Apologies for the delay - I've only just completed my exams. And so here it is. Reviews are greatly appreciated :)

"Ready to go?"

It had taken months, but it was finally time for House to be discharged from the hospital. Wilson bustled into the room, holding discharge papers in his hands. He placed them in front of House, who signed them off with a scowl.

"D-did you h-have to g-go to T-timbuk-ktu t-to g-get them or what-t?"

House's stutter was getting better slowly but surely. He had always prided himself for his snark and wit, and had been determined to get his speech back to normal in order to continue wrecking havoc with his scathing remarks. So he had been surprisingly compliant with the speech therapists. The same couldn't be said about his physical therapists though.

Wilson brought the wheelchair over next to House's bed and took the papers from House. "Gonna pass these to the nurses first." He turned on his heels and walked out the room. House hated to show any form of weakness, and did not appreciate anyone witnessing him struggling to get into the wheelchair. Not even his best friend.

Wilson came back two minutes later only to see House sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed and body tense while his legs hung off the bed, unnervingly still. He stopped short at the door, not wanting to barge in to what seemed like a very private moment for House. He had witnessed many short moments like these where House would try again and again to move his legs. After a while, House raised his head and wearily began to maneuver himself into the wheelchair. Wilson gave him a few moments to settle in before stepping into the room.

"Flirting w-with th-the nurses ag-gain?"

"I had to do some damage control. You do know three nurses requested for transfers while you were here right?"

They stepped off the elevator and into the bustling lobby, and almost immediately, Wilson felt House tense at the large amount of people milling around. Even prior to the accident, the lobby was too public a place for a man who hated pity and attention.

Almost immediately, some young nurse with absolutely no self-awareness and knowledge of how things worked at the hospital with House came up to them. "Dr House! So good to see you up and around. Feeling much better?"

Wilson was half pissed at the nurse for actually coming up to them and trying to engage House in a conversation since his stutter was still noticeable, and half terrified for her at what was to shoot out of House's mouth. Before he could say a thing to diffuse the prickly situation, House snorted and wheeled himself away from the chirpy nurse. But he was not to leave the hospital without being interrupted by at least two other doctors and nurses.

Just as they were about to reach the door, trouble arrived in the form of Dr Packett. House and Packett were at loggerheads, the latter never having gotten over how House had practically proclaimed at a hospital function how Packett had had an affair with a nurse and brought home to his wife a "stowaway". Packett was on the board of directors, and one of the most vocal detractors of House in the hospital. Wilson bristled as he saw Packett appear.

Packett smoothly stepped in front of the wheelchair, and forced House to an abrupt stop. Wilson cringed. Packett was a short and stout man, and House usually towered over him. But this time, House had to look up at Packett.

"Dr House."

House merely gave a curt nod, still reluctant to speak, especially with Packett. He was not going to give him the satisfaction. He made to move towards the side to pass him, but Packett stepped in front of the wheelchair, again blocking his way.

"It's good to see that you've recovered, House. You had us all so worried when you were in that coma. Of course, it's good to have no pain and no longer be a drug addict huh?"

House stiffened and dropped his eyes to the ground. Packett continued in his condescending tone of voice.

"But of course, it must be dreadful that you can't walk anymore. I was just thinking of how I hadn't seen you limp around for quite a while."

Wilson literally felt his blood boil over. House made no move; he simply hunched over in his wheelchair and stared at the ground very intently, his hands gripping his legs so tight his knuckles were white. Wilson grabbed the wheelchair handles and gritted his teeth. He shoved the chair forward and hit Packett in the shins.

"Ow! What the–"

"Oh I'm so sorry, you were standing in the way."

Wilson barged past Packett, taking special care to roll the wheelchair over Packett's toes. House felt the slight bump, and turned back to see at Packett clutching his toes and hopping around. He looked up at Wilson, and gave a tight smile. But it didn't reach his eyes, noticed Wilson.

Cuddy was waiting out front for them with her car, since Wilson had yet to receive his new car. Wilson opened the backseat door for House, and as he made a move to help House transfer into the car, House glared at him and swatted his hands away. Gripping onto the handles in the car, House hoisted himself off the wheelchair into the car. He then placed his arms under his unmoving legs, and lifted them in. By the end of the whole process, House was breathing hard with unused to the physical exertion. He leaned his head back against the seat of the car, and closed his eyes.

Wilson shut the door and stuffed the wheelchair in the boot before getting in next to Cuddy in front. Cuddy sensed the tension in both House and Wilson, and as she started the car, she asked, "Everything alright?"

Wilson shot her a glance telling her that everything was not all right. But he nodded, jerked his head towards House and said, "Yeah. Let's go."

They pulled up in front of House's apartment. Wilson had tried to persuade House to move back with him into the loft, but House had each time adamantly insisted on going back to 221B. Further argument just caused him to retreat further into his shell and draw his walls up.

Cuddy and Wilson had taken it upon themselves to make the apartment more wheelchair-friendly. They had ramps installed where there were steps, handles installed for easy transfer in the toilet, and they had even shifted the furniture around the small apartment in order to make space for the wheelchair. Cuddy and Wilson watched nervously as House wheeled himself into his sanctuary.

House surveyed the apartment, and visibly tensed. He wheeled himself to his bedroom and shut the door without saying a word.

"That went well," sighed Wilson as he ran his hands through his hair.

"What happened earlier?"

"That bastard Packett practically accosted us in the lobby. He was taking revenge for what House did last year. But God, Cuddy, House didn't even fight back or lash out with some scathing remark! He just sat there and took it all in!"

Looking at Wilson's agitation, Cuddy remarked dryly, "And I'm certain you made sure to roll over Packett's toes right?" Wilson sheepishly smiled. Cuddy couldn't suppress a grin. But she soon turned serious.

"We can't let this become post-infarction part two. Wilson, I know I broke up with House and all, but I will definitely still be around, okay?"

Wilson sat silently for a while, before probing. "Where is this going, Cuddy? These past few months…"

"I don't know, Wilson." Cuddy bit her lip.

"I've told you that the break-up was a mistake, and I still believe in that. The both of you love each other, and you obviously still do love him."

"I know, Wilson. I promised Rachel I would help him. And I want to help him."

"Then you better make clear to yourself what you're expecting out of this, Cuddy. It's one thing to help him as a friend and another as a lover. Don't cause him more pain and uncertainty, not when he has this much to deal with."

Cuddy knocked on House's bedroom door as Wilson prepared dinner for the three of them. There was no answer. She opened the door to see House still seated in the wheelchair, but leaning over with his head in his arms on the bed, dozing. Cuddy walked over, and sat down on the bed next to him. She reached out, and gently touched his scruff.

"House, wake up. Wilson's prepared dinner, come on." She walked out after he started stirring, not wanting to invade his space.

House finally wheeled himself out, and joined them at the dining table, daring them to tell him that the wheelchair was too low for the dining table. Cuddy and Wilson kept their mouths shut.

"What-t, I n-need t-two babysit-t-ters now?" grumbled House as he poked at his plate of pasta.

"In case you didn't know, it's perfectly normal for three friends to have dinner together," remarked Cuddy.

"Yeah, right-t. I c-can practic-c-cally feel the hov-v-ering you guys are d-doing."

"Oh please. I'm giving you a week off work by the way."

Wilson cleared his throat. It was time to broach the touchy subject. "Actually, House, a pipe burst at the loft yesterday, and it flooded. Repairs are being done so I've got nowhere to stay. Can I crash here for a few days?"

"No."

"Come on, House –"

"I d-don't need-d your help."

"I'm not saying that. "

"I know I'm in a d-damn wheelch-chair, but-t I am fine, for Ch-christ's sake."

"I know that. I just need a place to stay for the week or so."

"You are a t-terrible liar, W-Wilson."

But Wilson persisted, "I need a place to stay, House. Come on, please? Just a few days."

"Fuck-k off, W-Wilson." House threw down his fork, and wheeled himself into his room, his plate of pasta not even half-eaten. The insult, with the stammer, didn't bear that much weight, and he hated that.

Cuddy watched House wheel himself away; his shoulders hunched as he furiously worked the wheels of his chair to escape from the table. He slammed the door, hard.

"I take that as a yes," stated Wilson matter-of-factly.

Cuddy reached across the table to take Wilson's hand. "You're a good friend, Wilson. But yeah, you're a terrible liar."

Wilson came home from work one day to find House in front of the bookshelf, stretching to grab a book out of his reach, missing it by a few inches. Wilson simply reached out to grab it, passed the book to House and was rewarded with a death glare.

House couldn't reach the shelf on which he usually placed his cup and other cutlery, and Wilson began leaving them on the counter within easy reach for House. The same went for House's clothes and other necessities.

"Why haven't you been playing the piano recently?"

House abruptly stopped eating and put his hands down on his lap. He unconsciously shifted his head to gaze at his piano, and began tapping imaginary tunes on his lap.

"Sounds weird," he finally mumbled. As he turned away from the piano and back to his plate, Wilson could see a look of longing hidden in House's eyes. Of course, thought Wilson. No pedals. House wouldn't settle for less than perfect when it came to his music. And he cursed at himself for reminding House of his lack of ability to press the pedals.

Shower times were tricky. House had to use a shower chair, and for the first few times, had difficulty transferring from one chair to the other. They developed an unspoken agreement that House would leave the door to the bathroom unlocked in case he fell. Once, Wilson was watching television when he heard a resounding crash from the bathroom. He leapt to his feet and knocked on the door. "House? Everything okay?"

"F-fuck."

Wilson heard the sound of the chair crashing against the wall, presumably due to House shoving it away in anger.

"I'm coming in."

Wilson opened the door and saw House sprawled on his side on the bathroom floor, dressed in only his boxers. He had obviously fallen in the transfer from the wheelchair to the shower chair. Wilson brought the shower chair over from where it had been shoved against the wall in anger, and silently helped House get onto the chair. He left the bathroom when House was seated in the chair, choosing to ignore how House was rigid and trembling slightly from the humiliation and helplessness.

Of course, it was only a matter of time before the inevitable blow-up happened.

Cuddy came over on Friday evening. She had been coming over almost every day after work for dinner before heading home. Usually, she was greeted by a sullen House and a determined-to-act-like-everything-is-normal Wilson, but today was different. From outside the door, she could hear House's frustrated voice.

"F-fuck off W-Wilson! I d-don't need-d your help-p!"

Cuddy pushed open the door, which was ajar, and saw House struggling to get up from the floor using the couch. Wilson was trying to help House back into the wheelchair, his arms around under House's armpits, only to have House push Wilson away repeatedly.

"What happened?"

"He fell out of the chair trying to reach for his book. Fell behind the table, the space is too narrow for him to wheel in."

"I c-can d-do it m-myself!" House's stutter always got worse when he was agitated. He finally managed to hoist himself into the wheelchair; ignoring how much weight he had had to put on Wilson.

He felt the emotions that had been building up in him start to overflow like a dam that had reached its full capacity. He took a deep breath, and unleashed them.

"I d-don't need-d your help-p! Or your h-hov-v-vering! I alread-d-dy know I c-can't d-do a lot-t of things by myself-f! I am not-t a charit-ty case f-for you t-to fawn ov-v-ver so that-t you c-can… I don't-t know, fulfil your need-d to h-help!"

He propelled himself out the door of the apartment at breakneck speed. Cuddy and Wilson ran after him, futilely calling after him. They watched as House grabbed a bucket of paint from outside the newly-painted apartment two doors down and wheel himself out of the lobby and into the cool autumn evening.

They watched as he locked his wheelchair into position and they watched in horror as he flung the black paint over his Honda Repsol. He placed both hands on the side of the bike, ignoring the black paint that stained and flowed over his hands, and with a mighty shove and yell of frustration, tipped his precious bike over. It hit the ground with a resounding crash, and Cuddy swore she saw the bike actually bounce.

"House what the hell are you doing – OW!"

House spun his wheelchair around and promptly rolled over Wilson's foot in his haste to get back inside the house. Cuddy watched as House propelled himself up the ramp, arms pumping furiously like pistons, and into the building like a whirlwind on wheels. He was biting his lip in determination, eyes ablaze in fury.

Cuddy ran after House while Wilson hopped-limped alongside her. They arrived at his apartment door, only to realize that House had locked them out of the apartment.

"House, open up!" Cuddy pounded the door as Wilson scrabbled for the spare key that was hidden on the doorframe. She felt her heart thudding hard in her ribcage – no one knew what House could do when he was determined and in a rage.

After far too long a time, they managed to get the door open, and they were greeted with absolute chaos. House had swept everything onto the floor of the apartment in a rage – broken glass, books and papers littered the ground. House emerged out of his room with his cane in his lap, mouth tight with resentment and bitterness. He yanked himself over to the hall closet, flinging the door open. He reached in, and emerged with his arms full of all the canes he had accumulated over the years.

"I d-don't need-d my d-damn canes anym-more!" He threw them at the floor between him and Cuddy and Wilson, and they clattered to the ground, a cacophony of wood and metal. He dived back in and yanked out with him his tennis rackets, squash rackets and golf clubs, and finally, his prized lacrosse stick.

"And-d I d-definitely…" His voice cracked as his rage died down to despair. "I won't-t ever-t g-get-t t-to use these a-g-gain!" He flung them all towards Cuddy and Wilson, who stood in the middle of the living room, shell-shocked at the turmoil before them.

Cuddy's heart broke at the sight of House revealing his innermost feelings of helplessness and despair - hearing his voice crack as he confronted his greatest fears was heartbreaking. She never knew that House had kept all his sports equipment – that he had been hanging on to some small hope that perhaps one day, some kind of experimental medicine or procedure would give him back full use of his legs and enable him to go back to the pre-infarction period. She felt the tears well up in her eyes.

"House…" Her voice was thick with emotion.

But it was as if he couldn't hear her, and all the pent-up emotions of the past few months were spilling out of him.

"And-d guess what-t? I don't-t need-d Vi-vi-codin anymore!"

He spat out the words he knew Cuddy and Wilson would have loved to hear at many points over the past decade, and he threw his bottles of Vicodin onto the ground. The little white pills that had caused so much conflict between the three of them over the years scattered to the ground, and the empty bottles rolled everywhere. He rolled over to his bookcase and used the cane in his hands to sweep down everything on the top shelf. Along with the books came the box of morphine. He opened the box with trembling hands, breath hitching, and emptied its contents onto the floor.

"And you d-don't-t ev-ver have to w-worry about-t me over-d-dosing or a-b-busing morphine anymore!"

A tear trickled down House's cheek and disappeared into his scruff. "Be-c-cause I d-don't f-feel it any-m-more. All th-this time I've b-been trying-g to escape th-the p-pain and-d I f-finally g-got what-t I want-t." He took a deep breath, tried to prevent the sob that threatened to escape from him. "But now… I… I d-don't f-feel a single f-fucking th-thing here."

As if to demonstrate his point, he hit himself on the legs with the cane with a resounding "thwack", and as if he finally, finally got hit by the magnitude of it all after all these months - the lack of pain, the lack of feeling - he laughed bitterly and looked up at them with his blue eyes, which were brimming with despair.

"Wh-why d-do the t-two of y-you c-care so m-much now? Is it b-because I f-finally am what-t you want-ted-d me to b-be all th-these years – d-d-drug free? Or is it-t b-because I am d-disabled and-d you p-pity me?

Wilson opened his mouth, but House continued on. Weeks, months, and years of suppressed feelings were poured forth.

"Is that-t why you're here, C-Cuddy? After w-weeks of a-avoiding-g m-me w-when we b-broke up? Or is it-t j-just because I s-saved th-the m-most import-tant p-person in-n y-your life? G-guilt? G-gratitude?" His voice came out small and uncertain, as if he was pleading.

At that, Cuddy's heart shattered into a million pieces for the man she had loved for twenty years. She was heartbroken at the fact that he thought she was here for him only out of guilt and gratitude, and at the fact that he thought she and Wilson were here for him only because he had finally broken free of his drug addiction. She knew why – so many times they had given up on him and left him alone because they were fed up with his drug habits and self-destructive tendencies. But here they were now, so unconditionally for him that he couldn't accept it. House was no doubt a brilliant man, but stunted emotionally. He simply couldn't fathom the abstract concept of love and friendship. He simply was not used to these intangible things, even from his best friend and lover. He thought they were here for him only out of guilt and because he was no longer a drug addict, and because they pitied him.

She took a tentative step forward towards House, her tears spilling out of her eyes. He turned his head away in shame at his outburst, and looked away from both her and Wilson. She made her way across the sea of pills, canes, sports equipment and empty bottles - all that signified his pain and his failings - that lay between them on the floor.

She knelt in front of him and caressed his cheek; using her thumbs to wipe away the tear tracks down his face. He pulled away from her, but she didn't let him.

"Don't say that, House. That's not true." She murmured to the broken man in front of her. She felt his harsh breaths on her face as she gently tilted his head back up, forcing him to look into her own blue-grey eyes. She saw the intense sadness permeating every inch of his expressive eyes.

"We're here because we love you. I love you. Not because of pity. Because we're your friends, and we care," she gently told him, "I'm grateful you saved Rachel, guilty that the accident happened, but that's not what brings me here each time. I'm here for the man who was willing to give his life for my daughter."

Wilson joined them, and he stood behind House, placing his hand on House's heaving shoulders. "Please don't think you don't deserve us being here for you, or that you don't need us. We're not leaving you alone," he quietly said.

At their words, House began to cry in earnest, finally giving in to the despair, bitterness, fear, and self-doubt that he had buried deep within, but which had plagued him for all this time. Cuddy pulled him into her embrace, guiding his head onto her shoulder while Wilson tightened his grip around House's shoulder. They glanced at each other, well aware that they too, had tears streaming down their faces for their best friend who after so many weeks of avoidance and keeping up a strong front, had finally crumbled.

They stood there together, a huddled entity, just the three of them in the midst of the chaos, for an indeterminable amount of time. As House's jagged sobs began to taper away and he began to calm down, Cuddy pulled away and whispered, "Let's get you to bed." There was no lewd comment from House about her wanting to get his pants off, proof of his emotional exhaustion and that they had been, and might even still be slowly losing their friend. He only mutely nodded.

Wilson wheeled House into his bedroom. Seeing House as limp as a rag, physically spent from his earlier outburst, he lifted House onto the bed. There was no protest or glare from House, who simply turned on his side away from them and burrowed his face into his pillow, body trembling from aftershocks of his outburst. Wilson lifted the blankets and covered House with them while Cuddy wiped the sweat off his brow with a towel, and cleaned his hands of the black paint.

"Rest well, House." She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple, her lips barely a breath away from him as she murmured goodnight.

As she turned to leave, House grabbed her wrist, and clung on like a drowning man desperately to a lifeline.

"Stay."

Cuddy turned around.

"Just till I fall asleep… Please."

She squeezed his hand and got in under the covers with him, facing him. Seeing the apprehension and vulnerability on his face, she wiggled closer to him, and placed her arm over him, and pulled him towards her, holding him there, calming him. Their fingers intertwined, and she traced her thumb over his hand, lulling him to sleep.

Just as she thought he was asleep, she heard his voice, a ragged whisper in the dark. "D-did you m-mean what-t you said-d? T-that y-you love me?"

"No matter what, I always have," she breathed. She felt him relax into her, and she tightened her arms around him as he drifted off into sleep.