Disclaimer: I do not own House, but you knew that already...

[H] [H] [H]

Wilson sat perched on the coffee table opposite House. He watched his friend's eyes flicker erratically amongst feelings of shock, horror and disgust as his two day nightmare came back to him.

The oncologist's own head was swimming with possibilities at the sudden arrival of the photographs that now lay scattered across House's apartment floor. He didn't know how they had gotten there. Obviously, the envelope lying on the floor indicated someone had mailed them to House, but it couldn't have been Eric. He was in police custody.

Then there were the black and whites, strewn haphazardly on the floor, themselves. He glanced down, catching a particularly brutal photograph in which House was curled in on himself, holding his jaw. The expression on his features was so complex and conflicted that Wilson experienced them as if he were the character within the photograph. It would've been an extremely powerful piece of art if it hadn't been for the fact that it wasn't a model in a photo shoot, but a real human being in severe pain.

The oncologist picked the photograph up from the floor and placed it face down next him on the coffee table. It helped to quell the flow of his thought process.

He knew House had lived through an ordeal; that had been obvious just by his physical appearance the day that they found and retrieved him. However, to see the photos and all the emotional damage put the situation into an entirely new and horrifying perspective.

"How much does he have to live though in this life?" Wilson thought to himself.

The vein, Wilson noticed, in House's throat pulsed quickly, keeping pace with his racing heart. Wilson watched as House's breathing quickened with his heart and soon became a shallow panting. Wilson sighed, taking in the symptoms, and knew House was suffering through a panic attack.

"House?"

He spoke softly, trying not to startle House and make his obvious anxiety that much worse. When House's eyes met his, but he didn't speak, Wilson found his own anxiety level climbing. However, it was an overwhelming sense of pity that Wilson felt as House slowly closed his eyes and looked away.

Childhood memories flooded the diagnostician's mind and the sudden shock of them, in addition to the photographs that now gazed up at him from the floor, was overwhelming. The twisted morality of his father had been trying to pierce his thoughts since he had woken up the second time in the hospital. All the infuriated nursing staff (and even the sharp comments thrown at Cameron) were a direct result of his attempts to avoid falling into deep thought about his hellish past.

House could feel Wilson's gaze still trying to worm its way into his thought process. He knew that as soon as he turned, the concern pooling within Wilson's eyes would hit him in full. The wave of concerned empathy would crash over him and cause him to crack and probably -- he shuddered internally at this -- share his feelings; however, House also knew that there would be a sliver of pity floating somewhere within the sea of emotions as well. A new force started to slowly twist its way into House's own emotions, causing the storm already brewing in his mind to become a full fledged tempest.

He needed to be alone with his thoughts and he needed the solitude now.

"Get out."

Wilson started, taken aback by the suddenness of House's harsh tone. He knew the pictures were to blame.

"Excuse me?"

Electric blue met chocolate brown as House threw daggers with his stare. The diagnostician couldn't stand the bewildered expression on his best friend's face. He knew he was more or less taking a sledge hammer to their already bizarre friendship, but he needed to challenge his feelings head on…and he needed to do it alone.

House snapped as best he could through his jaw still immobilized by the bandage, "I said: 'Get. Out.' "

House moved his head slightly, but it was his sideways glance from beneath his guilty brow that allowed him to see the bewilderment that had splashed across Wilson's face. It was obvious that his words were stinging, but House didn't care. He needed the solace that only the quiet of his empty apartment could provide.

"You sure you don't want to talk a-"

"Did I stutter? Get. Out!"

It wasn't until his cane nudged his arm that he even realized Wilson had moved from his perch upon the coffee table. House didn't look up at his friend as he hovered for a moment, hoping he would take his words back.

Seeing the effort it was taking the diagnostician to avoid his gaze as well as to keep a stoic face, Wilson conceded and headed to the door.

He paused for a moment, checking House's surroundings to make sure he would be alright for the brief time that he would be out. Satisfied that he wouldn't be able to do any serious damage, Wilson shut the door to House's apartment and was immediately bitten by the frosty cold of winter.

As he walked down the narrow walkway towards his car, he made a check list in his head of all the things he would need to pick up at his new apartment. A flurry of snow stuck to his hair and whisked along his cheeks as he chuckled darkly. He had been excited to share his new apartment with House for the week. He had even purchased a couch with hidden recliners in it just for the comfort of his friend! Leave it to House to wreck his carefully laid plans.

With a swift click of an automatic lock, Wilson shook off the light dusting off snow from his head and slid his way into his car. With a jangling of keys and a swift turn, the car purred to life, blowing hot air against the windshield and its passenger. Wilson hesitated, glancing at House's apartment, before shifting his car into gear and driving cautiously through the increasing snowfall to his home.

[H] [H] [H]

Large snow flakes fell to the ground as a 16 year old Greg House stood in by the window of his home. His mother had long since fallen asleep on the couch with a bottle of whiskey nearby. Now, with his homework complete for class the next day, Greg knew he had to shovel the snow from the driveway or there would be consequences. He moved swiftly to the couch first, however, and placed a blanket over the woman sleeping on it. With a soft kiss to her forehead, he strode to his jacket hanging next to the door and was outside in a flash.

Greg checked his watch. It was 5:10 and his father would be home promptly at 5:30 like he was every other day. He trudged over to the garage and heaved the door open in search of the shovel. He found the object resting against the wall closest to himself in the corner and sighed in relief. At least he'd be able to get started. Maybe then he wouldn't be forced to stay outside all night to "finish a task, for once."

Greg shuffled his feet out to the end of the driveway and began to shovel. He noted immediately that the snow was heavy and wet; he smirked, thinking of all the snowball fights he would be getting himself into on the way home from school tomorrow.

Lost in a snowball fight fantasy, the strain of shoveling barely registered in the boy's muscles. He worked as thoroughly as possible at the quick pace he held. He knew that it would be better to uncover more of the driveway than to do a small section exceedingly well at this point. A white mist issued from his mouth with every breath. His exertion was beginning to make him pant.

With the sound of plastic scraping against tar, Greg threw his last pile of snow to the wayside. Placing the scoop of the shovel against the ground, Greg leaned against the handle and breathed a sigh of relief. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, feeling awfully restricted in his winter jacket now that his physical task was completed.

His self satisfied smile fell from his face as the familiar blue station wagon pulled down the street and eased its way into the driveway. John House had returned home to his family.

Greg straightened himself as his father opened the car door and began to pull himself out. His father was almost always in the worst mood of the day directly after coming home from work.

The car door shut with a soft thump as John scanned the driveway, now lightly dusted with snow as opposed to heavily covered. He observed the piles of snow, neatly made alongside the driveway where his son had deposited the useless powder getting in the way.

"You did this, son?" asked John.

"Yes, sir," he replied, turning towards the garage to place the shovel exactly where he had found it. He knew John would be scrutinizing his work and he hoped he didn't slip up and forget to do something this time.

He turned around, sliding the garage door shut as he watched his father. The man looked pleased as he scanned the driveway. Nothing seemed to have been overlooked.

"Well, son," he began, walking with authority towards Greg, "you did a fine job this time."

"Thank you, sir."

Greg felt his father thump him on the back in appreciation and he stiffened. His father rarely showed gratitude for anything. It was always something to be expected, never something that needed thanking. It was then that Greg knew he had missed something.

"Oh, and son?" cued John as he began his assent up the snow covered stairs to his house.

"Yes, sir?" replied Greg, knowing the friendliness was about to come crashing down.

"Next time, you need to do the steps and walkway in front of the steps as well," he said shaking the snow off his work shoes to emphasize his point, "I think you should stay out here and clear those. Oh and while you're at it, you can clear the driveway again. Its awfully messy, don't you think?"

Greg froze and surveyed the driveway he had just cleared. In the three minutes his father had been home, no more than a light dusting had covered the tar.

"Sir, I don't mean to challenge your request, but-"

The features on John House's face became as hard as stone as his son spoke. Greg knew that he was essentially digging his grave, as he did every time, but he couldn't help but feel compelled to speak. It wasn't that he hadn't tried. He was just tired of his father's oversensitive ideals of morality and doing the right thing ending up as a punishment for himself.

"Well?"

"Sir, its still snowing outside. Do you honestly expect me to clear the snow from the driveway again? It'll only keep getting covered until it stop snowing!"

The fire blazing behind his father's eyes was exactly what he had feared to see. Greg knew he had asked for it by opening his mouth, but he also knew that he was right. He was tired of not standing his ground.

"Well, then maybe you should just stay out here until it does stop snowing. In fact, why don't you do that for me?"

Greg stood there clenching his jaw in strict refusal of letting any emotion show on his face. This was part of the game and he knew it. If he showed any sort of upset or defeat, something more would be added to the already unfair punishment.

"Oh and don't forget to clear all of the snow next time."

It was the last thing his father said as he entered his home and closed the door behind him. Even above the wind that was beginning to blow, Greg could still hear the clicking and popping of the two locks on the door sliding into place. No doubt he would work his way to the back of the house and lock that door as well.

With a sense of finality, Greg strode over to the garage, opened the door and let himself inside. It was only after he had turned on the overhead light that he closed the door behind him and shivered. It was going to be a long cold night.

[H] [H] [H]

Pain along House's jaw alerted him to the fact that he had been clenching his teeth while on his own little journey through mental hell. He slowly unclenched his jaw muscles, relishing in the aching relief that it brought.

His eyes stung and he knew that if he were to get up and hobble his way over to the bathroom that he would see his eyes shining with unshed tears. He hated himself for it, but he hated the fact that his father had conditioned him to hate it even more.

Hate and despair rolled through him and conquered his mind, directing his thoughts to every flaw he had.

He hated the weakness he felt when his emotions conquered his logical mind. He threw his left fist down hard upon the coffee table in frustration before leaning forward and grasping his head firmly in both of his hands. The tension inside his head now was more than just the remnants of his healing concussion.

He needed to let it out. He needed to scream or to yell or something, but his pride and conditioning from his childhood wouldn't let him. To give in to his emotions was admitting defeat and admitting defeat was admitting that he, once again, wasn't good enough.

He felt the hot tears burning down his cheeks before he realized he was crying; he cursed under his breath, not certain if the tears were from frustration, defeat or even exhaustion at this point. A bitterness welled up inside him that threatened to strangle him if he didn't get himself in check. Oh, how he hated himself right now for falling apart. He could handle this. He had always had to be able to handle it, so he could now too.

Positioning his cane by his right foot, House pulled himself to his feet and hobbled over to his baby grand. As he settled onto his piano bench, he allowed his fingers to lightly touch the ivory keys and a bitter smile crossed his features. Even his piano, the most trusted of all his friends at times like this, was betraying him.

He took in a deep breath and began to play Sonata 14 in C minor, more commonly known as Moonlight Sonata, composed by Beethoven.

His left hand stretched, easily covering the required octave in the bass as he closed his eyes. His right hand danced lightly over the black and white keys, rolling arpeggios of the dark and dreary persuasion. All of his anguish and malice poured into the keys as he played, adding to the heaviness in the room and in his mind.

He flinched slightly as his mind drifted back once again.

"Greg, that's beautiful," Blythe chirped as she watched her son playing the dusty old upright piano sitting against the farthest wall in his living room.

He smiled softly, relishing in the soft comfort of a compliment that his mother had given him, as he continued to play.

His fingers danced lightly over the keys even as the doorbell rang. Greg hesitated for a moment, leaving the piece hesitating painfully on a dominant chord, as his mother answered the door.

With a huge sigh of relief, Greg sees that its only his neighbor -- and his mother's friend -- Lucy and turns back to the keys. However, instead of continuing the piece, he jumps into Moonlight Sonata -- his mother's favorite.

He can hear the contented sigh before he feels her hands on his shoulders. Her hands rub gently, encouraging him to play. However, the front door slams open and Greg turns his head, knowing full well who has come in the door this time.

His mother pushes her friend into the kitchen and instructs her to go out the backdoor. The soft click coming from the kitchen indicates that their guest has left.

"Are you letting him touch that thing again?" he barked.

John's strides thudded throughout the room as he came next to his wife, Blythe. He shoved her harshly, forcing her to stagger back into the kitchen.

"John, honey," she begins trying to save her son, "Its only music! He's so talented!"

Greg knows immediately that it's the wrong thing to say. There's a crash and a clanging of keys as House yells in pain. John House smiles, holding the flip cover of the piano down upon his son's hands. Greg's eyes water and the pain is so great that he knows he's broken his hand.

"I guess he won't be playing for a while, now will he?"

The silence in the apartment startles House and he realizes that he's holding his left gingerly hand in his right. His father actually had broken his hand that day using the instrument he loved so much against him.

A largely dissonant chord fills his apartment as House crashes a fist onto the keys of his piano in fury. Even his piano, the one thing that usually brings solitude, has turned against him.

Absentmindedly, House rubs at the indentation in his right leg where part of his quad muscle should be and laughs bitterly. Words echo through his memory.

"Some son you turned out to be. Who wants to be treated by a doctor that couldn't even save himself?"

A grimace crosses House's features and he closes his eyes, trying to block out that particular memory. Even through all the physical abuse and torture his father had put him through, it was still that one sentence that plagued him the most.

If only he had realized what was happening to himself those years ago, he wouldn't be the disabled doctor hiding from the patients in the clinic. He wouldn't have to deal with the cloud of uncertainty that followed him every waking second.

He would inwardly squirm every time Cuddy forced him to do clinic hours. He could almost feel the judgmental eyes upon him as each snot nosed child with its over protective mother took in the cane. His sharp wit and sarcasm were his only defense. Everyone knew that.

Suddenly, House wished he hadn't pushed Wilson away. The realization only added to the pent up rage and confusion burning its way through his system. He furrowed his brow and realized that he needed a verbal sparring partner right now. His mind and tongue were itching for the distraction.

Taking his cellphone from his pocket, House adeptly flipped it open with his right hand. He trailed his thumb over the keypad, debating whether or not he should press and hold the number 5 to start the call.

"Hello?"

It was only after he heard her voice that he realized he had called her.

"Hi there, Cuddles. Miss me?" he asked in a much surlier tone than he intended.

There was a sigh on the other end before she spoke, "House, what do you want now?"

He paused. What did he want from her? He had initially called her to argue and bicker to relieve tension, but her question was loaded and they both knew it. He smirked, quickly falling into the routine.

"I was hoping you and the girls could come over and keep me and Little Greg company for a while," he drawled.

He heard the chuckle before she spoke, "Uh huh. Nice try, House. Now, either hang up and rest or tell me why you called!"

House noted the worry in her voice and had to hold his tongue to keep from snarking back his remarks about her mothering him. He didn't want to fall into old patterns so quickly. After all, they had talked briefly about their…feelings…and he didn't want to slip backwards.

He huffed a bit.

"My father was an unruly bastard," he said simply. His voice was dripping with loathing and reproach that he knew Cuddy wouldn't miss.

"You called me to talk about your father?"

"No, I called you because I kicked Wilson out of my apartment and I'm bored," he replied. It was halfway true. He had kicked Wilson out of the apartment, but he wasn't bored. He was scared of what he would do to himself with his mind in shambles.

He could hear Cuddy taking deep breaths on her end of the conversation and he had to suppress the urge to laugh. An image of Cuddy pinching the bridge of her nose, very much the same way Wilson did in these type of situations, suddenly popped into his head.

"House…"

He cringed a little at her tone. It was her warning voice.

"Cuddy," he replied in kind as he built up the nerve to continue, "What have I ever told you about my father?"

"That his name was John."

House smirked a bit realizing that it was all he had ever said about his father to anyone other than his mother. He hated the man bitterly.

"Well, you know I was an army brat," he started.

"I knew you were a brat of some sort."

He chuckled a bit at the way she countered his statement and was grateful that she was trying to make this easier for him.

"My father was a Marine. A pilot actually," he continued, knowing Cuddy was listening politely and still irritated by his out of the blue call.

"Would you believe me if I told you he was abusive?"

The silence on Cuddy's end of the line hurt House's ears. He could almost hear her thinking of a way to respond properly.

"…wait, what?"

House sucked in a breath through his nose and resisted the urge to tighten the muscles in his jaw to steady himself.

"He was an abusive bastard," he replied feeling a huge weight lift off his shoulders.

"Are you trying to tell me that you were abused as a child?"

House's blood ran cold as the weight of her words hit him. He had never told anyone about this before…ever. To hear someone else give a name to the way his father had treated him until he left for college was frightening.

"I guess so," he said honestly.

There was an awkward pause as neither House nor Cuddy really knew what to say.

"Thank you."

House wrinkled his eyebrows together in confusion while he responded, "For what?"

"For trusting me. For opening up to me."

He rolled his eyes and wished she could've have seen it through the phone. It was time to go into bastard mode.

"Stay away from here, Cuddles. I would hate to have you take advantage of me in my vulnerable state."

He could hear her sigh of frustration and he instantly regretted his words. He felt the self hatred boiling up within himself and knew there was only one way to beat it.

"Sorry."

The pregnant pause on her end of the dialogue was not unexpected and House squirmed uncomfortably waiting for a response.

"Its ok."

Her voice was breathy and sent a shiver down his spine that was definitely not from the cold. If she talked to him like that everyday, both he and little Greg would be happy all the time.

"Have you…talked to Wilson about this?"

The moment was ruined as Cuddy mentioned is best male friend.

"I haven't even talked to my mom about this," he said honestly.

There was no response from Cuddy as they both took in the gravity of the situation. House glanced down at his watch and took in the time. Wilson would be back in about 10 minutes.

"Lisa?"

"Yea?"

"My father physically and mentally abused me," he started, "and I'm…I'm sort of reliving it."

"I'll be right over. Do you need anything else?"

He shook his head slowly as he spoke, "No. Just, just you."

He spoke with a quiver in his voice and he knew Cuddy had picked up on it. Before he registered exactly what he was doing, his phone was back to his ear and ringing. He had to apologize to his best friend.

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A/N: Hehe. I have a couple surprises left up my sleeve. At least, I hope its not all that predictable. Also, I'm thinking the next chapter might force my story up a rating... As always, please let me know what you think. I really do read all your reviews!

xoTrebleMaker