A/N: these are scenes I had written down, but which for various reasons didn't fit in the final story.
There might be some minor problems with the lighting (grammar) and the sound (spelling), because they have not been digitally remastered (beta-ed).
If, while reading them, you spot a plotbunny lurking in a dark alleyway or behind the next lamp-post, feel free to snatch it up and nurture it to adulthood. I'd just appreciate it, if you'd mention where you found it and drop me a line, so I can follow your story. :-)
House didn't know how long he had been here. He didn't know were 'here' was or how he had got there. He was lying on a bed. To begin with there had been cuffs around his wrists and ankles, but now they were gone. He was too weak to move. If he had been able to examine himself he would have seen that he was dressed in a hospital gown. Not that he remembered being taken to a hospital.
All he knew about was the pain.
They had found a new way to torture me. I hadn't eaten for days and they had barely brought me enough water to keep me alive. Nor had I slept. Everytime my eyes closed, they would bombard the room with a barrage of sounds, drum beats, music, machine gun fire. The lights were kept on all the time. Right now it could have been the middle of the day or the night. It made no difference.
The sounds were hammering through my head. All I wanted was silence. I used to hate the silence of solitary, but now I couldn't stop thinking about it. What wouldn't I give for another day of this silence. Or even five minutes. Just one minute of peace.
The guard – Fat Boy - punches me again. I barely have time to see the fist swing in an arch towards me before it makes contact with my stomach, throwing me off my feet. If I'd eaten anything in the last twelve hours I'd have thrown up. I feel the the breath explode out of me as I crash onto the floor. Darkness is shimmering in front of my eyes, but it isn't closing in yet. I have to fight for each breath. The concrete feels cold against my cheek.
"Say it again, cripple."
I try to catch my breath, try to form the words that I used to avoid like the plague before. No I seem to say nothing else.
Fat Boy swings his foot almost lazily and I can't help but yell out as it comes into contact with my ribs. A new wave of pain is searing through my body. One of the others reaches down and grabs my hair. He tugs so hard that I can feel tears forming in my eyes.
"What are you?" he grunts.
I know the answer to that question too. "Nothing. I'm no-one."
"Too right you are."
He lets go of my hair and I lay there sprawled out on the floor. Let it be over now, please.
He drops down next to me and turns my face towards him. "You are nothing."
Then he gets up again. One of them must have given a signal, because they scoop me up and drag me into the corner. I don't even try to resist. I can feel my feet, toes downwards, sliding along behind me. My vision is blurred, or maybe it's just getting darker. They dump me in the corner and leave me lying there, after giving me another couple of kicks just for the fun of it.
Just before they leave, the one whose name I don't know bends down again and says in a whisper of sheer hatred. "Thompson sends his regards."
A/N: To be honest, the following scene was never meant to be in the story. It's just that BSEVER made a comment about 'John House to please not be taking House back' and that idea simply didn't leave me alone. I wrote this short scene to get rid of it. And it worked. :-)
"I think it's best if I take care of Greg from now on." John House said in a tone that was basically an order.
"No Way!" Wilson said angrily. "He lives with me. He's comfortable here, he has everything he needs and there are doctors here who know his medical history."
"He will have everything he needs with me." John House said simply.
Wilson wanted to shout 'I'm pretty sure he won't!' but instead he said "I don't think it is a good idea to rip him out of an environment he's used to. He needs stability. He needs to feel safe, so he can heal and maybe one day come back."
"What he needs is a strong hand. I know Greg. I know best what he needs." John had raised his voice.
This time Wilson did shout exactly what was in his mind. He was tired of treading carefully around this bully of a man. This was about House and if House needed someone to fight for him, then Wilson would gladly be the one.
"I think you have no idea what he needs. From all I know, you had no idea what he needed when he was a kid."
"What the hell are you talking about?! Are you accusing me of abusing my son? How dare you!"
"He is not going with you. I will make sure of that!"
Johns face was red, his eyes bulging with anger. „We'll see about that Mr. Smary-Pants. He's my son and any court will give me -"
"If you try to bring this before a court, I'll make sure to tell them about the ice-baths and the sleeping in the yard. I'll tell them about the special dinners. We'll see who wins then!"
John House stared at Wilson for a whole minute. His breathing was laboured. Then he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. Wilson never heard of him again.