House lied on his thin mattress the blanket wrapped around him. His left eye was totally swollen. He couldn't open it for a few days. Nothing to see down here anyway. It was useless. They had sent him here because he had killed a guy. But what about that damn guard? House could have saved the kid. Now he was dead because that stupid watchdog had to show his power once more.

After his 30 days he was just glad to be out.

"Never ever assault an officer again!", Peters told him when he escorted him back to the block.

House nodded. He never wanted to assault him in the first place. He even found the guy the same afternoon in the yard and apologized.

"Don't let it happen again!", he was told.

"Yes, boss.", came it automatically.

The guard nodded.

"Well I think you learned your lesson out of this, right?"

"Yes, boss."

Sure he had learned his lesson. There was not the slightest bit of justice in here. A convict could bleed to death and nobody cared. An officer tripped and fell down probably scraped his palm and he bought a month. He got beaten up for it. That's the fucking lesson he had learned.

Weston was not done with him this time. Nobody touched a guard in his block. House being in the hole for a month was not good enough for the senior officer. Once again he wanted to teach him a lesson. The next evening when they were locked in for the night he showed up at House's cell.

"Get up and step forward, House.", he ordered him.

House obeyed but did not know what to expect.

"Give me your hand.", Weston went on.

"Why? What are you doing?", House wanted to know.

"Just give me your hand and shut up!", the guard yelled.

House sighed. This couldn't be good. But he had no choice. He reached out his arm through the bars. Weston cuffed it and fixed chained him to the bar.

"Good night!", Weston smirked and went back to the guard's station.

House looked at his hand. That fucking bastard.

He couldn't reach his bed. Sitting down on the floor was not an option, too. The crossbar didn't allow it to get his arm down far enough. Hunkering down might have worked if it hadn't been for his leg. He would spend the night standing in the corner of his cell.

That night was pure torture for him. His right leg hurt anyway but his left leg had to put all the weight. A few hours later it started cramping. House knew he had to do something about it. He looked at his bed again. If he couldn't go to the bed the bed had to come to him. He stretched out as far as possible and finally he reached the bed frame. He pulled it over as far as possible and finally he could sit down. He stretched out both his legs. His thigh was burning and his left knee was shaking. This release didn't hold on very long though. Weston had heard the scratching noise and came over a few minutes later.

"Oh, you're cheating, doc. That's not nice of you.", he released the bar and opened the cell. House stepped back against the opposite wall immediately. Weston pushed the bed back against the wall and went outside. Once he had closed the cell he looked at House.

"Come back here!"

House was desperate.

"Please, boss. Let me sit down.", he begged him.

Weston laughed.

"Just get over here, House!", he told him.

House couldn't. He knew this would mean more hours of pain.

"I got it. I won't touch another guard. I never wanted to do it. I just wanted to help that kid. I'm sorry, boss."

Weston enjoyed this. House was afraid and horrified already. For him that was pure fun.

"Sure you won't touch another guard. But I don't care. Get your ass over here or I'll come in and get it myself."

House shook his head. "Please.", he mumbled once more but he knew it was a lost try. When Weston got out his nightstick and was about to open the cell again he finally gave in. Slowly like a poor dog that had been beaten before and knew it was in for another round he made his way back to the bars. He stretched out the hand which still held the handcuff. Weston grabbed it.

"And now the other one please.", he grinned. House closed his eyes and shook his head. He just heard how the handcuff closed around his right wrist as well.

"See you tomorrow.", Weston said and vanished.

Now he was really screwed. He couldn't even turn around this time. It was one of the longest nights House ever had in prison and his right leg was stiff for nearly a week afterwards.

Pretty soon House could also learn what difference there was between the guards and the prisoners. The following month they were on the yard again. He had just exchanged 10 cigarettes for a set of poker cards when some uproar started on the other side. Another fight took place and the guards were already interfering. House laid down face down.

A few moments later he could hear them shouting his name. He looked up.

"Get over here!", they yelled at him.

Carefully he got up. He expected them to drag him down once more but nothing happened.

"Get your fucking ass over here!", Peters shouted. He started limping. When he arrived at the scene he saw Fox on the floor. It was one of the guards; he was wounded. One of the convicts had stabbed him twice in the stomach. The guard couldn't breath.

"Do something!", Weston shouted at House. He just stood there and thought about the irony of this. Oh sure, that's a guard. Come let's save his life while we let the convicts die in the same situation.

Finally he kneed down and checked the officer's breathing. He ripped open the shirt and saw the stab wounds in the belly. It was strange. The lungs were not stabbed but still he had trouble breathing. Where was a stethoscope if he needed one?

He wasted another shirt and told Weston to press it on the wound while he carefully checked the chest. There it was; a broken rib that had probably pierced the lung. Air was building up between the lung and chest so the lung had collapsed.

"He needs a chest tube.", House explained.

"A what?", Weston asked him.

House didn't answer. He shoved Weston's hands away and looked at the wound again. It was small. The shank would come in handy right now.

"Who did this?", he asked the guards that surrounded him. "I need that weapon."

The guards looked confused at each other.

"You can either hand me that weapon or you can kiss your colleague good bye!", he yelled.

"Give it to him!", Weston decided while he still tried to stop the bleeding.

House took the piece of metal. It looked like a thin knitting needle. He looked at Weston who was still kneeing next to him. Without asking he grabbed the pen from his chest pocket. He uncapped it and got rid of the interior. He pushed the needle through it. It fit.

The guards watched him suspiciously. When he was about to stab the chest Peters interfered and grabbed his wrist.

"What are you doing?", he yelled.

"Saving his life. You want to drag me away while another person dies? Please go ahead.", he snapped.

"You better know what you are doing here, doc.", Weston mumbled.

Peters let go of him and a moment later House had carefully pierced the chest making sure he would not reach the lung. He pulled out the metal piece. The pen stayed in the chest and the air could leave. House checked the breathing again. It improved immediately.

"Get him in a hospital immediately.", he said while he held the pen.

While the guards cleared the yard House and Weston stayed with him until the paramedics arrived. They looked amazed when they saw the convict who had obviously just performed a tube thoracostomy with a pen. They took care for the guard and House stepped back.

Weston looked at him.

"Time to start working in the infirmary again, House.", he said and gave him back the bloodied shirt.

House looked at it and his blood stained t-shirt. "Time to give me some new clothes.", he mumbled and went back inside.

The guards were grateful for House's help. The young guard had to spend a few days in hospital but would recover completely. The prison warden thanked him personally. House didn't give a crap. But he was promised a favor so he thought it over.

"You got a piano in this place?", he finally asked.

The prison warden looked astonished. A piano?

"We got one down in block B", he told him. It was the block with the minor criminals. They were allowed to spend their time in different courses including a music class.

"How about an hour every week?", House asked him now.

The other man nodded. "It's a deal."

It was an old piano totally different from his beloved piece he had back home but he didn't care.

The guard watching him sat down with a newspaper while he limped over and sat down on the piano bench. Carefully he touched the keys. It was even tuned properly. He had not played for nearly three years but this was just like riding a bike. He would never forget how to play the piano. It became the highlight of his week. Every Wednesday afternoon when all the others were in the yard he was playing the piano.

He closed his eyes and smiled. It was the only hour every week when he could remember how it felt to be a free man. It took him 5 minutes to get his old touch back. The guard put his newspaper down and watched him. He had never seen the old gimp more satisfied.

Wilson had not seen House for 1 1/2 years when he returned to Trenton the next time. He had been sending him books and stuff but they had no contact at all. He was nervous when he entered the visiting room this time. House sat already there. Wilson sighed. House looked old. He was still too thin but at least he showed no injuries this time.

"How are you doing?", the oncologist greeted him.

"I'm doing ok.", House mumbled. At least he spoke this time. "How are you?"

This question surprised Wilson.

"Ahm, I'm fine. Thanks."

House nodded. "Good for you."

Silence built up. House rubbed his fingers over the tabletop as if he tried to remove some smudge.

"I need help.", Wilson finally spoke up.

House chuckled.

"From me? What could that be?"

"I got that patient. 12 year old boy…", he paused.

House closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Don't do this, Wilson.", he mumbled.

"But you could help me. You could help this kid. Just look at the file please."

"Is this even a real case? Or did you just come up with that one to make me feel better? I don't need pity.", House told him.

He glanced at the closed file though. During the last two years he had treated flesh wounds and colds. Could he still play the big game?

Wilson observed him. He knew House had already snapped the bait. It was a real case. One of his cancer patients had developed strange symptoms he couldn't explain.

"Give it to Foreman.", House told him finally.

Wilson shook his head.

"Foreman is not at the hospital."

"Foreman left?", House wondered.

"No, he didn't."

House raised his eyebrow.

"You left."

"I got a better offer. You would know that if you ever had answered my letters.", Wilson explained.

"Better than head of oncology back at the PPTH? I wonder where that might be.", House smirked.

They got silent again.

"So what are you doing all day long?", Wilson asked eventually.

"Getting tattoos, doing drugs the usual prison shit, what else?"

Wilson looked annoyed. House glanced at the table again and continued with his rubbing.

"I work in the infirmary. They found out I'm pretty good with the piano so I teach some guys how to play. And there is that guy who keeps sending me interesting books. I like reading them."

Wilson smiled. House's way of saying thank you.

"I got my parole hearing coming up in two months.", House added and looked up.

"That's great. Make sure you don't screw it up."

"Nah. Already done that. They will never let me out. It's not important anyway. At least I got a job in here."

"Oh come, House. That's ridiculous. What job might that be? Treating your buddies' hep C?"

House starred at him. He looked sad. That hurt him. Of course he was not a big shot doctor anymore like Wilson. But the oncologist had no idea how hard it had been for House to achieve the few amenities he had found himself in here.

"So that's what you think of me? I'm pathetic right? Because I'm glad to be able to work in a damn prison infirmary. But still you show up here with your damn case because once more you have no idea. I haven't seen the inside of a hospital in 3 years and still you come here for advice. Now that's just poor, Wilson."

"That's not what I meant. But if you can get out of here you should take that chance. I could help you.", Wilson regretted his last words immediately.

"I don't need your damn help!", House shouted. "I never have and I never will. When will you finally get this?"

One of the guards came over and told him to shut up.

"Sorry, boss!", House answered immediately in a calm and subservient tone.

Wordless he grabbed the file on the table and opened it. He browsed the pages with his trained eyes to get all the information he would need.

Wilson was relieved and observed him pleased.

Finally House shut the file.

"I have no idea.", he announced.

"But what about his raised Glutamine level? It might be…", House cut him off.

"I don't even know what the average Glutamine level is nowadays. Sorry."

Time was over. Wilson watched House as he followed the other inmates back to their block.

The same afternoon House sat in his cell and pondered about Wilson's visit.

Of course he knew the average level of probably any hormone, enzyme and anything else you could find in the human body. Wilson. House shook his head. The oncologist still thought in a way only mathematicians would think when he should think like a diagnostician. Wilson had just taken all the symptoms and substracted everything that could be explained by the cancer. Now he couldn't find an explanation for the remaining problems. House had showed him hundreds of times that this was not the right way to diagnose.

His brain was working. He didn't know the answer immediately. House would have told Wilson otherwise. He would not risk a patient's life to prove a point. Not anymore.

A loud bang made him startle and brought him out of his thoughts. Why did they always have to do that? Guards and their stupid nightsticks.

"We would be ready for dinner, Mr. House. But one of our inmates keeps us waiting. Would you be so kind to step out, Sir?", Weston said in a sarcastic tone. He had the similar attitude concerning dinner times like his father.

"What?", House asked him. He was confused. He had blanked everything out around him.

"So I take it you are not hungry. I'll spare you the way.", the guard added and closed his cell.

House didn't care.

"Thank you, boss.", he said automatically and watched the inmates leave.

Stamford approached his cell 5 minutes later.

"What have you done now, House?", he wondered. He had seen this often enough. Weston and House were like cats and dogs. Unfortunately House always got the short end of the stick.

"Nothing. Like always.", House smirked. "We are all innocent, aren't we? The bad guys are actually the good guys and...", House stopped suddenly. The good glutamine was indeed the bad guy here. He did it. He had found an answer. Problem was Wilson was out of reach. A letter would need days and the next visit was two weeks away if Wilson showed ever up here again.

He looked at Stamford.

"Could you do me a favor, boss?", he asked him.

The old man raised an eyebrow. House jumped up. He got a sheet of paper and a pen. He looked for Wilson's last parcel and wrote down his address.

"New York?", he wondered. "What is he doing in New York?"

He added his diagnosis and faced Stamford again.

He was sure the guard would let him down.

"Call that guy and tell him this.", House said.

Stamford shook his head.

"You know I can't do that."

House nodded. "I know but this is important. He's a doctor looking for a diagnosis."

"And he asked you for a consult?", Stamford wondered.

"It's a long story. Please. I'll never ask you again."

The guard checked his watch. "Dinner is not over for 10 minutes. Tell me."

"Tell you what, boss?"

"Your story."

House sunk his head for a moment. He knew Stamford didn't mock him right now but this was ridiculous.

"I was the head of diagnostics he was the head of oncology. I solved the cases no one else could he fought his desperate fight to save people from cancer. Now he treats a 12 year old boy who will die and asked me for help."

He pointed at the note in his hand.

"This is the diagnosis."

Stamford looked surprised.

"And you figured it out in here?"

House nodded.

Stamford took the note and put it in his pocket.

"I take credit for this saved life.", he smirked. "This has never happened!", he told House.

"Thank you, Sir.", House said respectfully.

Stamford looked at him for a moment. "What a waste.", the old man thought.

"He's lucky to have such a friend, isn't he?", Stamford finally said.

House caught the hint.

"Yes, Sir. He is."

He lied down. It felt good. Not because he had just figured out another case or solved a puzzle. He had saved a life. A young boy would live because of him.

The following week he received a letter from Wilson. It was just one line.

"Good to know you are still there. Thank you, House."