Author's Note: This is my first piece of fanfiction so all feedback is welcome but please play fair  I was inspired to write this fic by the film The Shawshank Redemption and the excellent story "Five Years" by Snark-bait

This fic will contain slash and adult situations, if either ofthese aren't your thing don't read.

For the record, all my knowledge of the American penal system comes from television and the movies. If I have made a mistake please let me know and I will be more than happy to correct it.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognise in this story. House MD is the property of David Shore and the Fox network

Greg House lay awake staring at the ceiling and cursing the injury in his leg that had woken him yet again. He shifts on his pillows slightly in an attempt to alleviate pressure in his right thigh and begins to massage the wasted muscle with both hands. After a few minutes he sighs and reaches without looking to his bedside table where his fingers find a small orange bottle. He brings it in front of him and scowls slightly before tipping a pill on to his palm and dry swallowing it. He caps the bottle and turns to put it back looking at the digital clock on the table as he does so. 4.30. Shit thought House. He was due to get up for work in two hours. He decided it was futile to try to get back to sleep when the Vicodin wouldn't hit for at least 15 minutes. "Fuck it." House pulls the sheets of him and gently swings his legs to the floor. Taking the weight on his good leg he stands and slowly makes his way to the bathroom. Bracing himself against the wall behind the cistern, he takes a piss then turns on the shower. Waiting for the water to heat, he strips off his t-shirt and boxers then steps under the hot spray, resting his head on the tiles. Today is going to be a long day.

-----

After his fourth cup of coffee, House was definitely feeling more human. He stares at the empty mug in his hands. Ah caffeine he thought, smiling slightly. My love for you will never die. Putting the cup in the sink, he grabs the cane propped against the counter and moves into the small sitting room. He pulls his jacket from the coat stand and shrugs himself into it, checking that his ID is still clipped to the pocket, and picks up his leather backpack from the floor pulling it onto his shoulder. Taking a quick glance around the sparsely decorated apartment, he grabs his keys from the small table by the door and leaves for work. It was only a short walk but by the time he reaches the gate, House's leg is protesting loudly. Fishing the Vicodin bottle from his pocket he takes one as the guard wordlessly checks his ID badge and opens the gate. As he walks through the gate, he looks up at the massive building in front of him and rolls his eyes before turning right and heading towards a smaller wing. Reaching the door, he punches in the four-digit entry code and pushes it open. Letting the door slam behind him, House unlocks the door on his left and enters his office. Dropping his bag next to the desk he eases himself into the chair behind him. "7.02. Doctor House clocks in" he murmurs to himself checking sight of the clock on the wall. Despite only working here two months House had rapidly settled into life as the prison physician at Newport State Penitentiary.

Following the infarction 6 months ago, House had fled Princeton. The injury had made his angry and bitter and he wanted to abandon all the vestiges of his old life. Stacey had begged him to stay but every time he looked at her all he could see was her betrayal. It hadn't taken him long to find work once who was mobile again, the prison administrator seemed more concerned with House being over-qualified than his disability. The job was easy for the most part, dispensing medication and treating minor ailments though there was the occasional emergencies – an inmate who some how had got on the wrong side of the wrong person. House reaches forward grabbing an over-sized tennis ball from his desk and began tossing it from hand to hand. Hours of boredom punctuated by moments of panic he reflected.

-----

Around 6.30 House begins to tidy the treatment room. As the only member of staff on duty the job fell to him anyway but he liked the routine of putting everything away at the end of the day. It had been a fairly slow day, the highlight being when a particularly unpleasant inmate called Matheson had been brought in with a broken nose. He claimed it was the result of an accident in the workshop but House doubted his story. He had seen plenty of fight injuries in his time and silently congratulated whoever landed the punch as he taped up Matheson's nose. Just as he was putting the last of the boxes back in the cabinet the phone rang. Pushing himself across the room on a wheeled stool, he answers the phone brusquely.

"Infirmary. This better be a quick one, I'm off in 25 minutes".

"House, it's Davies. We've got a bad one. Guy was missing at checks. We found him in the laundry barely conscious. Looks like he was there a while." House swore loudly.

"Right. Get his over here asap. What's the status?"

"All I know for sure is he's got an open head wound. The guy's had seven shades of shit beat out of him."

"Got it." said House hanging up the phone. He throws his jacket at a hook on the wall as he wheels back across the room to the cabinets. He starts pulling out supplies and tossing them onto the counter. Pulling himself to standing, he gets a pair of gloves from the drawer and is putting them on as Davies and another guard burst through the doors supporting the inmate between them.

"Get him up on the table" House barks. The guards don't hesitate and between them pull the unconscious man onto the table before stepping back. The guard House didn't recognise quickly left the room as House begins his preliminary examination. Examining the head wound House notices a bloody towel caught on the man's shoulder and looks quizzically at Davies.

"Which one of you thought to try and stop the bleeding". Davies looks confused for a moment before replying.

"Neither of us did. The guy had it against his head when we found him." House looks down at the unconscious man in front of him. Smart move. He starts moving around the table assessing for further injuries. As well as extensive bruising he notices the inmates ragged breathing.

"Broken rib" he murmurs. As he feels along the left arm, the man moans slightly And a broken ulna he thinks to himself. Without look up he says:

"Hey Davies. What's the guy's name? I'm gonna try wake him"

"Wilson. I think his first name's James but I'm not sure." House raises his head and looks at Davies.

"You might as well head back to the block. I'm sure they're all in a flap over there without you. Besides you're only in my way here". Davies grins and walks over to the door.

"Whatever you say House" he replies. "If you need help just ring the office, he's in section E". He leaves silently as House moves back to the head of the table, pulling over the stool so he can sit. He leans over the man on the table slightly

"Hey Wilson, wake up". The man stirs slightly but doesn't wake up. House sighs and tries again.

"Wilson, it's time to wake up." The guys shifts again but doesn't respond. House brushes the hair back from the inmate's forehead to take a temperature.

"Come on James, you need to wake up." At that, Wilson's eyes open slowly and large brown eyes lock with House's

"Where am I?"