A/N: I know this chapter is a bit short, but once again, it turned into something much longer than originally anticipated. This bit may be a bit slow but I promise it'll pick up soon.

Between writer's block and the inability to find the time to get in front of my laptop, it's been too long between chapters...again.

Thanks for all the comments and I'm glad the last chapter had you going for a while. It was fun to write. This chapter on the other hand...ugh. Nobody ever said this was easy.

A big thanks to Magie05 once again. Any and all mistakes are mine, or maybe my three year old's, who decided he wanted to type letters in my story. I hope I found them all...

Chapter 11

He was sitting in bed, holding the ancient-looking hospital telephone on his lap, contemplating a simple phone call.

He picked up the receiver and held it tight.

The images from the previous twelve hours flashed through his mind in a blur. The visit from Dennis Anderson was a shocker in the least, almost giving him a heart attack (damn monitor) at the sheer shock of seeing The Man standing in his hospital room. That had been the highlight of his day... hell, it was the highlight of his month.

But throughout the Gravedigger crew's visit, the pain had slowly escalated, preventing him from focusing on anything else but the rhythm of his heartbeat pounding out a constant beat in his leg, putting a damper on what had been a relatively enjoyable evening. He was no longer able to hide his discomfort, especially from the ever-wary Wilson who had finally knocked him out with enough Morphine to make him not only forget about the pain, but also his own name.

The had returned again sometime in the middle of the night. He remembered blindly pushing the PCA button, waiting for the relief that never came, unable, or maybe unwilling, to do no more than move his thumb.

Within a few minutes someone had entered his room, a nurse he assumed judging by the unfamiliar female voice, who had asked him a few questions. He must have responded correctly, because moments later he had felt the warmth of the morphine soothe his angry nerves, gently coaxing them, and eventually, him back to sleep.

Then there was The Nightmare, version 2.0 that had scared the living shit out of him...followed shortly by some other nurse shaking him out of his personal hell.

That same nurse...at least he thought it was the same one (he couldn't keep track of one from another) had come in at some ridiculous hour and had taken his vitals again. The latest intrusion had been the third disturbance of the night. It was a miracle anyone ever got any sleep in this place.

Since she had already woken him up, he had her check the pulses in his left foot just to be sure they were still there. That dream had shaken him up more than he would have liked to admit. She reassured him that the pulses were strong and he should go back to sleep and stop worrying, attempting to placate him with useless babble about how they were there to take care of him and he was in good hands.

Right. History begged to differ.

After the nurse had left, he lay there, wide awake, blinking at the odd shapes the hall lights were making on the drop panel ceiling. Unable to fall asleep, he kept running the dream over and over in his head. Was it just a dream or was he missing something? Was his subconscious trying to give him that single clue to prevent another disaster?

He'd been lying there for what felt like hours, weighing his options. Should he or shouldn't he call Masterson? That was the simple question that kept gnawing at his insides. The list of pros and cons growing ever longer as he stared at the buttons on the phone. He didn't want to become one of those loser clinic patients who annoyed the hell out of him, demanding to see a doctor for a hang nail or a simple sniffle. It was probably nothing, just normal post op discomfort poorly controlled by insufficient pain meds...but that damn nightmare wouldn't leave him alone.

House quickly dialed Masterson's number before he could change his mind for the umpteenth time.

"Doctor Masterson," came the abrupt but professional reply.

"It's Monday morning. Do you know where your daughter is?" House said in a haunting voice.

"As a matter of fact I do, and she's far away from you, House," he replied, emphasizing his name. House loved to bug Masterson about his hot nineteen-year-old daughter. "And what do I owe the pleasure of this call? I'm sure it wasn't just to annoy me about my daughter...but then you would do something like that."

"I need a reason? Maybe I just wanted to say hi." He reached under the covers and began to fiddle with the tubing taped to the inside of his right leg while cradling the phone against his right cheek. It was probably not the most hygienic act to be performing when on the phone but he couldn't stand the itching and burning any more. If he timed it right, he'd be free of all leads and tubes before Masterson made it to his room.

"Right. You're calling me to see how my morning is going." There was a pause, then Masterson's tone became more serious. "Something bothering you?"

"You mean besides the skyrocketing fuel prices, global warming and polar bears losing their habitat?" House's tone quieted as he dropped the charade. "You know how you've always bugged me to tell you when something didn't feel right?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, I'm telling you."

"What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure. Just doesn't feel...right. " House's voice sounded quiet, coming out as a low grumble.

"So, you've finally decided to open your mouth when something's bothering you? Why the change of heart?"

How was he supposed to answer that? 'I had this freaky nightmare that scared the crap out of me and you were this evil butcher who chopped off both my legs for kicks and Wilson stole all my shoes' probably wouldn't be the best reply.

"I...it...just get in here, please."

"Wait. Did you just say 'please'? Wow, something either scared the hell out of you or you hit your head or you've learned to accept-"

"Enough of the psychoanalysis," House interrupted, "are you going to come up here and check my damn leg or not? I'm sure I could find-"

The door slid open and he looked up in surprise to see Masterson entering his room, cell phone plastered to his ear.

"Wow. Now THAT'S impressive service. Do you like have one of those cool Star Trek transporter things?" House asked, the receiver still wedged between his left ear and shoulder, his hands still occupied under the sheets as he worked to free himself from the tether still holding him hostage.

"I was already on my way here and thought I'd surprise you," Masterson replied, snapping his cell phone shut as a sign for House to hang up.

"You just wanted to catch me in the middle of doing something embarrassing...which wouldn't be totally incorrect." House answered, pulling his left hand out from under the blankets. "You really do have impeccable timing. Like a sixth sense." The receiver was pushing against his jaw and his neck was starting to get a bit stiff from holding it at an awkward angle. "You mind?" he motioned with his eyes toward the receiver as his hands continued to work their magic with the Foley. "Hands are a little busy, if you know what I mean," STOP HERE So why are you here?"

"You called me." Masterson answered, taking the hand-piece from House's shoulder and placing it back on the cradle still sitting in House's lap.

"I called you thirty seconds ago and now you're standing two feet in front of me." Almost got it... "Either you're some kind of psychic and knew I was gonna call or you were already heading up here on your own volition," eyeing Masterson suspiciously as he continued to pull the tubing out of his urethra, the uncomfortable burning causing him to squirm, "or someone opened his big mouth."

"I happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted to stop by and see how you were doing."

"Riiiiight. And I want to run the New York Marathon. Not happening." House sent a scrutinizing eye Masterson's direction. Finally, he felt the end of the catheter slip out the end of his now happy penis.

"Ahhhh, freedom." The urge to urinate was overpowering, but his bladder was empty and the discomfort would slowly subside over time.

"God. Can't you get a nurse to do that?" Masterson asked as the rubber tubing emerged from under the covers to House's right and landed on the floor with a plop. "It's leaking on the floor."

"Oh, relax. It's sterile. And besides, that's what nurses are for." Contradicting himself, he then asked for some hand sanitizer from the bathroom. Masterson complied and House rubbed his hands together vigorously as Masterson continued their conversation.

"I'm sure the nurses would beg to differ." The giant of a man walked around to House's left and grabbed the edge of the blanket that had migrated partially on to House's injured leg. "Is it safe yet?"

"Yes, the family jewels are safely stowed away." Currently his body was behaving itself, relatively peaceful, but that was about to change if Dr. I-need-to-take-a-look-and-manhandle-your-leg-until-you're-screaming had anything to do with it. How did Masterson get there so damn fast?

Quickly, he went from contemplation to self-preservation as a large hand wrapped around his heavily bandaged ankle, the only part of his lower leg that had somehow remained intact. Odd how so many small fragile bones could survive an impact like he had experienced yet the bones that normally supported most of his weight snapped like a couple of cheap toothpicks. A simple answer: physics.

A breath caught in his throat as his leg was lifted off the pillow and Masterson started unwinding the elastic bandage holding everything in place.

"You were already heading up here...which means..." House was still trying to solve the puzzle as to how Masterson had teleported himself to his room in the blink of an eye. Then it dawned on him.

Of course.

"Let me guess," he exhaled through clenched teeth. "Wilson."

"Wilson what?"

"Called you." He felt the pressure on his leg ease as the last bit of elastic wrap was removed. "Couldn't help himself."

"He was just concerned," Masterson explained as he set the mass of loose elastic bandage on the bed.

House rolled his eyes in response. "That's his middle name. James 'I'm insecure about myself so I need to control everyone else's lives' Wilson." He didn't dare try to move the exposed leg, afraid to even look at it.

"Whatever his name is, he said you needed some extra pain relief last night."

"Why would that surprise you? The original dosage was pretty conservative. You know my tolerance for opiates..." letting the sentence trail off. Masterson was well aware of his history.

Masterson lowered his foot gently back on the pillow and crouched down to take a closer look. House hesitantly followed the other doctor's gaze to his lower leg. The colors of the rainbow were represented in shades of red, purple, blue, black and even some greens and yellows mixed in there. His ankle had disappeared due to the swelling, making his lower leg look more like a giant uncooked bratwurst.

From his vantage point, he could see the incisions Masterson had made: several small ones on the outside of his calf near his ankle and knee, another on the outside of his foot and one larger one running horizontal across his knee where the titanium rod had been inserted.

"The incisions look good," Masterson hesitated for a second, "but there's more swelling than I'd like to see."

"You are not keeping me here another day. In case you haven't noticed, I'm a doctor, too. There's no infection, no discharge, no fever. I'm going home...today."

"Well, guess what, I'm YOUR doctor," Masterson added, "and I know you too well. You'll leave here with Wilson and do your best to piss him off so he leaves. Then you'll try to do too much on your own and do something stupid, fall and break something else...hopefully not your other leg or an arm. That would be fun, wouldn't it? Having to completely rely on another human being to do the simplest tasks like getting dressed or taking a piss." The doctor touched the top of House's foot, checking for pulses as he lectured, "Because I know how much you would love having someone help aim the hose while you douse the fire."

House rolled his eyes, "Oh, don't get so dramatic. You're as bad as Wilson. And you can say the word 'penis' in front of me. This isn't grade school."

"No, it's more like pre-school." There was the sound of a package being torn open and Masterson pivoted around, syringe in hand. House caught a glimpse of the other supplies laying on the tray, immediately aware of what Masterson had planned.

"Is that really necessary?" It wasn't the procedure itself he was afraid of, he dealt with more pain on a daily basis. It was what the test might reveal that had his insides tied up in knots.

"It is if you want to possibly go home today," Masterson continued assembling the pressure gauge to the syringe, then set it aside.

"A little Lidocaine first." He swabbed an area on the front of his leg and slid the injected the anesthetic.

House barely felt the needle enter his skin as he watched his colleague work.

After the anesthetic took effect, Masterson picked up the device and removed the cover from the 6-inch long needle. "You know how this works. Any questions before I start?"

" Ummm, yeah. Is your daughter available Friday night?"

The sudden sharp stab from the large needle answered his question as Masterson chose to respond with physical violence.

"Ow!"

"Shut up, I'm working."

With tight lips and clenched fists, House watched and waited to hear the results. He couldn't help but stare at the gauge in Masterson's hands, as if he could lower the numbers by using The Force. It was worth a try.

"Twenty-five," was all Masterson had to say as House started to breathe again. The danger zone was 30 mmHg of pressure or higher, which meant no fasciotomy, no surgery. He could go home. He silently thanked Yoda , Obi Wan or whoever had been instrumental in keeping the numbers down.

"Great!" House said enthusiastically, rubbing his hands together. "Sign the release papers and let me out of here."

"Not so fast." Masterson was already busy rewrapping House's leg. "I know you too well. You're not going anywhere until you can prove to me that you can function on your own."

"Oh, come on!" He argued, "You know Wilson's gonna be fluttering around me like goddamn Tinkerbell. He lives for this stuff."

"I'm still trying to figure out why he'd want to subject himself to that kind of torture. I feel for him."

"What about ME? You've never had to live with the guy before. Did you know he blow-dries his hair?"

"And?"

House looked suspiciously back at his doctor. "No! You're supposed to laugh, make fun of him, scorn him. Instead you're siding with him? You disappoint me. Come on, you're an ex-football player for God's sakes. Pretty soon you and Wilson will be going to get spa treatments together."

"Just because you lack any personal hygiene skills..." The other doctor placed his hands on his hips in an all-too-familiar pose. "Maybe you should take some lessons from your friend."

"Looks like you already are. Just get me out of this damn bed and I'll let you comb my hair or something." House had already started pushing the rolling tray out of the way.

"You really think you're ready?"

"I'm not sure. Only if you're gentle. You may need to use a brush at first...Oh! You mean ready to get out of here and go home? Nah, I'd rather stay here until I catch MRSA or some other antibiotic-resistant mutated form of staph and die a slow painful death." He pushed himself into a sitting position and took hold of the IV running into his hand and fiddled with the connection.

"Hang on...drama queen." The orthopedic doctor muttered under his breath as he strode out into the hallway with a swish of the sliding glass door, leaving House impatiently waiting to move his sore ass out of bed and into another seat.

Masterson returned, pushing a black wheelchair and parked it next to the bed. He lowered the right side bed rail and pushed the now-disconnected IV pole out of the way to give House plenty of room to negotiate himself into the chair.

The chair loomed two feet to his right. All he had to do was lift his butt, slide it across the bed and into the chair, move the right leg, move the left leg. Should be easy. If he couldn't do this, he should have Wilson pack up his things and move him to that retirement home around the corner where all the old geezers sit around in wheelchairs all day, staring at the ground. He imagined himself sitting out on the terrace, the lame elevator music lulling him into a catatonic state while the other invalids took their dentures out of their mouths and picked out the remnants of the shredded wheat they'd had for breakfast.

It was now or never.

House removed the blankets and arranged his gown to cover his marred right thigh. He knew Masterson had seen it more times than he could count but it didn't mean he needed to put it on display. The damaged quads had been relatively tame since he was hospitalized, probably due to a combination of good drugs and bed rest, giving his overtaxed muscles a much-needed break. But that was about to change as he prepared to wake the sleeping beast that was his right leg.

"Okay. The easiest way to do this is to get your good leg over to the chair first."

"I don't have a good leg." House had already started pushing himself into a more upright position, scooting his rear towards the edge of the bed. His left leg was already protesting the slight movement as he continued his tight-lipped conversation, "My scale of goodness has dropped dramatically in the last few days. My 'good' leg has now become the 'bad' leg, which now makes my 'bad' leg the 'good' leg, hence, totally lowering my definition of 'good' to more like 'less sucky'."

"The one that's not injured."

House looked up at Masterson from under knitted eyebrows.

"Okay, the leg that sucks less," the Masterson responded, sounding a bit exasperated as he moved behind the wheelchair to play spotter while House got to demonstrate his acrobatic technique of "how to get into a wheelchair with two useless legs 101."

"Scoot to the edge of the bed...right, like that...I'm sure you remember some of this from...last time." Masterson's tone indicated he really didn't want to bring up House's prior wheelchair use during his recovery from the infarction and follow up surgery, but the experience would be useful.

Just like riding a bike, he thought. Even though he'd forgotten what it was like to actually pedal a real bicycle.

The bet he had made with Cuddy and the week he spent in the wheelchair to regain his prime parking space helped solidify his confidence in using the wheelchair. Those skills returned after just a few minutes rolling around the halls of the hospital.

This was so much easier when I had one good leg, he thought as his arms trembled from the exertion of lifting his body to the edge of the bed, his legs feeling like two-ton anchors dragging across the ocean floor.

At the height of House's balancing act, Wilson decided to show his face.

"Great. An audience..." House muttered.

"Doctor Wilson. So nice of you to join us." Masterson chimed in, greeting him with a quick hand shake. "Could you possibly give us a hand and stand over here?" motioning toward the right side of the chair, "just in case."

"In case what?" Wilson asked, moving into position.

"Just in case I decide to take a header, you can throw yourself in front of me and break my fall," came House's response as he balanced on the edge of the bed.

"My goal in life," came Wilson's sarcastic reply.

House peaked over his shoulder at Masterson and Wilson to his right. "You better not let me fall on my ass."

"Moi?" Wilson replied innocently, pointing to his own chest, "I would never think of doing something like that."

--

Magie05 has come to the conclusion that Wilson speaks French since he attended college in Canada. :)