As the elevator descended, Wilson stared at the floor indicator, praying for it to stop at the lobby and for a crowd of people to step inside. But the elevator continued its descent unimpeded.

The door slid open when they reached the basement, and Wilson stood there, completely frozen. It took a heavy shove from the blond man to get him out of the elevator and into the hall. His heart pounding in his ears, Wilson looked down the corridor hopefully, but it was deserted. Another, not-so-gentle shove propelled him down the hall to the right. He stumbled, barely managing to catch himself before falling to the floor. For a second he considered making a run for it, or calling out for help, but there was something in the man's eyes that said he wouldn't hesitate to shoot him on the spot if he tried anything.

"In there," said the man, grabbing Wilson's arm in a crushing grip and steering him towards the nearest autopsy room. The door flapped silently shut behind them, effectively muffling even the faintest noises from the rest of the hospital. The room was abandoned and sterile, and Wilson knew that, barring a sudden onset of plague, it would likely remain so. Two guttered, metal tables lay waiting to receive the hospital's next tragic ending-a thought Wilson did not find particularly comforting as the gunman flung him crashing into one of them.

Wilson was surprised at how calm he felt. The doctor in him understood that it was just his body's natural response to danger-the 'fight or flight' phenomenon. His body was pumping him full of adrenalin and damping his sensations of fear and pain in order to improve his chances of surviving should it come down to a fight. There was only the faintest ache where his hip had slammed into the autopsy table-an injury that would otherwise have had him doubled over in pain. For that, he was grateful, as well as for the feeling of dissociation that came with it.

Wilson was pretty sure that was the only reason he was able to tear his eyes away from the gun and look the man in the eye. "How much is Vogler paying you this time?" he asked. It was like the words had come out of someone else's mouth-someone who wasn't about to get riddled with bullets.

The man sneered, and it looked like he wanted to spit at the mention of Vogler's name. "Vogler's a chicken-shit. You don't hire a guy like me if all you wanna do is scare someone! Cowardly son-of-a-bitch backed out the minute things got fun."

"Then...why are you doing this?"

The man's sneer turned into an ugly grin. "I got my own reasons. That's all you need to know." They stared each other down for a minute, testing each other's limits, but the blond man's cold hazel eyes never wavered for a second. Feeling like his bluff had been called, Wilson dropped his gaze to the floor, and that was the moment he realised he might not make it out of this.

"On your knees," the man's raspy voice demanded. Wilson raised his head, his deep, brown eyes glassy with fear and anger. But he couldn't bring himself to obey the order.

The punch to the gut was so sharp and came so quickly, that for a second, Wilson was convinced he'd been shot. He barely saw the second punch coming-hard knuckles wrapped around the cold, steel pistol-landing inches away from where the first blow had. Wilson crumpled to the floor, gasping desperately for air.

"You're just as stubborn as your gimp friend," came the man's voice from above him. "Now get on your knees, or I'll do to you what I did to him."

Wilson glowered up at the man, and with what little air he'd managed to coax back into his lungs, he bit back; "Fuck you!"

A booted foot collided with Wilson's ribs, and he curled into a tight ball on the floor. But his assailant wasn't about to let him nurse his pain. He felt the man's fingers fisting in his hair, and with an eye-watering yank, Wilson was forced up onto his knees.

The man released his hair from his grip, and with the other he pressed the gun firmly to Wilson's temple. "Now take out my dick," he ordered, jabbing him with the gun just to remind him that he was serious.

Wilson looked up at him, his eyes seething with hatred. He had little choice- even if he hadn't been hurt, he couldn't hope to escape without getting shot. Every breath he took filled his chest with razor-sharp pain, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead as he tried to control his rapid breathing. His hesitation won him a blow to the temple with the heel end of the pistol. Not hard enough to knock him down, but enough to break the skin. A hot stream of blood trickled down his face to pool at his collar.

"Don't make me repeat myself," the man rasped. With unsteady hands, Wilson unwillingly set to work on the other man's belt buckle. His awkwardness made the man chuckle. "Don't tell me you've never done this...pretty mouth like yours?"

Raw hatred flared up in Wilson's eyes only to be instantly replaced with a look of complete shock. Out of the corner of his eye he'd seen movement; the door was flapping shut, and standing only a few feet away was House. His eyes were murderously dark, his cane raised like a baseball bat, and his whole body was tensed, poised to attack. To Wilson, he looked amazingly like an enraged grizzly bear, reared up on its hind legs with its claws bared in a ferocious display of protectiveness.

The blond man hadn't heard or seen House approach, but he had noticed Wilson's reaction, and it was enough to make him twist around to look behind him. House swung his cane with everything he had, and it impacted with the man's chest with a satisfyingly loud whump. Stunned, the man staggered back a step, but he was still within striking distance, and the second swing of the cane caught him squarely on the jaw, knocking him off his feet.

Wilson was too stunned to move at first, watching House land blow after blow with his cane, turning his victimiser into his victim with every strike. But when the man stopped moving, Wilson grew alarmed. He knew that if he didn't stop House now, he'd keep on going until the man was dead. Even though a large part of him felt the guy deserved it, he couldn't allow his friend to ruin his life and his career in a moment of unthinking rage.

"Greg!" he said, getting to his feet. "Greg, stop!" He cautiously approached his friend, worried that in his state of blind fury, House might unintentionally direct his aggression towards him. When he got close enough, he gently laid his hand on House's shoulder. "Greg, you can stop now. I think you won."

The cane stalled mid-air as Wilson's words penetrated the fog of rage in House's mind. He looked at Wilson with slow-dawning recognition.

"Wilson..." He glanced down at the bloodied heap on the floor and back up to his friend. "I had no choice-he would have..."

"I know. I know," said Wilson, surreptitiously guiding his friend out of cane's reach of the man on the floor, in case he got it in his head to start in on the guy again.

For the first time since he got there, House had a chance to take a good, long look at his friend, and size up the damage. "How bad did he hurt you?" he asked, peering into Wilson's eyes critically. Pupils looked okay...probably no concussion.

"I'm fine," Wilson answered automatically.

House's forehead crinkled up doubtfully and he cautiously dabbed at the blood trailing down his friend's face. "Wanna try that again? This time with feeling."

"I'm fine. Really," said Wilson, but he was finding it hard to make eye contact with him. Those intense blue eyes saw everything-knew everything he'd been through...and then some. The shock of the attack was starting to wear off, and Wilson was beginning to process what had just happened to him. He felt shaky, both physically and emotionally, and all it took was a friendly hand on his shoulder for him to fall apart completely. He found himself leaning into House's open arms, feeling guilty for accepting comfort from a man who'd been through so much worse. It didn't seem fair, and Wilson tried to push away from him.

"Stop squirming, you moron. This is for your own good." House rubbed wide, reassuring arcs across Wilson's back, breathing in the scent of him as he held him close. In a near-whisper, he added; "And mine."

House held Wilson until he stopped shaking, and then led him further away from the groaning debris on the floor. House wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed that he hadn't killed his attacker, but he had no doubt he would have finished the job if it hadn't been for Wilson.

As they were slowly making their way to the door, it suddenly swung open and two bulky security guards entered, with Cuddy close behind. She took one look at Wilson's bloodied face and started running towards them.

"My God! Wilson! What happened to you?" she asked, immediately checking him over for other signs of trauma.

"You should see the other guy," said House, nodding his head towards the human wreckage lying on the floor behind them. "He's a real mess."

As the security guards brushed past him to get to the blond man, House added: "Feel free to use excessive force-I did. Did I mention he has a gun?"

Cuddy steered Wilson and House out of the autopsy room and into the elevator, although she wasn't even sure they were aware of her presence-they seemed to be in a world of their own. She couldn't help noticing the proprietary nature of House's behaviour towards Wilson. He wouldn't so much as let her get near him, physically shielding him from her whenever she tried.

When they arrived at the lobby, more security guards had shown up, squeezing past them to get into the elevator. They then had to fight their way through a throng of concerned staff members who'd gathered to see what was happening. Suddenly House's shielding of Wilson made perfect sense, and Cuddy gave him a hand, taking point and ploughing a path through the field of onlookers.

"Get back to work, everyone," she commanded. "Everything's under control." That got rid of most of the people, who were not about to risk their jobs for the sake of curiosity. The remaining few stragglers were too concerned over Wilson to listen to Dr. Cuddy, and could only be avoided by ducking in to the nearest clinic exam room.

Cuddy stood with her back against the door to prevent anyone else from coming in. She watched House fuss over Wilson, settling him onto the exam table and gathering supplies to see to his wounds.

"So...who wants to start?" she asked them.

House looked up from his suture tray with a frown. "Start what? 'Cause if you're thinking 'spin the bottle', then you can count me in."

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'truth or dare'. Emphasis on the 'truth' part," Cuddy replied.

House and Wilson looked at each other, holding a silent conversation. House's eyes pleading for Wilson to say nothing, Wilson's eyes pleading for House to say something. Not surprisingly, it was Wilson who cracked first.

"There's nothing to tell. The guy followed me into the elevator and held me at gunpoint. And if House hadn't shown up when he did, I'm pretty sure he would have killed me."

"Uh-huh," said Cuddy. "Don't get me wrong-I believe you-but that doesn't explain how House knew to call security, or why the man who attacked you had House's old cane." She stood with her arms crossed, letting them both know that she wasn't going to be satisfied until she had all the answers.

Wilson felt like a kid who'd been dragged in front of the principal for something he didn't do, and he looked to House for help. But House was 'occupied', filling a hypodermic with lidocaine, and was no help at all. So he was left to handle Cuddy on his own, a task he was most definitely not up to at the moment. "I...uh... That is, House... Hang on," Wilson said, turning again to House, "how did you know to call security?"

"I saw him getting onto the elevator," said House.

"But how did you know Wilson was in danger?" asked Cuddy. "Do you know this guy?"

House shifted his weight self-consciously, his brow furrowing as he evaluated the situation, trying to decide how much of the truth he should tell her. "I met him once. I guess you could say he really made an impression on me."

Cuddy didn't know what to make of House's bitter smile or of Wilson's sudden inability to look at her, but she knew there was a lot more going on than they were telling her. "The police are on their way now, and they're going to want to talk to you," she said, looking at House. "Is there anything you want to tell me before they get here? Do you need a lawyer?"

"No. He doesn't need a lawyer," said Wilson, coming to House's defence. "The man had a gun to my head-House did what he had to to protect me."

"He nearly beat the man to death with his cane!" exclaimed Cuddy.

"I have anger management issues," said House flatly.

Cuddy threw up her arms in exasperation. "I'm getting you a lawyer," she said. "And I strongly suggest you start taking this seriously." She was halfway out the door when House called out and stopped her.

"Cuddy, wait," he said.

Cuddy stepped back inside, closing the door behind her and turned her attention to House expectantly. She was surprised to find her chief diagnostician uncharacteristically at a loss for words. He kept looking over at Wilson, as if he was drawing support from the other man, and Wilson was doing his best to provide it.

Clearing his throat, House took the plunge. "That guy in the basement-the guy that attacked Wilson... It's the same guy that attacked me a few days ago. Vogler hired him to threaten me..."

Cuddy snorted out a laugh, but quickly stifled it. "Sorry," she said, her eyes bright with amusement. "But you expect me to believe this is all about you and Vogler?"

"Actually...it is," said Wilson, his earnest brown eyes meeting Cuddy's.

"I've got the bruises on my ass to prove it," said House. "Wanna see?"

Cuddy looked from House to Wilson and then back at House again, her face a mask of doubt. "Vogler?"

"I guess I must have done something to really piss him off," said House with an innocent shrug.

"So he sends a goon to beat up Wilson?" she asked sceptically.

Neither one of them could answer her. Wilson wasn't sure of the answer, himself, and House didn't think he was ready just yet to let her in on the whole story.

Cuddy shook her head at them. "Just get your stories straight. And House, if you do have proof that this man attacked you, you're going to have to come out with it. If this man's as dangerous as you suggest, then the more evidence we have against him, the better."

House nodded like a child being reprimanded in front of the class. And the second she was out of the room he winked at Wilson. "Thought she'd never leave," he said and went about preparing his sutures.

Wilson watched him, his mind slowly going through the events of the day, trying to make sense out of it all. "You knew he was going to come after me, didn't you?" he asked, and winced as House daubed at the cut on his temple with an alcohol wipe.

House said nothing, pretending to be too busy to hear him.

"That was the call you got last night, wasn't it? That was why you rushed over to my place in the middle of the night in your bare feet."

House remained stubbornly silent.

"Why didn't you tell me? My God, House! How could you not have told me I was in danger?" He batted House's hand away from his temple and glared at him angrily.

House attempted once more to finish cleaning the cut on Wilson's head, only to have his hand batted away again. He sighed. "Sit still," he said, "or you'll end up looking like Dr. Frankenstein sewed you up."

"Don't touch me," Wilson snapped at him, beating House's hand away for the third time.

"Suturing through telekinesis?" asked House facetiously. "Cool concept, but I don't think my ESP skills are up to it."

"House! I just had a gun put to my head! He could have killed me! If you'd warned me...hell, if you'd gone to the police in the first place..."

"I know!" House snapped back. "This was all my fault-you don't think I know that? I thought I could handle it myself. I thought no one else would have to know. I thought...I thought I could protect you..." House's voice cracked, and he brought his hands up to Wilson's face, holding him steady so he couldn't look away. He wanted him to know that he meant what he was about to say.

"I'm sorry," said House, his throat so tight that the words came out as a croaky whisper.

Wilson, who had never heard his friend utter those words sincerely, was stunned out of his anger. A long moment passed, a quiet moment in which they shared their regrets and their forgiveness, and by the end they seemed to come to a new understanding of each other. And as House's thumbs brushed gentle strokes over Wilson's cheeks, they were drawn together-foreheads meeting, noses bumping softly, quickened breath mingling, until at last their lips found each other.

Wilson circled his arms around House's waist, pulling him closer as his tongue explored the other man's mouth. With all of the trauma he'd gone through that day, he felt as if he'd found safe harbour in House's arms, and he clung to him tightly, even though his ribs protested, just to assure himself that it was real.

They were so lost in each other that they didn't hear Cuddy come in until she cleared her throat. Wilson jumped at the sound, and when he saw her standing there, he could feel the heat rising up to colour his cheeks. House simply looked at her as if he was merely annoyed at the interruption.

"The police are here," she said, trying in vain to appear as if she wasn't shocked by what she'd seen. "They're waiting outside to talk to you, House."

"I'm not done with Wilson, yet," he said.

"I'll take over," said Cuddy, and quickly added, "the stitching!" before House could suggest otherwise.

House eyed her suspiciously. "Alright, but keep in mind that I'll be checking for lipstick and hickies when I get back."

Once House was gone, Cuddy picked up the lidocaine and approached Wilson, who squirmed uncomfortably on the exam table, avoiding her eyes.

"You call that being discreet?" she asked.

Wilson looked up at her guiltily, his mouth open, ready to explain, until he realised that she was smiling.