A/N: Aww! You guys are the best! I've gotten such great comments and I really appreciate them. I hope the rest of the story lives up to everyone's expectations. Enjoy! –Sagga

Warning(s): Violence. Language. Sexual Assault.

Chapter 9

Theriault held the small gun that was in his desk as he watched the inmate settle in the chair on the other side of the desk. Yarrow had been searched before being allowed to enter and there were two of his most trusted officers just on the other side of the door. All that, he knew, would not be enough to thwart a desperate inmate. He'd been attacked once before and had been pretty severely injured. He was not going to allow a repeat of that incident. The small calibre firearm had been purchase a week after that incident and once he snuck it into the facility it remained in his desk, loaded and ready to fire.

Yarrow, a fairly high up crime boss, wasn't a desperate man. His prison term was almost over and during the time he had spent inside, he'd been well taken care of. All his actions now spoke of planning for his eventual release. Tax evasion could only keep him inside for so long. Theriault was still trying to understand how the Chase kid fit into any of this.

"I want Robert Chase moved to my cell," Yarrow demanded.

Theriault leaned back in his chair, his confusion well sheltered by the sly look on his face. What was it with this kid that these two powerful crooks both wanted him? Could he possibly be that good in bed?

"Why?"

Yarrow shook his head as he smiled. "You don't really care about that." His voice was telling Therialt that he better not look hard into the request. Yarrow's next statement would serve as distraction enough to keep his plans safe at least until he was out of here. "What you do care about is the ten grand I'm offering for the transfer."

"Monty won't be happy.
Yarrow gave a derisive laugh. "What do you care? There were no guarantees about how long you'd let him have Chase. Besides I hear one-left is nice this time of year."

1-left was the wing of the prison used to house inmates that were causing trouble or just needed to be separated from the rest of the population. If Montrose made any trouble he'd be in there before he knew what hit him.

"You get me the money and you get your boy," Theriault conceded.

Yarrow stood with a smile and straightened his grey apparel. "I'll have it transferred tomorrow."

"He'll be in your cell before lockdown tomorrow then."

"That's perfect." Yarrow exited and began his walk back to 4-wing where he was housed. The guards that had brought him automatically fell into step behind the inmate. They knew of his connections and though not everyone agreed with the policy, bribes got him a lot of leeway in the prison. He strutted around as though he owned the old buildings and was just on a short vacation from his work. His work hadn't stopped upon his incarceration. Even from prison he commanded his forces, sending covert messages in his phone conversations and when his people came for visitation. For him this was just a change in location, a place to gather new contacts and connections. With Robert Chase within its walls, Trenton was now a place for Yarrow to bring down his greatest enemy and liability and put his most ambitious business plans into motion. And it was all thanks to the exploitable liability that was Montrose's son. Before he could strike, 'Junior' had ended his life unwittingly leaving Dr. Chase as the next best thing. Being easy on the eyes and ears was just a bonus.

H

Nothing, nothing and more nothing, that was all he'd found. Seemingly endless hours of footage and nothing useful, except maybe that bit of tape with the married doctor from nephrology and a nurse. That might be useful at some later date, hence why that tape was being copied and kept. Other than that nothing of any use had been discovered. The tapes from May had indeed already been reused for more recent footage –cheap bastards. Honestly what good were security cameras if they didn't provide a decent alibi?

House flicked off a screen with far more force than necessary and glared at the ones that were still on. Small windows took him to various parts of the hospital. Mostly just areas heavily frequented by hospital visitors such as the lobby, clinic and a few corridors. There was one particularly useful camera. It wasn't monitoring a heavily travelled area but House imagined that the guys that usually worked in here (the ones he'd lured out with a false emergency in Peds) appreciated that particular camera more than the others.

With quick movements he stopped the set of VCRs that was copying the incriminating footage and removed them. One he filed back in the stack that it had come from. The other he held in his hand trying to figure out where he could hide it. When he got out of here he was going to complain to Cuddy. VHS was so last century and a DVD is much easier to conceal.

The door to the small security office clicked as the knob was turned from the other side. House had forgotten how dim the light was in this room until the door began to open and outside light flooded in.

"Hello, Jimmy. What brings you down here? No pretty ladies in this department and Warren and Earl don't seem your type." Warren and Earl were the two security guards he'd too easily tricked into leaving their post.

"There are no drugs hidden in here either so I guess both of us are out of place," Wilson responded without missing a beat. He didn't even bother asking how House knew it was him before he'd even opened the door all the way. "What are you doing in here that's so devastatingly important you called a Code Yellow in the Paediatric wing?"

"I'm surprised at you! I figured you'd be leading the search party. Nurses love heroes."

"I'll keep that in mind. The only problem with this particular scenario is that the hero would end up looking like an idiot when they finally figured out that there is no missing patient." Wilson crossed his arms looking unimpressed. "Honestly. Barbara Ali Adams."

"What?"

"Names of Steve McQueen's wives –that just has you written all over it."

House turned to give his friend a sidelong stare. "So, you going to 'rat' on me?"

"Eventually, yes. The staff is going nuts looking for this imaginary patient."

"I have a good reason."

"You could have just asked."

House blinked, not following. He hated when Wilson did that. "What?"

"I know it goes against everything you stand for," Wilson began with an obviously false air of understanding and commiseration, "but if you had been polite and just asked, they would have let you see the footage."

"Where's the fun in that?"

Wilson shook his head and reached to flick off a screen that, though on, wasn't displaying any picture. "And whatever it is you're stealing from here I don't want to know about it."

"You probably know him anyway. Don't you guys have a support group or something?" House got up and walked past Wilson who couldn't pick out the obscure reference to his extramarital affairs without knowing what was on the tape. House smiled at Wilson's confusion. That was more like it.

Dismissing the previous comment as House just being House, Wilson asked knowingly: "Didn't find anything, huh?" The older man glared back at him, then after a few more steps stopped walking. Wilson stopped next to him. "You see, there's that "asking" thing again."

"You've already searched the tapes."

Wilson nodded. "So has Cuddy. I think Cameron might have come down here too. If you had asked somebody you would have known that."

House stared at him for a few-second long stretch then abruptly walked away. Wilson paused before following, which required him to jog to catch up. House moved a lot faster these days.

"What do you expect to find? The smoking gun that will prove his innocence and set Chase free? Pardon my saying but that sounds a little idealistic –actually a lot idealistic for you."

"You're sounding a little pessimistic," the tallest of the pair countered. "That prison cheer rub-off on you?"

"House, this isn't one of your cases. You can't just keep digging looking for whatever lie it is tat holds the key to this. Leave it to the police. It's what they're paid for."

"Yeah, and they've done a bang up job so far." He jabbed the up button to call the elevator. When the lift didn't immediately arrive he hit the button several more times. "What the hell is Washington doing anyway? He's the one who should be getting Chase out of prison."

"If you bothered to check your messages you would have known that he's busy with filing motion and dealing with jury selection." After having so much difficulty with trying to get in touch with the diagnostician the defence lawyer had started calling Wilson who was always more amiable.

"At least that doesn't go back to that go back to that "asking" thing again." House turned to say then ducked into the elevator that had just arrived. Wilson followed.

"And Chase isn't his only client."

"Well I'm not going to go searching for alibis for them too."

"Yes, not everybody is lucky enough to have a boss as nosy as you."

House didn't like the tone. There was a subtle accent of hurt or offence in it. It wasn't overt enough to demand a response but it was blatant enough to dare one. That sourness was an accusing finger that was pointed at him so when Wilson exited the elevator House took the dare and followed him to the oncologist's office rather than going to his own. Walking away from whatever this was would put the blame of avoidance on him, or so social rules proclaimed.

"Are we going to have to do one of those talking things? They're getting really old." When Wilson didn't say anything House, frustrated, tried again. "What is it? I'm being nice, concerned. Isn't that what you wanted? I'm myself, you're pissed off. I change you're still pissed off."

Wilson didn't look up from the file he'd abruptly opened when he'd entered and told him "You haven't changed."

"My leg isn't my personality. Just because it doesn't hurt anymore, doesn't mean I'm suddenly going to find my inner Cameron. Grow up."

Wilson followed House's exit with his ears. When the door was closed and he was sure of his solitude he closed the file and sat back in his chair. He wasn't looking for anybody's inner Cameron. What was bothering him was that House had changed, become a little less wretched than he had been when his leg was paining him. What bothered him was that it was all directed at Chase. The man was falsely imprisoned and deserved the concern, Wilson didn't argue that. The conflict that he did wrestle with was the one posed by the prickly demeanour he still faced when he looked at his friend. Those resurfacing bits of old-Greg weren't for him. Now that he was free of any relationship, free from distractions and a little more honest with himself Wilson admitted that he wanted House's attention even as he outwardly walked away from it. Unfortunately he also wanted Chase, though that attraction was more physical and didn't carry with it the depth of his relation with House.

He wondered if House realized any of this or if, after years of nothing but cold and sarcastic brush-offs, he'd given up; only continuing the comments and jokes because it was familiar, accepted and expected. More and more, Wilson saw those jokes, those looks, and that spark of interest directed at the young blonde doctor that had arrived and shaken what had been stable, familiar and safe.

Wilson glanced out the window not really caring for the view as he considered how obtuse it was to worry over the loss of something he didn't even have.

H

The rumour mill in the prison was surprisingly quick. Given how tight lipped inmates were about their own business they were exceedingly quick to talk about everyone else's. The hot topic today was the move scheduled for inmate Chase to inmate Yarrow's cell. Chase, being relatively new to the prison –even after almost a month and a half in its walls as he served "dead-time" while his trial was set up –was still a general topic of discussion. Fun to tease (especially when he talked back) and fun to look at, the kid had earned a name for himself due to all the fights he got in to and some that he even managed to win. There was still speculation that even though Chase was in Montrose's cell he wasn't actually "riding with" Monty. The favours and help that Montrose had given didn't seem to have been paid for by any sex acts. Nobody, it seemed had gotten a piece of that kid though many groups and individuals were subtly vying for the opportunity.

It was now expected that Yarrow would get Chase first. He wasn't known to have had very many partners in Trenton, unlike some who had a new one every week. Yarrow was very selective but when he found something he wanted he got it. The only person with the gall or the power to challenge him was Montrose.

Chase was in the yard and sat leaning against the outer wall of one of the prison's divisions that enclosed the open area for the inmates. He'd chosen this place because it seemed pretty neutral and Montrose and his group was nearby.

The yard was split into different areas, a basketball court, some bleachers, a paved area, a grassy area, and the space near the payphones. Different groups in the prison got different areas of the small yard. The basketball courts were for the black inmates who played non-stop once they were out. The bleachers were for the gang of white racists with their shaved heads and eerie tattoos. The paved stretch along the outside wall of the cell block was for those playing hand ball, mostly smaller gangs that had somehow banned together despite being mixes of different races. Montrose and his group were at the fence in the farthest corner of the yard from the entrance. According to what he'd heard that was a highly sought site and he and Yarrow had both fought for it a while ago with Montrose emerging victorious. At the other corner of the fence Yarrow stood around with his group. He cast numerous glances in Chase's direction the way he always did.

Chase usually spent his yard time alone, still unable to find his own place in any of the groups that wouldn't require selling himself. His best choice right now was to stay near Montrose, who was walking over to him with an expression on his face that made Chase nervous.

"Did anybody say anything to you?" Montrose asked. He stared down at Chase. With the sun at his back Chase had to squint to see him.

"No. Why?"

Montrose looked over his shoulder to where Yarrow was watching them through the crowd of his followers. "Because you're being moved to his cell."

Chase didn't react. Yarrow had never done anything to him. In fact his only interactions he'd ever had with Montrose's enemy was when he'd cut his hair and when the inmate had saved him from being raped in the shower room.

"Moved, huh? Why?" Chase asked.

"I don't know." Montrose crouched in front of Chase, the hard mask he usually wore slipping away to the open expression reserved only for brief moments with the young man he regarded as part of his family, the last connection to his deceased son. It was a connection he needed badly. "Yarrow hates me. He'll use you to get to me."

"Just a pawn," Chase mumbled too quietly for Montrose to hear.

Montrose had more to tell him. About Yarrow violently dominating the men he forced himself on, about how he shared them out to his friends in return for favours. About the broken men that left later if they were lucky or the ones found dead in the corner of a shower if they weren't.

"Has your lawyer been able to find anything to get you out of here?" Montrose wasn't expecting a positive answer so it was no surprise to him when Chase shook his head. Montrose suspected that Yarrow had something to do with Chase's incarceration. Days before Theriault had sent the picture circulating through the prison for his little auction Yarrow had begun taunting him with his son and his suicide. At that time Montrose had only responded in anger. It was only once he heard the name of the new inmate that was arriving that Montrose paid more attention to Yarrow's words. It was then that he heard the threat both to him and the young man he planned to use.

"What the hell is all this about?" Chase turned to glare at Montrose not caring about the man or his power or his problems. He was too tired to be careful and too angry to just let this go.

Montrose blew out a breath, his eyes shifting to a far part of the yard. He decided to tell Chase a little more, to prepare him a little for what might be coming. "I have some things he wants."

Chase raised his eyebrows, prompting the older man to go on.

"I'm getting out of it. I want some peace."

Montrose was ready to give up his part in the world of organized crime. It had cost him a lot. His freedom obviously, most devastatingly the relationship he'd had with his son. Chase could recall with disturbing clarity the expression on Zinedine's face when they had discussed his father. The combination of anger, shame and disappointment on his face was enough for Chase to drop the subject. From Montrose Chase found out that Zid had discovered his father's career as a money handler for an organized crime consortium when he was thirteen and nothing had been the same since then.

"He wants my connections. He thinks I'll give them up to protect you."

"Will you?"

"If I have to." There was no hesitation in his response. He knew well that giving Yarrow what he wanted would mean a lot of harm coming to a lot of people in both the near and distant future. He'd been part of this particular American culture long enough to know that for certain. He also knew that if it wasn't Yarrow, it would be somebody else and people would still get hurt. He'd grown a heart as he aged and it had broken when he'd lost his son. The only thing holding it together, the only connection he had left was through Chase and he would not sacrifice him for faceless individuals he couldn't care about in more than an abstract sense.

"I'll go to Theriault see what I can do to get this settled." He was also waiting on his people on the outside to get this figured out and find a way to get his current cellmate out of harms way. All they'd been able to give him so far was that they needed more time. Chase was swiftly running out of time.

"But you're not hopeful." Chase looked to the rest of the yard as he heard his cellmate sigh. "So I'm pretty much up a bloody creek without a paddle."

Montrose didn't have anything that would reassure him and Chase wasn't interested in empty words. He went back to his group. As he walked to them he glared at Yarrow who had watched from a distance the entire exchange.

H

Chase's head turned to follow the corrections officer as he walked out of the small office. The door was metal and when it closed the click was accompanied by a heavy bang. The weight of the barrier was more than enough to secure it closed and lock the recent addition to the Trenton inmate population in the office of one of his most feared enemies.

"You want something to drink?" Theriault held out a can of soda to him. The bright swirls of the drink's logo inked across the aluminum surface was like a portal beckoning him to a different world and when he turned it down the absence of the bright pattern taunted him. The grey cold grey bleakness of the prison was once again uninterrupted. He closed his eyes with a silent and defeated sigh, thinking about how much he missed Wilson's tie.

Theriault laced his fingers and rested against the crowded surface of his small desk. The dark grey uniform covering his arms matched too well the dark colour of the old and cheap metal desk. "I'm sure you've heard."

With his head tilted forward Chase stared dully up at the other man giving him an expression of boredom and annoyance without putting any effort into it.

"Yarrow –he's pretty determined to have you. Unless you give me a reason not to authorize the transfer, he's going to get you."

Chase blinked.

Seeing that was all the response forthcoming Theriault sneered. "You may think you're tough but I've seen bigger stronger men than you break. So why don't you help yourself out and just tell me what it is that Yarrow wants with you –and Montrose too. He's not usually one to get so involved with inmates that can't do something for him. And even then it's a give and take sort of thing." Again, Chase chose silence as his answer. Theriault shrugged. "I guess it could just be your face. I'm sure you're quite popular with the ladies outside the prison." The CO sat back in his chair still eying the silent and stony face of his interest. "Popular with the men too, right?"

That comment produced something. A slight narrowing of the eyes was all, yet Theriault was a fairly observant man when he was looking in the right direction so the ephemeral spark of emotion was not missed.

"You have a boyfriend out there? Somebody waiting for you? Maybe searching tirelessly, exhausting all resources in a misguided bid to set you free." Theriault smiled at him. The flash of stained teeth, the pull on the shadowed jaw, and the glint of sadistic mirth said this was a story to which he already knew the ending.

Chase was saved from the disconcerting illustration on Theriault's face when the prison employee swivelled his chair around. He only turned about ninety degrees. Here he was able to keep watch of the inmate from the corner of his vision while he gazed out the small barred window. It was dark outside. Clouds had rolled in over the last few hours darkening the sky and promised rain. Most people weren't looking forward to it but Chase would have given a great deal to be out among those drops as they fell from heaven to earth.

"Bottom line, kid, is that you're stuck here. If you don't learn to work the situation in your favour, should you get outta here, whoever is waiting for you won't want the scraps of you that are left. You're going to be torn apart and nothing will put you back together." He'd heard stories and been witness to many more where inmates who were released couldn't go back to the living with the rest of the free population. They'd commit crimes because they had nothing and return to a place that had reluctantly become their element. Even convicts that made escape attempts often didn't get far. Disorganized and overwhelmed the majority were caught not terribly far from the prison from which they'd run. Most apprehensions were lacklustre and with little violence. Inmates didn't do well on the outside without the special courses given to them near the end of their sentences. Even then the rate for repeat offence was high.

Theriault expected that if Robert Chase did leave Trenton he'd be more broken than most. No part of him truly cared. Many years at this job had exhausted his small supply of sympathy.

"Help yourself out, Robert," Theriault reiterated. "I can help you if you help me."

"No, thanks. I like my soul where it is. I'm not selling it today."

Theriault smirked. He called the guards to take him back to his cell, calling after him that he'd finalize the move tomorrow.

H

They weren't entitled to his feelings, so he didn't share them. He made his jokes. He stubbornly bore the brunt of Cameron's, Foreman's, and to an extent, Wilson's frustration. He watched as moments of worry and contemplation interrupted their days. Never did he succumb to the notion that his feelings were less valid, or less honest just because no one knew them. Cameron's outright and at times almost suffocating distress didn't make her more sincere than him. It just made her more obvious. Looking like he didn't care and actually not caring were too different things and he wished they would shut up about it.

His frustration was taken out on the keys of his piano. Not with loud violent scores of music as one might expect. It was actually the music of Brahms Pieces for Piano, Op. 118 that drew his fancy that night. The music had its ups and down in both volume and complexity, and the long patterns of notes and chords filled his mind with music leaving little room for the annoyances which plagued him. He let the music take over, letting go of the shields he held so strongly during the day.

All he had was the melody and the harmony –controlled by his hand, brought to life by his touch, dying in a whisper at his whim. It was a romantic piece written by and now played by a difficult individual. They say Johannes wrote it in 1893 for Clara Schumann. Today, House played it for himself and for the composer who, like him, had been disagreeable with those around him. Perhaps Carla had seen more than that. It didn't really matter. What mattered was the majesty of sound filling his home and his being, and the person for whom he played that could not hear it.

H

Two days later Chase was settling uneasily into his new accommodation in Yarrow's cell just across and up from his old one, his safe one. Chase stared down to the small haven and waved weakly at Montrose who stared back up. From behind him Chase felt a warm presence approach. Yarrow followed Chase's gaze and smirked. He could almost imagine Montrose's angry face, the narrowing eyes.

"What are you lookin' at?"

Chase looked elsewhere. "Nothing."

Yarrow's arms slipped around Chase to rest on the bars, enclosing him in an even smaller cage. He pressed himself a little closer to Chase who in turn pressed a little closer to the bars. There was no escape. With the bars locked shut it was just him and Yarrow. The warmth receded and Chase breathed a haggard sigh of relief. It seemed he was safe for now, though he wasn't sure how long that would last. Yarrow seemed to ooze an oppressive sexual tension. It was a completely different aura than the one he'd exuded when he'd saved the doctor from those brutes that had been pulling the clothes off him in the shower facility. Somewhere under that helpful exterior had lain this calculating beast. Chase sighed mumbling to himself: "I like technicolor," because here true colours were always so ugly.

To be honest he hadn't been expecting Yarrow to be like this in close quarters. Montrose had warned him, sparing no words in describing the horror of what had happened to Yarrow's previous cellmates. Now trapped, with the warnings turning out to be accurate, Chase expected to meet the same fate.

He'd dodged what seemed was the inevitable for well over a month with the help of Montrose and his people. Now his time was up. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the bars.

"You just going to stand there?"

Chase turned around and found to his surprise that Yarrow was on his own bunk, the upper one, reading a book. Not willing to engage him in a conversation should he change his mind, Chase sat tensely on his bunk. Eventually the lights in the block were turned off leaving the cells in relative darkness. Yarrow tossed his book away. Chase listened as the man above him shifted to find a comfortable position on the thin mattress of the old bed. The silence in the cell only made it easier to hear the taunts coming from the other cells. The catcalls, crudest he'd ever heard, floated around the old and dreary building seeming to carry with them the echoes of all the other criminals turned victims of the prison.

Chase covered his ears with his hands trying to block out the sound of the water dripping from the faucet to the metal basin bolted to the back wall. Each drop ticked off another number in the countdown in Chase's head. It was a countdown that he couldn't say for sure when would reach zero. He could only torture himself with the uncertainty of what was in store for him next.

H

House saw her coming from down the hall. Wishing that he could become invisible he ducked into his office knowing full well that she'd barge in and start asking questions to which he didn't have any good answers. Her big brown eyes would stare up at him in hope, while her hands wrung with uncertainty. If he gave her good news her body would tense as she fought the urge to hug him. Bad news and she'd drain, shoulders drooping, eyes sad, bottom lip with just a little bit of a pout. That he knew this, and he knew for certain this would happen –Cameron was just that predictable –seemed a clear counter to his proclamations of having no interest in her. It wasn't. He was just observant like that.

He watched her walk in. He must have watched a little too closely because his scrutiny had her pausing in confusion. House turned to his desk and picked up the first thing he could find: a pen -useless. He dropped it and dug around for his yo-yo.

"Did you see him? Is he okay?" she asked. He didn't even need to look at her to confirm his prediction. He could hear the hope in her voice. For the past week none of them had been able to see Chase. When they got to the prison they were informed he was unable to see anybody but not given any details. This last time had been House's turn and when he got there he was informed that inmate Chase was no longer taking visitations.

"Nope." He didn't soften the blow. If anything his nonchalance only made it worse. "He's still not seeing any visitors. I guess he's busy." His tone seemed to indicate that he thought Chase was busy 'entertaining' the other inmates. He hadn't meant for it to come out like that. Before he could rephrase, intone differently, the yo-yo was knocked out of his hand, sent to crash into the glass door to the balcony.

"This isn't a joke, House!"

House blinked wide eyes at her. He couldn't recall a time when she'd confronted him like this. Usually her bursts of anger were fleeting. Sure she could hold a grudge with the best of them and when it came to telling him he was a horrible human being she was top notch. But anger, sustained anger with a direct confrontation combo, that was new and he had no doubt that two years ago, before they'd ever met, she never would have done this. Good.

"That wasn't a joke. Believe me you'll know when I'm making a joke." He gestured to the yo-yo by the glass. "You mind. I don't bend as well as I used to."

"You really don't care do you?"

"I went to see him! What more do you want? You want me to bust him out?"

"I can't believe you! I don't know how exactly but I know it's your fault he's in there!"

House took half a step forward to tower over her. She craned her head back to stare up at him but to his surprise she didn't back down. "How is this my fault? I didn't put him in prison."

"That email! I read it. I'm the one to printed it out for you."

"What? You're jealous because you thought they would try to hurt you, thus proving that I care about you? Sorry to disappoint." He marched to his desk, his limp more pronounce now than it had been recently. Cameron shook her head fighting back her own fiery and conflicted emotions as House's traitorous body showed physically what he wouldn't show in on his face. He did care just not about her. A small part of her, hidden away from the man she in some ways respected and admired, and in other ways despised, crumbled at the realization.

The futility of her longing stoked the anger. She spoke wanting to hurt him, to prove that he wasn't invulnerable, that he was still human and that emotions mattered, people mattered. Who better to use than the one person that had mattered to him the most.

"No wonder Stacy left you."

The angle at which he stood gave her only a glancing view of his face. Even so she saw his shadowed jaw clench, the cold eyes still and she wasn't sorry.

"Get out." The low clipped order was followed after a few seconds of defiance.

Several more seconds passed before House sat down on the corner of his desk too achy and weary to even make it the few feet to his chair. His leg was tired and the rest of him was even more so. Cuddy had continued in her attempts to get him into rehab to strengthen his leg and make the return of his pain less likely. He continued to resist. A small, clearly crazy part of his mind wanted his pain back. What was more human than pain? What was more basic to the human condition than pain you caused yourself?

It had been a buffer for him. A reason to be the way he was. Now with it gone and his Vicodin habit slowly going the way of the do-do, he was exposed to everything he'd learnt so well to ignore and deem irrelevant. Now all those things were sneaking in; the rest of his life, what he'd ignored for so long. Without the haze of pain, without the high of Vicodin he looked around and found himself alone. That wasn't new but it wasn't fun either. His resignation to be alone and in pain had gone –if one wasn't permanent than the other didn't have to be either.

Outwardly all this left him the same as he was before, except that his walk looked nicer. Inwardly, well he was still the same. It was the world that was different. If his misery wasn't because of his pain, as it was in his old world, then it was just because of who he is. And if it's because of who he is then he'd be as alone now as he was before. The misunderstood, in constant pain, genius-doctor was now just a chump that couldn't find what even the slowest of people had found for themselves.

He was as terrible as everyone thought, and he had nobody to blame but himself.

It really was no wonder Stacy left him.

Being a broken and tortured soul only lasted for so long it seemed. Even Cameron seemed to like him less now that he didn't fit the label she'd given him. The problem was that it's easy to like the label you slap on someone. It's never as easy to like the person behind it.

House, after several silent minutes moved to his chair. He picked up the phone to call around about one of the few people who looked at him, looked past the label and just smiled and shrugged while gnawing on a pen, as though he was no better or worse a person than any of the others he'd met before. House had to wonder what type of people Chase had met before. He didn't want to think about what type of people he was meeting now.

H

Robert was getting up close and personal with his cellmate. After more than two weeks of being under Yarrow's thumb, forced to stay near him at all times, not being allowed to visit with those who came to see him other than his lawyer, he was edgy, mercurial, and so scared sometimes all he could do was stare blankly at whatever was in front of him and imagine being somewhere else. Montrose had been right. Yarrow dominates and suffocates his prey in his presence and isolates them from whatever friends they had. He hadn't seen Montrose from any closer than a distance since he'd been moved from his cell. When Yarrow wasn't around his thugs were, enforcing the rules their leader had made.

He'd been spending a lot more time in the infirmary too. Yarrow had forbade him to go to visitation. The first week Chase had glared and defied him. The next day he saw Foreman one last time and that had been it. Yarrow had punished him for the defiance and he'd been aching for days after that act. On Wednesday, one of the three days his section was allotted for visitation, Yarrow's own men had accosted Chase on his way to lunch and he'd spent visitation in the infirmary. This pattern held for more than a week, Chase being pummelled so badly that he couldn't see anyone. A standing order that he wasn't seeing anyone was put on his record. Chase hadn't made the order but he knew better than to contest it. Yarrow had Theriault and who knows how many other corrections officers in his pocket.

Now that Chase was being obedient Yarrow decided that this was the day. When the bars slid closed for evening lockdown Yarrow had tied a sheet to the corners, a makeshift curtain giving privacy for what was to come.

Across the deep atrium inmates watched with sick curiosity hoping to catch a glimpse. Next to Yarrow's cell the inmates listened. Considering his looks it was a shock that Chase had even managed to make it the almost two months that he had without a sexual assault that led to rape. 'The better you looked the faster they get to you' was the general trend of the prison. Chase shouldn't have lasted more than a few days but it had finally come around. Initiation as Theriault liked to call it. From the looks of it though, Chase was not going without a fight.

There was a struggle or something going on behind the white curtain. Only the neighbouring cells were close enough for the sounds of the fight to be heard. The muffled cry of the younger man in the cell resulted in taunts and advice for Yarrow yelled from the convicts.

A resounding crack transmitted through the shared wall of Yarrow's and a neighbouring cell had the inmates next door looking at each other with barely suppressed smiles. The noise next door settled down. The cons waited for something, anything that would give them a clue as to what was occurring right then.

On the other side to the flimsy white partition Chase struggled to co-ordinated his limbs. Yarrow had just slammed his head against the brick and it was only due to his panic that Chase didn't surrender to the darkness he could feel encroaching on his senses. Sluggishly his mind diagnosed him with a concussion. The arm pressing on his chest with the weight of the taller man behind it didn't help at all. Just a few inches from Chase's face a piece of metal, sharpened along one edge and wrapped with strips of fabric to make a hilt was grasped in Yarrow's hand. His other hand was busy divesting his cellmate of the torn remains of his grey trousers.

"Don't worry this won't hurt a bit," Yarrow told his dazed companion. "It'll hurt a lot."

Chase flailed, his mind unable to mount a proper defence. Panicked as he was anything would have done. He heard Yarrow curse as a blow landed in his midsection. The crude blade, flashed across Chase's vision and he grabbed for it. The uneven edge cut in to his fingers wetting the weapon with his blood. The stinging pain pulled him a little further from his haze, enough for him to knee Yarrow in his abdomen. The knife was suddenly in his possession.

Yarrow stumbled back a few steps. His eyes were wide with shock, which quickly turned to rage. His lessons in breaking down his cellmate had not taken as well as he'd thought. He hadn't expected Chase to just roll over either but this all out battle, the core beneath the surface of desolation that he thought he'd pierced was still holding strong. Kids these days were so fucking stubborn.

Chase fumbled with the knife. His shaking and bloody hands tried and failed numerous times in get a good hold that didn't aggravate the lacerations on his fingers and palms. He glanced up in time to see a shift in the man's eyes, pain and shock receding and awareness and thought returned with a vengeance similar to the flow of expression after the cessation of a seizure. Chase grasped the hilt with both hands. His grip wasn't sure and even like when he held a scalpel over a patient. Here the only vague thought was for defence, no complicated steps and reminders filtering through his mind as he pressed the sharp cold metal into warm flesh. Substance was lacking behind the instinct but for now instinct was overpowering and was enough.

Yarrow lunged at him, hands wrapping around the pale neck and squeezing. His body followed pinning the smaller man to the wall. At the same time a searing pain erupted from his midsection. He did he best to ignore it and squeezed. His hands tightened and he watched the attractive face of his latest target struggle for breath. Soon, though, his hands became slack and realization dawn.

Robert slid to the floor gasping to breathe and trying to pay attention through the ache in his lungs and the pounding of his head. Yarrow staggered around until finally he fell not far from his intended victim. The older prisoner moved his hands away from his burning stomach. They were soaked with blood. Shocked eyes stared down at the hilt of his own weapon sticking out of him, forced there by his careless assault on his armed cellmate. All Chase had done was hold the weapon and Yarrow had impaled himself.

The inmate's laboured breathing rhythmically moved the unnatural protrusion a few millimetres back and forth with each unsteady cycle. Each motion released another fall of dark red liquid. He tried to pull it out but his weak hands were batted away by trembling ones.

The blonde head bent over the wound and Chase packed Yarrow's discarded shirt around the handle standing in his gut. Yarrow's eyes clenched shut as pressure was applied. "Hold." The order was weak, still Yarrow did. This kid was a doctor in the outside world after all. That was his last thought before unconsciousness cradled him in its unfeeling embrace.

Rob crawled away from the limp body towards the barred entrance of the cell. He needed to get help both for him and Yarrow. He'd considered just leaving the man to bleed out. With a concussion he would last longer than his cellmate. He quickly discovered he couldn't. He wasn't an animal and he wasn't a killer no matter what the cops and the D.A. said.

His vision was rapidly darkening to a tunnel, all peripheral gone due to his head injury. It would only be a matter of time before he too was out cold. He made it to the bars and pulled on the sheet hoping to take it down. It did give a little under the load but didn't fall.

"Help," he called. With so little breath it was only a whisper. Finally, the wave of darkness broke over him and pulled him away. He collapsed before the bars, one arm through them and resting listlessly on the catwalk of the tier.

Inmates across the way went back to their bunks. It wasn't a great distance between them and the other side so they could see the blood on the pale arm. Decent people would have called for help. Prison people didn't want to get involved. Montrose couldn't help, locked away in a solitary cell in 1-left thanks to Yarrow's goons. He could only pace and worry and rage to himself for what he thought knew was happening to Chase.

It would be twenty minutes before the CO making the rounds on the second tier noticed a bloodstained arm on the walkway above.

H

End Chapter 9

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