A/N: This chapter was originally much longer, but I've decided to split it in half, otherwise you'd be waiting forever while I fight with the next part. Thanks again for all of the reviews, alerts and for just reading!

It's a bit angsty and emotional but please hang in there!

A big thanks to Magie05 again. I don't know where I'd be without her. Probably somewhere in chapter 5...Any and all mistakes are mine because, naturally, I got it back from Magie and proceeded to change about half the chapter...again.

Chapter 10:

House began to stir, sights and sounds slowly emerging through his drug-addled brain. How long had he been out? He recalled Wilson giving him the extra morphine last...night? What time was it? Was it morning? His eyes had no interest in answering his question, remaining closed as he pulled himself out of the haze, a haze much thicker than what a simple dose of Morphine should have caused.

No. It felt more like waking from anesthesia; the heaviness of his limbs and the overall grogginess was evidence enough to jump to that conclusion. He had been there enough times before to recognize the post-anesthesia fog and disorientation he was experiencing.

They had taken him back into surgery. But for what? Maybe it was some kind of complication. The list of potential problems following a surgically repaired tibia ran through his head and none of them sounded good.

His left foot was burning. He knew that much. Not the typical burning he had felt initially following the surgery. This was different. The sensation reminded him of when he attended Michigan in the middle of winter. When his gym-shoes would get soaked through after trudging through the snow to get to class. His toes frozen almost to the point of numbness, creating the sensation as if they were on fire; the nerves misinterpreting the sensations of hot and cold.

Pins and needles ran up and down his lower leg like electricity through a circuit board. The more he concentrated on the uncomfortable feeling, he realized the right leg felt almost as annoying as his left, the electrical circuit running the entire gambit from his hip to his toes. It felt heavy, weighted down; like someone had left a refrigerator on it some time during the night, but he was sure he would have noticed if someone had actually done that. Maybe they'd given him another spinal block and it hadn't fully taken effect yet or it was just starting to wear off. But why wasn't the feeling bilateral?Wouldn't his entire left leg feel the same as the right? His mind kept trying to interpret the clues it was given.

He heard voices speaking softly, not to him, but to each other in some kind of deep discussion. He recognized Wilson's hushed voice talking to someone close by, the low murmuring punctuated by the constant beeps of the monitors in the background. Words were distant, garbled. He couldn't make out what was being said, not that he really cared at the moment. It was a struggle just to keep his concentration on staying conscious.

There was an overpowering smell of antiseptic in the room, burning his sinuses with each inhale. It was then that he felt the coolness of force-fed oxygen drying out his already desert-like nasal passages. Reaching a lazy hand to his face, he touched the thin tubing resting on his cheek. He couldn't recall when the supplementary oxygen was added. Maybe the drugs had suppressed his respiratory system and he had started to get a bit hypoxic. Not unusual considering the amount of morphine he'd had recently.

The deep baritone of Masterson filled his ears. What was he doing here? Shouldn't he be home in his comfortable bed with his high-maintenance wife? Unless he was called back to the hospital for an emergency...wake up, stupid. Masterson would have performed the surgery on his leg. His own brain was still foggier than he thought.

Think.

House recalled the escalating pain the night before and his own nagging concern over his recently repaired leg, afraid to say anything to Wilson or anyone else for that matter. Did he ever mention the additional pain to Wilson? He couldn't recall. Not that it mattered because Wilson had a built in pain monitor to detect other people's discomfort and would have picked up on the smallest little flinch or wince last night and went tattling to Masterson. But then Wilson wouldn't have called Masterson unless...

An uncomfortable feeling descended upon him; something more significant was going on, something important, yet he couldn't put a finger on it. A sense of déjà vu washed over him as his eyes snapped open from the sudden surge of adrenaline.

He turned his head to the right, coming face-to-crotch with his favorite orthopedic surgeon.

"You're awake," said Masterson, dressed in blue scrubs with a surgery cap tied around his head. The sweat lines around the cap and speckles of blood on his scrubs told House all he needed to know.

"Surgery...again," House croaked, stating a fact more than asking a question. That explained why his bed was fully reclined, giving him an unpleasant view of his doctor.

"Mm-hmm. You know, it would be so much easier if you'd just learn to open your mouth and be honest with me when something doesn't feel right or is bothering you. You ARE a doctor..." He let that last line trail off, "Luckily, Wilson here gave me a call or you'd probably be in the morgue by now. That's twice in three days he's saved your life."

House scoffed at the comment as he looked over at Wilson, who was a few feet away busy staring at the floor, avoiding any eye contact whatsoever. He looked like a teenager caught in the midst of a lie, guilt written across his face in capital letters.

"Yeah, yeah...so lucky to have my guardian angel watching over me." His words falling over each other like a row of dominoes. "Soooo?" he questioned, his right hand waving in circular motions and eyebrow raising in question as if to say 'out with it already'.

"Seems you developed compartment syndrome. Pretty bad case, too. The pressure in the muscle compartment had built up so high that it cut off the circulation to your foot. You had to have felt some numbness or tingling, but of course you refused to say anything as usual." He had felt a bit of numbness but wrote it off as the lingering effects from the spinal block.

"Skip the lecture. Fasciotomy?" He knew slicing his leg open would be a necessity to relieve the pressure in the muscle compartments and allow circulation to return. No wonder his leg felt so odd. It would be a long recovery which also meant an extended hospital stay and a few very nasty scars...like he didn't have his fair share already. Possible skin grafts if the skin didn't close properly after the swelling subsided.

Great. Just what he needed. One minute he's enjoying himself, watching Gravedigger kick ass, the next minute he's flat on his back, dealing with more crap thrown his direction. Well, at least he'd make a full recovery...eventually.

As he imagined what he was in for recovery wise, he noticed Masterson's reluctancy to answer the question.

"Well?" he urged.

Masterson hesitated before meeting House's questioning gaze. "I'm sorry, Greg. There was nothing we could do."

House's heart skipped a beat. Wait. What did he mean there was nothing he could do? What was he saying? There was plenty he could do. His body tensed and his mouth couldn't form the words to ask the question. He stared at Masterson in shock, waiting for further explanation.

Masterson continued, having a difficult time making eye contact. "By the time I opened you up, there was already too much necrosis...too much damage. It was our only option." Another pause. "Wilson approved the procedure. Signed the consent forms."

"Whoa...wait...w...what procedure?" He knew his foot was still there. The pain alone told him that. He glanced over at Wilson suspiciously, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

"I had to do it, Greg," Wilson quietly added from his corner of the room, keeping his gaze fixed to the floor.

Do what? And why is he calling me Greg?

Wilson's interest in the floor never strayed. He remained a veritable statue with arms crossed in front of him, his lips pursed so tightly their color had vanished.

Masterson answered for the unresponsive Wilson. "We had to take the leg...just below the knee, Greg." With those words, House's entire world collapsed around him. Suddenly, it was difficult to speak. To think. To breathe.

"No...no..." House stumbled over the words. This wasn't real. This couldn't be happening. "I...no. I can feel it. My foot...it's there...it's itching and burning."

"It's gone, Greg," Wilson added, showing no emotion as he kept talking to the floor, the wall, the IV stand...anywhere else but to House. "What you're feeling is phantom pain."

"No... no, it's not!" House fumbled for the bed controls and pressed the button to raise the bed. He had to see for himself. End this little prank. "And stop calling me Greg!"

It was a joke. It had to be. A very nasty, cruel joke that he'd never let Wilson live down. House realized he'd pulled some pretty harsh pranks on him in the past, but this wasn't amusing at all. Not in the slightest. Revenge tactics were already being planned in the back of his mind.

"Greg, you should try to relax," Wilson said in a patronizing tone, finally raising his head to meet House's frightened eyes. "Everything's going to be just fine."

"No, it's not! It's MY damn leg!" The head of the bed crept its way upward, the hum of the bed's electric motor the only sound in the tension-filled room.

The two men started towards House's bed, arms outstretched to offer their support.

"Stay the hell away from me," House warned, the anxiety evident in his shaking voice. Both men froze in their tracks. "Wilson, I swear, if this is some kind of cruel joke..." He let the words trail off, leaving Wilson's imagination to fill in the blanks.

His upper body slowly rose until the foot of the bed crept into view over the horizon of the pale green blanket spread over him. He looked for the tenting of the blanket where his foot should be, anything interrupting the smoothness in front of him, but there was nothing. Nothing but flat mattress under the green covers that seemed to stretch for miles. His eyes followed the even surface until the blanket rose up slightly just below where his knee rested under the cover.

Oh, God. It was gone. Images of his bleak future flashed in front of his eyes: he saw himself in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, never walking again, simple tasks becoming monumental efforts. The curious stares, the unwanted pity... the grim fact that he would never be whole again.

His gaze drifted to the other side of the bed when, to his horror, he noticed how the entire end of the bed looked untouched, freshly made. Not only was his left foot missing, there was no sign of his right leg. Nothing, except for an occasional ripple in the covers until he reached the top half of his thigh where the blanket rose in a gentle incline up to his hip.

He ripped back the covers, still hoping this was all a hoax, expecting to see maybe one of those trick beds where his feet were actually under the mattress, creating the sick illusion in front of him. But what he saw sickened him, the blunted remains of his legs, both heavily wrapped with compression bandages sticking out from under his gown.

Every emotion descended on him at once. Shock, grief, fear, sadness...anger. "What the hell have you done?" he cried, burying his face in shaking hands. "How could you do this to me?"

Wilson looked up at him, remaining surprisingly calm. "What? I thought you'd be happy? Now the pain will be gone. That's what you've always wanted, right?"

Masterson's voice chimed in, "I figured since we were in there, we might as well take care of both problems. You know, kill two birds with one stone," Masterson added nonchalantly. "You've always called yourself a cripple anyway. Now it's legit." An evil grin played across his lips.

Wilson looked back down at his own feet when House finally realized, to his shock and dismay, what Wilson had been staring at.

"You know what the best part is?" Wilson asked, not waiting for an answer, "I get to have all of your cool shoes now," he grinned like a child as he wiggled his toes in the pair of black and silver Nikes on his feet, "since you won't be needing them anymore."

"NO! They're mine!" He tried to push himself on to his elbows, tried to find some kind of leverage to sit upright but it was hopeless. "How could you?"

A strong arm clamped onto his shoulder, pinning him against the mattress. "Just calm down. Everything's going to be just fine." Masterson's voice boomed in his ears.

"Get the fuck away from me!" House fought back with everything he had, arms flailing as he tried to fend off the insane butcher looming over him.

"Dr. House!" Masterson's voice seemed to raise three octaves, suddenly sounding decidedly female. "We need you to calm down!"

House's eyes snapped open in confusion, staring face to face with a blonde haired nurse. Her thin pink scrub-clad arm was gripping his left shoulder firmly but gently. No sign of Wilson or Masterson anywhere in sight. He quickly pushed himself up on to his elbows to take in the sight of both legs, still relatively intact. The most important factor being that they were both still attached to the rest of his body; his immobilized left leg resting on two pillows. His right foot created a miniature peak of blanket at the end of the bed, looking like Mount Everest to his relieved eyes.

He collapsed back with a heavy sigh, panting at the ceiling, his face red from exertion. If someone had walked in at that moment, they might have assumed he'd just had an orgasm of mass proportions.

"You were having a nightmare," the nurse cooed softly once she realized House was awake and aware. He wondered how much she had heard, what he might've said and didn't know if he should feel totally humiliated by his emotional display in front of her or immensely relieved to still be fully intact.

Along with the awareness came the return of the pain. The same pain that probably prompted the eerily lifelike dream he'd just experienced. It was the brain's way of responding to the body's request for attention, even in the middle of REM sleep. Like dreaming about being shot in the arm and waking up finding your arm asleep, tucked under your pillow.

He wiped his sweat-soaked forehead with a trembling hand as his breathing evened out. That dream hadn't haunted him in years, but the recent trauma had dredged up old familiar feelings of helplessness and the nearly irrational fear of losing his leg that he'd felt since the 'A' word was first suggested by Cuddy so many years ago.

"How's the pain?" His focus snapped back to the nurse fumbling with his left hand when he felt something clip onto his pointer finger...ahh, pulse ox. Must have knocked it loose during his ridiculous psych patient freak show act. Hopefully he hadn't done anything too overly embarrassing in front of Nurse Pinkscrubs that could be used against him. He watched her busily check the monitors and his catheter (which was an embarrassment in and of itself).

With the nurse distracted, he reached up quickly to wipe his cheeks with the back of a hand, removing any remaining evidence of his recent outburst. Last thing he needed was a damaged reputation because of a few rogue tears.

As his hand ran over his cheeks, his fingers tangled slightly with plastic tubing snaking under his nose. So, he WAS put on oxygen some time during the night. That part was real but for the life of him couldn't recall when it happened. It was still odd how dreams had a way of crossing the plane of the subconscious over to reality, merging the two together into one scary ass nightmare.

Casting a quick glance at the monitor, he noticed his SATs were at 97 WITH the oxygen.

Why did all the best drugs have to come with such lousy side effects? The pain was eased, but then you got the suppressed respiratory system, lack of appetite, constipation, nausea...addiction.

Returning to the nurse's question, he answered sharply, "The pain is doing just fine. I, on the other hand, feel like crap." She stared at him as if he'd grown another head. "Do I have to spell it out for you? Yes, I would like more pain medication," he answered, enunciating each word as if speaking to an automated phone system.

She administered the extra dose of morphine with a sneer before marching out of the room muttering something about how they were right and the word 'ass' was heard as she kept mumbling to herself as the door slid shut.

Peace and quiet again. Just how he preferred it. But the images from the nightmare were still fresh in his subconscious, burned like a brand on his mind, not letting go as it and the drugs battled for the rights to his body. He felt the warmth in his muscles as the morphine filled his veins, but it wasn't enough to block the images of severed legs, evil orthopedic surgeons or traitorous best friends.

The clock on the wall read 2:15. Hmmm. There was no way he'd be falling back to sleep any time soon; not with the amount of adrenaline still racing through his system. Maybe he could flip on the TV and watch boring infomercials or CNN and hear about every depressing event happening in the world today.

Or maybe he'd opt for the Weather Channel. It wasn't New Yankee Workshop, but it was still full of mindless entertainment, especially during hurricane season. It was early in the tropical season, but maybe he'd get lucky and find some storm brewing in the south Atlantic. Pressing the remote, he scanned through the other mindless drivel until he caught the familiar blue emblem in the corner of the screen.

Bingo.

The reporter was standing outside, horizontal raindrops plastering his blue jacket and hood against his body as he described the chaos around him as if it wasn't obvious enough as he struggled to stay on his feet when a blast of 100mph wind nearly swept him off his feet. Nothing like watching an idiot getting battered and blown across a parking lot in the middle of a hurricane.

Aren't you supposed to evacuate when a storm is about to destroy everything in its path? he thought as the camera scanned palm trees in the background, bowing to the ground from the force of the winds. It was amazing how flexible those trees were, bending almost in half but refusing to break. If only the human body was as resilient...

The camera focused back on the reporter who was shielding his face with his own arm as the wind driven rain pelted him unremittingly. House idly wondered what would possess someone to purposely put themselves in harm's way like that or if they even had a choice in the matter. Maybe it was one of those contract things. I will put myself in mortal danger for the good of Nielsen. Anything for ratings. Who didn't love a good 'moron in a storm' story?

He sunk back into the pillows and finally dozed off to the sound of Jim Cantore yelling something inaudible at the camera amongst the din of howling winds and driving rain.

A/N: Sorry if the beginning segment was a big freaky. It's something that popped into my head and I went with it. I also thought would be something that would plague House since he seems to have some kind of irrational fear about amputation. The opening scene from Top Secret also sent me this direction.