A/N: Okay, sorry for the wait. Here's a nice long chapter with a juicy bit in it… and plenty of House and Wilson's plotting and counter-plotting.

The next week passed uneventfully. Tritter played it mostly straight, clearly reluctant to abuse somebody who might be enjoying it. House could feel him watching, waiting, looking for new and more effective methods of torment, but until he made his mind up, for a few days there was peace.

Things with Chase were generally good, though he had as yet refused to try out the bitchinly scary whip. The other, tamer toy was in use practically every day, but they always had to take it down to the sleep lab because of the noise.

The firefighter, on the other hand, was not as good. His case was at a standstill – they had finally identified his partner Amy as the cause of his heart attacks and had invented ways of keeping her out of the room. The question of how to treat his broken heart syndrome hardly interested House at all, though, and consequently he wouldn't apply himself to it, not when he was in this much pain and had a bottle of Vicodin rattling around in his pocket that he wasn't allowed to take.

It was a short, uncomfortable though bearable lull in House's month of misery. It came to an end the day Wilson dropped by while the brainstorming was going on.

"I still say we should tell Amy what's been going on," Cameron began forcefully. "Maybe she can-… House? Is everything all right?" He was sitting in his chair with his head back and eyes closed.

"Everything's fine."

"But you're not… helping us," Foreman pointed out. It wasn't an unusual observation for him to make these days, but this morning, for a change, there was another option besides just complaining: he looked to Wilson for backup.

Wilson sighed, adjusted his stance, spoke up firmly. "House, come on. Make an effort. Think."

As usual, House didn't react well to being ordered around. He sat up and threw a fearsome glare. "Can't think," he snapped. His eyes flashed to Chase.

Chase looked a little surprised, but nevertheless got up without a word and headed into the office. House promised "One second," to the table at large, and then followed him.

Foreman kept right on taking notes, shaking his head. Cameron stared after them, clearly jealous of all the bonding she imagined was going on, and then turned her peevishness on Wilson. "Why can't you let him be? He's only doing it to freak you out," she declared. "He never interrupts a diagnosis like this."

Wilson's jaw dropped. "They're-..."

"That would be a safe bet." Foreman didn't even look up, even when a sharp crack issued forth from the office. "Yep."

"No. That's just... no." Wilson took a step forward, but Cameron grabbed his labcoat.

"They're both adults," she reminded him, shaking her head reproachfully when he flinched at the noises. "It's not my cup of tea either, but it seems like it's helping him."

All of a sudden, over the sound of cane on flesh, they heard House call: "I can hear you listening! Go away!"

A moment later the two of them reappeared, calm, unruffled, and fully dressed. "So," House said cheerfully as he made his way back to his chair. "Talk to me."

Cameron waited til he was seated (and had finished wincing), then repeated her initial point: "I think we should tell Amy what's going on."

Later on Wilson chewed over what had happened. House had obviously decided that getting his own ass kicked was an effective way to punish his friend… and Wilson was damned if he would let himself be manipulated that easily.

He would not let it bother him. In fact, he would try and look on the bright side. Yes, it was weird. But it clearly provided House with a necessary distraction from his pain and it was legal and, for the most part, harmless. Actually… it was in many ways preferable to munching pills like candy. It might be a good thing for House to keep it up, even after the month was over. It might help him keep his dosages down a little.

He mentioned the possibility that afternoon.

That night, Chase's phone rang.

"It's House. I need a favor."

His voice had gone all low and urgent, which was making Chase a little nervous. What could he possible need that would warrant that tone? "Um… okay," he said carefully. "Mind telling me what?"

"Tomorrow, I need you to hurt me."

He blinked. "I know. I do it almost every day."

"No – I mean really hurt me. Bring in the evil whip and hit me hard enough that I regret asking."

Chase sighed. "Is this part of some sinister plan?"

"Of course."

The next day House banged the door of the sleep lab open with his cane. "So. This morning, solely through his amazing powers of observation, with no cleverly-dropped clues from me, Wilson brilliantly deduced the location of our secret hideout. He was just with me when you paged. I said it was a patient, he knows I was lying. I'd guess two minutes for him to wrestle with his conscience, and then he'll be right down here. Are you sure you can do this?"

"Yes. He will leave here thoroughly convinced that this is in no way a viable substitute for medication. He'll kick himself for ever even thinking of it. He'll probably cry. So will you," he added as an afterthought. "Are you sure you can do this?"

"It's worth it to me to not hear his bitching for the rest of forever. Besides, I just have to stand there and take it," House pointed out. "You're the one has to dish it out. If you're good, I'm good. Let's go."

They went inside one of the bedrooms and closed the door. House put his jacket on the bed and Chase tossed down his bag. They took out the toys – the flogger and the singletail. House waved them around while Chase unzipped his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. "How hard was it to get good with this thing?"

Chase shrugged. "Longer than you'd think – I decided to err on the side of caution. If I accidentally wrap it around your neck or your chest, you will not be happy." He'd worried that he might not be able to act naturally if he knew that Wilson was watching, but as it turned out, his hesitation about what he was about to do won out over all his self-consciousness. "House… are you sure about this?"

"I want to know what it feels like – up front, not after all that building-up crap. I'm not actually a cat, so to the best of my knowledge curiosity isn't dangerous for me."

Chase took the whip from him and shook it out. "You may change your mind about that in a second. Take your shirt off."

House did. He took a deep breath, then went to stand braced against the wall. Chase squared up. "Last time: are you sure about this?" He got a nod and then, without giving himself time to think it over again, cocked his elbow and let loose.

Wilson was, of course, by now in the observation room spying.

The way he saw it, a few things seemed to all happen at once: the movement of Chase's arm, the unbelievably loud POP of leather against skin, and the reflexive arch of House's back against the impact.

The sound came a moment later: a high-pitched scream of pain and shock that would haunt his sleep for weeks to come. House spun around and rammed his back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, mindlessly wriggling as though trying to scrub the paint off with his injured shoulders.

Not even on his worst days, curled up on the floor of his office pleading for morphine, had House looked to be in this much pain. Wilson went for the doorknob, all ready to burst in and try to offer some kind of comfort, but Chase beat him to it.

"Okay, okay, relax," Chase was saying calmly. "Relax, move, I'll rub it for you." Wilson forced himself not to interfere – only watching, hand over his mouth, as House stumbled pathetically to the bed and leaned over it, supporting himself on his shaking arms. He even whimpered when Chase's hand settled gently over the angry red mark. "There, see? Now aren't you sorry you didn't listen to me?"

Wilson waited for House to explode with fury, but all he did was laugh. "Oh my God," he groaned after a bit. "One's enough, you were right." He straightened up, slowly.

Chase looked him over, shaking his head. "I can't leave you like this," he sighed at last. "Get on back over there – just the flogger, you like the flogger. Go on."

House limped back over to the wall at once. "I'll go easy," Chase promised. "You tell me if it's too much."

Wilson was on his feet and ready to interfere if his friend showed the least sign of distress at whatever came next, but it seemed that all Chase meant to do was dust the many-tailed leather instrument gently over his back.

House's head rested on the wall and his shoulders dropped. "That's nice, that's fine," he assured after a moment. "You can go harder." It wasn't just his pride speaking, either. Wilson could see the way his body relaxed into the soft, heavy blows, could hear the way his moans turned low and almost sensual when a little more force was put into it.

Chase gradually sharpened up what he was doing. The difference was audible, and though the change in breathing suggested that House could feel it too, it didn't seem to bother him. He hissed against the harder smacks, rolled his shoulders every now and then when one had particular bite, but even as disturbed and worried as Wilson was, he couldn't pretend to think that House was having trouble.

That didn't make it any easier to watch, though. Eventually he shifted his focus to Chase. While the look of intense concentration was reassuring – the kid was being "careful," at least, for whatever that was worth – it was still a little disconcerting to watch him work. The way he loaded up his whole shoulder into some of the blows, crashed that mass of stinging leather deliberately down onto House's bare back…

It was so terribly violent, and the weirdest thing was, neither of them seemed to notice.

Eventually Chase set the flogger down, and, perversely enough, that was what made House peek over his shoulder and start whining "Hey, no, come on…"

And then Chase picked up the singletail. House made a noise like a frightened puppy, which Wilson thought was certainly the appropriate reaction, even when Chase let his arm fall non-threateningly to his side. The whip still twitched, small dangerous motions like a snake coiling to strike.

"You can take it now," Chase assured. "I'll be careful, I promise."

House faced the wall again, pressing tight to it as though trying to get as far away from the danger as possible. Wilson heard him suck in his breath and moan "Oh God…"

Chase actually laughed. "You're such a huge baby it's unbelievable," he said. "House, come on. I'm not going to hurt you more than you can handle. Trust me. Open your hand when you're ready."

House took his time and got his breathing under control. When he could, he opened his eyes. His fists were clenched tightly on either side of his head and he steeled himself to open one, just for a second. Just once, he promised himself. Let's not embarrass ourselves – just do it one time, and then you're not a pussy and we're done. You can do it. Here we go. He held his breath, closed his eyes, and spread his fingers.

The whish-crack, the sudden fiery flare of pain… he squeaked and twisted, waiting for the agony to crescendo into that unbearable-

Huh… that wasn't so bad. It crested and was over, much more quickly and much more bearable than before. It faded quickly to throbbing, then to warmth, and he was left wondering what the hell he had been so afraid of.

His shoulders relaxed, and his hands, which had fisted up in that first terrible second, flattened out.

Chase hit him again. "FFFF-K! Mmmmnnnn!!" He arched hard, head thrown back, sucking air frantically through his nose while he tried to ride out the blow. Not so bad? Fuck, what the hell were you thinking, not so bad?

"Fuck? Was that 'fuck'?" Chase was asking behind him. He sounded amused. "Didn't quite catch the second thing, though. I'll go a little lighter."

House laughed breathlessly as the fire subsided. "Fuck you. Mm. Hold on."

"Take your time."

House had been all braced up for another go, but at Chase's advice he hesitated first. He took a moment to appreciate the slow, delicious slide from pain back into non-pain. His back felt raw and hot. He wished he could touch it, just to see what that would feel like. He imagined he would probably like it. After a while he wanted more, another dose of the pulsing heat, and gave the signal without any fear.

Wilson watched the whole thing. This is all your fault, he told himself. You should never have gone to the police. You should never have harassed him about the pills.

He watched House gasp and writhe, and thought: Some friend. You put him through this.

He watched House absorb each lash, grow still, and willingly call for the next one. This is how bad it is, he lectured. He considers this torture an improvement. Think of that the next time you hassle him about taking medication for his pain.

He suffered through the whole session, but then, not wanting to be discovered, left as soon as Chase declared it at an end. He didn't hear House say thanks and collapse in blissful exhaustion onto the bed. He didn't see Chase check the marks carefully for blood and then lay a hand against House's neck (ostensibly to monitor his pulse) until he calmed down enough to dress again.

It probably wouldn't have mattered, though. His mind was made up: this was cruel and awful and couldn't be healthy. This ought to be stopped.

He went to Cuddy.

TBC.

Again, apologies for the wait. Let me know what you think so far!! Next chapter we see some evil nasty Tritter.