Sorry for the delay. I had to write a paper for school. You'd think that would be easy, for me. The subject matter was rather touchy, so it required my undivided attention. Anyway, back to this.

Chapter 42

When the temperature of his bath became too cold to be bearable, House skillfully used his left foot to dislodge the plug. As the water flowed down the drain, he came to the sad realization that he lacked the strength and dexterity to remove himself from the tub. In other words, he was going to be there for a while.

Wilson had not responded to House's cries, leading him to the conclusion that he must be alone in the apartment. He'd tried about five times, calling out for his friend. His voice was so unused to the activity, that it quickly became hoarse. Although, House suspected that an infection of some sort might be responsible for the soreness.

House opted to expend his remaining energy by reaching up and grasping the corner of the bath towel that was hanging on the wall beside him. The tub wasn’t even completely empty yet, but he didn’t care. He tugged until the towel came down onto him, the edges of it immediately becoming soaked in the remaining two inches of water that had yet to drain.

The towel did little to remedy the cold that was rapidly overtaking him, and soon he could feel himself shaking. He had no idea what time it was, but he was convinced that Wilson would normally have come home by now. He'd never been this late before, even before House had suffered his stroke. If he was going to be gone all night, surely he'd send someone.

House actually tried to relax, tried to get comfortable and reconcile himself with the fact that he might be stuck there for a while. His attempts gave way to paranoia, and he became slowly convinced that something or someone was looming just outside the doorway. Perhaps House should have been more alarmed by this fact, but he no longer had the presence of mind to orchestrate such a reaction. He couldn't even turn his head to see who might be there. He genuinely hoped it might be Wilson, finally coming to rescue him from his predicament.

Eventually, the figure closed in on him. It cast a long, distorted shadow across the white, porcelain tub. No real noise seemed to accompany it's presence. There was no shuffling of garments or heavy footfalls -but someone was definitely there.

House's eyes finally made out the features of the person who was standing before him. It wouldn't have mattered if could have spoken, because his brain currently seemed devoid of rational thought.

How..?

The words came out at him like a broken record, like some twisted déja vu.

"I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciated the opportunity to work with you...the great Dr. House."

House would have shrunk backward, if he'd actually had anywhere to go -but he couldn't even move. Instead he was frozen in place, still but for the shivering that was beginning to build. His eyes were wide open and glassy. He was convinced that what he was seeing couldn't be real. His eyes had to be deceiving him. He was sick and his mind was messing with him; that was all.

Foreman...In my bathroom?

The man appeared smug, definitely enjoying House’s unfavorable position.

"It’s a shame things had to end the way they did...but it was for the best, wouldn’t you agree?"

Dr. Foreman was dressed in green surgical scrubs, a smile of immense satisfaction on his face. It was too much like the smile he'd worn that night, the night he'd walked out after his final day at Princeton-Plainsboro. It was almost painful for House to look at it, considering all that it implied. He was unable to turn away.

How did you..?

Foreman paced the short length of the room, staring down at his former boss with a coldly clinical expression.

"You look surprised to see me. I didn’t think anyone could surprise you...seeing as you know everything."

Foreman laughed to himself. Laughter was ordinarily a happy sound, something that suggested pleasure, but House found himself wanting to cover his ears -just to put an end to it.

"But that stroke was a surprise, wasn’t it? You sure didn’t see that coming."

House became aware of a growing need to conceal his naked body. He fingered the towel, helplessly -but it no longer seemed adequate to cover him. Foreman must have read House’s look of distress, because he made a sickeningly vain attempt to sound reassuring.

"What are you going to do...scream? You can’t even talk, either that or you won't. And who would you call anyway? Nobody likes you. I sure as hell don't like you. Cameron might have liked you once...but you managed to drive her away. And Chase...well everybody knows he's just kissing your ass."

House had no idea that his lips had begun forming silent protests, as he no longer felt as though his mind was truly connected to his body.

Foreman turned to retrieve a surgical cart from the hallway. He wheeled it into the bathroom. A display of menacing, metallic tools were laid out in preparation. House recognized them, immediately.

Amputation?

Foreman lifted a scalpel, the obscene fluorescent light reflecting off of it as he turned it in his gloved hands.

"The Dr. House that I know would say that it was nature's way of attempting to do away with the useless. Forgive me for being so bold, but you really serve no purpose, do you? You probably never really did."

He paused, waiting for House to respond, but all he had to offer was a look of complete terror.

"Now you’re mute and crippled. You have no wife...no children... no real friends..."

House blinked at the other man, almost blinded by the glare coming off of the knife’s shiny surface. He knew that he’d never been the most social person, but he’d always rationalized his lack of friends by telling himself that he’d chosen not to engage with other people. He knew the truth was that he'd driven away pretty much everyone that had ever given a damn about him; everyone except Wilson -a fact that still continued to baffle him daily.

Foreman grinned, effortlessly reading the other man’s thoughts.

"I’m reluctant to even mention that pathetic masochist that follows you around like a hired valet. Even so...one real friend? Hitler probably had more meaningful relationships. The oxygen you use up by breathing would be better served if it were going to someone who actually had some redeeming qualities."

House whimpered, his mouth trying hard to produce some sort of audible response. He reasoned, rationalized, that It had to be a dream...More aptly, a nightmare. Logic told him that it must be some kind of hallucination. Foreman wouldn’t dare invade his home like this, even if he had dabbled in such serious crimes as a youth. It didn’t make any sense. Foreman wouldn't risk losing his license, going to prison, nor would he attempt to exact revenge on a man who was now basically completely helpless.

Foreman leaned over the tub, scalpel in hand, slowly peeling the towel away from House’s shaking frame.

"I say we finish the job."

House squirmed, trying to remove himself from the path of Foreman’s aim. He couldn’t manage it, and he watched in horror as Foreman drew the scalpel across his right thigh. The area of damaged muscle began to ooze blood. It poured out of him like a waterfall, filling the tub around him. It was way too much blood. It was enough to fill three people.

House panicked at the sight of his own injury, but instead of pain he felt only numbness. It was almost as though his leg wasn't even there at all.

Despite the severity of what he had just done, Foreman was still smiling casually -as though he broke into people's homes and sliced the inhabitants open all the time. He examined House’s leg, obviously pleased with his work.

"I think we should take this off. It’s useless anyway."

House grew sick at the sight of his own blood. It leaked from him more and more rapidly, filling the tub until it was practically spilling over the rim. He moaned as he felt his body convulsing, vomit exploding out of him. All he could hear was Foreman's maniacal laughter.

Wilson was exhausted. He bustled through the doorway of the apartment, dropping his briefcase behind the couch. Before he could even take off his tie, a sliver of light caught his eye from across the hall. It was coming from House's bedroom.

Wilson found the bed to be a desheveled mess, but House was not in it. He turned and approached the bathroom, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw the top of House’s head peeking over the side of the bathtub.

Wilson wasn't nearly as relieved when he took in the full sight of his friend, naked and covered in his own vomit, in a tub that no longer held any water.

Wilson realized that House must have pulled the towel down off of the wall and tried to cover himself with it, but even so, he was still shivering violently.

Wilson placed a hand on House's flushed and sweating face, realizing that there was a literal inferno raging just underneath his skin. He was definitely febrile, which might explain the seizing, and possibly the vomit.

"House."

Wilson jostled him, trying to see how alert he really was. House's eyes had rolled back into his head.

Wilson decided the priority should be to bring House's temperature down, so he reached into the tub and braced himself to take on House's weight. It took him a minute to get into a position sufficient to actually lift his friend all the way out of the tub. But once he had, he stumbled over to the shower stall, crashing down onto the chair that had been left there. It was easier just to let House's legs go limp, and continue holding only his torso. He was far too tall to carry or hold the conventional way, and the shower was too confining.

Wilson turned on the spray, although he was still fully clothed. He kicked his shoes off, clutching the other man to him, while lukewarm water rained down on them both.