Well, I'm back…I finally finished writing this chapter last night. I was inspired to do something when I found out that I would not be able to watch House. I missed the season premiere too, but thanks to Twiztv and their quick updates, I do know what happened! Huzzah! Well, here's chapter 4. Sorry for my lack of medical knowledge. And stuff.

Disclaimer: House does not belong to me.

4.

The darkness was followed by almost immediate light, an orangeish glare that shone through his eyelids, a dull, beautiful glow that made his eyes hurt.

His chest was burning and aching; his lungs felt like they were on fire. One word registered in his mind, more of a command than a thought. Air. He inhaled deeply, a raspy, gasping fish-out-of-water sort of breath and he rolled onto his side, coughing.

"Ow," he said.

There was an odd tinny sound in the room that didn't quite register in House's ears as the expulsion of four breaths that had been straining to escape tense lungs for a little over two minutes. There were other people in the room…House wanted to open his eyes, to look at them, but somebody had cemented his lids together. So instead, he passed out.

….

When he woke up, he was aware of one thing: pain. His chest still hurt and felt heavy, as if someone had shoved a brick down his trachea ad it had broken up and settled into his chest for a long stay. Groaning, he rolled over and draped one arm over his torso, his eyes blinking open reluctantly.

"That…hurt," he rasped as the forms of his three team members and Cuddy came swimming into his view. His eyes fell on the Cameron, who was helping a nurse pack up the crash cart, and he snapped, "What the hell was that for?"

Cameron looked up, looking startled. The other three jumped, or twitched or raised their eyebrows…they hadn't known he was awake.

Cameron found her voice first. What?"

"I asked you what the hell that was for!" House said, his voice growing stronger. "It hurt."

Cameron continued to stare at him as if she hadn't quite understood what he was saying. "What do you--? You went into arrest!" she sputtered shakily. "We thought you were dead!"

"You were dead," Foreman corrected. If House felt he had the strength to roll back over, and were to do so, he might have seen that even Foreman looked shaken. "If we hadn't defibrillated you would have been gone."

"Thanks, dawg. You could have at least made it a little less painful!"

Foreman stopped looking so shaken.

Cuddy was obviously displeased. She walked around the bed so that House was forced to face her and tugged unceremoniously at his eyelids, shining the brightest light that House had ever had the displeasure of looking at into each of his eyes in turn. House tried to swat her away and found that he didn't have the strength to lift his arms.

"That hurt," he muttered again. "I don't remember it hurting so much."

"Last time we only defibrillated. This time we had to perform CPR. We'll have to get him down to X-ray later, I bet Foreman cracked a couple ribs."

"Foreman? Not Cameron? Shame on you, Cuddy, I thought we agreed that you always had first dibs."

Cuddy tensed enough that her hands ceased their shaking. "You never cease to amaze me. Do you have any idea what just happened?"

House finally found the strength to roll onto his back, and he did so, closing his eyes. "Fascinate me," he said.

Cuddy's eyes widened disbelievingly. "You were dead, House. Dead. Again! And now you're lying here pretending that nothing happened."

"I think that you're making this a bigger deal than it is," God, all he wanted to do was sleep. "It couldn't have been that bad. I'm still here, aren't I?"

"You were totally despondent," Cameron said quietly.

"Really?" House was finding it hard to maintain his cynical nature while his chest ached so badly and his arms felt like lead. He no longer had the strength to keep his eyes open, and his breathing was coming more and more grudgingly. He could actually feel the bruises forming on his chest. "How odd. You see, I have this terrible allergy to death. I stop moving, my body turns all gray and swollen. It isn't pretty. On occasion, my heart even stops."

"It's not funny," said Cameron, her voice wavering. "What I meant was that before you went into arrest you were having seizure. It was abnormally…violent."

"How can you tell the difference?" House asked. "Was I angrier than most people are? Try to attack Foreman? No offense."He nodded at Foreman, and coughed groaning, tightening his arm over his chest.

"I'll uh…tell the nurse to bring in a tank," said Chase suddenly, obviously eager to leave the conversation. "for your breathing."

House was about to tell him not to bother, but the words were pushed back down his throat by another cough. So instead he nodded.

"Where's Wilson?" House rasped, realizing for the first time that the wonder boy oncologist wasn't amongst the ranks.

"I had him paged," Cuddy said. "You were only out of it for a minute, and he was with a patient. He'll be here in a minute." She looked around as the Chase came back in with the mask and the pure oxygen. Cuddy took the mask and hooked it over his head.

"You don't think this is excessive?" House asked, but he couldn't deny that a supply of oxygen was intensely relieving, and he let his muscles relax a little as the pain in his chest ebbed away slightly.

"I've never seen you this sick before," Cuddy said, frowning. " I hate to admit it, but you've got a good immune system. Seeing you like this worries me, and at this point, I don't think anything is excessive." She turned to House's team. "I want you to schedule an MRI and a CT scan as soon as possible. Then once you've done that, do it over. And," she lowered her voice. "I want a Tox screening done to see if he's got anything other than the Vicodin in his system. It's possible that the pharmacy mixed his prescription, or…"she swallowed. If it was something else… "And take away his Vicodin. Once his system is clear we'll sedate him. In the mean time, give him room to rest and then ask him if he's hit his head or been…beaten up, or something."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Foreman muttered.

"I can hear you, you know," House said to the ceiling, and Foreman and Cuddy turned around, looking guilty. "Sounds like you're going to be doing all sorts of fun things without me. I don't get to join the game, do I?" He tried his best to look pouty.

"Sorry Dr. House," said Chase, his accent thrown into sudden clarity. "But if you're going to treat all of your patients as puzzles, you've got to remember that puzzles can't solve themselves."

"Did you come up with that all by yourself?" House asked grumpily. Chase rolled his eyes.

"Maybe you should get some sleep," he suggested.

"Yeah," Foreman intercepted before House could say anything in response. "I'll be back in half an hour, I've got to schedule the CT scan and check up on the MRI."

"I'm—I'm going up to the lab to drop off your blood work…What we have of it, anyway…" Cameron was still eyeing House nervously as if she expected him to shatter if she took her eyes off of him. "Maybe the samples that we got can tell us something."

"And I'm going to go find Wilson," Cuddy said. "He's probably hung up with a patient."

They all looked at Chase.

"Uh…I could go start my shift in the clinic?" he suggested, shrugging. He looked at Cuddy.

"Wrong," she said. "You're going to take this—" she snatched up the bottle that should have been Vicodin from the stand and thrust it at Chase. "Down to the Pharmacy and find out what it is."

Chase looked at the bottle in his hand and stuttered, "I can't do that, I've got to check up on the twins and then I thought that I should go down to the clinic because Alen is sick. There's no one down there now…"

Cuddy sighed and shot Chase a look that she usually reserved for House and took the bottle back. "Fine," she said. "I'll do it myself."

"Do I get a job?" House sniffled pathetically. "You're making me feel left out…"

"You get some sleep," Cuddy ordered. "Don't take the mask off. And--" she added on an afterthought as she turned to leave. "Don't die."

"Don't be ridiculous," House said. "I would never die before you."

Cuddy shook her head disbelievingly. "Dr. House, you never fail to amaze me," she said.

Cuddy, Foreman, and Cameron turned to leave. Chase was halfway out the door when House stopped him.

"Hey, Chase!" he called. "How are the twins doing?"

Chase turned around, staring incredulously at House. "You're worried about that at a time like this? What, will your brain explode if you aren't thinking about something? You need rest, Dr. House. If we need your help so desperately that we have to come to you for help, then we'll come to you. Stop worrying and get some sleep. I've got work to do."

He left. House sighed. He wanted something to do. They could have at least given him some paper or a book…. For a while he had been anticipating a break, but now that he had it, he found that constantly resting did nothing but annoy him. Where was his tennis ball when he needed it?

Five minutes of infinite boredom passed. House couldn't sleep despite his body trying to knock him out with an iron fist. Various thoughts kept flitting in and out of his mind and there was nothing to distract him from them.

The door to his room slid open. House looked up. It was Wilson. He was red in the face and breathing like he had been running, and yet still he managed to look like the ever-composed oncologist that he tried to be with everyone except House. House grinned (in his infinite boredom he had decided to disobey Cuddy and remove the oxygen mask).

"About time," he said. "I was starting to think you'd been abducted by a pack of beautiful women."

"Why women?" Wilson asked breathlessly.

"Because I don't think that a pack of burly men could have kept you as long," said House. "Where were you?"

"What do you mean where was I? I had a patient! And then, on my way up, the elevator stalled in between floors." Wilson exhaled, leaning over to catch his breath. "What the hell happened? You look like crap."

"Nothing gets past you," House said, wagging one finger playfully at Wilson. "Have you always been so perceptive, or have I just been a total ignoramus for the entire time I've known you?"

"Ignoramus," Wilson replied, sitting down without taking his eyes off of House.

"House," Wilson said carefully. "Are you alright?"

"Am now," said House, pretending to be intensely interested with a water spot on the ceiling.

"House," Wilson pressed. House ignored him, still pretending to be brooding over the water stain and how it had gotten there, avoiding Wilson's eyes with fixed determination. He had been looking forward to seeing Wilson but he should have known that there was an interrogation coming. He knew that one way or another, Wilson was going to get the truth out of him somehow, but at the moment he really didn't feel like talking about it. Not the fact that his heart had stopped—that little bit of information was far from being interesting. But….

Wilson, of course, was not like any of the other doctors at the hospital. He was special, and not only because he was a brilliant oncologist. He was also the only person left that could stand to be around House. He was the only one who bothered to ask House what was wrong, or how he was feeling when House had had a bad night and drank too much and had to come to work the next day with a massive hangover. He wasn't one to condemn constantly, either, which, although House didn't show it was a relieving change when it came down to it. He was the only one who ever visited House or spent Christmas with House. Most importantly, House knew that Wilson never did any of it out of pity. It was friendship. When Cameron used to ask House how he was doing or if he needed anything, that was pity. To her, he was damaged. To Wilson, he was House. He would never admit it, but House appreciated that more than anything.

There's no pity in friendship.

Whenever Cameron (or anyone really) would offer House their assistance, House would decline, often forcefully, partly because of the memories of the painful post-infarction rehabilitation. Once the required hospital rehab was taken care of, House was determined to pick up his life by himself, show the world (or perhaps just himself) that he did not need Stacy, and that he would regain full use of his leg despite the fact that he knew it was impossible. When he had finally returned to work, he used to take a painful lap around the parking garage before going in, leaning more and more heavily on his cane with every step, trying his best to tell himself that his leg did not have a white hot knife sticking out of it, that the corners of his eyes were not stinging with the tears of pain that were welling up behind them, and he had almost done it too, when his cane slipped out from under him and he found himself on the ground, his head spinning and his leg throbbing. He had no idea how long he sat in that garage, blinking dazedly, but he did know that the sound he heard next was the most unwelcome sound in the world.

"Need some help then, dear?"

A wrinkled, knobby hand was staring him in the face. He followed it up until he found a wrist, an arm, a shoulder clad in a hideous green shawl, and a white mop of hair atop a withered, gentle, ancient face.

It took a second for all of this to register with House, but when it did, it hit him like a ton of bricks. This lady was probably forty years older than him. She was so stooped and hunched that if she let her arms hang loose, they would have brushed the ground, behind her she was dragging a tank of oxygen, and even as she offered it to him, her hand shook.

And she felt sorry for him.

House had scrambled to his feet so quickly that he had almost fallen over again, snatched up his cane, and hobbled past her, muttering something rude about not needing help.

That had been the first time that he had ever really felt like a cripple. He had never told anyone about what had happened and he had no desire to. When he had gotten into the hospital, he had headed straight for the elevator, breathing as if he'd been running (another depressing thought). All he wanted was to be alone.

Wilson, of course, had stopped him.

"Hey, House! You look like you've been hit by truck. Are you sure that you're ready to be coming back to work?"

"Get out of my face!" House snarled, trying to push his way to the elevator. Wilson stepped in his path.

"If you're having that bad of a day already you should go home. I'll bring food over later and we can watch the game. Come on, go back to your car."

House had rounded on him. "Yeah, and which of your patients are you going to have help me out there?" House tried and failed once again to get past Wilson into the elevator.

For a moment, Wilson looked taken aback. Then he let out a bitter laugh. It was a semi-sweet sound.

"Do you want me to get Doris Winney or Max Dorchette?" he asked. "Max is in a coma and Doris just had her chemo. She'd probably puke all over you. Come on, House, you look like crap, but you're not that sick."

House had looked up then, finally meeting Wilson's eyes. He had searched them for any sign of pity, any hint that he might be feeling sorry for his crippled friend. But he had found none. Only worry.

It's alright to worry about your friends.

"Well, give Doris my regards and tell her I won't be needing her services," House snapped, finally making it past Wilson and hurrying as fast as his bum leg could take him into the elevator. As soon as the doors had closed, House allowed himself a little smile.

Finally, his rehabilitation was making some progress.

Wilson had never found out about the lady in the parking garage that morning, and he probably never would. House knew that it was alright to worry about your friends, but not in the excess. Worrying was Wilson's job. House's job was to protect him from having to.

This was part of the issue that House was confronted with now, as he stared blankly at the little spot on the ceiling, feeling Wilson's worried eyes boring into him. He didn't want Wilson to worry more than he already was. That was part of the issue. Not all of it.

Death is not an incurable ailment, and House had proved that on more than one occasion The second time, he had had Cuddy, Cameron, Foreman, Chase and Wilson to remember it and talk about it with. Last time, in the beginning, he had had Cuddy, Stacy, and Wilson. But in the end, there was only Wilson.

Wilson had been the first, and until recently, the only person that he had told about his "visions' or hallucinations or whatever you wanted to call them during his short bout of death. It had been hard for House to talk about then, but Wilson had been rapt with attention the whole time. When House had tried to brush off the visions as nothing, Wilson had refused to believe it.

And House knew, as soon as he found out, Wilson would want to know what House had seen this time.

And the truth was, House didn't know himself. The whole memory of it was blurry, like a particularly vivid dream that you still couldn't remember all of the details of. There had been one of his old patients, that…what was her name? Damn, he had been all over the hospital with her and he still didn't know her name.

And Wilson had been there…and Stacy. But what they had to do with his death, he had no idea.

"House…" Wilson looked almost angry. "If you don't tell me I'm going to go get Cuddy."

House glanced at Wilson and then back at the spot.

"I died," he said with a dramatic flourish. "Now shut up."

Out of the corner of his eye, House saw Wilson's leg twitch.

"What?" he choked. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh for the love of—" House ejaculated, finally tearing his eyes from the mesmerizing spot and relocating them on Wilson's face. "Died. You know, the technical term for when the heart stops beating? Of course, I was never very good with technical terms, but they made us take a course on this one in medical school. Guess you missed that year. Now if you don't mind."

House made a gesture in midair that was meant to signify a mouth being zipped shut, but apparently, Wilson had never taken a course in sign language either, because he continued talking.

"Died?" he breathed. "You mean—heart stopping, funeral and casket, black trench coats and paid mourners sort of…dead?"

"I think you're being a little excessive," House said, raising a finger. "Funerals only happen when the dead person stays dead, so don't go whipping out the black trench coat yet. Though if you do happen to outlive me, which, by the way, is unlikely, try to find some real mourners before you hire the fake ones. They're cheaper that way."

"But—but—" Wilson was more than a little pale. "But what happened?"

House shrugged and looked down, trying to look casual. "I had a seizure," he said. "And my heart stopped. Besides, why does it matter. I'm here now."

House blanched inwardly even as the words were coming out. He hadn't meant to say that. It was like giving tuna to a starving cat and wondering if he was going to eat it. House knew what Wilson was going to say next even before he said it.

"It matters," Wilson whispered. "Because this is the second time that this has happened. That's not something that most people can say, House!"

House shrugged again. "What can I say? Death isn't deadly for me, I'm just allergic to it."

"This isn't a joke, House!" Wilson hissed. "And you know that wasn't what I meant. Did you—was it like the last time?"

House sighed and leaned his head back into his pillows. "You know," he said sourly. "They say that when you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes. I should have been dead five years ago. My life's taking a long time."

"You're stalling."

House made a noise of exasperation in the back of his throat and covered his face with his hands. "Do you have to push me right now? I don't—I don't know what it was that I saw. I don't want to think about it right now. You're making my head hurt."

Wilson sighed, placing his elbows on his knees and leaning his head down so that he could massage his temples. When House looked over, the small lines on Wilson's face were suddenly thrown into sharp definition, and House felt a sharp pang of guilt followed by a throb of the head that made his vision slide out of focus and him wince.

"Can we do this another time?" he asked, willing his voice to not sound like he was pleading.

"Wilson shook his head, murmuring, "Fine. I won't ask you. I won't ask you. Like hell I won't."

House could barely suppress a smile. "Now say it like John Wayne," he said, suppressing the grin that was threatening to overtake his face. At the moment, he didn't think that enthusiasm was what his body needed.

"You know, House, or a minute I thought that just for a minute you might be able to talk about your own death without being explicitly sarcastic, but there you have it."

"That wasn't sarcasm," House objected. "That was a good sense of humor. Gloomy doctors make me sad. Crying will only make my headache worse. I had to find some way to lighten the mood without screaming 'fire,' because that would just be a hassle."

Wilson remained silent, his head pressing into his fingers, his fingers pressing into his head. He was no longer listening to House and was sitting, pensive and eerily silent. The silence bothered House. If no one was talking, he had nothing witty to snap and nothing to take his mind off the constant throbbing of his head.

And then, a high-pitched beeping broke the silence.

"Not mine!" House said, putting up his hands to prove that, indeed, he had nothing to make a beeping sound. Wilson ignored him. The beeping continued. And continued. The pounding of House's head fell into rhythm with the beeping, which it suddenly felt like Wilson had been ignoring for hours.

"Wilson," House said finally. "If you don't turn that thing off I'm going to die again, rise

from the grave and murder you with my undead self, just so that you won't be able to kill me back."

Wilson jumped as if he had only just noticed the beeping. He unclipped the pager from his belt, glanced at it, and looked back at House with a reluctant grimace.

"I'll be back," he said, standing. House waved a hand, using the other to massage his nasal passages just between his eyes. Wilson glanced back just once, then left, leaving House and his headache to dwell in their silence.

A/N and there you have it. The chapter in which nothing happens. Sorry it took me so long, but you know, I'm soooo busy winks Actually, I'm just lazy.

Enjoy!