for him and Foreman." He waited, brows arched like question marks.
Cameron opened her door and stepped out. Wilson shook his head and followed. He'd meant it when he said she wouldn't understand, but he and House had never relied on understanding to make their friendship work. It was a matter of balance; light and dark in equal proportions. His good kept House's bad in check and vice versa. "2115 Dover, right?" Cameron called, already stepping over broken glass and faded plastic toys as she approached the Henderson house.
"Yeah," Wilson said. The front door of 2115 opened before either had gotten to the door and an old woman stood glaring at them. "Uh, good evening. I'm Doctor Wilson and this is Doctor Cameron," he introduced them. "We're looking for our colleague, Dr. House. He was here earlier."
"That crippled guy with the cane?" She opened the door a bit, and her glare softened to mulish disapproval.
"Yes, that would be him," Wilson said. He knew the bare porch light probably made him look jaundiced but he gave her a beguiling smile, the one he'd once used when the nights got too long to spend alone.
"Him and that black guy went to the tank." She gave Wilson a crooked smile, her fleshy cheeks flushing orange under the light. Cameron shot him a irritated look, though he wasn't sure it was because he'd gotten the information or the fact he'd used his charms to do so.
"Where exactly is this tank?" Cameron demanded but it only earned her a glare.
"Is that - near here?" Wilson chimed in, drawing the woman's attention back to him.
She looked down at the porch for a moment as if to gather her thoughts then said, "No, not far. Go down the end of the street and along that dirt track. You'll never see them in this dark, but there's some lumps. That's the trap doors. Kids been playin' down there for as long as I can remember. I told that crippled guy he best not try it, warned him he'd bust his ass. You know what he said?" She didn't wait for a reply. "Said it was his ass, and I should keep my nose outta it!" Her scowl broke apart, replaced by a grin. "He's a bastard but he's gotta point."
"Yes, he usually does," Wilson agreed with a smile. They thanked her and walked back towards the sidewalk. "You still up for this?" Cameron nodded. "I'll grab a light." He popped the trunk and dug out the flashlight he kept in his emergency kit and then they headed off in the direction the woman had indicated. A cold wind had sprung up, blowing trash around their ankles as they stumbled along the cracked and uneven sidewalk. Shivering, Wilson buttoned the top button of his overcoat and quickened his pace. If he was cold, House would be freezing. House hated to be cold. Wilson remembered other nights, nights when House had come home shivering and only the combined heat of their bodies wrapped around each other in his big bed had warmed him. He wished they were in House's bed, and he was holding House in his arms but Wilson told himself they would be snuggled together soon enough.
The only illumination came from a lone streetlight which cast a small pool of faded yellow light half way down the block. "I hope we don't need an ambulance for ourselves," Wilson muttered tripping over a raised slap of concrete. The sidewalk ended with the street, and their path was barred by a battered board fence. A wide section had been removed and they could see the faint outline of a path disappearing among the tall weeds. Wilson led the way, the sweep of his flashlight a feeble weapon against the darkness but the pair kept on. It was a good five minutes walk before they saw the shadowed humps which indicated the entrance to the tanks. "Stay behind me," Wilson ordered as he carefully searched the ground for any sign of House.
The sign, as it turned out, was easy to spot, it was an orange motorcycle and it was parked along the side of the path about fifty feet further on. Wilson saw it first and took off running, heedless of the dangerous ground or the fact he'd left Cameron stranded in the dark. "Oh, shit. Oh, shit," he kept repeating as he slid to a halt beside the motorcycle. His heart lurched inside his chest, clunking unevenly against his ribs and making him fear his knees would buckle when it stopped. Wilson eventually reigned in his panic enough to reach out and touched bike, needing even that fleeting connection to House. "Wilson! Wilson!" Cameron stumbled up beside him, glaring. "What the hell are you doing?"
"They're here." He swept the light around, moving carefully now that he knew they were close.
"House!" Cameron called. "Foreman!"
Wilson threaded a path through the weeds towards the nearest of the mounds. He could see a shadowy rectangle beneath the tangle of foliage and cautiously moved towards it. An ominous creak reverberated through the still air, coming from under his feet, and he jumped back. "Cameron, here!" Wilson played the light over the area. Weathered boards appeared ghostlike in the beam, their gnarled and battered surfaces visible through the weeds, and more chillingly, he could the pale scars of newly broken boards. "House! House!" Wilson threw himself on his belly, wriggling out over the weakened boards like an eel. In the distance, like the drone of traffic and insects, Cameron's voice rang as she called for help.
"Wilson!" Cameron cried. A portion of the boards groaned and sagged beneath him, but Wilson continued crawling, hearing nothing over the roaring in his ears. He spread his legs, arms wide as he struggled to distribute his weight over a wider area and pulled himself to the edge of what appeared to be a trapdoor.
"House!"
"Wilson!"
Wilson held the light and peered over the lip of the hole. At first he saw nothing but trash; broken things abandoned and forgotten by time and nature, but then a face appeared. "Foreman! Are you all right? Where's House?"
"He's here." Wilson moved the beam, letting it sweep the floor around Foreman until he could see the pale oval of House's face. "He's unconscious," Foreman shouted. "We need to get him out of here now!"
"Hold on!" Wilson looked around, mind racing as he sought anything that would help. There was nothing - nothing that would get him down there.
"I can do it," Cameron said. He twisted to look back at her. "I'm lighter; I can swing out over the edge and drop down." Her eyes bore into Wilson's. "I can do it. I'll make sure he's okay." Wilson clamped his jaws shut, fighting down the anger until he could speak.
"Yes, okay." He looked back down at Foreman. "Cameron is coming down there. We've already called for help but she'll assess you both." Foreman nodded and Wilson crawled back from the hole. He stripped off his coat, holding it out to Cameron, "Here. Put this around House." He handed over the flashlight and gave her a quick hug. She looked up at him, biting her trembling lower lip, her eyes soft with emotion. "Be careful," he warned and could only watch as she got down and crawled over the rough terrain. Cameron heaved herself over the rotting wooden edge, both hands gripping tightly to the lip, dangling over five feet above the floor. With a small cry she let go. Wilson, holding his breath, waited.
"Okay," Cameron shouted up to him. He could here sirens far in the distance and nearly spun in half a dozen circles as he decided to go direct them, changed his mind when he heard House groan, caught the sight of a hovering police chopper, heard a shout from somewhere back in the neighborhood, and finally realized he couldn't bring himself to move away from House if his life depended on it.
))))))))
The knock on his door barely registered, he could have easily ignored it but Wilson had reached saturation point for paperwork. "Come in," he called and sat back in his chair. He half expected Cameron to appear on his threshold, her normal vacillation between contempt and jealousy having been tipped to curiosity on House's condition but it was Foreman shifting nervously in his doorway. "Foreman. What can I do for you?"
The young doctor hobbled inside, his shiny crutches and pristine cast adding to the awkwardness with which he entered. "I just wanted to ask you something."
"Sure," Wilson said. He rose, moved the chair in front of his desk a bit further out and waited for Foreman to sit before he perched on the edge of his desk. "How's the ankle?"
"Clean break," Foreman said with a grimace. "I figure House will be bitching about me imitating him," he said, and held up one of the crutches.
Wilson laughed. "They say it's the sincerest form of flattery." Foreman shook his head, grinning a little but as quickly as his amused expression appeared it faded.
"I have a question," he said, and tapped the rubber tip of the crutch on the floor a couple of times. "When we were down there,"' he darted a glance up at Wilson who nodded encouragingly. "House said something and I was just - wondering - How much you know about House's dad?"
Wilson went cold inside, barely seeming to breath for a moment. "The Colonel," he corrected automatically.
Foreman's head shot up. "That's exactly what House said."
Wilson got to his feet and moved around to sit behind his desk. "What story did he tell you?"
"Story?"
Wilson pinned him with a sardonic smile. "He didn't tell you he was punished with ice baths, did he? Or that he had to sleep in the yard when he did something wrong?" He kept his tone light, his smile open and slightly amused. He was good at that - at the faade. He'd long ago mastered the art of appearing calm while inside his brain was boiling.
"None of that is true?" Foreman asked.
Wilson heaved a sigh. He fumbled the pen he'd started to pick up as his left arm jerked and said, "You know House and authority. His idea of abuse is not getting his way." He shrugged, "His father isn't a sadist, he's a Marine."
"You're sure?"
"Why? You think being abused as a kid would account for all of House's problems?" Wilson laughed, locking gazes with Foreman and willing him to believe. "Nothing that simple, I'm afraid. If you want to know the truth, his father made him go camping. House hated it. They slept in a tent and he had to wash up in creeks and lakes. House likes his comforts, you know. He wanted nothing to do with roughing it, he wanted to stay inside and play his piano." Foreman continued to stare at him, then with a derisive snort of laughter got slowly to his feet. Wilson watched him.
"I guess being beaten by his dad would be too pat an answer," Foreman said and started to leave. At the door he turned around, "But House usually says the simplest answer is often the right answer."
"Not this time." Wilson held his gaze. Foreman looked thoughtful then gave a slow nod and left.
***
He slid open the door and stepped into House's hospital room. It was like stepping back in time, his gut flipped and for a second Wilson feared he might pass out, it all seemed so familiar - so horribly familiar. Movement from the bed had him hurrying forward. "Hey," he called softly and smiled when House opened his eyes.
"Hey," House croaked.
"Brought you a present," Wilson said and held up the bundle he carried. "Heating pads."
"And people say you're cruel and heartless," House rasped.
"No, they say that about you," Wilson reminded him with a gentle smile.
"Oh yeah, I get us confused."
Wilson moved to the end of the bed and lifted the blankets, carefully placing a heating pad over House's feet. He received a blissful sigh as thanks. "If you want I can put one under your butt."
"You always tell me I have a hot little ass," House said.
"Yeah, but you know how turned on I get when it's all rosy pink." House returned his smoldering look. Wilson activated the heating unit, made sure it was a safe temperature and eased him up enough to slip the heating pad under him. House wiggled comfortably. The nurses had given him extra blankets and the room itself was warm but Wilson knew being down in the tank for so long would have left House feeling miserable even if he didn't have three cracked ribs, a sever concussion and a pinched nerve in his back. "Better?" Wilson asked, taking a seat beside him and reaching for his hand.
House closed one eye and squinted at him. "You're being awfully solicitous. Are you angling for some life affirming sex, `cause I gotta tell you you're running a distant second to this heating pad."
"The thrill is gone, obviously. Funny, my honeymoons always used to last longer."
"You're losing your technique," House informed him then gave him a thoughtful glance. "Unless you want to climb in here and warm me the old fashion way."
"And run the risk of Cameron finding us," Wilson held his free hand up, palm out, "No, thank you. I like my balls where they are."
"Funny, so do I. Tell Cameron to get her own and leave yours to me," House replied with a smirk. He sighed and closed his eyes again, reveling in the warmth which seeped down inside his body and chased away the aches. It seemed like forever since he had been warm, and lying there cocooned and safe felt wonderful. IVs kept most the of the pain at bay, his ribs only complained when he breathed too deeply and the pain in his leg was the familiar dulled knife point recognizable as extreme agony blunted by major drugs. He liked that part, the pleasant dreamy feeling that made the room glow and Wilson look so appealing that if he'd been able he could have come just looking at him. Only his head continued to defy whatever was slithering down into his veins, it wasn't threatened to explode at any moment but his skull still throbbed with each beat of his heart.
"You remember what happened?" Wilson asked. House frowned. When he'd come to in the ER the staff had asked him all kinds of questions but everything had remained frustratingly fragmented. He'd barely been able to remember his name for the first few hours but now after almost twenty hours of rest, fluids and warmth things were coming back to him.
"It was satratoxin," House said.
Wilson frowned at him. "A mold off - wet building materials?" House nodded. Wilson frowned again.
"Diagnosis," House clarified. "Patient? Any of this ringing a bell with you?" Wilson shot him a look meant to scorn but House just said. "There was a pile of wet lumber in the corner."
"So, anything else?"
House sighed and closed his eyes, searching back through the jumbled images that popped like bubbles when he tried to catch them. Light had slowly faded and with its departure the world had slipped into a place that tormented his nights, and haunted his memory. Darkness. Pain. Darkness, pain and cold sucking him down. House tried to pull away but it felt as if his head had slipped under icy water and he gasped, rising up of the bed in an attempt to keep breathing. White hot anguish tore through his chest and then Wilson was holding him, pressing him back down. "House! Easy, it's okay. It's okay." He relaxed, warmed, panting but sucking in air, not water. Wilson leaned over him, his voice clam and gentle. "It's okay," he said again.
"What - did Foreman say?"
"About?"
"What did I tell him?"
Wilson shook his, "It's fine. I took care of it, House," he said, holding House's eyes, willing him to see the truth of what he was saying. "You don't have to worry." He looked away finally; gaze focused on the darkness outside the window. "House," he said softly, "You ever think we can forget the past? Do you think if we pretend it's like - like a coat, we can just shed it when the season changes?"
"When did you become such a Pollyanna?" House followed his gaze, staring into the black with an intensity that had little to do with the night sky. "No, Wilson, it's not apparel, it's the marrow in your bones, it's the DNA in your cells. You can't escape it, you can't change it."
"But you can live with it," Wilson pointed out. He took House's hand in his, feeling the calluses from his cane, knowing they represented unimaginable pain, but like everything else about House he loved them for shaping his friend into the man he was now. He gazed at House's profile wondering which story people would prefer to believe. Did it matter? House was in pain either way and this was just another strand of his DNA, it was who he was after all.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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