Slip Sliding Away

Winter in New Jersey sucked. Plain and simple. And it sucked even more the evening after a day of the sun melting the snow just enough to make crossing a parking lot the most treacherous obstacle for any able-bodied person. For Greg House, traversing ice and snow was the equivalent of the "X Games". Each step he took toward his car was like negotiating a mine field. A wrong step could send him flying through the air only to be splattered on the ground. He'd rather be walking bare foot across hot coals.

Once safely inside his nice reliant automobile, House realized he could make the ride home a little more interesting-provided there was no traffic. The occasional skid/slide through an intersection and fishtailing around corners made him feel in control for the first time in a long while. The fun was over once he secured a parking spot just half a block away from his apartment.

Again the trepidation he felt once the car door was opened was enough to cause tension throughout his body. And that was never good for his bum leg. Using the car for leverage he extracted himself, his cane and his knapsack from the vehicle. "Damn," Greg growled with a sigh. Ten yards could seem like an airport runway sometimes.

He concentrated on taking each step while keeping his weight evenly distributed. So far, so good. As long as no one came flying down the street he'd make it.

"Whoa!" It only took a millisecond, a slight misstep. One foot sliding forward, the other back. And that's when the body tries to right itself in a strange ballet of flailing arms and tossed accessories. The body lands in ways that aren't conducive to readily getting up.

It was not a happy landing. The jarring pain of various body parts hitting the ground was only overshadowed by the back of his head smacking the ice covered pavement. White lights popped before his eyes as Greg sighed in a mixture of pain and defeat.

The pain and humility would have to wait. Laying in the middle of the road only made him a human speed bump. A vehicle was coming. He needed to get out of the way.

Easier said than done.

The driver of the SUV slowed upon seeing the figure in the street. Her hand was already on her cell phone as the vehicle came to a full stop. The figure was half-sitting, shielding his eyes with his hand. It was very possible the guy was just crazy enough to have a bit of a lie down in the street. She better check before calling out the National Guard.

Treading carefully she held onto the vehicle and made her way to the front. The man didn't seem to be getting up.

"Sir, are you okay?" She approached him cautiously.

"Just peachy. I always take a siesta in the middle of traffic."

She was right, a fifty-one/fifty. "There's a shelter not far from here."

House looked up at her incredulously. "I'm not-"

"Oh, sorry. I'm not trying to pass judgment."

"I was just trying to get from my car to my apartment."

Great, he's drunk. "Well then, it's probably best-"

"If you could give me a hand, I can get out of your way."

She was hesitant. He couldn't understand why. And the last thing he wanted to do was explain why he needed help.

"Watch your step. It's an ice rink out here."

"Oh." It was as if everything all made sense. "Oh! Are you injured?"

"Just my pride." Greg reached for her, stopping abruptly. The pain in his leg intensified. "And maybe a little more.

"Do you see my cane anywhere?" He looked around hopefully. It was his way of letting her know he was a gimp before he hit the pavement.

"Here, let me help you up." She placed herself strategically as if she had done this many times before.

Greg raised himself half way before a wave of nausea passed through him. He gripped the bumper until it passed.

"Let's get you over to the curb so I can check you out a little better."

He snorted, ready to make a snide remark, but thought better of it. This woman was possibly his best chance of getting to safety. Due to his current state he had little choice but to use her like a crutch and leaned exceptionally heavily on her.

She eased him down to the curb under a street light. He groaned, mumbling a choice explicative or two as he tended to his thigh. "I'll be right back, just going to move the beast."

Greg watched her small, sturdy frame climb into the near-monster truck. She moved it closer to where he was, making him a little nervous. "I'm okay, really," he told her as she got out.

"You took a good spill. You should at least get checked out by a doctor."

"I'll call my friend. He's a doctor." Greg dug out his cell phone and hit Wilson's speed dial number. "Little privacy please," he glared up at the Good Samaritan.

"What do you want, House?" Wilson sounded perturbed, borderline frustrated.

"Need you." Greg kept the emotion from his voice.

"I'm tired. It's getting late. I don't have the time tonight to baby-sit you because you're bored."

"You have a date," he said with resign.

"Are you okay? You don't sound like yourself."

"I'm in pain."

There was a long pause before Wilson replied. "I'm sorry to hear that. Take the Ibuprophen and get into a hot bath. I'll call back after dinner and check on you." Wilson hung up before House could get a word out.

Greg closed his phone and set it down next to him. He began massaging his thigh with renewed vigor. This time it was doing more harm than good. "Okay," he said through clenched teeth.

She was at his side quickly, her hands keeping his from the habitual kneading. She looked at him closely. "Your eyes are glassy."

"I'm tired."

"Your cheeks are flushed."

"It's cold out."

She felt his face. "You're hot."

"You're not so bad yourself."

She rolled her eyes but was smiling. "You might have a concussion." She felt the back of his head, and he slapped one of her hands away. "You've got a nice goose egg back there."

She stepped back to assess his leg.

"I'd rather you didn't touch me anymore." He had no idea who this woman was, but once she felt the crater in his leg, she'd flee and he'd be stuck in the gutter.

"I'm trained to do this."

"I don't need to see your Red Cross Certification to believe you."

"So you're not giving me consent?"

"Nope," he responded matter-of-factly.

"But you wouldn't mind a ride to a local ER." She had his number. He was too embarrassed to admit he was hurt. Most people his age downplayed their injuries.

He nodded, his face a mask of pain.

"I'd feel better if you'd let me splint it. It's just going to hurt worse."

Greg kept his eyes closed. "I'll manage," he grunted. "Just help me up."

Again he was surprised by her strength. His own was faltering and he wanted nothing more than to get somewhere warm, preferably where he could lie down. House was so distracted with his thoughts, he didn't realize he was using her head like the crook of a cane until she repositioned herself.

"I know I'm short, but I need my head on my shoulders, not through them."

"Sorry." He adjusted his weight, his whole body trembling now.

She could feel it. He was probably going to pass out on her before they got much further. "I'm going to turn you around. I want you to grab on to the 'holy shit handles' while I give you a boost up."

"Holy shit handles?"

"You know, the overhead handles you grab on the passenger side or back doors when the driver takes a turn too fast. You hang on for dear life and yell: 'holy shit'."

Greg had to laugh at that. He looked up at the door frame. "I'm nearly a foot taller than you."

"So?" She knelt in front of him clasping her hands together, fingers laced, palms up. "Step into my hands."

House did what she said, and within seconds his butt was on the back seat.

"Don't fall out," she ordered as she went to the other side and climbed in behind him. "I'm going to grab you under the arms and slide you back onto the seat."

"You're pretty good at this."

"It's all physics and leverage." She winked at him playfully before closing the doors and climbing behind the wheel. "Now that you're my captive…"

Greg's brain went into overdrive. He didn't know this person, and here he was, imprisoned in her SUV. Maybe she was some kind of wacko nut job.

"…I don't even know your name."

"Uh…"

Damn, he's confused. "I'm Cindy. If you need me to slow down or anything, just give me a shout. I'll try to avoid the potholes as best I can."

House stayed quiet. Suddenly he felt like James Caan's character in "Misery". They had driven, by his estimate, about two miles before reaching the first red light. Cindy turned around to check on him.

"How ya doin' back there?"

Greg nodded. He was focusing on the pain to distract himself from what might be a kidnapping in progress.

"You sure? You look a little green around the gills."

"Where are you taking me?"

"Memorial. They've got a good orthopedic department. Seems like a good choice considering…"

"How long?"

"ETA, five minutes."