Part of the contractverse. Read DIY Sheep's 'The Contract' Then cut out everything from the scene this story starts out at.

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House sat, irons on his legs and chains binding his deformed wrists, staring at Wilson.

He could visibly see Wilson 'caring.' He didn't care, merely noted how even under threat of death from Thompson Wilson's personality still shined through. What he didn't see was the different was Wilson was looking, the different way the random prisonguards and policemen (From New Jersey Defense!) were looking at him. All he could think about was how they had got him, got Jimmy.

'I was so careful. I always listened, no matter what! Why did they take Jimmy, why? Can he even see, does he even know what's going to happen to him? How can he just stand there?!'

House, being House, ran his mind into overdrive. Until, Wilson said,

"Nice shiner, who'd you irritate this time?" Shakily.

It was such a normal, Wilson-ish statement that House responded automatically, even after years and years and years trained to be silent.

"Oh, it's all the rage you know, must have prison accessory. You wouldn't believe the doors I walk through to stay fashionable." House's voice sounded rough and scratchy after years of disuse, screaming abandoned once he'd met solitary. And, of couse, being stabbed in the voicebox didn't help.

House answered because he'd supposed Wilson just got dropped into this situation and didn't know what was going on, which was why he was looking tentative (which was not actually the reason) and why Wilson was acting so normal. Thompson's lawyer hadn't told him to tell Wilson, so he had to act normal. Maybe, maybe, he'd be forgiven for talking.

Yeah, right. Not a chance in hell of that.

House knew he was gonna get some serious hell for talking, some serious hell, but it was noting compared to what he knew Jimmy to be getting.

Oh, Jimmy, I'm so so sorry, even though sorry doesn't mean anything, as my father taught me. I apologize for failing.

House's features creased in primal fear for himself and true fear for Wilson. A tear leaked out of House's eye as he accepted that he had probably failed in his task, as Wilson was always meant to be last.

"Oh, House, it's okay, you're safe now. He's not going to get you, not ever, I promise."

Wilson had walked around the desk and was crouching low in front of House, who was shaking badly. Wilson went to put his hands on House's shoulder, which he decided not to do when House flinched a foot back in a steel chair.

House, still shaking because of Wilson's proximity, was staring wide-eyed at Wilson. How could Wilson know, unless Thompson told him? And then, he would know they're not safe! Obviously, Thompson was using Wilson to trick House into security and to break the rules. He wasn't going to give them the satisfaction. House knew he wasn't dreaming or hallucinating, his dreams and hallucinations told him when he was doing that.

"You don't believe me." Wilson said. He didn't sound in the least bit betrayed, only saddened. He pleaded "Please House, when have I ever lied to you? Well, besides 'for your own good.' I doubt lying like this would be for your good, you know that better than I do."

House again stared at Wilson. He seemed to be doing a lot of that. Wilson was right, logically he was safe, but he couldn't take that chance. He had said goodbye to pain-free logic when he signed that contract. But still, it gave them years of life. It was worth it.

"Thompson was shot. Found dead, in his apartment. They found the tapes, House, that Thompson kept. I'm sure you remember there being a cameraman. You have a court order giving you permission to be in the infirmary. You're going to be free tomorrow, to come home with me. I've got a house with a spare bedroom now, I can set it up with medical equipment and help take care of you for a bit. You know you need it, don't even protest in your head, which I know you are doing." Wilson was rapidly gaining back his usual demeanor, if not his facial composure. The worry and admiration was leaking out of him in his face and his voice.

House had to admit, it made sense. He just couldn't take that chance though, no, he couldn't.

House saw the policeman motion and he involuntarily flinched. Again. When did he start doing that? He felt his PVC cane thrust into his hand and felt himself being lifted up to be helped to walk. Leaning heavily on Wilson, he ascended up some stairs from the interrogation room, heaving his leg irons up slowly and excruciatingly painfully. House peered at himself as he walked up into the increasingly bright light. He hadn't seen himself in years, been in the dark being abused. He was heavily scarred, scar tissue covering his whole body. He was examining his spiderwebbed hand when he reached the top of the stairs and reached a beautiful sight.

A window.

It didn't have a particularly striking view, just another cement wall with another window and some dying grass in between and a bare sight of the partly cloudy sky, but he could see the sun. He could see the orange light glint off of the rebar reinforcements of the window.

House knew either he was free or they were all dead really soon. Except him, but if they died he could kill himself. But not without seeing the sun.

House veered him and Wilson off course, right up to the window, which Wilson didn't seem to mind even if he was confused at first. House pressed his face right up to the glass and looked down. Each speck of dirt had texture he hadn't seen in years. He saw some green, healthy grass growing in it. House looked up at the sun. He felt it bathing him in it's warmth, and laughed.

it was small, quieter than you thought a laugh could be, but it was there. And, considering the situation, huge.

House pressed his squashed hand up to the top of the window pointing to and still staring at the sun, said,

"I'd forgotten what it looked like."

And he was still smiling, and suddenly so was Wilson, and the prisonguard and the policemen were all smiling. Wilson, after a few second after House had lowered his hand, said,

"I promise there's a window by your infirmary bed, I saw it. You really do need to go to the infirmary."

House thought Wilson was being pushy, but didn't mention that. He could always mention it later after they were dead or he was free. They started their slow meander down the short hallway. The Infirmary was the farthest doorway on the other side of the hallway, but it was a slightly busy hallway for a prison. He saw one of the inmates he incessantly annoyed before he was told not to. He was cellmates, and almost friends with the man. He had run a company that sold drugs, so House wasn't adverse to him. He knew House's story, and even though he had thought House dead, he smiled. He heard occasionally of people coming back from execution by injection, heard of cases like House. House smiled right on back.

Wilson was a little bothered by House being friendly with another 6 foot tall, hulking man with tattoos of skulls on his shaved head and neck.

"Who was that?" Wilson asked.

House answered without looking at Wilson, or showing any emotion at all.

"Just a friend, Wilson, just a friend."

"Well, I do wonder what kind of friend he would be. I also expect you to tell me." Wilson said mockingly sternly.

House was surprised he'd gone back to bantering. Was he making a genuine effort? He thought so. Did it matter? No. Because he was still afraid of every move someone made, of the belt Wilson and the policemen wore, of the guns on their belt, of the tasers, hell, he was scared of the IV needle. Wilson's playful bantering wasn't going to rid him of the fear that was going to plague him always and forever, however long that may be. House's face just stayed stony and blank.

But Jimmy was right there, smiling above him, the IV needle didn't hurt him, the policemen and prisonguards weren't Thompson's men and they weren't hurting him. He glanced over to the IV bag.

Water.

Maybe, maybe it really was over. I mean, there were in a fairly public place, orderlies crawling around, what could happen? He actually knew some of the orderlies had worked for Thompson. Crap, they could be the ones to kill them!

House glanced around worriedly and frantically, beginning to panic. What if that wasn't water, that was some painful poison again!? He ripped the IV needle out of his arm, Wilson growing confused. House's vision began to blur and he closed his eyes as he fought the strong arms holding him down gently, ignoring Wilson's voice telling him it was going to be alright. It wasn't going to be alright, it was poison! Thompson was poisoning him!

"Poison! No, no poison!" House had began shouting, desperate to tell Wilson the men were going to poison him.

Wilson grabbed the bag down from the IV pole. "House, it's not poison, it's water, I promise. Look."

House peeked open his eyes. Wilson was sitting on the bed with House, policemen around House holding him down with some effort. House stopped flailing, but he started hyperventilating worse. The bag did indeed say water, yes, but what if it was poison? He looked distrustingly at Wilson, waiting for response.

Wait, if it was poison, wouldn't he be being ripped apart with pain by now? As if to prove his point, Wilson unscrewed the bag and drank from it, and it didn't burn his mouth on the way down.

House, albeit unwillingly, let them get him set up in the hospital bed, but his eyes were wide open to any perceived threat, existent or nonexistent. This just proved that to himself he was always going to be afraid of things that weren't there. But he needed proof he was safe, so he could begin to trust again.

"Jimmy?" House said very, very quietly, almost nonexistent. "Am I really, really safe?"

Wilson looked over at House. "Yes. We'll keep you safe. Me and Cuddy, Chase and Foreman, even your mum and dad.."

In that moment, in the connection of soft brown and hardened blue, they acknowledged that the recovery process would be the longest and hardest thing almost anyone had ever attempted.

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This folks is as of now, a one shot. It does not necessarily have to stay that way… muhahaha…. Review! V