Hi all, just to apologise for the long wait -

I've been on my hols for the past couple of

weeks hence me only just updating. Thanks

again to those who follow this fic, especially

all of you who have taken the time to review.

I love each and every one of your reviews, they

keep me motivated! Haha, thanks again :D xxx

'When the tears fall away, and there's no conversation.

There's nothing left to break, that's not already broken.

You're staring into space, and every inch of silence.

Been standing here for days, and days…'

{Take That: Said It All}

Cuddy didn't have a clue what time it was when she was woken suddenly by the shrill ring of her cell, registering in the anxious time it took for her to locate her phone on the living room floor that not only had she fallen asleep on the couch waiting for House to call the night before, but that she'd slept right through until early morning, if the overcast light that streamed weakly into her living room was anything to go by.

And if House was only just ringing now, well… well, quite frankly, she couldn't help but panic with the endless, progressively worse imaginings of what could have happened to Wilson, feeling utterly sick as she glanced at the screen, her stomach churning when she saw House's name flashing there.

She answered it.

And almost vomited with sheer relief at the tired 'Hey, it's me' that resonated down the line, Wilson's shattered, entirely unexpected voice a sound that she'd never been so glad to hear in her whole life, her relief spilling over into anxious anger before she'd had time to properly censor her thoughts as she practically yelled them into her phone:

'God, you idiot, I thought you were dead! Where the hell have you been, you stupid, stupid man!'

'I know, I'm sorry – I got back a few hours ago-'

'A few hours ago? A few hours ago?' She was practically shrieking now, wondering only for a brief moment if she'd woken Rachel or Lucas before she ploughed on in her panicked outburst, 'And one of you couldn't bloody well ring me?'

'I, er, I didn't really… I couldn't-'

'Listen, mister, I don't care what the hell happens, to any of us – just don't you ever, ever, do that again! Do you hear me, James Wilson?'

A surprised silence.

'Wilson?'

'Lisa, I'd have to be deaf not to hear you.'

And that's all it had taken to slowly unleash the almost hysterical giggles that had been steadily building, stricken giggles that proceeded to morph very quickly into uncontrollable, thoroughly relieved crying, Wilson's very Housian retort making so real the fact that he was actually home, safe and sound at long last.

She was vaguely aware of Wilson's flustered voice on the other end, clearly growing evermore bewildered at the crazy woman he'd managed to set off into a blubbering frenzy.

'God, Wilson, I'm sorry,' managed Cuddy eventually, wiping furiously at the tears that had escaped her, already moving to get ready to go over, 'Just… look, just let me get showered and dressed and I'll be over as soon as I can, okay?'

'You don't have to, you know,' said Wilson softly, guilt etched into every one of his words, 'I've put you through enough already, and you've got Rachel to think of-'

'She's fine, Lucas will look after her,' interrupted Cuddy, pausing where she was in the doorframe to just lean against it for a welcome moment and take a deep, steadying breath before she carried on, 'you need me more right now. You both do. Now just let me come over and look after you for a bit, just for the morning. It's the least I can do. Please, Wilson.'

He didn't answer for a moment, the emotion in his humiliated voice when he finally did speak bringing a lump to her throat.

'Alright. And Lisa… thanks. You know, for… well, everything really. And I really am sorry.'

'I know you are. And you don't need to thank me, I'm your friend. I'll always be there, you know that.'

Wilson obviously couldn't bring himself to respond to that, Cuddy hearing only what sounded like a shuddered sigh that seemed to border on a suppressed sob, before frowning confusedly with the sudden, somewhat muffled, protest that preempted a typically inappropriate House practically cheering down the line at her.

'Cuddles! Just the woman I wanted! You anywhere near a McDonalds?'

To say she was disconcerted by this abrupt change of tone would have been an understatement.

'Please tell me you haven't just snatched the phone off our clearly distraught friend to ask me to pick you up breakfast?' sighed Cuddy resignedly, unable to help the smile that pulled at her lips at this standard level of indifference from her Head of Diagnostics that never failed to simultaneously amuse her and piss her off big time, in equal measure.

'Does it still count as breakfast if you want a Big Mac with a side of chicken nuggets?'

'If you're a person who insists on eating crap, at any given time of the day, then sure, why not? Doesn't Wilson want fries with the chicken nuggets?'

'I don't know, he hasn't said what he wants yet.'

Of course that was all for him. Why would she be so stupid as to assume that two adult meals were, in actual fact, for two adults?

'He's just sat here looking all vulnerable after whatever sugar-coated crap you spoon fed him a minute ago… actually, he just looks kinda pissed off now. And now he's shaking his head. Like he's used to being talked about like some sort of zoo animal.'

'House-'

And here we can observe the lesser-spotted, but ever-lecturing, 'Wilson' storming off into the bathroom and slamming the door in his crippled friend's face-'

'House!'

'-his increasingly aggressive behavior surely hinting that maybe, just maybe, the hunger pangs of a crap-craving hangover have begun to kick in-'

'House, so help me, I will bend you over a the Nurses station in the clinic and shove your chicken nuggets where the sun don't shine if you carry on annoying Wilson when he's clearly not in the mood! Christ, 'inappropriate' doesn't even begin to cover the crap you subject Wilson to.'

'Fine, just get him the same as me then,' relented House sulkily, his tone brightening again as his brain obviously processed the possibilities that arose with Cuddy's bending him over a sturdy desk, 'So, spanking. In the clinic. What do you reckon? Yay or nay?'

'God, I don't know how the hell he puts up with you the way he does,' observed Cuddy distractedly, who by now was in her kitchen rooting out a notebook and pen to start making a list of groceries she knew her two friends would need, the phone wedged in between her chin and her shoulder as she listened to House's retort.

'He enjoys my company and, in exchange, keeps me fed. Much in the fashion of a pet cat.'

'Right… and what, pray tell, were you planning on letting Wilson feed you while he's there?'

'Erm.. well, now, that's the thing…' began House, the faint tinkling of absently pressed piano keys from down the line giving away his current whereabouts in 221B, 'We've got nothing in. And he does like his healthy crap as much as the next middle-aged woman does.'

'I'll go the store on my way,' relented Cuddy, smiling at the relief that emanated from him despite the gruffness of the begrudged 'thanks' he allowed her.

'Anything in particular you need?'

'Oreos,' replied House immediately, 'Wilson likes the white stuff in the middle.'

And with that one simple request, uncharacteristically prioritized above beer and anything else of House's own liking, Cuddy was able to starkly comprehend, with touching clarity, just how worried House actually was here about their friend.

Not that he'd ever admit that.

-[H]-

'Houfe, Wizon, izme. Lemme in, m'arms 'r gonna drob ov.'

House grinned at the muffled, disembodied voice that sounded suddenly from behind him, pushing himself up from the couch with only a twinge through his thigh now to limp to the front door and yank it open, doing the sensible thing for once and stepping back with the swinging door to avoid the harm that he fully expected to run into if he didn't get out of its way.

His preemptive actions were fully justified, as Lisa Cuddy came barreling into the apartment on a mission to reach the kitchen in the shortest time possible, her aching arms full of at least four bags of groceries, with a heavy looking McDonald's drive thru bag clamped perilously between her teeth.

And there, wedged atop the mobile grocery mountain like the caffeine-happy cherry that crowned this walking feast, was an entirely unexpected Starbucks bag containing what could only be two huge, heavenly coffees.

God, the woman just never ceased to amaze when it came to practicality.

House closed the door behind her before following in her Big Mac scented wake, coming to rest at the kitchen door for barely three seconds before he had a warm, filled to the brim McDonalds bag thrust into his chest, followed very swiftly by the Starbucks bag.

'Two large Big Macs, and a side of twenty chicken nuggets – that I fully expect you to share – with four sweet and sour sauces and four tomato. One double espresso for you, and one hazelnut latte for Wilson. Now, take your edible heart attack to the couch so I can put this lot away without you ogling my chest and distracting me with your usual whining.'

Whining?

'Er, Cuddles, I think you're getting me mixed up with-'

'I'm not getting you mixed up with Wilson, or anyone else,' interrupted Cuddy a little breathlessly as she bent down to put tins of soup in the cupboard, leaving House no option but to observe the entity that was her ass encased in a familiar, tight pencil skirt, 'Last time I checked it was you who went to the trouble of not only admiring, but personifying my breasts, and it's you who comes to my office at least twelve times a week to whine about your patient, your fellows, clinic duty or more often than not, Wilson. Hence me asking you very nicely to go shovel down your saturated fat in a bag, without gaining a single ounce might I add, and give me five minutes of peace so I can put your groceries away and save our hung-over friend a job. Where is he, by the way?'

House felt like an indignant small child who'd just been scolded by his mother for being a nuisance, glaring sulkily at Cuddy's shapely behind before turning on his heel to limp back to the couch, muttering loudly as he went:

'He's getting dressed in my room, he'll be out soon. And Wilson's actually the biggest perv going, he's just a lot more discreet given that he's an ass man and you haven't got eyes in the back of your head to catch him doing it.'

Cuddy couldn't help but smile at that one, knowing full well that House was speaking no word of a lie, given that most of the males on staff acted just as Wilson did – admiring from afar, yet remaining polite enough to draw the line there, rather than ramming crude, often obviously degrading, insults down her neck that were supposed to pass as some vague attempt at flirting.

And if she didn't have a firm, unspoken hold on House's balls, then she might be bothered by the Diagnostician's almost juvenile manner of seduction. As it was, he knew quite well that she was more than a match for him on most occasions.

Which was why he now found himself sat obediently on his couch, already chewing the second of Wilson's share of nuggets, whilst rooting through the two Big Macs to steal at least a third of Wilson's fries and shove them into his own container before the Oncologist could come in and realize.

Some things never changed, no matter how fucked up life got.

Five minutes later, and Cuddy was off again, whirling back towards the front door this time with cleaning supplies clutched in her marigold gloved hands, succeeding in distracting House from the TV as he turned around to find her down on all fours in the doorway spraying and scrubbing at the floor, her ass bobbing up and down in all its round glory right in front of him.

Oh, right… of course.

Wilson's vomit.

It probably wasn't ever going to do the impossible and somehow clean itself up, was it?

And House was actually eternally grateful that Cuddy had taken the time and effort to save him the displeasure of this quite frankly disgusting job, that would have only served either to royally piss off his leg, or to royally piss off the cleaner who would more likely than not present him with a bill for the clean up.

What actually came out of his mouth, upon the fond realization that he was glad Cuddy was here, was an abrupt:

'Are you ever going to stop with the mother-henning and just sit down for once?'

Cuddy didn't bother dignifying that with an answer, rolling her eyes to herself and quite aware that that fry-laced comment was about as close to 'thanks' as she was ever going to get, not pausing in her cleaning for a moment as she threw a dry towel over the damp patch of floor.

'He said he'd press charges.'

Unsurprisingly, that got her attention.

-[H]-

He felt like a patient. An out of control, helpless patient, whose future depended entirely upon his two friends sat in House's living room right now, a mere few feet from this bedroom door, quietly discussing him. Discussing it. Discussing the fateful night that had, in every sense, brought him to his knees.

And he hated it.

Wilson tried not to resent them. Sat on House's bed, having been dressed in his suitcase-crumpled white t-shirt and grey sweatpants for ages now, his damp hair drying without the aid of a hairdryer, without even a basic brush of the unruly brown locks… he tried bitterly hard not to resent them. He could muster the energy to do little more than massage his throbbing temples, his elbows digging into his knees as he leant heavily on them. Trying so, so hard not to begrudge the well-meaning intentions of the two people who had quite literally dragged him through the harsh reality of the past… day? Two days? He didn't know anymore.

08:19am.

Oh.

Thirty four hours and eight minutes.

Not that long then.

Strange. Thirty four hours and eight minutes – wait – no, nine minutes ago now, he'd just been attacked.

No, not simply 'attacked'. 'Raped', Wilson. With a capital 'R'. No point sugar-coating it, is there?

No. There isn't.

And it really hasn't been that long.

So why does it feel like a fucking lifetime ago?

Why can't he remember what he felt like back when he was… when he was clean? When he was normal?

Because right now, despite his promise to House to ring the Police, despite knowing that Cuddy's here, that she wants to see him after all he's put her through, that she's brought breakfast, despite knowing that House is probably tucking into his second Big Mac, a meal that Wilson couldn't stomach anyway, having already probably devoured the chicken nuggets he'd heard House request on the phone, Wilson wasn't sure he could bring himself to leave this room.

And for that defeating realization, he felt like he had this morning when his panic attack was finally over, when House could eventually get down to the business of actually having a bath in peace… when Wilson, utterly humiliated, could go no further than to just outside the bathroom door, eventually sliding down to sit uncomfortably on the wooden floor and wait for House's reappearance, wondering why the fuck he'd just agreed to voluntarily ring the cops and relive, frame by excruciating frame, the event that had utterly hollowed him out.

Inadequate. That was a word that pretty much summed up that lonely half hour of James Wilson's life. Laughably so, in fact.

He'd only shifted when he'd heard House heaving himself from the tub, scrambling shamefacedly from the floor to quickly make his way back to living room and snatch from the couch the discarded cell House had chucked at him earlier, where he'd hastily dialed Cuddy's number as promised.

It was the first task that had sprung to mind… anything to look normal. Casual. Independent.

When House had limped forth into the living room, the grime of hours of worry washed away down the drain, Wilson couldn't be sure if his friend knew of his pathetic inability to not need him, barely making eye contact with those probing baby blues as he'd focused on Cuddy's angered voice on the other end of the line. If he was aware, he sure as hell didn't let on. In fact, he'd gone out of his way to be as normal as possible, taking the piss out of Wilson at the least appropriate moments.

Except this time, he'd succeeded, totally pissing Wilson off in such a ridiculously short period of time, via equally ridiculous means, that it left neither man under any illusion as to how really not normal Wilson actually was here.

Leading him right up to this very moment, a shameful repeat of his secret bonding session with the hallway floor, the only difference being that here his ass had a more realistic chance of pressure relief on the old matrass of House's bed.

Because at least in here, like in the hallway, he was safe. Doubly so, since he'd locked the window. House and Cuddy were outside, within shouting distance. They wouldn't let anyone in.

Not even the team, if any of them decided to show up, as they'd done on numerous occasions in the past. Only Wilson was pretty sure they wouldn't come here today, not after the bollocking he'd heard House give Foreman earlier on, who'd rang literally minutes after he'd finished on the phone with Cuddy. Wilson didn't know exactly what excuse House had given for his absence, only able to make out the impatient snap of House's voice as he'd stood beneath the hot stream of the shower, reveling in the feeling of cleanliness that he knew full well would desert him as soon as he stepped from the flowing water, wondering idly what borderline racist insult House had lobbed at his long-suffering fellow this time.

Whatever excuse House had given for his no show, Wilson was well aware that the team would more than likely disregard it immediately, fretting and analyzing until they had some semblance of a more fitting answer. Usually, that seemingly weekly process included coming to him at every turn, seeking his validation of their many theories, playing on his weakness for House analysis, playing on his need to care. They were on their own this time.

How long would it take them to comprehend that they were investigating the wrong department head?

They'd connect the dots soon enough. They'd soon realize that House was not the only department head who was absent from his office. If they didn't click on to Cuddy's sporadic at best inhabitance of her office, then they would undoubtedly notice her lessened focus, her shift in attention that was usually trained wholeheartedly on the job at hand, on PPTH. And this was all after a little more than one day away from work for the three most senior members of the team. The questions would only grow more insistent from the ducklings, the theories more ludicrous. It was what they did best, after all.

Eventually, someone would realize that House wasn't the 'sick' one. Probably Thirteen. It was obvious to all at PPTH, perhaps less so to he and House at times, that one was simply an extension of the other. Hence, if one needed the support of the other, they'd be there. Not immediately, perhaps, but eventually. House sometimes in his own special, self-centred way. So they'd conclude that House's absence didn't necessarily mean that he was the one who needed the time off. And given that they'd spoken to House, and would continue to ring when they needed him, then they'd guess it was Wilson straight away.

So, after establishing that, another duckling would raise the possibility of him being off sick for something other than illness, since, really, there was no illness severe enough that didn't require hospital admission and allowed you to stay at home, cared for by your egotistical friend. Likewise, there was no illness really that that same egotistical friend would insist on keeping secret. They were all Doctors, after all. You have an embarrassing illness that means you're stuck at home, being cared for by your friend, and any of them would want you better, joking aside. So, eventually, someone would raise the possibility of Wilson having been attacked. That one would probably be Cameron. One glance in passing at Cuddy's face, and anyone with a normal capacity to care couldn't miss the pain and concern etched into every feature. Of course Cameron, lovechild of ethics and morality, would realize.

And after that, well… would anyone be brave, or stupid, enough to voice the possibility of something far worse than just being attacked? Would anyone think like their department head does, would they think to go back inside the box after searching so thoroughly in it the first time round? Would that dreadful possibility of a sexual assault, that would seem so obvious on any other patient they didn't know personally, that no one likes to think about, become not so much a dreadful possibility, but a horrifying reality?

Collectively, Wilson was under no doubt that Chase and Foreman probably would.

Taub, and probably Foreman to some extent, would stay focused on the task in hand and actually try to bring the differential back to the current patient at every opportunity. Staying stoically dedicated to their patient's wellbeing, until the others actually got somewhere in the 'Where's Wilson?' differential. He'd probably jump in at the very end, saying the one word the others couldn't bring themselves to say.

Rape.

Rape.

RAPE.

Oh God.

If they hadn't already worked it out then, then they would soon enough.

And Wilson wasn't sure he could handle it. Them knowing. His patients knowing. The whole hospital knowing. His family knowing.

Lying backwards now across the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, that ever-burning sting behind his eyes more insistent that ever, he wasn't sure he could handle any of it.