AN: Sorry about the horrendously long wait. It is now the 13th of March. I said I would have this done by mid-February. Real life, yadda yadda, you know the deal. I apologise profusely. X gave me the main idea for this chapter, and also was a general beta person, so thanks to her. Thanks also to daisylily, my medical (and general) beta, who is made of awesome.

Chapter 11 is an M. If it were a movie, it would probably be a 21, or an 18 at the least. If you have night terrors, or PTSD, or a similar mental illness, then for God's sake don't read it. Not all that much happens, you're not missing anything. Anyone that doesn't want to read the graphic violence and hints of other equally nasty things, as well as strong language, I'll put a three sentence summary of what happened at the bottom. I think that's fair.

I don't own House, MD.

Chapter 11

"House," Tritter's voice teased gently. The sound echoed around House's half-asleep pain-filled brain, distorted and nauseating. House groaned as pain flared up again, in his fingers, his chest, his leg. Pain was all that he was aware of. Pain, and the voice.

"House," insisted Tritter's voice. He felt his shoulders being shaken slightly, and he winced at the pain in his chest. Ow, ow, ow. He moaned again, wishing that the pain would just end.

"Come on now, House," said Tritter, mockingly. House didn't even bother to open his eyes. If it was dark, there was no point, and if it was light, he didn't want to see. "You'll miss all the fun. Wake up."

House gave a small, shuddering sob. Pain. Tritter. Pain. He sobbed again as he felt Tritter's strong fingers prise his eyelids open. The light was too bright. It burned his eyes. "That's better, now, isn't it?" Tritter said, softly. House allowed Tritter to push him up into a sitting position. There was nothing he could do to stop him, and as he had found out long ago, resistance was indeed futile. He had to do what Tritter told him to. If he did what he was told, he wouldn't have to be hurt any more. If he had done what he was told, Daddy wouldn't have had to hurt him. Daddy hadn't wanted to hurt him, but Greg had made it so that there was no other way. This was all Greg's fault. Why couldn't he just be good, like all the other little boys? Why did he have to be such a disappointment? Why couldn't he make Daddy happy?

House's shoulders were shaking with sobs, but he was too dehydrated to cry tears. His throat was dry and scratchy, and his mouth still tasted of bile, but he didn't care, because all that mattered was the pain. House felt Tritter's hard, muscled arm gripping his shoulders, and tried to shrink away from the plastic disposable cup as it was raised to his lips. Tritter, however, held him in place and forced a small amount of water into his mouth. Realising what he was being offered, House gratefully gulped down the mouthful of liquid. It was cool, soothing his irritated throat as he swallowed. He savoured the water, knowing that he wouldn't get any more for hours. Not that hours had any meaning here. Seconds felt like minutes, hours felt like days.

House felt Tritter push him back down so that he was lying on the floor. Less dizziness, that was good. Tritter was trying to help him. He should have realised that from the beginning. Tritter had only ever tried to do what was best for House, and House owed him an apology, but he couldn't speak for the sobs that wracked his almost emaciated form.

"Don't worry, House," Tritter's voice soothed. A hand stroked his forehead. House wanted to lean in to the comfort, but that was wrong. He couldn't do that. "It's Day Five, House. Not long to go now. Nine days from now, your friends will realise that something's wrong, and they'll start looking for you. And when the police find us, I'll kill you, and the pain will all be over. No more pain, House. Wouldn't you like that?"

"Yes," House managed to mumble.

"Good boy," Tritter said, in the same soft, comforting voice. Hands were rolling him over to lie on his front. Fingers were unbuttoning his stiff jeans and pulling them down. This was wrong, and House knew it. Something was wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen. His father would be ashamed. He made a vague sound of distress in the back of his throat, and was answered by Tritter's hand pressing down hard on the back of his thigh. His vision exploded into bright bursts of light. His inner Wilson was silent, as he had been for nearly a day now. In desperation, House turned his head to one side and concentrated on not thinking about anything as he felt Tritter pulling at his boxers. He felt a hand sliding up his left thigh, moving gradually closer to somewhere that it shouldn't be going. This wasn't right. The same hand squeezed at the flesh just above his left hip, before travelling inwards. No. Think about something else. Think about anything else.

There were bugs crawling across the floor. At first it looked as though there were only five or ten of them, but as they crossed his line of vision, he realised that there were more and more of them, all swarming over to him. They looked a little like ants, but far too big, and far too ferocious, and far too slimy. They were like mutants, like nothing he had ever seen before, and they frightened the living hell out of him.

"Fuck," House whimpered. It was the only coherent thought he could manage to voice. There was pain as well, coming from somewhere that wasn't his hand or his leg or his chest, and a strange grunting noise, but that wasn't important. The bugs were coming towards him, he could feel their small, wet, webbed feet on his uninjured hand. They were repulsive, and they just kept on coming. "Fuck," House whispered again, his voice beginning to grow louder. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!" He was screaming now in pure terror at the beings that were beginning to seep up over his body. They were crawling on his face, into his eyes. He tried to raise a hand to swipe desperately at the insects, but they were pinning his hand down, and he couldn't move. He was still screaming, inarticulately now, but even so, he could still just about hear that same, strange, rhythmic grunting sound behind him. He gagged, vomiting up his hard-won water, and as the contents of his stomach splashed onto the concrete floor, the bugs disappeared.

But he couldn't move. His head was being held in place by two strong, straight pieces of metal. He screamed again, desperately twisting and turning, attempting to free himself from his restraints, but to no avail. He fell limp, but his body kept on moving, thrusting forwards, the grunting still present. He was sobbing again, because this wasn't right, this wasn't what his father wanted. Dad was going to be angry, and when Dad got angry, Greg got hurt. Dad was going to shout, tell him that he was pathetic, that he wasn't a real man. Dad was going to be ashamed of him.

The metal was closing in on his body, restraints grabbing at him with clawed steel hands, bruising his arms. He stiffened his body. It would all be over soon, he recited, it would all be over soon. It would all be over soon. But the metal was closing in on him, growing closer, growing more and more oppressive, consuming him. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe.


House wakes up from one of his increasingly frequent slumbers, on the fifth day of his incarceration. Tritter then proceeds to rape House, but fortunately House is too far gone to realise what Tritter is doing. Unfortunately, House hallucinates about bugs and Saw traps, and consequently screams a lot.

I am twisted, and for that, I am sorry.