Chapter 6

Later

"Oh my God," whispered Cuddy, her eyes wide, her hand over her mouth. Wilson was just staring into space. Both were in complete shock.

Millionaire business man Robert Thompson was dead. Shot dead in a car park. No one mourned his death. He was found over twenty four hours later, face down in the dusty ash felt. The police suspected organized crime. They had been monitoring his activities for some time. They told no one, but obtained a warrant and sent in a team to search his house to confirm their suspicions before his contacts were alerted.

It had been a junior agent who had stumbled across them. She had been assigned the dreary job of checking through his movie room, while all the more senior agents were rifling through Thompson's office. She was listlessly going through the DVDs when she noticed an entire shelf of movies entitles Greg House. Puzzled, she stopped. She vaguely remembered a case a few years back about a Doctor sentenced for murder called House. Why would Thompson have DVDs labeled House? Intrigued she selected one at random and put it into the player. They found her hours later, still staring at the television, tears running down her face; in her hands was the contract.

The enormity of what House had done begun to sink in. Wilson looked at the contract in disbelief. It was signed in blood. He could smell it. His eye was caught by his own name: James Wilson, then, further down, he saw Cuddy's name and the word 'terminate'.

That was what he had been hiding, protecting, all this time: their lives.

"D… does he know," stammered Wilson. Then realizing how stupid he sounded he tried to clarify. "I mean about Thompson's death?"

The detective nodded slowly. We brought him up here yesterday. We thought he wouldn't be safe in the jail.

"Why not?" asked Wilson.

"Have we been through all the records of the people Thompson paid off?" Jones asked as she walked into her boss's office.

"Jesus no – have you seen how many there are?"

"Then we need to go through them right now. I think we have a bigger problem. He just asked me the date," she said.

"So?" replied the older man impatiently.

"He asked me what year it was."

She continued. "He didn't even know who the President is."

Caffrey's eyes widened in realization. "Do you mean that if Thompson set up all that other bullshit and the murder…" he trailed off in shock. "What did he arrange for him in prison?"

"Boom shakalaka. Boom shakalaka. Boom shakalaka."

House started at the chanting coming from the corridor. He drew the blanket tighter around himself and tried to burrow further into the corner. Oh please; not him; not tonight, he thought as his fear kept time with the chanting. He really really didn't want to be 'extracted' this evening. He pulled the blanket over his head and gave himself a few more precious moments of dark quiet time as he breathed in the hot heavy 'under the blanket' air.

"Boom shakalaka. Boom shakalaka. Boom shakalaka."

In his office Thompson watched the television, poured himself another brandy and laughed.

"Do you mean he's here… now? Can I see him?" asked Wilson.

"Tomorrow. He's up in the hospital now, but I think you should. He doesn't seem to believe it is true that Thompson's dead and he doesn't trust us much," said the detective.

Wilson sat nervously at the table, staring at the empty bolted down chair on the other side of the cold filthy depressing interview room. God this place was horrid. Was this what House had endured the last few years.

The first thing he noticed was the limp. House could barely walk. He nearly twisted sideways with each step as he leaned on his cane… cane? It looked like a couple of bits of plastic PVC piping stuck together. And to his dismay he saw it was attached to House's wrist with a handcuff and a chain.

House looked up when he entered the room and faltered. Wilson noticed a fading black eye before he quickly lowered his gaze, keeping his head down as the officers helped him to his seat and bolted his leg irons to the floor. It sickened Wilson to see House like this. But of course he was Gregory House: for the moment - the dangerous cripple convicted of a murder so savage that he had to be caged and chained like an animal.

They sat there. Not looking at each other. Not saying anything. Wilson didn't even begin to know how to talk about this. Eventually he decided to stick to the tied and true. He broke the silence in the usual way.

"I like the new cane. Very stylish."

House eyed the pathetic plastic pipe chained to his wrist. "Yeah," he said softly. Both men remembering that day in the office when Wilson had broken House's cane and wishing they hadn't.

Wilson motioned to the bruise. "Who'd you piss off?"

House looked startled for a moment as if unsure what Wilson was referring to, until realization dawned. "Oh this… This is a must have prison accessory," he said slowly, as if unused to forming sentences. His voice was raspy and dry.

He gave a small smile that did not reach his eyes. "The doors I have to walk into to stay fashionable," he trailed off, aware at the feebleness of the attempted joke. Wilson watched House shift uncomfortably and noticed the pain behind his words.

Wilson had seen the hospital report of the scan they had just done on him. He had seen some of the videos too, but he would never tell House that. House was a proud man. After seeing the things he had gone through Wilson knew he would never want anyone to see him like that.

So many broken bones. So many bruises on him even now – old and new. Some of his fingers had been broken three times each. Partially blind in one eye. The burns… and there were even scars from a whip across his back. All those so-called 'falls' were now explained. All those sick days. He felt sick himself. What had House been going through – alone, unable to ask anyone to help him? It was only a stupid random act of fate that had saved him from having to endure this for the rest of his life. How ironically like life.

It explained so much. When House had gone to prison Wilson had received a letter saying everything in House's apartment was his – including Steve. Although not wanting to he had gone over to the apartment. It was still a shambles, abandoned. He had walked through the dark cool rooms, trying to imagine House's life. Everything – the TV, kitchen, and the bed – was a forgotten mess.

Only the piano was clear. And slap bang in the middle of the shiny black surface of the piano was Wilson's key. He knew it was his because House had scratched a W into it with Julie's best kitchen knife and broken the tip off it. Fueled by beer they'd laughed at the time, but he'd got yelled at by Julie. Greg House was a bad influence, she'd said. He was a troublemaker and uncaring selfish bastard. How wrong had she been, he thought now?

He had picked up the key and looked at it thoughtfully, turning it round in his hands.

In the bathroom he had found enough medical supplies for a MASH unit. He had been bewildered then, but now he understood.

The silence fell again, broken only by the soft tinkling of House's leg irons as he shifted his bad leg. It stretched on. Wilson stared at his hands. He noticed they were shaking slightly.

He was surprised when House was the first to speak.

"Jimmy," he said softly.

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

At this Wilson looked up sharply and was about to reply. This was the last thing he had expected. And there was that 'Jimmy' again. But then he noticed House's hands were shaking too and he stopped. Little Jimmy Wilson, the boy wonder oncologist, had always noticed things about House.

House could tell everything about everyone just by looking at them, but Wilson was the only one who could do it back to House. To him House was a walking talking open book. House had only to limp into his office and Wilson could tell everything from how much pain he was in and how bad a case was going to what new mischief House had inflicted on Cuddy.

Wilson was also the only one who could give it back to House in other ways. Everyone always looked at him as the gormlessly cute and caring cancer doctor, but House was the only person Wilson trusted enough to let know that underneath he was a cynical son of a bitch. Wilson was the only one who could make House laugh.

But now Wilson just looked at him, his mouth agape in disbelief. After everything House had suffered, he didn't give a damn about himself and the first thing that came out of his mouth was an apology for him.

Wilson knew exactly why House was sorry. He was sorry for having to push Wilson away, he was sorry for not telling him, he was sorry he had caused all this, he was sorry Wilson had suffered for being a friend of Greg House.

The rest of the world might know of Doctor Gregory House as a nasty vicious selfish son a bitch. But in a tit for tat arrangement only little Jimmy Wilson, boy wonder oncologist, had been trusted to know the truth about House.

Which is why he always forgave his strange grumpy scratchy friend.

Wilson smiled. "You're an ass."

At this House looked up at him quizzically for a few moments, his rumpled face creasing with confusion then relief. "Yeah," he said tiredly, but he smiled thinly back.

But inwardly House was barely holding on. Daring to breathe again after so long holding his breath. Wilson was killing him. Looking at him with his clichéd big puppy dog eyes. House could have just fallen into them and drowned. But time and time again it had been beaten into him that there was no hope. No happy ending in this situation. You just had to keep coping with the pain and the cold and the loneliness, not to struggle when they held you down, to thank them after they hurt you even though you wanted to kill them. You just coped… just. And it was hard to think differently.

They'd said Thompson had been shot, but he was still suspicious. Even dead Thompson probably held every card in the pack and he didn't even know which game they were playing. Was this just another move in Thompson's game? From the first minute this game had begun he had been a pawn. Helpless and unable to do anything else but be pushed around by the chess master. He was sure there was a hat trick or a full house just out there waiting for him.

Oh fuck. He was mixing his metaphors. He was just so afraid. So afraid for Wilson. He couldn't stand another Cameron. And not Wilson… he do anything. Visit Thompson in Hell and dance the Charleston, but not Wilson. Pushing Wilson away had been the worst pain of all. All that time living with the knowledge that Wilson despised him.

It had been manageable before. At first he'd used anger and stubbornness, but after a while he just shut down and went numb.

But now Wilson was sitting in front of him: big, dumb, comforting and safe. A reminder of all the things he hadn't allowed himself to miss in prison. House wanted to reach out and touch him, to reassure himself that he hadn't descended into madness. That he wasn't still back in his little miserable cell dreaming in the dark. That everything had been, and would be – worth it.

Wilson saw House begin to shake. He saw everything. He saw House about to snap. He came around the table and giving the officers his 'its ok, I'm a doctor' look, knelt down and took House by the arms.

"It's ok House," he said earnestly as he looked into the older man's eyes. "You did good. Everyone is safe now."

He could see that House desperately wanted to believe him. House looked at him with big trusting little boy eyes that said 'please mommy, tell me the monsters aren't real.'

Wilson smiled reassuringly. "They caught everyone House. There is no one left to hurt anyone."

At this House slowly lowered his head to Wilson's chest and Wilson reached round and hugged House close to him. My God, thought Wilson, there is nothing to him but skin and bone. He could feel House's backbone and ribs through the thin material of his uniform. He imagined him shivering, alone through long winter nights.

But Wilson didn't know about Dream Jimmy.

But at this, the first real tender human touch in so long, House melted against Wilson and let Wilson's warm strong presence comfort him. Wilson heard House's handcuffs rattle as he reached out as far as the chains would let him and grabbed a handful of Wilson's shirt near his belly, pulling it out of his waistband.

"You did good," Wilson repeated. "But you are still an ass."

"Yeah," agreed House. He twisted the fabric between his fingers. No one could see it, which was the way he liked it, but this time there was something approaching a real smile on his lips. This Jimmy was real.

Many people forgot that Gregory House could actually smile. But not his friend James Wilson - because he was the only one who made it happen.

Wilson sighed and looked at his watch. Cuddy was due in a few minutes and they were running late. He caught House as he aimlessly wandered past, shoved him onto the bed and began to vigorously towel House's wet hair.

The doorbell rang. "Get dressed properly," he said sternly as he gave a final flourish.

Cuddy smiled when Wilson answered the door.

James smiled back. "Hi Cuddy. We are running a little behind. You know what House is like. Never on time."

Cuddy smiled thinly. Wilson was always so polite. Pretending everything was OK. But everyone had seen – graphically – what had happened that day.

She never wanted to see something like that happen to someone she cared about again. The day of his official pardon, finally free of its burden, the mind of Gregory House had broken.

Chapter 7

Wilson brought Cuddy a drink and they sat on the sofa. The three of them were going out tonight – and it was going to be strained. But Wilson had assured her that although House could still only use a spoon, he had stopped licking the plate. And they had to do it because Wilson wanted as much normalcy as possible.

House wandered out, making a beeline for the kitchen. Cuddy could think the only word that described him since the second trial was 'deranged'. Actually that was a pretty good word to describe him before. But now he really looked deranged. His clothing was hanging off him in what House would have called 'concentration camp chic' and his hair was sticking up left right and centre. His walk was off, not so much for the limp, but because he didn't realise there were no leg irons any more and still compensated after wearing them for so long. That made her furious. How could a supposedly humane society possibly justify putting a cripple in leg irons?

And of course, he wasn't all there.

But Wilson didn't see a strange limping scarecrow, he only saw his friend.

"Hey," he said softly. House got jumpy if you got too loud around him. Silence meant safety. Noise meant pain. And now, finally, after taking everything so bravely the fear was bubbling to the surface.

A couple of times Wilson had got frustrated; lost his temper and House had bolted. The first time was okay, as he couldn't get away in the apartment because Wilson kept the door locked. But the second time had been in a shopping centre.

It always amazed Wilson, but House was remarkably fast when he wanted to be. Trying to explain you are trying to track down a big limping scared crippled guy who wasn't firing on all cylinders to some security rent-a-cop at the mall was not an easy task.

They'd finally found him five hours later, hiding behind a dumpster on the fifth floor of the parking lot. The look on House's face when he had seen Wilson was one of sheer relief. House had practically crash tackled him in an attempt to get hold of him – touching him and pulling at his clothing in an attempt to reassure himself that Wilson was real.

It hurt Wilson to think the atmosphere of safety he had tried to create was so fleeting that House could have thought it was an illusion. It was hard, but then being friends with Greg House had never been easy. He just wasn't a trusting bastard.

"Where are you going mister?" he said as he intercepted House with a gentle hand on his chest.

House stopped and they waited. Eventually he looked up and frowned, but allowed himself to be guided to the couch.

"I'll get you a beer later. Sit down and talk to Cuddy," he said as he knelt down and began to carefully do up House's half done, half forgotten shirt buttons as he prattled on about the various merits of restaurants and House's lack of ability to do up buttons properly, making it sound like a joke rather than the truth – House's fingers were so crooked from badly healed broken fingers that his once beautiful hands now bordered on the grotesque.

"Hold them out."

He frantically shook his head.

"Hold them out," Boot Boy ordered again, this time more forcefully.

"Sir please no Sir Boss Sir," he whispered pathetically from his prone position on the floor.

"Are you refusing an order from an officer? That's a very serious offence 501. Do you want me to tell your lawyer friend that you have been a bad boy?" The officer kneeling on his back leaned a little more heavily on him to emphasise the seriousness of this point.

He shook his head. "Sir no Boss Sir," he gasped as his air was cut off.

"Then do it."

He shuddered, slowly put his trembling hands on the floor in front of him and closed his eyes.

"Don't make any rude remarks," Wilson admonished into House's ear as he stood up and made for the bedroom.

But House didn't speak. House never spoke. Not since the day he had been officially been declared innocent. He functioned – to a point and did what he was told, but he just wasn't there.

The psych doctors had said it was a rare form of semi-catatonia. They had wanted to institutionalize him, but Wilson had said no. He'd come in to visit and found House tied to the bed. He'd sat there, watching for an hour as House gently tugged at the restraint on his left arm, then started on the right. How many hours had he spent tugging on chains with no hope they would ever release their grip? The scars on his wrists said hundreds… maybe thousands.

Eventually House had given up, defeated, and sank back into the bed with a whimper of acceptance. How many times had he done that – just accepted what was happening to him?

Watching House that day Wilson had made his decision. House would live with him. He was alone after divorce number three and Wilson knew he could make him better. He had to make him better. He wanted his friend back.

Cuddy sat silently for a minute watching House stare at the floor, until Wilson returned with a hairbrush.

With an ease obviously born of practice Wilson completely ignored the uncomfortable silence, grabbed a handful of House's hair and yanked his head back.

"So where are we going tonight," he asked absently as he roughly brushed the short brown hair into a slightly more manageable tangle. After a few strokes he threw the brush on the table, grabbed House's jacket from the stand and began putting him in it. Pushing and pulling arms and adjusting collars until House was suitably dressed for a night out.

But not hearing a reply he turned to find Cuddy with her hands in her face. Trying not to cry. This sickened her. More than the infarction, more than anything. This was wrong.

Gregory House looked like a real boy. He was dressed exactly as he had been. Wilson had even gone out and bought every cool T-shirt he could find. House's un-ironed shirts were Armani, his jeans were JAG and his shoes were Nike. But Wilson was the one who tied his shoelaces.

The fire in the eyes was gone. Everything inside him that made House House was gone. She cursed the day she had dropped the key in his lap. She was sorry. She hadn't known, she thought desperately.

It was only Wilson who treated House exactly the same. All the time while he was taking care of House: making sure House ate, dressing him in the clothes he knew House would like, making sure his hair was brushed… he bitched at House, bitched about House to his face, and bought videos and popcorn for Friday nights.

Because little Jimmy Wilson, boy wonder oncologist, believed in hope. He was waiting for the day when House would just turn to him and insult him right back. He didn't know if it was possible, but Wilson wanted House back. He fell back on his old tried and trusted principle. Maybe if he gave it some time he would get his friend back.

Chapter 8

Wilson had taken a few weeks off to get House settled, but then he realized he had the problem of work. House needed an eye kept on him at all times and Wilson couldn't keep him in his office – he'd frighten the cancer patients (not like he hadn't before).

So he had gone to Cuddy and explained he needed to put House somewhere nearby while he worked. She had agreed and Wilson had arranged for a private nurse to look after House. But the only place they could stick him was in the hospital's childcare centre.

It was funny to come in after work and see House sitting on the floor of what Cuddy termed his designated 'House area' – a spare room off from the main playroom – staring intently at a kid's picture book, with Clarence dozing on a nearby couch – keeping an eye on him.

Clarence was a godsend. House had taken to him from the get go.

"House, this is Clarence. He is going to be looking after you," said Wilson as he brought the two men together. "Like a body guard," he added hopefully.

House had just poked Clarence in the stomach and wandered off.

"What does that mean?" asked a bewildered Clarence.

Wilson took a breath. "I think… that means he likes you."

Clarence was a big gentle man who was more than capable of squishing House in an instant if he wanted to. He was nearly seven feet tall and had a remarkable resemblance to Mike Tyson. But if House got upset or anxious Clarence could calm him down without even touching him and then keep him calm until Wilson got there to take charge.

House hated to be held or grabbed. Wilson was the only one he was happy to let push and pull him around.

He had obviously been held down too many times by too many people. Wilson realized that being held down, unable to move, to House, meant pain. Wilson knew that House remembered pain.

House had never been the type of guy to talk about his emotions, and now even more so. But even thought his conscious mind had taken a vacation House's subconscious was still struggling the memories. Night after night House's soft cautious cries would wake him.

He became so attuned to House's soft muffled whimpers that even the slightest hiccupy sob would wake him. He would follow the source of the noise and slip carefully into House's bed, careful not to wake him from his nightmare.

Then, just had he had done all those years ago during the Frasier marathon, House would instinctively reach out to Wilson, one hand finding a convenient bit of shirt to twist in its grasp. Eventually the sobs would die down, to be replaced with the gentle rumbling as House slept, holding onto Wilson like a giant human teddy bear.

But it was Clarence who had discovered the secret to keeping House happy during the day – distractions. They bought him copies of every trashy celebrity magazine they could find and Clarence would stick them under his nose. They didn't know how much was going in, but the bright pictures of Tom Cruise doing the shopping or Angelina Jolie on the set of her latest film seemed to intrigue House.

One day Wilson found House with a lollipop. As he entered the room he stopped short and unconsciously held his breath as he took in the scene before him. He was taken back in time. House was lounging on a chair, a forgotten People on his lap, gazing out the window and sucking contentedly on a bright red lollipop. For a second Wilson almost believed House would turn to him and say something cutting or rude. But House just continued to stare intently out the window.

"Where did he get that Clarence," he asked.

He must have said it a bit too forcefully because Clarence looked a little nervous. "I bought it for him Doctor Wilson," he said. "That is OK right. The red food dye isn't going to make him hyper or something?"

"No, that's fine Clarence. He used to love those… before," said Wilson sadly as he stared at his friend. He was so involved he nearly missed Clarence's next words.

"…just staring at it like he really really wanted it."

Wilson turned abruptly. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" he asked.

"I was just saying it was funny. He saw this kid with one of those free lollipops they give out in the clinic and he just couldn't take his eyes off it. I thought he was going to try to swipe it," said Clarence.

Wilson looked thoughtfully at House. "Anything wrong Doctor Wilson?" asked Clarence. Wilson realized he had been staring into space. He shook his head. The idea that even while completely insane his friend would still want to steal lollipops from small children made Wilson suspect he was still in there somewhere, hiding and wondering when it would be safe to come out.

"This is Clarence – House's nurse," said Wilson.

John House gaped at the biggest Black man he has ever seen apart from the odd line backer.

That thing is a nurse, he thought?

But it was what was behind Clarence that was important. Trailing along in the black man's wake was his son.

"Clarence this is House's dad John House," said Wilson gesturing.

Clarence smiled, but Greg didn't appear.

Wilson looked uncomfortable. "I think he may be feeling a little shy," he said eventually breaking the silence. "New people and all."

Greg was somewhere behind Clarence, although with the size of him it was difficult to tell.

He moved forward, but Wilson put a hand on his chest.

"Mr House, he's had a rough time. Just give him some space."

From what he's heard Greg just got beaten up a few times. No reason to go all nuts. Some men suffered much worse during the Nam War and they are okay: look at McCain. But Wilson was in charge.

John just gave a slow nod and sat down on the couch. After what sounded like some stern lecturing from Wilson the two men brought Greg round and he sat between them on the opposite couch.

Greg gave him a quick suspicious stare then gazed vacantly at the floor, paying him no attention. He looked hard at his son. He noticed all the things he didn't see last time because his mind was clouded with anger: the scars, how thin he was – and now there was the horrible blankness in his eyes.

As they talked Greg put one of his hands out and tugged on Wilson's sleeve. Wilson paid no attention to this and continued talking to him: saying things like House is getting better all the time and how he likes watching some new show. He was not really listening. He was staring at his son's hand. It was mangled. It looked like it has been crushed. He didn't see Greg's hands last time because they were behind his back. He didn't see much past the striped uniform last time, he admitted to himself.

He was angry. Greg used to be such a good piano player. He might not have been the world's greatest dad, but he had always loved his son.

They had taken him – mind and body. No matter what Wilson said his son was now both crippled and retarded.

Greg was still tugging at Wilson's cuff and began to try to undo the button. He was really intent on it. He pulled Wilson's arm into his lap and studied it thoughtfully: in exactly the same way he used to look at things that puzzled him when he was a little boy.

"What's he doing?" he asked.

Wilson seemed to notice for the first time that his arm has been hijacked. "Oh this: he's just exploring."

"Wanna go for a walk?"

Greg just pulled on Wilson's collar.

"No, not to a strip joint: the park."

There was another tug.

"Yes the one you like." Wilson looked up at Clarence. "Get his jumper Clarence."

"'kay," said Clarence as he came round with a very ugly hand knitted sweater.

Wilson smiled at him. "My mother knitted it," he said apologetically as he pulled the sweater over his son's head and began struggling with the sweater and Greg's arms.

"Beautiful," said Wilson as he sat back with as gasp while he surveyed Greg – who looked as if he had been attacked by a demented multi coloured sheep – with satisfaction. "Get him ready Clarence."

He watched as Clarence shrugged on a back pack and pulled down what looks like a harness that was sitting next to the front door and fitted it to his son.

"What's that?"

"Oh that's just because Doctor House can be quite fast when it takes his mind so we need to make sure he is safe," Clarence answered as he buckled it up at the back. "I just attach it to my belt and he can wander along fine."

He gave Greg a little affectionate poke in the shoulder. "You are a trouble maker aren't you?"

He always was thought John.

Greg frowned, poked him back and Clarence laughed. "Come on big boy. Time for a limp in the park." He effortlessly lifted Greg onto his feet, putting the cane into his hand and carefully wrapping his fingers around it. "He's still getting used to the cane again. They did bad things to his hands," he said apologetically. "They don't grip too well now."

John watched as his son jerkily pushed ahead. The string was one of those stretchy ones like little old ladies use for their poodles. It hurt to see his son on the end of a leash, but the other two men don't seem bothered by it.

It was a beautiful day but Greg didn't look around. He just forged forward, head down, like he was on his own little mission.

Then his grip on the cane slipped and he fell on the concrete. John started to help him, but Wilson and Clarence held him back.

"It's his journey," said Clarence.

Greg slowly got up and then looked at his hand. It was bleeding from a small scrape. He stared at it for a second.

Then he walked over to Wilson, but he didn't touch him. He just stood next to him. Very close, but not touching.

Wilson seemed to know what this meant. "Got the first aid kit Clarence?"

Clarence rummaged through the small back pack he has been carrying and handed over a little first aid kit.

"Hold it out," said Wilson in a bored voice, looking away.

Greg held out his hand.

Wilson wiped the cut with antiseptic then stuck a plaster over the cut. "Big baby," he whispered. Greg gently touched him, tugging on his shirt. "I know," said Wilson softly. "I know."

He doesn't understand the bond these two have. He wished Blythe were here. She would have known.

"What's the matter?" asked Clarence as they watched the little scene.

He shrugged. "His mother: she used to do that for him when he was very little."

Wilson smiled at him. "I must be the furtherist thing from his mother ever invented, but no matter how old we are we all need someone to tend to our wounds."

But Greg is now looking at Wilson with irritation. "Yes it is coming. Hold your horses."

He handed Clarence the first aid kit and Clarence gave him a little bag in return. Greg fidgeted as Wilson rifled in the bag.

John frowned as Greg grabbed the green thing Wilson was holding and shoved it in his mouth.

"What is that?"

"A Green frog. Possibly one of the most disgusting items of confectionary ever to be invented. House – of course – loves them."

Wilson offered one to John. It was bright green and looked disgusting.

Greg looked hopeful.

"No you can't have another one," said Wilson.

John House looked at Greg, resplendent in his ugly hand knitted jumper. You don't know how lucky you are son.

Doctor Simpson tried not to snigger as he watched his patient. The doctor and Wilson were on the couch. House was sitting on the floor of the psychiatrist's office, happy and safe in between Wilson's legs.

Simpson could tell House felt happy because he was completely ignoring the array of distracting goodies Clarence had laid out in front of him and was valiantly attempting to undo Wilson's right shoe lace with his clumsy fingers, an evil smile plastered across his face.

Oblivious, Wilson sat back into the couch's deep cushions. Simpson sighed. Wilson was taking this hard, and considering the man was an oncologist, that said something. Love makes people crazy.

Wilson ran a tired hand over his face. "I don't know what it means Doctor Simpson. He's become very clingy since it happened. But maybe it is a good thing. He seems more there. Maybe it means…" he trailed off. "But he was pretty traumatized at the time."

Simpson watched as Wilson sat up and unconsciously fumbled with House's collar, tidying it up. Simpson had noticed that sometime in the last month Doctor Wilson had finally snapped and that House's shirts were now beautifully ironed. House paid no attention to this fussing and reached out to grab the lollipop Clarence was waving in front of him. "Tell me what happened?" he asked.

"I don't think this is a good idea," he said. House was scared. It wasn't surprising. He didn't like this building. He didn't like big open spaces and he really didn't like people in uniform. And he'd known something was up. He'd been a pest all morning. Fidgeting when Wilson was putting on his tie and continually tugging on it until the knot nearly strangled him and Wilson had to pull the car over and loosen it.

Now he was hiding behind Wilson, his head resting on Wilson's back while he nervously fingered the back of Wilson's jacket.

"It will only be for a few minutes Doctor Wilson," replied the prosecutor. "We need to show him to make the case."

'Show him'. Bad choice of words. Wilson sighed. But he knew it was necessary. For the lawyer and his thugs it had been easy. They had the tapes, but for the prison guards they only had Thompson's records and House.

"Okay," he relented. "Come on House," he said as he put his hand behind him and lead House into the courtroom.

They were sitting in the front row, waiting for the session to begin, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. A guard was standing there. "Excuse me… Doctor Wilson. There is an urgent call for you at the front desk. About a patient."

Damn, that meant Terry was dying. Wilson looked around. He tapped one of the prosecutor's assistants on the shoulder. "Can you sit with him," he said shrugging at House. "I have to take a call."

A few minutes later he was on the phone to his assistant when a voice startled him.

"Doctor Wilson." He looked up from his phone into the scared face of the guard. "There is a problem with your friend."

"Oh God."

He dropped the phone and bolted into the courtroom. It was in chaos. Guns were drawn and people were screaming. Half the courtroom was running for the exits, while the other half were gathered behind the judge's bench.

He pushed his way through the crowd to the source of the disturbance until he was grabbed by a guard. He angrily shrugged out of the guard's grip with a hissed "I'm his doctor" and turned to mob.

"He's scared. He's terrified," he growled. He tried to gather some semblance of control. "Please just back off and be quiet. He can't hurt you. He can't hurt anyone."

No one moved until the judge waved the security guards away. "I'm fine." They reluctantly stepped back and holstered their guns. "And get that bastard out of here," he said as he motioned to the defendant.

The two men slowly approached House. He had burrowed himself in a corner, curled up, curiously with his hands buried under his armpits. He looked like he was hugging himself. He was shaking violently and sweat was pouring down his face. He was not looking at any of them, but staring into the middle distance, panting as he relived past terrors.

"What happened?" he asked the judge.

"He was fine until the defendant came out, then he freaked out. Bolted every which way, but Sunday. For a man with a cane, he sure lead everyone a merry dance," said the judge. "Then he just seemed to trip over his own feet and curled up."

"Well, we got our show all right," said the prosecutor from behind him.

At this Wilson rounded on him. He was furious, blood boiling in his veins. House was not a fucking wind up toy or a fucking exhibit. He was a human being who had gone through nearly fours years of physical and psychological hell. Wilson realized what House had done. He'd tried to run and tripped over his own imaginary chains. How many times had that guard pushed him around until he tripped on the real ones and fell, unable to get up, unable to do anything but curl up and wait for the kicking to begin.

"Show? I'll give you a show," he yelled angrily as he punched him on the jaw. The man dropped like a stone. The boy wonder oncologist had no idea he was such a good boxer. Then the guards were on him and he struggled until the voice of the judge stopped him, cutting through his rage.

"Doctor Wilson, don't you think you should attend to your friend."

He calmed down and they let him go. He wiped the back of his hand across his face. He nodded. "I am sorry. You are right."

He crossed to House and slid down the wall beside him, sweaty and shaking. "Hey," he said softly and prepared to wait till House started to reach out. He'd discovered, through many years, that was the best approach.

"What was the aftermath?" asked Simpson.

Wilson smiled ruefully. "It took half an hour for House to calm down and the prosecutor and I both agreed not to sue."

"And the prison guard?"

"He was convicted on all counts," he said as he leaned forward and rested his forearms on House's shoulders. "House sure did a number on the jury."

He continued on. "I don't know exactly what the bastard did to him and House can't tell us, but judging by his reaction it was bad." He gently tugged on one of House's ears. "He was so afraid," he said softly.

But Simpson noticed that House, after successfully managing to pull out Wilson's entire right lace, was now randomly pushing buttons on the computer game between his legs, his eyes lighting up each time the little machine made a garish noise.

Although Wilson was worried, House was nothing like the wide-eyed shaking skeleton he had been six months ago. If House was all there Simpson was sure he would have said Wilson was just being a worrywart Jewish momma.

They stood to leave and Simpson stifled a laugh as Wilson noticed his shoe. The shoelace was neatly tied around his ankle.

"House," came the anguished cry. "Oh for Lord's sake. Come on – up you."

Wilson lifted House up by the collar and dumped him on the couch before joining him, pulling off his shoe and rethreading his lace.

He looked up at the doctor. "Ever wondered what it would be like looking after a 45 year old toddler?" he said in exasperation, waggling the shoe under House's nose: "woooo, " he growled. "Bad. Don't play with my shoes."

He stopped. "Not that he was particularly grown up before," he said with a slight laugh as he remembered. "Just more talkative."

Simpson slapped him on the back and looked at House who had paid no attention to Wilson's scolding and was now concentrating solely on his latest lollipop, but managing to look a bit smug at the same time. "I think," he said thoughtfully. "You are doing a good job Doctor Wilson. Although you might want to take him to a dentist sometime soon if you keep feeding him so many lollipops."

After Wilson had relaced and retied his shoe he took House by the hand and with Clarence in tow they walked into the elevator.

He was pressing the button for the second floor when he heard the man behind him mutter: "Bloody homos."

He didn't turn around.

"I said, bloody homos." Wilson felt a slight push on his back and felt House's hand tighten its grip in a silent plea. House was doing nothing, just looking down at the floor, but his body suddenly became a mass of tension, his shoulders rounding as if in expectation of a blow. House recognized that tone. It was the same tone that the people who hit him used. The same anger. To House that tone meant pain. Wilson could see him physically and mentally curling up. Fuck this, thought Wilson as he turned to the man.

But another voice suddenly cut in. "You gotta problem with that?" Clarence was looming over the man, suddenly looking not very nursey, but slightly psychotic. Clarence was normally so gentle and protective around House that Wilson forgot he was also 'a serious homie'.

Clarence took a step closer to the man who backed up against the wall. "Cos I'm gay and I don't have a problem with that?"

"No… no problem," squeaked the man.

"Good," he menaced. "So you just leave my doctor friends alone – got it."

The man gulped. "Got it."

Clarence smiled evilly. "Good."

Wilson looked over at House who was now watching the scene intently, almost looking impressed. "See, I told you he was your body guard," he whispered.

There is nothing to be afraid of now House, he thought. But he knew for House that was going to take a long time to come to terms with. Rationally Wilson knew House was getting better, but it seemed such a difficult process. One step forward and five steps back.

Last week Wilson had come into the kitchen to find a broken coffee cup. While cleaning it up he became aware of a strange harsh breathing sound. He'd found House, on his knees behind the couch with his shirt off, his scarred back curled over, hands wrapped around his head as if waiting for a beating.

He sat down beside him. He knew the warden had been delighted for the chance to make use of his genuine antique prison strap. How many times had House knelt down in the Warden's office, carefully wrapped his hands around his head and waited?

"House, did you break the coffee cup?" he asked gently.

House put the heels of his hands over his eyes. His breath was coming now coming in ragged pants. Wilson could see the bumps of each vertebra as they ran down his spine. Even now he was still far too thin.

"It's okay you know."

But House didn't respond. He just continued his terrified panting.

Oh House, thought Wilson sadly. You don't realize it's over do you?

They both jumped at a loud voice. "What the hell has been going on in my kitchen?"

Clarence rounded on them. Took in the scene and began to lecture House.

"Why are you half naked man? Didn't I dress you this morning?"

Wilson sat back, grateful to Clarence for taking over. He began to cry softly. He was so tired.

Clarence gently pulled House to his feet and wrestled his shirt over his head. All the while Clarence kept up a steady stream of chatter. "I don't know. I leave you alone for a moment and you are off trying to streak naked through the park. If you think that is going to impress the ladies you have another thing coming my friend."

"And it is time for your nap man, so don't give me any shit and you go and give Doctor Wilson a hug – he's a big cry baby: he needs it - no buts about it - and then you go lie down," finished Clarence. "Or I will read fairy stories to you instead of medical journal articles this evening and you will pout… don't look at me with that blank stare. I know you can pout with the best of them."

Wilson wiped his eyes and got to his feet. House was fucked. There was no point reading him medical journals or even fairy stories for that matter. He was never going to escape the horror that encased him. He was lost.

Then House gave him an awkward little hug.

He didn't even realize it had happened. House was already being lead to the bedroom before he realized it had happened.

House had hugged him.

He was just left standing in the middle of the living room, behind the couch, gawping.

Clarence shot him a look as he left and winked.

They walked out of the elevator and into the corridor. Cuddy was there. "Morning Doctor Wilson." She smiled at him and motioned to House. "He hasn't changed has he?"

Wilson turned pink. He gave an embarrassed smile. He put out his hand out without looking and pushed House's chin up. "Bad House," he said. "Don't stare at the nice boss lady's cleavage."

It was only then that she turned to House. "Doctor House," she said as she put her hand gently to the pendant that hung on his chest and kept it there for a moment, looking intently into his empty face. Then she abruptly pulled away, nodded at Wilson and continued on her way.

House was a doctor again now for all the good that did him. The medical board had reinstated his license. Cuddy had organized it. They had also awarded him a commendation for dedication to medicine. He had showed the plaque to House on his birthday. Written on it were the words 'first do no harm'. House had paid no attention to it.

Typical, thought Wilson.

"Okay, here is your final present." He held out a small package and when House failed to take it he unwrapped it for him and stuck it under his nose.

"For you bucko. It's yours anyway. Well, maybe not. Maybe it belongs to all of us? Remember when you broke Julie's best knife?"

House looked at it intrigued. He reached out and plucked it slowly from Wilson's fingers.

He looked between it and Wilson for a few seconds. A strange look crossed his face. Maybe, thought Wilson, this might do the trick.

Then House stuck it in his mouth.

"House no – for God's sake," Wilson said urgently as he pulled it out by the chain and wiped it off.

"Don't… eat… it," he had ordered sternly, emphasizing every word as he fastened it around House's neck.

So far House hadn't tried to swallow it again so it appeared to be relatively safe. But every so often he saw House fingering it, turning it round and round, looking at it: either contemplating what it was or thinking about eating it. Wilson just hoped it wasn't the later. With House you never knew.

After Cuddy had gone Wilson turned to House, handing Clarence his backpack. "Make sure you are good," he admonished as he gave House a quick hug. It was a good thing House wasn't all there or he would have whapped Wilson one for doing that just on general principle. 'Bro's don't hug' House would have said.

Wilson put House's hand in Clarence's. "Don't let him eat too much junk food."

"Will do Doctor Wilson," said Clarence as he lead House away.

"And make sure he goes for a limp in the park?" he yelled as they moved off.

He watched as Clarence gave a shake of his hand in acknowledgement. Turning he noticed the guy from the elevator was sitting in a nearby chair, watching with his mouth open, an unspoken question on his lips.

Wilson opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He stared at the man for a few moments, and then walked away. He shook his head. It was amazing what life threw at you and it was amazing what you could live with.

Clarence also babysat House at home if Wilson had to go out. But Clarence had gone away for the week to visit his parents in Alabama and Wilson had to go out shopping. This meant taking House out on the House leash.

The psych Doctors had suggested it after House had bolted in the shopping centre. Christ he was glad he had gone into oncology. The idea of sticking someone on the end of a piece of string like a dog seemed abhorrent. He still remembered the look House's dad had given him when he'd seen it. But on the odd occasion when circumstances meant he had to take House to a 'potential bolt-able' situation he knew he had no other choice.

Hence the House leash. He hated it with a passion. The idea stemmed from the toddler leash. Which he also hated with a passion. But sometimes it was handy to be able to juggle the shopping, content in the knowledge that your deranged ex-convicted murderer insane best friend won't wander off.

They wandered into the fast food restaurant. Wilson in the lead; House bobbing along behind tentatively with his funny jerky walk on the end of his piece of string. Wilson knew the risks, but House had always loved the shakes here and even he was feeling reckless with his health today.

A few people gave them funny looks, but he just ignored them. Maybe they recognized House, but at least he wasn't in a position to care. And House didn't seem to mind it the string. Most of the time he stuck close to Wilson in public anyway. But then again it was tricky to tell what House minded. A couple of months back Wilson had noticed House was limping a bit more than usual. He checked him out and discovered House had broken one of the metatarsals in his foot. After so many years of pain and conditioning and fear House hadn't even dared to wince.

He ordered two thick shakes. Vanilla for him and chocolate for House. He tried to remember. He was pretty sure House liked chocolate.

As he waited for the drinks he slumped against the counter and rubbed his eyes. He didn't realise how tired he was. He felt hot, grimy and sweaty. As he fumbled for his wallet he didn't notice House was looking at him intently: like he was a lollipop ready for the swiping.

The extension of the McCorporate cash register pushed his shakes over the counter and told him to 'have a nice day', but he wasn't paying attention. He was mulling over the injustices of life. Ironic he thought, of all the places to get deep and philosophical… McHappy's

It was the bastardization of his friend's character that made Wilson the maddest. Everything about House – his fire, his arrogance and intellect, his sheer enjoyment of talking dirty – had been slowly and tortuously beaten out of him, he reflected sadly, not looking as he passed House his thick shake.

"Fuck it Jimmy, you know I hate chocolate."

Wilson turned around in astonishment and stared hard at his friend for a few moments. House was 'there' there. Looking at him with irritation. Oh my God, House is back, he thought stupidly. Only he would do it in the middle of fucking Mchappy's.

"How many years have you known me - I like strawberry…" House was about to continue, but he never got to finish his sentence. Wilson grabbed him and pulled him into a giant hug. Customers watched in amazement as the thick shake was crushed between the two men.

Eventually Wilson pulled away. House looked down at the crushed container, tilted his head and said: "not so good now huh." House's voice was a bit raspy, but it was there – complete with the silly stupid immature crazy brilliant irresistible mind that went with it.

There was only one sort of response in this sort of Gregory House situation. Wilson grabbed the shake and upended the remaining dregs onto House's head.

"You big limping twerp," he said happily as he watched the chocolately sludge dribble down House's face.

But then Wilson paused for a second and looked thoughtful. "You came back… Hang on," he said pointing a finger at House, with House there was always a reason. "Why did you decide to come back?"

House looked down at his shoes. "Well," he trailed off as if searching for an answer. "You… were looking a bit down," he said hopefully, totally evading the question.

Wilson put his hands on his hips, shook his head and sighed:

Typical fucking House.

"And why am I tied to you by a piece of string?"

EPILOGUE

Sometime before

Clarence and House were at the park. He smiled at the mental image of House being pushed on the swings. Jesus, if House ever got better the amount of blackmail material Wilson had on him would last for a lifetime.

He put on the video. He had to know what he was up against:

Wilson had never seen such despair and misery. It was captured in House's eyes as he gazed into the lens. For a moment, a second, he appeared to be begging, pleading to who ever was on the other side of the camera – for mercy, for something, for anything other than this… but then it was cut off as another blow fell, his whole body arching as he fell into the abyss of pain again.

There was no mercy for House. Only the contract.

Sometime later

When he came home House was sitting in Wilson's bedroom, sitting on the bed next to the box. Wilson stopped dead. The box. The box with the tapes.

He just looked up at Wilson, not saying anything. He didn't seem to be angry. If anything his expression was blank. Wilson took in the scene and stared back, not knowing what to do or how House would respond to the knowledge that he still had them.

"Clarence went to the shops," said House at last. "He'll be back in a few minutes."

Wilson nodded.

"We were out of milk and he said you would yell at him if I didn't have my daily glass of milk."

Wilson nodded slowly again.

"Gotta grow up big and strong with healthy bones," he said. "Not broken bones… bones break so easily, you'd be surprised. I should have drunk more milk," he said matter-of-factly, but Wilson winced as he took in the implications of that statement.

"Clarence always says I am too thin," continued House as he addressed the box. "But Clarence is big – and a serious big black dude." Wilson smiled. Sometimes House was unpredictable, sometimes he was just House.

House appeared to be lost in thought. "I got used to that feeling. I didn't call it anything; just 'that feeling'… and it became part of life, like being hurt. But I'd sit there, listening hard, as everyone else got theirs… the squeak of the cart, the little doors opening. I used to watch at first, but that became too painful." He'd hated the smug look and the cruel smile Boot Boy the guard would give him as they passed by his door. That bastard really enjoyed his misery.

Wilson knew that during his time in isolation House had been slowly and deliberately starved, getting about one meal in three. Apparently he would suck and chew at the dried blood on his prison shirt. Just the thought of anyone ever being so desperate as to have to resort to eating their own blood made Wilson sick to his stomach.

House had never talked about what else happened down there: the hours he had spent in the darkness.

House looked up. "But I couldn't stop listening. Every time. You can hear every little thing – noises bouncing off doors and walls and all those prison clichés. That cart used to sound so loud." He continued, almost apologetically. "I'd practically start to drool at the thought of it. Stupid really – considering it was tasteless shit. And it was always cold and always the same mound of unidentifiable goop. But more often than not the cart just squeaked past. So eventually I came to accept I was never going to get any," he said finally. "It made it easier."

"I knew that because of what I had done I wasn't going to get any. And that was that," he finished quickly. "Not much you can do when you are chained to the god dammed wall."

"But maybe I did deserve it. I told him people die, but maybe it was my fault? Christ, I had nothing to do but sit there and rack my brains, but I couldn't even remember her."

House fingered the edge of the box and smiled thinly. Wilson tensed. This was more information about how he felt than House had given in months. He didn't know if he should speak or shut up. Either way he could ruin it.

"There was nothing you could have done. She was always going to die. You weren't even her attending. Thompson was just insane. He just wanted to hurt someone – and the person he picked was you," Wilson said slowly. "But what about before you knew? When they came to you and you signed without hesitation. What you did for me… for all of us in that factory and in prison" asked Wilson?"

On the first night the lawyer had told House that he had a choice. If House didn't sign they would simply torture Wilson to death, but House would not be harmed.

"Can you live with that Greg," the lawyer had asked?

"What if I kill myself," he'd tried?

The lawyer had shrugged. "Same outcome for Doctor Wilson, but I'll just stretch it out a bit more. My personal best is 34 days."

House shook his head. "Don't Jimmy." And for the first time in his life House said 'please' and meant it. "Please don't Jimmy. What I did is mine alone. My choice, my burden." House looked down. "I'd do it all again. That's all you need to know," he said softly and Wilson knew this was as close to the truth as he was ever going to get.

House snorted. "It's a good thing he didn't pick Chase… otherwise we would have all been toast."

At this Wilson laughed with fond remembrance. "Yes, he truly was a little weasel."

They didn't speak for a few minutes. Then House suddenly stopped his intensive inspection of the box and looked at Wilson.

"You saw?" he asked. But it was a statement not a question.

Wilson nodded slowly, knowing House knew anyway.

"It becomes a part of life," said House and Wilson suddenly realized what they were talking about.

"Like picking up the dry cleaning…" he continued absently.

"Oh God Greg," muttered Wilson softly under his breath.

He wanted to go over and hug the other man, but House seemed frozen, fragile and he was afraid that if he even touched him he would break. There was a slight frown on his face as House stared at the box. Eventually Wilson slowly and carefully sat down on the other side of the bed.

He leaned over and picked up the box, putting it on the floor. House was watching him with wide eyes. For a man who had been through so much he suddenly seemed so open: so vulnerable. He looked like he would crumble at any moment. Wilson carefully picked up one of House's hands, and ignoring the sarcastic Housian look he got, stared into his eyes.

"House. I promise, as long as I live - you will never have to pick up the dry cleaning ever again."

House looked at him, first with amazement, then he began to snigger. Suddenly Wilson found himself thrown backwards onto the bed as House grabbed him in a bear hug. House was squeezing the life out of him, but laughing into him at the same time. He felt it vibrate through him. It was a good sound. It had been too long since House had laughed – and little Jimmy Wilson, boy wonder oncologist, reveled in the fact that he was the only one who could make it happen.

"Arghh, House – oxygen," he managed to splutter. House released his death grip and put his hands on Wilson's chest, like a puppy dog, as he lay on top of him. Wilson could feel his sweaty fleshy warmth, his angular bones as they dug into his soft spots, the key that now always hung from the chain around his neck as it danced over his chest, and then there was the peculiar Housian rumbling he seemed to continuously make whether asleep or awake.

House put his chin on Wilson's breastbone and his big blue eyes looked thoughtfully at him. They stayed that way for what seemed like an eternity, locked in their strange relationship: protector, protectee… protectee, protector.

Eventually House spoke. "You know I always thought you would have made a good teddy bear."

"What!...

...House?

...Come back here...

You bastard."

He was sitting on his bed, next to that stuffed toy white thing. He was looking at him, but not saying anything. It was unnerving. Before you just couldn't shut him up. Even now Wilson said he can still go whole days without uttering a sound. When Wilson pushed him he would just mutter something about a dog kennel and clam up.

"I didn't know," John said eventually.

"Nobody did." Greg laughed softly. "I think that was the idea. But nobody did what you did." He went over to the chest of drawers and pulled out a little cardboard box. He sat it down on the bed.

"Did you know that Wilson wrote to me every month while I was in prison?"

John didn't know how to answer.

"I didn't," said Greg. He smiled ruefully at some private joke. "They were rerouted, so to speak. I don't know why he wrote to me because we hadn't been speaking for a while. But he did."

"They found them and gave them to me." He rummaged in the box. "Just simple stuff. He never mentioned anything important. What was happening at the hospital, his trips to the dentist. Silly stuff really."

He held one out in one of his trembling misshapen hands, but John couldn't bring himself to take it. Eventually Greg dropped his arm into his lap.

"I read them sometimes. I wish I could have read them at the time." He looked down at the letter.

"Your visit was unexpected though. I was in lock down. That means I hadn't been out of my cell or off my chain for however long. They had taken my blanket. In solitary you don't have a mattress. In solitary you sleep on the floor. That's why Wilson puts so many pillows and blankets in my bed – or crib - as you called it. He knows I get cold easily."

I didn't know that either, he thought. And it was a crib. It was a big wooden bed with a side thing that could be pulled up and it was overflowing with pillows and blankets.

He'd been embarrassed when he had seen it.

Greg had got into bed when Wilson ordered, but now he was mewling softly and refusing to settle as Wilson tucked him in.

"Would you ask Clarence to get Mr Vicodin?" Wilson asked apologetically.

"Mr What?"

"He'll understand."

Clarence brought in what looked like a small white stuffed toy oblong thing with legs and a big V on its chest. It looked a bit like a big furry pill.

"Oh thanks," said Wilson absently as he pushed the pill thing into the tangle of blankets next to Greg's head. Greg grabbed it and rolled over; twisting himself up in the blankets.

"Now stop with the whining House," Wilson ordered mock sternly.

The only response was a contented sigh from somewhere in the mass of blankets.

Wilson leaned down and John was sure he saw him gently kiss Greg's one exposed ear.

Wilson said Greg making sounds is a positive step. That soon he might talk again. But Jesus - if he sleeps with a stuffed toy? And what the hell was that thing anyway?

"Why does he sleep in a crib?"

Wilson hesitated. Wilson wasn't going to tell Mr House the real reason without House's say so. That House would get up in the night and sleep curled up in a tight ball on the floor or in a corner because that is what he was used to: "To keep him safe," he said as he lifted up the side of the bed. Wilson pulled the blankets up so there was nothing of his son visible. Then he turned to John. "Just to keep him safe Mr House."

Greg's gaze followed his arm. He looked down at his lap. He spoke in a monotone. "They extracted me. Being extracted isn't really all that fun. But then I got a wash and a shave. It felt nice to be clean. However after your visit they took me downstairs and they beat me. They beat me so badly they broke my jaw for the third time. Then they just put me back in my cell. It took them a whole day to realize there was something seriously wrong. They were terrified. They had strict orders not to kill me. They thought I was going to die. At least I got a trip to the infirmary out of it. But after I was…" Greg searched for the right word: "punished - for causing them all that inconvenience - a bit more carefully that time though."

Greg held the letter out at arms length and examined it with his good eye. "Didn't do much at work this week. You would have been proud. The drycleaners actually did a good job on my suits this time," he read. He shook his head. "Silly, silly stuff, but I really would have killed for them."

His son leant forward. Greg looked at him hard. "When Wilson is not here and I feel cold I think about his letters. When I think about you I remember lying on the concrete floor of my cell with three cracked ribs and a broken jaw; grieving the death of my mother and trying not to choke on my own blood."

Greg snorted. "See the difference dad?"

Wilson walked into the space and set down the box and the can of gasoline. He was alone. It was dark. It was quiet. But the place screamed at him. It filled his ears. It stank of fear and pain. It reminded him of the time he had gone to Auschwitz. Even forty years after the horror had ended and the people had gone, you could still feel the atmosphere oozing thickly through the walls.

He looked down at his feet. There was a brown stain on the concrete floor. He blinked slowly. He knew whose blood had made that stain.

It was still here. Left over and forgotten, but intact. A shrine to vengeance. The place where the battle for his life had been fought. Not much of a battlefield. But then they aren't all that impressive. Fields, meadows, streets filled with bloodstains that would be washed away by the next rain shower. He wandered around the empty space, his feet crackling on the grimy floor.

He gazed at a big brown table sitting in the middle of the room, absentmindedly fingering one of the ringbolts that were drilled into each corner. It was a big old sturdy worktable. It reminded him of Greg's old kitchen table. He remembered House's eyes lighting up with glee at Wilson look after he had announced it was an antique autopsy table.

"But I just made this sandwich on there…" he had stammered as he dropped the sandwich back onto his plate.

"Oh, don't be such a baby," House had teased as he swiped the remains of the sandwich and threw himself down on the couch next to him. He had looked at Wilson in mock indignation. "I cleaned it – with water and everything," he had said stuffing the sandwich into his mouth.

Wilson reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper: House's gift to him. House had never known he'd kept that too. He put it gently down on the table, smoothing it lovingly out on the bumpy wood before turning away.

A flash of sky blue caught his eye. He walked over to the wall and picked up the crumpled up shirt. It had been one of House's (and Cuddy's) favourites, but now it lay forgotten, stiff with muck and grime, like a relic of war.

He stood there for a long time, clutching the shirt in his hands, just looking around. This was a shrine to vengeance.

He watched it burn. As a testament of love, he thought, as he mentally whacked himself in the shin with a cane for such a sappy sentiment.

When he returned next morning it was so normal the events from the night before felt surreal.

He could hear the radio playing an eighties rock song in the kitchen. Clarence was badly singing along while he made breakfast, pausing only to stick his head round the corner and smile hello when Wilson walked in before happily going back to his singing. He waved a hand. Still, even now, Clarence was 'the bodyguard'. The security that had been denied House all those years. No one could get past Clarence.

He found House sprawled on the couch, Steve snoozing his shoulder. Keeping each other company. Steve was getting on and between House and Clarence he got spoiled. He really was getting fat now. The little furry butterball House called him. But that didn't stop him from feeding Steve Wilson's best Camembert.

Steve had given up his wheel (House had diagnosed arthritis) and now lived a life of decadence, snoozing and sunning himself in all manner of dangerous place. Wilson had nearly sat on him twice in the last month, but House seemed to have an inbuilt Steve McQueen radar. House would be just about to unceremoniously fall onto a couch, when he would suddenly reach behind him and a small furry ball would appear, saved from being squished in the nick of time.

They were both sunning themselves in the window. House like a cat, Steve like a rat: both enjoying lazing in the warmth. A pleasure too long denied.

One of the prison guards had turned informer in exchange for clemency. During the investigation into the corruption in the prison he had described the conditions House had been kept in.

The new tough on crime prison kept its punishment cells in the basement. For most of the time the convicts down there saw no human contact but the hand that pushed their food through the door. There was a policy of absolute silence – no talking, no singing, no screaming – absolute isolation. Half the time in darkness, the other in gloom. Daylight became a distant memory.

Inmates were not meant to be kept in the punishment unit for more than three weeks. House had spent over a year down there in the dark.

And for House it was worse. Although completely illegal, the warden had ordered House be put in handcuffs as well as leg irons and the cuffs to be secured to the wall with a chain. There was no point to this except to make his life sheer misery.

The guard said that at first he would sometimes hear House's chains rattle as he slowly paced his cell, four shuffling steps one way, and four steps back; but at the end he had given up and would just tug constantly at the chain that held him to the wall or just sit huddled with his face to the corner. He didn't even walk in the exercise cage. After they had dragged him there he would just stagger a few feet and crumple into a ball of misery, refusing to move no matter how much they kicked and punched him.

Wilson could barely comprehend the horror when the psychiatrists had said it was probably only the regular torments Thompson had organized that had broken the sheer monotony and stopped House from going mad from the sensory deprivation and the restraints. Inmates only got one hour's exercise in the cage a week; House got regular 'special workouts', ranging from being used as a guinea pig for 'inmate extraction' exercises to simple sport for bored corrections officers. Apparently a favourite game was called 'cripple toss'. He was also 'sold' regularly – advertised as docile and eager to please.

In other words he had become nothing but an object to be hated and tortured… and had come to believe it. The only thing keeping him going was the contract.

But Wilson didn't know about Dream Jimmy.

Maybe why that was why he had gone away for so long thought Wilson. He had to find himself again.

Even now he didn't like the dark. One day House had announced he wanted to go shopping. They had gone to Baby World and House had taken great pleasure in selecting the most hideous night-light he could find. It was nauseatingly cute, adorned with unicorns and some sort of disturbing looking elf like things.

"Can I have it mom?" he had asked loudly, startling a prospective mother of what looked like twins.

Wilson rolled his eyes and played along. He knew this was House's way of not saying 'I'm afraid of the dark'.

"Yes junior, you can," he replied.

"Can I have a lollipop too?"

Wilson eyed the woman who was now openly staring at them. "Don't push it or I'll put you back on the string," he said as he hustled House away.

As Wilson entered he looked over drowsily, but then his eyes narrowed. "What did you burn down?" he asked.

"What?"

"You were out all night, you smell of gasoline and you are sooty. So I presume you torched something last night."

Wilson sighed and gently kicked House's feet off the couch, sat down beside him. "Do you really want to know?"

House sat up and eyed him warily. The fear was always just under the surface as if he still suspected it wasn't really over. That there was a third act to the play. House was silent for a minute. "Yes," he said slowly. Wilson watched as he unconsciously massaged the bracelet scars that circled his wrists. Even Steve looked at him expectantly, the light reflecting off his little beady eyes.

"The factory."

House stiffened and stared at the floor. Steve sensed the change and ran down House's body and onto Wilson. House let him go.

"You were there?" he said.

"Yes," replied Wilson. "It wasn't just your burden you know."

"And?"

"And I burned it down. Happy now."

House looked at his friend and then a slow smile spread across his face and he laughed softly to himself.

"Yeah… Thanks," he said as he plucked Steve off Wilson's jacket.

"Your welcome…what are friends for?"

THE END

Thanks to all who reviewed and commented. All carefully thought about and greatly appreciated. Hopefully all the typos are out – although I know there is a though/t one I just can't find.

And:

If you are still a bit confused and are wondering just exactly what all this contract business was about go check out the Contractverse on contractverse./ or chcek out diysheep on LJ. Here you will find over a million words with fantastic darker alternate stories and happy stories about House getting better written by lots more talented writers than me – and Mr Vicodin in the flesh.