/IMPORTANT SO READ THAT UNDERLINED CRAP NOW/

Go back and re- read the end of the last chapter if you waited for this one to update. I changed a few things, based on a review post that was quite helpful. Go. Now. Re-read. Do it and you get metaphorical internet chocolate.

Okay guys, quick point here. I'm not a doctor, nor am I a nurse, nor am I a paramedic. The extent of my medical training consists of a health class I took online in two days to get my school credits, and Medical Terminology. So please, don't judge me too harshly. You aren't here for medical facts anyway, and if you are… sorry.

The ride to the hospital was relatively short, but to Cuddy and Wilson, it was the longest wait of their life. They had no way of knowing what House was going through, no way to know if he was even still alive.

Cuddy was in the ambulance, being fussed over by an EMT. Wilson was in his car, he and his thoughts alone.

House wasn't fairing much better. He'd regained consciousness about half way there, and was busy trying not to puke from the pain of having a car door meet him up close and personally. He caught snatches of the conversations of the paramedics-

"The lung must be punctured, I'm only getting breath sounds on the right-"

"He's lost too much blood, his BP is dropping too far-"

"Oxygen stats are in the shitter, I'm going to intubate-"

He was too out of it to protest, and the world went black as they sedated him for the procedure.

Wilson and Cuddy got there right behind House, and the pair piled out into the ER. Wilson's car was parked haphazardly, taking up nearly half of another spot- normally, he wouldn't have left it that way, but under the circumstances he didn't much care if he took up an entire row.

House was sent to prep for surgery, and Wilson had the presence of mind to call Chase. House had pissed off almost all the competent surgeons in the hospital, and Chase was probably the only one that wouldn't 'accidentally' leave a surgical implement in his innards.

He arrived in the ER as Cuddy was getting shards of glass pulled out of her arm.

"Jesus Christ! Dr. Cuddy, what the hell happened?"

Cuddy's eyes met his, hers like fire. "Accident. I need you with House."

"He-"

"He's in surgery right now," she interrupted, cutting him off. "Go."

Chase nodded, taking off.

He arrived to the operating room and scrubbed in, going as fast as he could. They were still getting him stabilized when he walked in, and he looked up on the observation platform to give Wilson a reassuring nod.

Chase was in his element. Surgery was what he did best. However, when he saw the state of House's torso, he had to fight panic.

The crash had really done a number on him. His chest had been mangled heavily by the door, crushing his left lung and breaking several ribs straight off. His right arm was heavily bruised and had several deep, angry lacerations that another doctor was stitching up as he took inventory of his boss.

God. His boss.

This was House. House, who had been there that morning, happy and in love. House, who, not even two hours ago, had been directing them in a differential and insulting Forman's handwriting.

Apparently it had taken them half an hour to get him out of the car.

Chase had been relieved to find that his right leg had no further damage, aside from some cuts and bruising, but his left leg… his left femur was broken from the impact.

If- no, Chase commanded himself- when House was out of the ICU, he was going to have one hell of a recovery.

Wilson watched Chase work, fighting tears. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. The instant that House had something to be happy about, the very moment he was fighting for a chance to become better, he was struck down. Not for the first time, Wilson wondered where God was in House's life.

Cuddy joined him about twenty minutes later. She'd physically escaped from the ER doctors, all intent on treating their dean, to get there.

Tears were streaming down her face as she watched Chase try to put House back together. She gripped Wilson's hand tightly, choking on her sobs.

Chase, after what seemed like days later, finally turned to the only family House had and gave them a 'thumbs up'. House was stable, and holding on by a slightly larger thread.

Half an hour later, the last nurse left Cuddy and Wilson alone in House's ICU room.

"We should just put his name on this door, too," Wilson half joked, staring at his sleeping friend. "He's been in here at least as much as his office."

Cuddy wasn't smiling; but then again, neither was Wilson.

House was out cold. A tube was assisting his breathing, because of the lung. His entire chest was bandaged up, and his left leg was in a brace. House had come close to regaining consciousness earlier; Chase had reset the break manually, and House hadn't been happy about it, even in his drugged state.

At the moment, he was heavily sedated.

Cuddy's arm was aching distantly, but she hardly felt it. The only pain she noticed was the one that her fiancé was putting her through.

"He's going to be okay, Cuddy," Wilson assured her gently, trying to comfort both her and himself with his words. "Chase did well."

As if he'd heard his name called, Chase showed up in that moment, as did Foremen and Taub.

The three of them were silent for a long time, taking in the scene.

Cuddy was tear-streaked, in her undershirt, bloodstained, and holding House's unconscious hand. Wilson wasn't looking much better. The man seemed to have aged ten years in just a few hours- his eyes were rimmed with red and his hair was no longer in it's usual, perpetual state of 'pretty'.

Foreman was the first to speak up. "How is he?"

Cuddy didn't seem to hear him, so Wilson took over. "He's… stable."

Chase rubbed the back of his neck with the same hand that had just been immersed in House's innards for the last two hours. "I did the best I could, but there was a lot of damage to his torso. His left leg, too…"

The mood of the room, if possible, got lower than before with the thought of House wheelchair bound. Him doing it for a parking space wasn't hard to believe. Him doing it for a day because his leg wasn't working for him was hard to grasp, but conceivable. House rolling around in a chair for weeks on end because neither of his legs were in proper working order was a horrible thought that none of them wanted to process.

Taub cleared his throat, wishing to escape the room. "We do have a patient, so I'm going to go finish the tests we discussed earlier…"

He was still mumbling excuses as he walked out of the room.

Foreman drifted out soon after, in much the same fashion, but Chase remained. House, put simply, looked terrifyingly awful. He was pale and gritty and had the sickly glow of someone grievously injured. His tall frame was somewhat dwarfed by the extensive medical equipment all around him.

Chase felt awfully close to his breaking point, and had the distinct feeling that he wanted to go out and get hammered and forget everything. However, that wasn't yet an option, so instead he stood in front of his unconscious, broken boss until he felt himself begin to shake.

A hand was on his shoulder a moment later, and Chase swallowed. "You did good, Chase," Wilson assured him, squeezing slightly. "He's going to be okay."

As a surgeon, and as a doctor on House's team, Chase knew how little value that platitudes really held. None the less, the reassuring words of the oncologist kept him together long enough to turn and walk out the doors.

Time seemed to drag on forever. Cuddy remained silent, holding House's hand. Her eyes were curiously glazed and unseeing, something that disturbed Wilson greatly.

He finally spoke up, trying to break the horrible silence that had fallen upon the room, punctured only by the sounds of the machines that were keeping House alive. There were many things he wanted to ask her, questions mostly about what she was going to do with Rachel while House was in recovery, but, knowing the danger of prodding those issues, he stuck with something simple.

Cuddy had been holding a small thermos in her hand the entire time, almost like a security blanket. Wilson wasn't sure where it had come from or why she had it, but she seemed intent on not letting it go.

"Where did that thermos come from?" he asked.

Cuddy didn't seem to register that he had spoken, and he let the silence drag on for a long moment. He was about to repeat himself when Cuddy's voice pierced the hush.

"He angled the car, Wilson," she told him, her voice flat and nearly toneless. Though he was thrown by the sequitur, Wilson didn't say anything in return.

"He saw the truck heading for us. It was coming on my side. He flipped the car almost completely around."

Silent tears tracked down her face. "He probably saved my life."

I'm writing this chapter at 2 am, on a Monday, while eating the generic version of Coco Pebbles with a giant spoon because we are out of clean silverware. Please, be nice to me. *pitiful, sleep deprived look*