Warning: There will be graphic violence.
Author's note: I'll update as much as possible. Be prepared for one long fic.
"If he dies, I'm going to make sure you lose everything and everyone you care about."
It had been a week since Joey had died. And he couldn't stop thinking about what his brother had said to him.
It seemed unfair. He hadn't made his brother sick, and he had done everything in his power to make sure he didn't die, but it apparently hadn't been enough to stop whatever it was from killing him.
He still felt that cold sensation in his body; the kind of feeling you get when you walk up the stairs and think there is one more step than there actually it, and your stomach drops until your foot hits solid ground.
Except that feeling wasn't going away for House. Mobsters didn't usually go back on their word, especially not about something like this and he had a feeling he had a reason to be nervous.
He was a sitting duck. All he could do was wait. He didn't expect any threats, they'd already been made. He did expect little cryptic messages, or to be sent the neck of his guitar, or maybe the seat of his motorcycle.
His knowledge of the Italian mafia wasn't very extensive, apart from what he'd seen in The God Father (parts one, two, and three), and what little he'd learned about 'The Roaring 20's' in high school, and even then the circumstances of 'The Valentine's Day Massacre' and the trials of Al Capone had baffled him.
Something told him that the mob didn't operate the same way. They were notorious for being smart, and conniving, and he doubted that they'd keep their business so predictable.
He rolled the large, red and white tennis ball between his hands, a concentrated look on his face as he located an interesting spot on his desk to occupy his eyes with while he thought.
What should he expect? Bill had said everything and everyone that he cared about. He wasn't close to people. There was Wilson, but even their relationship wasn't that great. But who said he'd only meant the obvious choices?
There were his parents; whom would be the first choice for anyone. There was his team; which he valued implicitly, even if he refused to admit it. And then there was Cuddy.
Lisa Cuddy. His boss, his long time friend, his constant. The one person that would do anything to make sure his ass stayed out of trouble, no matter what he did to her.
House spent most of his effort trying to piss Cuddy off. Not because he liked to; okay, he did, but it was also fun. It brought out the side of her he like best. The fiesty side that made her curse, and give him that passionate glare of anger that set the sexual tension between them even higher.
Everyone could feel it when she was angry. Even though she tried to hide it, and swore up and down that she hated him; hated everything about him, it was obvious that the reason she kept him around wasn't just because he was a good doctor. Wilson was a good doctor, and if he even dreamt of speaking to her the way House did he would be out on his ass without the chance of getting a job anywhere in or near New Jersey.
It occurred to him that losing Cuddy was what he dreaded the most. Even if the witty mobsters weren't able to figure out his underlying feelings for her they would know that she was his boss, and hurting her would inevitably hurt him.
He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't let his negligence be the downfall of his comrades. He'd be destroyed by guilt long before they came after him.
House suddenly realized that Bill had been watching him with Cuddy, a mischievous look in his dark brown eyes. He was sure he could tell what was there. Everyone else could. And if that was true she was in more danger than he had thought.
He quickly snatched his cane from its resting place against his desk, and did his version of running toward the elevators. He was going to do everything in his power to make sure she stayed out of harms way.
His finger repeatedly jabbed at the button to the second floor, not wanting any company on the ride down.
He impatiently tapped his cane on the carpeted floor, practically flying out of the opening doors, and pushed his way through the glass doors leading to the clinic.
It was obvious where he was going. His eyebrows furrowed in the middle, his eyes intently locked onto the doors leading into Cuddy's office. Everyone knew what that meant. He was either going to scream at her for cancelling a diagnostic test, or was about to beg her to allow him to cut someone open to remove something that may or may not be there.
Cuddy didn't bother to lift her head when her door crashed open. The sound was too familiar, and the thump of a cane was enough to let her know who it was.
"Kind of busy."
She muttered as she thumbed through a packet, tapping her ball-point pen against her desk. For once she wanted one day to relax, and not have to worry about him bursting into her office, spouting off about his patient being close to exploding for some unknown reason.
"Have you gotten any weird phone calls?"
Cuddy creased her forehead, lifting her head to look at him.
"My phone is dead. Should I expect some voice mails from you?"
"No..."
He shook his head to add emphasis, and sat down in the chair in front of her desk. She let out an exasperated sigh, folding her arms on top of her desk.
"House, what's going on? Since you lost that patient you've been acting...weird."
"I'm fine."
"Are you?"
"Yes."
"You don't seem to be."
"Well, excuse me for not being a ray of sunshine, I just lost a patient."
He feigned a saddened look causing Cuddy to roll her eyes. Her tongue poked from between her lips, and she slowly ran it over them.
"Since when has that ever gotten to you?"
"This was different?"
"Yeah...because you've never lost a thirty-something year old, male with an STD before."
"I've never lost a mobster before."
"So? You think the entire family is going to come after you? This isn't a movie, House. They're not going to hold a grudge because a surgery didn't work."
"You don't know that."
"You're being paranoid. Are you taking extra Vicodin?"
He rolled his eyes, thumping his cane against the ground.
"No."
"Then stop worrying about it. They'll hurt, they'll grieve, they'll get over it."
She pushed the folders on her desk into a neat pile, slowly pushing herself up from her desk.
"Don't you have a case to work on?"
"No."
"Mmm, well then..."
She shuffled through the folders she'd pulled into her arms, and held the one she selected out to him.
"Jessica Simms. Ten years old, suffered a heart attack during P.E."
House thumbed through the file, stopping when he came to the statement.
"She was jumping rope...with an extra eighty pounds on her abnormally short body. You're surprised?"
"Just go. Or you can do clinic all day."
"Evil."
"Lazy."
Cuddy yanked the door open, leaving House to listen to the dissipating click of her high heels on the tile floor.