Okay, so I just watched the episode "Known Unknowns" a couple hours ago. It aired last night but I recorded it. All I can say is...

FRUSTRATION!!!!!!!!!!! I'm a huddy fan so those of you who watched it understand my aggravation. I'm not mad, but I'm just…ughhh!!! But I have faith in the writers – they know what they're doing. Don't want to ruin the episode if you haven't seen it so I'm going to shut up now. On to the story:

Chapter 7

When House opened his eyes, the glaring ICU lights blinded him almost instantly and he was forced to close them again. So he was alive. That was always a plus. He had woken up a few times earlier, but he couldn't remember that – he had been too out of it. Now, he very slowly opened his eyes as he tried to keep everything straight in his mind. Judging by the ridiculously bright lights he was at a hospital, probably PPTH. ICU no doubt. Yeah, yeah but before that. Okay, so he knew where he was. How did he get there? What had happened first?

Cuddy.

She was the first thing that came to mind and he started to panic. Was she okay? He had been shot, he remembered that much. Twice. But as soon as he was shot the second time, everything was blurry. Cuddy was there, he remembered. She was screaming. Was she hurt?

His eyes flickered around the room until he laid them on Cuddy sleeping next to him. She was curled up on the chair, her arm creating a makeshift pillow. He would've let out a sigh of relief had there not been an annoying tube down his throat.

House rolled his eyes a little. He was groggy, due to the morphine he was on. He couldn't see from where he was how much they were giving him but he could definitely get used to this. All the cuts and bruises, on the other hand…that was definitely going to hurt once he was off the morphine.

And he really wanted that tube out…He managed to wiggle his good arm away from Cuddy's hand and tried to move his fingers. They were stiff and just doing that seemed to wring so much energy out of him.

He didn't want to wake Cuddy. It looked like she needed the rest. He'd tough it out for a few minutes. Too bad a few minutes came, well a few minutes early. Almost immediately, he started choking. He gently laid his hand on Cuddy's and squeezed. The monitors started beeping as well and Cuddy nearly jumped out of her skin.

Okay…you can wake up now…can't breathe here… House thought to himself, his eyes half opened – it was too tiring to open them any wider.

Cuddy quickly ripped off the tape. "Alright, House. Cough."

House obeyed, mostly because he had no choice. Cuddy checked the monitors as she pulled out the tube.

"Looks like you can breathe on your own which is always an added bonus."

House rolled his half opened eyes and tried to say something but immediately began coughing. Cuddy checked his pupil response after the coughing fit. "You're not coughing up blood so that's good…" Cuddy added. She held her finger in front of House over to his far left and began to slowly move her finger over. Instead of following the finger from left to right, House eyes went from right to left in his effort to annoy Cuddy.

"Seriously, House," she said, smiling a little. He was trying to tick her off – his brain was okay.

When Cuddy was finished she leaned on the bed rest. "Well looks like everything's fine for now. How are you feeling?"

High…House thought. He was about to say so but then realized she'd probably lower his morphine if he said that. He'd keep that a secret for now. "How…long have…I been out?" he whispered weakly, working his vocal chords for the first time in a few days.

"Two days," Cuddy sighed. "And you've been more than out: you've been comatose for two days," she stressed. "Two gunshot wounds, God knows how many stitches and intracranial pressure. You scared the hell out of us, House."

"Hmm…" House muttered, closing his eyes. He wanted to sleep again. He was so tired.

"House?" she asked, a hint of worry in her voice. She touched his shoulder.

House groaned. "What? I'm awake, aren't I?" His voice was coming back. Open mouth, make some noise…yeah, he was getting the hang of it again.

"How're you feeling?"

"High…" he said accidentally, his eyes closing again smiling to himself childishly. Oh, the joys of morphine.

"What?"

His eyes shot open. Damn, had he said that out loud? "Oops…I mean…tired…" Stupid morphine. But it felt so good. Cuddy rolled her eyes and reached out toward the monitors to lower the dose.

"Noooo…" House moaned. He turned his head to see what she was doing when he noticed his mangled left arm – the one Ethan had cut twenty times. For each cut, there had to be ten stitches that held the skin together. Two hundred damn stitches in his arm. House stared at them; hardly able to believe all the threads that decorated his arm were meant to help him.

Cuddy noticed him staring at the stitches. Disbelief clouded his blue eyes and she watched him slowly bring his fingers closer together to form a fist. Halfway through the motion, he stopped, flinching a little. His fingers hadn't even touched his palm. Cuddy, realized that was as far he could go without it hurting, despite the morphine. Her heart ached to see him in such pain. She noticed his other hand reach over to scrutinize touch the stitches but before he could, Cuddy, quickly smacked his good hand away, making sure she didn't hurt him. "Hey, don't play with your stitches."

"It looks like Frankenstein pieced it together," House said mostly to himself, ignoring her. Is this my arm? Damn, wonder what the rest of me looks like…

"House, I'm sorry…"

"For hiring such a lousy doctor that can't stitch to save his life?" House deflected, hoping she'd take the hint. He just woke up, for crying out loud. He wasn't exactly in the mood for a good old chit-chat about near death experiences and the complications that always seemed to follow. "Oh, don't feel bad…whoever did my stitches isn't the only bad doctor. Why, look at Wilson."

Not much luck. "Can you please be serious?"

"Oh, well, since you said 'please'…" House said, still scrutinizing his arm. It was so ugly – like some piece of lifeless matter that wasn't meant to be on a living person.

"I'm sorry for--"

"Stop apologizing," House said finally looking at her, frustrated. "None of this had anything to do with you, did it? It wasn't your fault. Well…you did hire the stupid doctor that did the stitches so, yeah, I blame you there."

Cuddy was about to say something else when Wilson walked into the room holding a box of donuts. He opened his mouth to tell Cuddy something when he noticed House was awake and sitting up.

"Wilson!" House exclaimed, glaring at Cuddy. "Thank you for saving me from unnecessary explanation."

"You were just deflecting," Cuddy said, folding her arms over her chest.

"I'm just that good."

"He's up! Why didn't you tell me?" Wilson said staring down Cuddy and ignoring House.

"He just woke up three minutes ago!"

"Yeah, I'm doing fine. Thanks for asking. My arm kinda hurts but besides that…" House began cockily. He then nodded at the bag Wilson was holding. "Hey….there better be something good in there for me, my lunch buddy. Just because I've been gone doesn't mean I expect any less from you."

Wilson shrugged. "That's nice to know." He handed him an original glazed donut. He offered Cuddy one but she declined and Wilson took a raspberry filled donut for himself.

"Hey, I want a jelly donut!"

Cuddy wrinkled her nose. "How can you eat? Aren't you nauseous?"

House took a huge bite out of his donut. "Yummy…" he mumbled. He hadn't eaten anything when he had been kidnapped or even had anything to drink. IV drips had been keeping him going but nothing beat physically eating the food. Where was the fun in IV drips?

Cuddy rolled her eyes. He could be such a child. "Right, well now that I know you're fine--"

"Worrying about me?" House said, making a face.

"—I'm going to do my work." Cuddy finished ignoring him. She turned to leave the room and at the last moment turned around to take a look at him, obviously about to add something else. She changed her mind and left the room, heading for the elevators. She'd talk to him later when Wilson wasn't there.

Wilson sat down in the chair next to him and dropped the box of donuts on a nearby table. "You know, she's worried about you."

"She's an administrator," House said, finishing his donut. "Worrying about things she can't change is what she does best. I tell her not to worry about the size of her ass but does she listen to me? No. She drinks low fat yogurts instead. I tell her it's her greatest feature and how does she accept the compliment? It's always 'Go away and tell that teenager she's got an STD and deal with the parents'. I feel used."

Wilson ignored the deflection. "She hasn't left this room once in nine hours, she fell asleep right here last night. What happened has been killing her and she's been worried sick. Give her a break."

"She's not worried. She's guilt ridden and I have no idea why. What happened to me isn't her fault and what happened…inside that basement isn't her fault," House hesitated. He didn't really want to bring up anything that had happened in that room. It was obvious he'd been beaten – two hundred stitches on his arm was proof of that. But he wasn't going to be very excited when Cameron walked in here and asked him to talk about his feelings.

"I'm not asking you to talk about it now," Wilson said, making sure he didn't push him too hard. "Just keep in mind she didn't exactly come out of this unscathed either."

House nodded, not really listening to him anymore. Wilson suspected that and brought up a different topic. "Ethan's on his way to prison."

"Well that's just great news, now isn't it?" House said sarcastically, wincing. His chest was hurting, House assumed it was the gunshot wound and did his best to ignore it. He'd up his morphine when no one was looking.

Moments later, Cameron, Chase and Foreman walked in and for the second time in five minutes, House was thankful that another conversation he didn't want to have had been interrupted. What was with everyone and talking about damn emotions?

"How're you feeling?" Chase asked once all three of them were inside. "Cuddy told us you woke up."

"Good God, Cuddy has a big mouth. Bigger than yours even," House said, looking at Wilson. His chest was starting to bug him every time he took a large breath. Then to the rest of the team he said, "Why are you all standing like that? You look like the three musketeers. I'm not going to hit any of you, my dear children: my cane isn't with me today. You have been spared. Worship me."

Cameron ignored the comment. "You look better."

"You have pretty hair," House said dreamily. Then to the rest of the team, he questioned, "So…who's our patient of the week? What body parts can I attempt to cut off? What form of torture can I bring to the human population? Speak up my ducklings."

"None of your business," Wilson answered before Foreman could. "Right now, they're taking care of it. And you're going to rest even if I have to tie you down myself."

House scoffed. About to say something, but it now really hurt to breathe.

It's just a gunshot wound, damnit. Stop making a big deal out of nothing.

"House?" Wilson asked when House didn't threaten him.

No, it's in the wrong area. I was shot in the left lung…and it hurts where…

Oh, shit

"House!" Wilson said, noticing he was completely oblivious to the real world. He quickly stood up as the monitors surround him went haywire. The rest of his team rushed up to him as House mumbled something incoherently and his head fell back into the pillow.

"BP's too high he's going into tachycardia," Foreman noted.

"He's going to have a heart attack…get a crash cart!" Wilson ordered.

House's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he was out.

[H]ouse[H]ouse[H]ouse[H]ouse[H]ouse[H]ouse[H]ouse[H]ouse[H]ouse[H]ouse[H]ouse[H]ouse[H]ouse

You can't escape me.

House is back in the godforsaken basement with Ethan. None of the lights are on and it's dark outside – he can't see anything.

"House? House, where are you?"

Even in his subconscious he can recognize the voice. It's Cuddy. Cuddy is in the room with the bastard. House tries to feel his way around the room, following her voice.

Suddenly, the lights flicker on and House sees Ethan, smiling sadistically holding a gun up to Cuddy's head. She's weeping, terrified and trying to pry his fingers away from her. "House!"

House runs to her, despite the streams of pain coursing through his entire body radiating from his leg. His leg is on fire but he keeps running. Ethan has the gun still pointed at Cuddy's head. He fires.

House's heart stops. He's too late. He failed her. She's gone. But he still sees Cuddy there, screaming his name. He's screaming for him to stop. For who to stop? Cuddy's fine, but House isn't. He doubles over and collapses, finally noticing the bullet wound in his chest. The bullet didn't hit Cuddy – it hit him.

Over and over again, Ethan fires at Cuddy, but each bullet collides into House, meters away, hitting him in different locations – his leg, his abdomen, his shoulder…over and over again until it feels like his entire body is covered in holes. He's bleeding almost everywhere but he's still wide awake, completely conscious.

And God, does it hurt.

Ethan lets Cuddy go and she runs over to him, screaming. "Why did you do that? What were you thinking? Why did you do that? You should have just stayed. He wouldn't have hurt you if you stayed."

Ethan is above her now and has his gun aimed directly at Cuddy. Every time Ethan has fired at Cuddy the bullet has hit House. Yet, House knows that this last bullet is going to hurt her. He tries to pull her away, to shield her, something. But he can't move anymore. Ethan fires and House knows he let her down when she needed him most.

"House!"

"House!"

"House."

He woke up in a cold sweat, taking in as much as oxygen as he can through his nose just as his eyes opened. He was back in the ICU room, under the glaring lights. Ethan was in prison. He's not coming back. He's not coming back. Cuddy was fine. She was here.

"House, you just had a nightmare," she reassured him.

He was still exhausted though he had just woken up. The last thing he remembered was…his team had walked in to see how he was doing…

"What…" House murmured so quietly, Cuddy had to bend down to hear. That was all he managed to get out.

"You had a heart attack," Cuddy explained. "You were gone for a little less than a minute." He noticed her red eyes.

House closed his eyes and fell back into shallow unconsciousness.

"For the love of God, House," she told him even though he couldn't hear her anymore. "Don't do that to me."

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The next time House woke up, it was dark, and no one was in the room with him. Everyone must have gone home – good. It was about time they stopped worrying about him. He was fine. He didn't need everyone staring him down, making sure he was still sane. He was sick of the attention.

He slowly sat up, trying not to rip out any of his stitches. The room started to dance in front of him and he stayed still, breathing slowly. Once the wave of nausea passed, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and allowed his bare feet to touch the cold ICU floor.

This should be interesting, he thought to himself as he grabbed the IV pole and slowly lifted himself from the bed. It wasn't pain he was worried – he had the morphine to take care of that. He was more worried about getting up. He hadn't been up in days and he'd been comatose for two of those days. Time to remind his legs how the whole walking thing worked. Lift this leg…or drag it, either way…okay good…now next leg…repeat…yeah, I remember now.

House walked out of his room dragging the pole with him until he made it inside the restroom. Before he turned to face the mirror, he mentally prepared himself. Alright. Let's take a look at the damage, shall we?

Damn. Well, it could be worse…

The sides of his face were purple-blue and he had stitches in the side of his head and on his cheek, a few millimeters away from his zygomatic bone. He stayed away from the stitches but gingerly touched his bruised cheek. As he did, he remembered how Ethan had slammed the end of his handgun into his face. The memory seemed to wake him up a little more and he snatched his hand away, laying a finger on the stitches where Ethan had hit him. His entire face looked like it had been a punchbag, which wasn't entirely far from the truth.

He lifted up his deformed arm and inspected it as well. He couldn't form a fist without it hurting and he couldn't stretch his fingers out either. If he twisted his arm around slowly, his arm just fell dull but when he touched the stitches, it felt like he had dropped pepper in it. He remembered Ethan making each slice in his arm – he did it so casually, as if he was dividing up a pizza among friends.

The restroom door slammed open and House woke up from his reflections. He turned around and saw Cuddy standing there with a look that could kill blazing from her eyes. He half expected flame-tipped arrows to fly from her sockets.

"Oooooooohhh," House said, acting like a seventh grader. "You're in the boys' bathroom. Very dramatic, I must say."

"Why are you out of your room?" Cuddy demanded. "You're supposed to be in ICU. Intensive Care. There's a reason we put you in there."

"How did you even know I was in here?" House deflected. He'd only been in the bathroom for a minute or so. How close was she keeping tabs on him?

"An intern said he saw you leave and head this way. You do realize there's a bathroom in the ICU room, right?"

"No…there's a toilet in the room. I needed a mirror," he said, pointing at it.

"Go back to your room before your rip out your stitches!" Cuddy said, annoyed that she was still arguing over something so basic. What idiot wandered around after getting shot, sleeping through a coma and having a heart attack? All in less than four days?

"I don't need a babysitter," House muttered, turning to face the mirror. All he wanted was a few minutes alone. Was that too much to ask?

"Yeah, well, your recent stunt seems to prove otherwise. Get back to your room and stay there or I'll handcuff you to the bed myself."

House eyes twinkled. "Will you join me, mistress?"

"ICU. Now."

"No," House said after a beat, looking back at the bruise. He had already seen it and didn't need to scrutinize it any further, but he figured after a moment, she'd leave him to his own thoughts for a while.

"House, I'm not kidding," she said, walking over to him, her heels clacking on the tile floor. When she reached him, she grabbed his arm and pulled on it slightly, just to show him she was serious. He needed to get his ass back inside.

She forgot about the cuts along his arm.

House screamed and immediately Cuddy let go, realizing what she had done. She could see blood immediately rush to the area Cuddy had agitated on the lower part of his forearm and House muffled another scream. He squeezed the IV pole so tightly, his knuckles turned white.

"House…are you okay? Sorry I--"

"Yeah, you forgot," he seethed back, intentionally hurting her. "Totally understandable, considering nothing major happened over the last four days. Coma and all was just a stage production Wilson and I put together. I'm all better."

"Let me--" Cuddy began reaching for his arm.

House moved it away before she did. "Ohhh no…I think you've done enough for one night."

She took his hand trying to see how much damage there was. "At least let me--"

"Let go!" he yelled as he yanked his arm away.

Cuddy was speechless, but she slowly let go. He could see the guilt, hurt and frustration in her eyes as she nodded a little. "Okay," she said and with that she quickly left the bathroom.

House let her go and tried to push her out of his mind. That's what he did best. If he didn't want to handle something or face something, he let it slip out of his mind and occupied it with something else – like a case. But at the moment, the only image stuck in his head was Cuddy's hurt expression before she left.

A few minutes later, House grabbed the pole and began his trek back to his room in ICU.

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He's looking the mirror in his bedroom and notices that he's been, miraculously healed. There are no bruises on his face, not ugly stitches, not even a scratch. House touches his skin, just to make sure it's really him staring back in the mirror.

Slowly, the picture starts changing. The bruises return, a dark shade of purple; the cuts across his temple and cheeks are there but without the stitches. Blood seeps from the wounds and runs down his face, past his nose until it starts dripping to the floor. His eyes are half opened and he looks exhausted. Gradually, the face in the mirror starts contorting in pain – but it's not a reflection. House's face isn't bleeding, there are no stitches in his head and his cheek isn't tender. Nothing hurts. But the man staring back at him in the mirror obviously thinks it hurts. The man in the mirror is about to crumble into pieces.

"You know why Cuddy won't fire you. Because this is what she sees. The helpless cripple. She feels sorry for you; she feels guilty."

Ethan is also in the mirror behind House.

"Your dad hated you…he still hates you and after the infarction, all he saw was his crippled failure. You never did anything right, so he'd punish you, push you. Do you remember when you had to sleep outside in the dead of winter for a night?"

Ethan's face also begins to change and at first, House doesn't understand what is wrong with him. His face in morphing, becoming something else.

"All the meals you missed altogether because you were two minutes late for dinner? Nights you were forced to stay awake and still go to school in order to build character?"

Moments before the transformation is complete, the realization dawns on him and House looks at him in horror. No, not something…someone.

"Do you remember the number of times he pushed you, beat you, dragged you around b y the arm and treated you like a worthless dog?"

Ethan grins. But it isn't Ethan anymore.

It's House's father.

House's eyes jolted open and he quickly took in a deep gulp of air. He checked the clock hanging on the wall – three in the morning. He still had hours of the lingering darkness ahead of him.

He looked side to side and realized no one was in the room with him. He sighed and closed his eyes and tried to will himself back to sleep.

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