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They're really appreciated – hope you enjoy this chapter too :D xxx

'You are pulled from the wreckage, of your silent reverie.

You're in the arms of the angel…

May you find some comfort here.'

{Sarah McLachlan: Angel}

10:11pm.

House sighed tiredly at the time his watch blinked back at him as he limped through the silent darkness of the empty clinic, frustrated beyond belief. Here he was, having missed his and Wilson's Chinese for a patient who had recently been evicted from her home and yet failed, quite spectacularly, to tell him or his team that she was agoraphobic.

Brilliant.

Just fan-fucking-tastic.

At that one, House had wholeheartedly reassured the patient that he too wouldn't dare set foot into the outside world if he had a brain as small as hers – Lord knows, she may have run into the common sense that had obviously deserted her long ago, prompting her to have a panic attack when she realized that she was an actual complete waste of space.

Either that, or she actually enjoyed having every cardiology, respiratory and neurology test known to man performed on her in a bid to identify a diagnosis that explained her chest pain, breathlessness, dizziness, headaches, fainting spells, nausea… the list was endless.

Agoraphobic indeed…

Idiot.

So finally, ten minutes after writing the now somewhat pissed off patient a prescription for anti-depressants and beta-blockers, along with a referral to a Psychologist, House was now good to go, safe in the knowledge that he'd saved yet another of this world's fools who couldn't use their initiative to tell the whole truth when it mattered, costing the hospital a small fortune in unnecessary tests and wasting his and his team's precious time.

Not that he gave a crap about any of that – no, what was pissing House off above all else was the fact that Wilson was probably crying into his Lo Mein over his cancer kids by now, wasting good food in the process and not appreciating the L-Word whatsoever for its utter sexy genius.

Although, knowing Wilson, he couldn't help but think that Mr. Serial Emotional Investor had probably taken himself miserably off to bed after eating his Chinese, cleaning the kitchen when he was done and leaving House's meal in the microwave ready to heat up for when he got in. If Wilson was pissed at him for letting him down in his hour of need, he might have left a 'you're-a-jerk-but-I-don't-really-mean-this' note, pointing out the obvious in that he'd eaten already – alone – that he'd done the kitchen (including the daily cleaning up all of House's crap) and that he'd done his bit as a best friend in leaving House's meal ready in the microwave for him, despite the fact that he'd been, for want of a better phrase, stood up.

Oh, and PS: House owed him for said dinner in said microwave.

Oh, and PSS: Wilson would have made his lunch for tomorrow - House was not to go ANYWHERE NEAR IT. If he did, he would suffer. Horribly.

House grinned to himself as he swung his good leg over his bike, slotting his cane neatly into place before shoving his helmet on and roaring off into the cold night, knowing that he'd go straight home, locate the note and promptly do the opposite of whatever it said. If that meant eating Wilson's food that he'd made for tomorrow and leaving the takeout so lovingly placed in the microwave, then so be it.

If it wasn't for the fact that he knew Wilson loved it as much as he did, he would have stopped long ago, the affectionate thought keeping the knowing smile on House's face as he drove home before the spitting rain grew much heavier.

-[H]-

'Wilson? You still up? There's something wrong with the door, I can't get in.'

House was getting fed up of this – he was tired, cold, hungry and his leg was starting to act up, this was the last thing he needed.

When he got no answer, House tried again, turning the handle of the front door he'd just unlocked with his key and pushing it, yet getting nowhere. It felt like there was something heavy on the other side, shoved against the door for the very purpose of keeping him locked out.

'WILSON!'

Of course, if Wilson was exceedingly annoyed with him, then he could have done this for that very reason… in which case, House decided, anger would get him nowhere.

One thing Wilson was a sucker for, however, was sweet-talking.

'Wilson, honeybuns, sweetums, whatever the frig you like… I'm truly sorry for missing our cozy night in, babycakes. Can you open the door now please?'

Nothing.

It would seem that Wilson wasn't a fan of sweet-talking when laced with blatant sarcasm then.

'Fuck it – WILSON, YOU GREAT, BIG BLOODY WOMAN, OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR! I'VE HAD IT WITH YOU PMT, I'M A BLOODY CRIPPLE FOR FUCK'S SAKE! MY. LEG. IS… hurting… me.'

House's shouting had trailed off, in a chilling moment, when he looked down to said leg only to then notice that his cane was currently resting just next to the faint outline of a bloodied footprint.

Shit.

'Jesus – WILSON!'

Panicked, House roughly turned the handle again and braced his shoulder against the door, using his good leg to push against who he prayed wasn't lying unconscious on the other side, knowing even before the sour stench of vomit hit him that Wilson wasn't all tucked up in bed like he should have been, knowing even before his right shoe was suddenly slipping in the sticky blood that had congealed on their wooden floor that Wilson probably hadn't even opened his dinner, never mind crying into it while the L-Word droned on in the background.

The sight that greeted him when he could finally squeeze himself through the door was far worse than House could have imagined, his stomach turning horribly at the vision of his best friend slumped unconsciously on the other side, his lower half exposed, covered in copious amounts of blood and vomit that just seemed like far, far too much to have come from one person… and yet it had.

It fucking had.

'Wilson! Wilson, wake up!' demanded House anxiously as he dropped to his knees, not caring about his leg now or the mess he was kneeling in as he shook Wilson hard, shouting past the lump in his throat that had arisen well before he saw the faint tear tracks that streaked through the mostly dried blood on the pale Oncologist's horribly stilled face, the same face that House could usually read like a book now thoroughly battered beyond recognition, bruised, swollen and covered in blood as it was.

'Wilson, come on,' pleaded House, pulling off his coat and jacket before desperately pulling the younger man into his lap as he wrapped them around Wilson's lower body, hugging his cold friend close with his fingers pressed against Wilson's carotid artery that, thankfully, emitted a regular pulse albeit weaker than usual.

Add that to Wilson's somewhat shallow breathing, and House had the first two ingredients of shock. Trauma induced psychological shock was a given, physical shock on the other hand…

He needed to identify any sources of Wilson's blood loss other than the obvious.

House didn't think twice about ripping Wilson's soiled shirt as the unconscious man lay in his lap, buttons pinging off as he searched for any evidence of a knife or bullet wound, his heart lurching at the nasty purple bruising that had blossomed all over Wilson's abused torso, breathing hard past the bile that had worked its way into House's throat. From what he could see and feel, hanging desperately on to the fact that psychological shock seemed to be the most likely type of shock in play, there didn't appear to be any physical wounds on the surface that were immediately threatening his best friend's life.

It wasn't the fucking surface damage though that was fuelling the incensed burn behind House's distraught gaze.

The faint groan that emanated weakly then from Wilson was the first sign of his friend coming back to the land of the living, the blissfully unaware expression on Wilson's face born of his thankful unconsciousness now slowly morphing into one that was broken beyond belief.

'Wilson… Wilson, it's me,' murmured House shakily, gently brushing away the hair from Wilson's furrowed forehead as he held him, his hand hovering lightly over Wilson's blood-encrusted cheek while he waited for him to open his eyes.

He could only just hear him when he eventually managed a faintly choked gasp that was barely more than a whisper.

'H..House…?'

'I'm here, I've got you,' reassured House quickly, hugging Wilson tighter still at the faint tremors he could feel now rumbling through the Oncologist's cold body, 'You're safe now. I won't let them hurt you again, I promise.'

Wilson finally came round enough to open his eyes then, his overwhelmed gaze wide-eyed and his relief palpable for perhaps three long seconds as he took in the sight of the one person he wanted here above all else before he crumbled, the shame and fear that had taken root in the very depths of him claiming him wholly in their icy grip as he hid behind trembling hands, devastated.

House could do nothing but hold Wilson close as he broke down, rocking his destroyed friend to him as he clung to House, seeking solace in the older man as he buried his face in the warm darkness at the crook of House's neck, his sobs inconsolable.

'We need to get you to hospital,' muttered House thickly, trying so damn hard to not let his own tears fall and failing miserably at the state the most important person in his life had been left in at the hands of a monster.

He could feel Wilson tensing in his arms at the mere thought of such a thing, his panicked reply quite heartbreaking in the fright that underpinned every syllable as he started to shake his head, his breath hot against House's neck.

'N-no! No, no, please, I can't-'

'James,' interrupted House softly, hoping that the unusual use of Wilson's forename might remind him of just how serious the situation was as he rubbed Wilson's back in their tight embrace, 'please – just let me get you to hospital to check you over. We can go anywhere; it doesn't have to be PPTH. But you need to be seen by a Doctor – you know you do.'

The mere thought of stepping foot outside that front door, even if he was with House, was just impossible for Wilson to even begin to contemplate. His whole illusion of safety had been shattered inside his own home, never mind setting foot into the same outside world as the scum who'd reduced him to this in the first place.

'Please, House… please, don't make me go out there,' came Wilson's desperately whispered plea from his shoulder, flooring House in an instant as he realized that he just couldn't do it. He couldn't force his traumatized friend to do something he didn't want to. Despite the Doctor in him screaming blue murder that Wilson could potentially have anything going on inside, internal bleeding ranking quite high on his list of possibilities, he just couldn't bring himself to dial 911 against Wilson's will, not after the unspeakable force that had evidently been used against him already tonight.

'I won't make you to do anything, just so long as you're safe,' promised House gently, taking a deep breath before he carried on, 'but if you want me to treat you here, then you're going to have to tell me what happened. I'm not taking any chances when it comes to you, I'm sorry Wilson, but I'm not.'

Wilson froze, his breathing hitching, reacting exactly as House thought he would. If Wilson couldn't even bring himself to look into the concerned eyes of his best friend for more than a few seconds, hiding his face in House's shoulder as he was, he most certainly wasn't about to relay the experience verbally.

'Okay then…' continued House quietly, hating himself for doing this but knowing that he had no choice if he was about to make both the personal and professional decision to keep Wilson here, choosing his words carefully, 'just tell me this – do you think you've got any injuries, other than the obvious, that couldn't be managed here? I'm speaking as both your friend and attending Doctor, Wilson, you need to be honest.'

He felt Wilson shake his head, his shivering more pronounced now and reminding House that he needed to get his friend comfortable again as soon as possible.

And yet, House couldn't help but think that Wilson would still shake his head even if there were a bloody knife sticking out of his chest, frightened as he was.

This wasn't going to work. House needed someone here to stand with him as Wilson's attending, someone who could play the common sense card when it was needed, but who hadn't invested absolutely everything into the broken man he now held in his arms, yet still loved him dearly. Because right now, House couldn't help but think that he might end up doing more harm than good, biased as he was towards just wanting to hug his friend and make everything go away.

Luckily, he knew just the woman.

'Will you at least let me get Cuddy round here so we can both do our best to get you sorted? She can get whatever supplies we need from work then and bring them with her.'

'Oh, God…' groaned Wilson weakly, unable to stop the choked sob that escaped him then, unable to believe that this was even happening to him, knowing just what 'supplies' House was talking about and fearfully nodding his head into the crook of House's neck, despite every fiber of his being willing him to do the exact opposite.

Keeping one arm wrapped tightly around Wilson as he located his phone in his trouser pocket, House didn't hesitate to speed dial Cuddy, his hand drifting comfortingly up and down Wilson's arm as he shifted to let the silently screaming man rest his head exhaustedly against his chest; Wilson's unseeing, tear-filled eyes fixed on a random point on the wall as he focused wholly on the sound of House's familiar voice rumbling strangely in his ear – a comforting, yet completely alien sound to him given that they'd never been this close before.

Of course, there had never really been any past situations that warranted such proximity between them, until now.

'Cuddy? It's me – look, I know it's late, but you need to come over here as soon as. It's Wilson… he… he's been attacked.'

Wilson could hear the distant tones of her panicked voice on the other end, asking if he was okay, barely giving House a chance to answer before she was asking if he needed to go to hospital, closing his eyes with the shaming embarrassment that came with the nauseous anticipation of what House's next words would be, his head suddenly swirling as he broke out in a clammy sheen of sweat, blood rushing loudly in his ears… too loudly…

He was going to faint.

'No, he… he's not great and he won't go to hospital. I need you to go to work before you come here and get me a… Oh, God – Cuddy, I need you to get me a… a rape kit.'

To which Wilson, as predicted, stopped fighting the opportunity to escape this living hell once more and promptly passed out against House's chest.