House was off and running, running toward Wilson as fast as his legs would move. It was an awesome sensation, running again, the ground under his feet. But he didn't have time to lose himself in it. He was driven, driven to Wilson's side.

There was a crowd around him, the man on a makeshift cot on the ground. A dark haired man with blood stained down the side of his shirt knelt next to Wilson, helping Wilson drink from a plastic water bottle.

House fell to his knees on the other side, causing Wilson's eyes to shift. Wild and unfocused for a moment, then wide with shock as he groped for House's hand. "Your…leg," he sputtered, water dripping down his chin. House wiped it away with the sleeve of his jacket.

House caught Wilson's hand in his, linked fingers. "It's fine. I'll tell you all about it later." John Locke put a hand on the other man's shoulder, and he backed away, moving off to talk with Locke privately. House glanced at them, but shifted his attention immediately back to Wilson. "How are you holding up?"

"I've been better," Wilson managed, and lifted his head, straining to get a look at his leg. House didn't know any details, and hadn't had a chance to look at the wound himself. He didn't want Wilson to see it, until he knew just how bad it really was.

He eased Wilson back down to his pillow made of folded clothes wrapped in someone's coat. A hand on Wilson's cheek helped keep the patient calm. "Just relax. I'm here. I'm gonna take good care of you, okay."

Wilson's eyes closed. He shifted, trying to get closer to House. House scooted closer to him and squeezed his hand. i I'm right here, Wilson. I'm not going anywhere. /i

"I'm so tired, House. Can I sleep? Can I sleep now?"

The hand on his cheek moved into his hair, stroking it away from his face. He started humming, softly, soothing, easing Wilson into sleep. Within minutes, Wilson's breathing evened out, and another few minutes after that, House scanned the crowd, looking for John Locke or the man who had been sitting with Wilson.

Locke caught his eyes, smiled, guided the other man to look at House. "Greg House, Dr Jack Shepard," Locke said, pointing to each in turn.

House offered his hand, Jack moved in to clasp it. "You're a doctor?" House questioned.

Jack nodded and knelt beside House. Beside Wilson.

"So am I. So is he." House gestured at Wilson.

Jack nodded again. "He told me."

"What can you tell me about his leg?" House shifted, attempted to extract his hand from Wilson's but Wilson's fingers tightened. He squeezed back, and decided not to pull his hand away.

Jack tugged Wilson's pant leg up. "I cleaned the wound best I could, wrapped a clean shirt around it to stop the bleeding and keep sand out of it."

"How bad is it?" House asked, eyes shifting to look at the doctor. Wilson murmured, House resumed stoking his hair to keep him settled.

"He was trapped between two seats on the plane. I didn't want to pull it out, but I was afraid he'd die in there," Jack pointed to a section of the plane. Open at both ends, it was a mess of tangled wires and over turned seats. And dead bodies.

"How bad is it?" House asked again, blue eyes boring into Jack.

"It's bad. He's bled through two shirts already. He needs stitches, antibiotics, blood transfusion. Surgery."

House's gaze flickered to Wilson. He looked so young, so innocent, in sleep. Until his brow furrowed and his mouth twisted in pain. It passed quickly, and he relaxed again.

"Think you can find me a couple needles, something to transfuse blood, and a B Positive donor?"

"Got yourself a donor right here," John Locke offered. House looked up at him with a nod.

"I'll see what I can do," Jack stood and put a hand on House's shoulder. House met his eyes for a moment, then looked away.

Jack and Locke both headed off, and House sat closer to Wilson, adjusted Wilson's head to lay in his lap.