Author's Note: This chapter was bloody hard to write...my brain refused to work for the best part of five days because of it! My thanks goes out to all you lovely people who reviewed the first chapter - without your encouragement, I would have given up at the first hurdle...Thank you. x

House felt a wash of uncertainty clamber into his mind as the pain from his head receded slightly; his survivalist instinct told him to stay in that pain free position forever, but it was his insistent curiosity that forced him to pry his eyes open eventually.

As he peered through the hazy fog that was clouding his vision, he became aware of movement beside him; Paula was obviously completely freaked out and was intent on leaving. 'You didn't even get to do anything kinky,' he thought bitterly, regretting putting such a large tip out on the dresser.

He made a mental note to never tip again; at least, not 'till he'd gotten his money's worth – it wasn't a lot of use to him now though. On the bright side; if he died now, he wouldn't have to pay off the zillion speeding tickets he'd somehow accumulated over the past few months. Every cloud has a silver lining...and there was one hell of a cloud cloaking him right now.

'You should have gone for a drink with Wilson,' he thought miserably; 'you'd be in the ambulance by now, having your ear chewed off and being threatened with a furious Cuddy. Instead, you're struggling to breathe and counting dust mites on your rug, with a very beautiful, and very expensive, hooker freaking out over you,' he groaned as another sharp, stabbing pain broke out in his chest.

Paula angrily pulled her clothes on, muttering curses and glancing over to her 'client' in the process. She heard him groaning softly as she tugged her top from under his right leg; she swallowed nervously as she cautiously leant over him, checking for life. He was breathing so faintly, it seemed as though he was asleep; the only thing that told her he wasn't were his eyes, flickering and his left hand, languidly trying to cover them.

Apart from that, he didn't seem to be moving very much... 'Maybe he had a heart attack...' she thought idly, pausing in her dressing. 'But then, he did smell faintly of booze too. That would explain why he passed out,' she decided as she hurriedly grabbed the notes left out for her on the dresser; it was her tip, after all, and he was the one who cut the night short. 'He's just drunk himself into a stupor, he'll be fine by morning' He could hardly put in a complaint against her; she'd done her job up 'till the point where he collapsed; unfortunately for House, she wasn't particularly interested in what he'd done to himself, as long as she didn't get into trouble.

After giving a quick last check of the bedroom, she made it to the front door before she was rewarded with an assault from her conscience. 'What if he's really ill? He looked a little sick before he collapsed…and he didn't really seem drunk enough to pass out. Oh God, what if he's OD'd?' she cursed loudly, remembering the short briefing she'd had before she started work.

There was a gang of thieves going round, posing as high class escorts; they'd been drugging their client's before taking off with their money. She'd been warned to be extra vigilant tonight; she should have left when she took note of his sickly complexion, especially after he seemed to fade in and out during her initial foreplay. 'Fuck, they're gonna think you drugged him...'

She hurriedly made her way back into the bedroom, approaching the man sprawled out on the floor. "Hey" she nudged his bare shoulder gently with her hand, jumping slightly as he flinched against the contact. "Hey" she repeated, pulling his hand from over his eyes. "Have you taken anything?" she asked, in the loudest voice she dared use at that time of night; as soon as he denied taking drugs, she could go and she'd know she wouldn't get an unwelcome call from the cops, who were bound to start investigating if he died. "Have you taken any drugs?"

House squinted against the soft light of the lamp; he could faintly see the outline of his female companion looking down over him. 'Thought she'd left...' he mused languidly, struggling to hear her over the wall of sound emanating from his inner voice. She was talking to him, asking him questions. Drugs? Has he taken any drugs? He hazily tried to remember what drugs he'd had pumped into his system over the past 48 hours…it would probably be quicker to list the ones he hasn't had.

He nodded his head as much as he dared without crying out in pain; it was better than trying to reel off an insane sounding number of legal, and illegal, substances that he'd subjected himself to. Webber's receptor, Nitro-glycerine, Sumatriptan, Verapamil, LSD, antidepressants, Vicodin and alcohol…alcohol. 'Oh crap, no wonder your blood pressure's in the tank,' he thought indolently as he fought off another attempt from his body trying to shut down his mind. You will not pass out. You will not pass out. You will not pass out.

"Hospital" he gasped, fully aware that he needed to get help before he went into shock. "Princeton Plains…" he choked out, hoping Paula would use her initiative and translate his croaks into orders.

He saw the outline of Paula's head shake in disagreement; he quickly determined that she wouldn't be the one to call him an ambulance. 'Of course she's not going to call an ambulance…why should she? If you die, then that's her life over too; the cops would think she drugged you, killed you and took your money. But then, cops are stupid like that.' He desperately wanted to tell her that he'd make sure no one knew she'd been with him; his voice refused to help him out, leaving him gasping at her instead. So much for his plan of telling her that he'd be fine.

"I can't take you to a local, hun" she stated regretfully, referring to the hospital; "too many people know us around here – same thing happened to Janice the other day…" she trailed off when she realised that he wasn't particularly worried about hearing what happened to 'Janice' the other day. "There's been a lot of drugging lately; not with our establishment, mind you – but if I take you in, the cops would be on it so fast...you should have told me about the drugs" she stated angrily, pacing the room in her heels and making his head hurt. House couldn't believe he was getting a lecture on drugs from a hooker; so much for a distraction – she was beginning to sound more and more like Wilson as each second passed by...

He tried to face her, using his arm to turn over, in an attempt at getting her attention, but failed miserably when his elbow buckled under the weight. If he could just get her to pass him his cell, he could call Wilson and then she could leave; unfortunately, that would involve actually having to find his voice, which had taken a short vacation somewhere down the back of his throat. 'Shut up!' his mind screamed as her voice broke through his plan making; he wasn't in the mood for poor reassurances and apologies.

"I know a place, few miles north of here – they don't ask questions; they get this sort of thing all the time…sorry, but you'll have to trust me" she seemed to know that it wasn't particularly reassuring to her client, but was too lost to know what she should really say to someone writhing in agony on their bedroom floor. "I'll grab my cell and call Pete – just hang in there, okay?" she said hurriedly, before rushing off to get her cell from her car. There was no way she'd be able to get him out of the apartment alone.

House mumbled incoherently in reply, his own attempt at calling her an idiot. He needed to go to Princeton Plainsboro; he needed his staff, who knew what he'd taken. He needed Wilson to call him an idiot and get him help. He needed Cuddy to scream like a banshee and rush him through tests and treatment.

He did not need some incompetent ER doc, who didn't even know him, to yell 'suicidal intentions' as soon as he got his tox screen back. Although, even if the doc did know him, he'd still have 'suicidal intentions' yelled at him, he thought dimly, all the more wary of why he needed his team…and not some bloke called Pete.

With great effort, he managed to roll himself onto his back; he winced as pain lacerated through his heart. He knew what he wanted to achieve, and that the hard part was yet to come. Grunting as he used his left leg to hook the right, he managed to stretch and balance his feet on the edge of the bed for a minute; his whole body shook as the exertion became too much.

Before he could stop the inevitable, his right leg dropped from the bed; his heel smashed against the hardwood floor, sending a shock wave up his leg and forcing a strangled cry from his lips. He arched his back, desperately trying to keep his left leg up on the bed; the last thing he needed now, was to curl up over his screaming right leg and lose what blood that had seen itself to his heart and, hopefully, his head.

As he choked back further cries, he had a stronger awareness of the deep throbbing in his temples; his plan seemed to be working for the time being. More pain means more blood getting to your brain, which equals less chance of brain damage. Pain is good. Pain is good. Pain is - "Fuck!" he spat through gritted teeth, bringing his hands from grappling with his pant leg and planting both of them firmly on his forehead.

There was a cruel competition conspiring between his leg and his head over which could cause him the most agony; so far, his head seemed to be in poll position, and his mind was still hammering it home, that this was a good thing.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, although he couldn't be sure with all the blurriness; he strained his ears, fighting through the sound of his own laboured breathing, to hear what was going on. He felt the vibrations in the hardwood floor from Paula's heels and determined she was in a hurry; Pete was obviously on his way, and probably pissed at being dragged out of bed to sort out a 'drugged out' client. 'Just fucking great.'

Paula grabbed the waist of his pants and pulled them roughly together, fumbling with the button-fly and his belt. A small part of House was relieved that he hadn't worn pants with a zipper; he didn't want to imagine what kind of damage a pissed off hooker could do with that as a weapon. Ouch...

"Can you get up?" she snapped, holding out his t shirt, but not really seeing how she was going to get in on him; House mouthed 'no' in response, still keeping his hands pressed firmly on his temples. He reluctantly pried one hand away and struggled to make eye contact with her; she wasn't going to listen to him if she really did think he was drugged out of his head.

"Need. Princeton...Plainsboro" he gasped brokenly, his voice seemed to be dancing around in his head whilst wearing steel toe capped boots and pounding the crap out of his temples; Paula frowned, glancing at the clock and making an effort of ignoring him completely.

House continued, knowing that she was listening; "Need...call. Wilson" he watched her glance at his cell on the dresser. "Please. Just call him" he gaped as the pain in his leg began to outweigh his headache. "He's. Doctor" he groaned miserably as he heard her cell ring, stealing his limelight.

Paula strode purposefully down the hall, House heard the snap of the lock on his door, followed by the footsteps of someone else...someone big. His assumption was confirmed when a monster of a man towered over him, sneering; this was obviously Pete... 'Hello Pete – get the fuck out of my apartment' he thought angrily as the man said something, condescendingly, to Paula and received a frown in response.

House had no time to react when he was roughly dragged off of the floor by the huge guy; he flinched feebly against the coldness of Pete's hands on his bare flesh before being thrown, like a sack of potatoes, over the tall man's shoulder.

As he was carried out of his apartment, he groaned weakly; Pete's shoulder wasn't very comfortable against his stomach, and his own belt was cutting into his waist. He hoped Pete was feeling just as much discomfort from it as he was; 'he deserves to be in agony, especially because he's being an idiot' was House's only logical thought.

If he was in a more coherent physical state, he'd have told Pete to 'get your fucking hand off my ass, and get me to Princeton Plainsboro!'

Unfortunately, all he could do was grunt with each of the other man's giant steps; savouring the fact that he could feel the blood somewhat rushing to his head, before he was roughly thrown into the back of a car...

TBC...