Disclaimer: I don't own House M.D.
AN- First House fic EVER!! I can't believe I'm actually writing this -_- I swore I wouldn't. I guess I lie to myself to…
I wonder how fast I can go before fast is no longer fast enough. I wonder how long I can speed down this deserted stretch of road without a cop appearing from nowhere to arrest me. I wouldn't really care though. Hell, I might enjoy it. The feeling that someone else is in control for once. Fuck, probably not.
Where the hell is Wilson? He left the hospital early so I tried his cell before I left to ask if he wanted to go out for some beers. He never picked up. Asshole.
Look. The road curves up ahead but I can't slow down. I must admit, I don't really want to. There's just no reason. I mean seeing Wilson again is a positive but I really don't give a shit about anything else.
Curve's coming closer. It's a one way street with a ravine. I'll probably hit the curb, flip off my bike and fall into the ravine. How far down is it? There's a good chance I could die from this 'accident'. Shit, I hope so.
The jolt from his bike hitting the curb threw him off immediately. The infamous diagnostician flipped and landed at the top off the ravine with a dull thud. His helmet wasn't secured and was knocked off. Sliding and rolled down the side of the chasm with his bike crashing and tumbling beside him, he fell. Thorns from bushes maliciously tore at his clothing, jagged rocks brutally cutting into the tender skin. The pain in his damaged leg was bad but the fall made it feel as if someone had taken a white-hot knife and stabbed him in the damaged thigh, bitterly twisting the blade.
House worked on instinct only. He couldn't think enough to do otherwise. He clung to whatever he could get his hands on. His nails bit into the earth and soon his nails were bloody, torn, and dirty. His hands were much in the same condition with cuts at every angle with dirt and blood engraved in the wrinkles of his hand.
He stopped falling finally but wished he hadn't. His bike hit a fallen tree and jumped a few feet in the air to land on both the doctor's legs. A scream was torn from his throat, as wild and terrifying as any animal's when it hit the already damaged muscle. The infamous diagnostician, the king of sarcasm and ill-humor, the one who always feels pain lay on his back and stared at the sky, his mind numbed with pain. So much pain he couldn't think to do anything but groan in agony until the pain subside enough where he could think enough to try and get from under the bike. It was no use. It was too painful to move the bike even the barest inch. He looked around for his backpack, hoping to get his cell, or more importantly his pills. The little blue backpack was there, it was whole and surprisingly wasn't ripped. The only problem was that it was way out of reach. Too far to even reach with a branch if he tried.
"Where's House?" Cuddy demanded, storming into Wilson's office.
The oncologist looked up from his stack of papers and shrugged. "He called me last night but I missed it. I called him back but he never answered. Maybe he got drunk?"
Cuddy shook her head. "He still would've been in by now."
"Did you call him?" He bent his head and read over a few lines of a patient's file.
"Of course I called him. I called him four times."
"Cell or home?" Wilson scribbled down a few notes and moved on to the next file.
Cuddy began pacing nervously. She picked up a rubber band from
Wilson's desk and started snapping it.
Wilson looked up and watched her play with it for a moment. "Did you check the exam rooms?"
The Dean threw her hands up in exasperation. "Of course I did. I also checked the janitor's closet, the OBGYN lounge, and the jogging park."
Wilson closed the file and ran a hand through his hair. He looked at his boss dubiously. "And you're sure he's not there? Well then he's probably at home avoiding you. If he doesn't show then I'll stop by after I'm finished here."
"If you find him tell he I said he has double clinic hours." With that the Dean stormed out Wilson's office, still snapping the rubber band.
After she left the oncologist pulled his cell from his pocket and dialed House's cell number. "Damn it, House." Wilson muttered as the phone rang.
"This is House." It was the answering machine. "I'm avoiding you at the moment so please don't leave a message because I'll never listen to it." Then came the beep to let him know it was recording.
"House, where are you? Cuddy's was over here, in my office, busting my ass because you're not here." He rubbed the side of his face in irritation and sighed heavily. "Just hurry up and come to work before she decides to give you double clinic hours. If you don't show, I'm coming over." The oncologist warned before hanging up. He rubbed the back of his neck with a grimace. He really didn't get paid enough to be a grown man's babysitter.
The pain was horrendous. It was as if white-hot nails were being shoved into his body again and again. It clouded his mind so severely that House barely registered anything going on around him. Every movement he made, every breath he took sent a fresh wave of pain running throughout his body. The doctor lay on the ground wracked with an indescribable amount of pain, pinned to the ground by the very machine that had given him a level of freedom he had not experienced in years.
It had rained the day before and the ground was still damp. House shivered as the moisture slowly soaked through his blue collared shirt and Barking Irons tee. He had forgotten his jacket back in his office in his haste to get away from annoying patients and suddenly clingy Cameron.
His phone was ringing. It didn't matter though. He couldn't reach it. The diagnostician took a deep breath and willed himself to think clearly. He had to get his phone before he died. At this point he couldn't bring himself to care though. Whatever happens, happens but he sure as hell wasn't going to lay there and let himself die. He reached for the closest thing at hand. It was a stick, still damp and rotting slightly. House shoved it between his teeth and bit down, the taste of dirt on his tongue. He closed his eyes and, lifting his bike just enough, managed to get enough room to get out from under the motorcycle. When he was free he spit out the piece of wood and let himself fall back to the ground, moaning in agony because the pain had magnified. He was completely damp now. Not just from the ground but from the thin layer of sweat that covered his body and soaked his hair.
House turned onto his side and tried to focus on the next task. Getting his phone.