This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee...

2.12 Distractions

Wilson found he had to keep tugging on the leash, to keep Greg moving. It was cold outside. He liked knowing he had Greg on a leash, when his slave obediently followed. He liked it even when Greg, as tonight, was shivering and malingering, acting lamer than he was, and Wilson had to match his pace. He still liked the look of the silvery tag against Greg's throat.

Whether or not Stacy was actually planning to be gone by Monday, Wilson didn't think she'd be a problem again.

He hesitated a moment before handing the leash to Greg in the car, as usual, but Greg just took it, indifferently, and stared out of the window: he had to be told to belt himself in, but he did it when Wilson reminded him.

"What do you want to eat?" Wilson asked him. Greg looked at him and shrugged.

"Thai? Pizza? Are you hungry?"

"No."

"You need something before you can have your painkillers," Wilson ruled. "When did you last eat?" He hadn't brought Greg lunch, and there hadn't been much chance for Greg to get down to the slave canteen.

"Chase bought me tacos," Greg said after a minute. He said it in a disconnected kind of way, as if he did not associate what he was saying with anything he was feeling, neither hunger nor a friendly gesture. If it was a friendly gesture. Wilson didn't trust Chase.

"Good," Wilson said briefly. He'd order Thai.

The desk clerk looked up as Wilson came in, and called him over. "Doctor Wilson! Excuse me - I have a message for you - "

Wilson paused. Greg stood still as soon as Wilson stopped, looking ahead, not turning to see what the problem was.

"Mr Dennis said he would like to speak to you when you came in, Doctor Wilson," the desk clerk said. "Would you mind just waiting here for a minute while I call him?" The clerk was already tapping out a short number on his desk phone, so Wilson shrugged, resigned: "All right."

Mr Dennis was the night manager, apparently. His name-badge said so. He wanted a private word with Wilson in his office, and since "private" could easily mean "confidential by AMA rules", Wilson considered for an instant, and simply took Greg's cane away. Greg stared at him, and looked round, as if realising suddenly where he was. Wilson handed him the other end of the leash. "Stay there," Wilson told him, and went into the manager's office.

This wasn't a medical matter: the manager was extremely polite and long-winded about it, but the fact was, he hesitated to mention it, though they would not dream of changing a valued customer who happened to bring a slave back to his room for an occasional night, it did appear that for some weeks now Doctor Wilson had been effectively a double-occupancy, since it appeared that Doctor Wilson had acquired a personal slave. A very distinguished-looking and doubtless very valuable slave, the hotel's compliments, but the fact is, Doctor Wilson -

The hotel wanted Wilson to pay the rate changed for a free person staying with their personal slave, rather than - as Wilson had been paying up till now - the rate for a single person occupying a double room. Once Wilson realised this he produced his credit card, and once the manager realised Wilson was quite willing to backdate his payments, they only had to establish at what point the personal slave ("Greg? - Excellent name, Doctor Wilson, very appropriate - how long Greg had been staying routinely overnight in Wilson's room.") Wilson admitted that Greg did not literally belong to him but to his employer, which made it a slightly different tariff. They worked out together what the total back pay was, the manager magnanimously took 10% off, Wilson charged it, and the room rate would of course be higher for the future.

In the hall outside, Greg was gone. The desk clerk was talking on the phone to another guest: the night manager's door was shut: for an instant of pure panic, Wilson envisaged Greg limping away, a crippled older slave, unnoticed and assumed to be valueless, to be found the next day somewhere - curled up next to a heating vent, dead of cold when the vent switched off -

The desk clerk put the phone down. "Doctor Wilson? I'm sorry, security insisted your slave wait somewhere else."

"Where is he?" Wilson demanded sharply.

"He's in the security room," the desk clerk said. "They have a holding area there. I was just speaking to the guard on duty now; he says he's on his own but they can bring your slave up to your room in twenty minutes, or if you don't object to a walk down to the security room, you can collect him now."

Wilson was so relieved he almost staggered. "Now," he said, briefly: waiting for Greg to be delivered would be intolerable, and he had the presumption - he realised, on his way down in the elevator, probably misjudged - that the security guards here would feel free to make sexual use of Greg. The security guards at PPTH had been free to make use of Greg because he was the property of the hospital that employed them: the security staff here ought to have a different attitude to slaves of the guests.

The security room was large and shabby, but virtually empty: there were two desks, only one of them occupied, a wire metal cage big enough to hold Greg, but empty, several large worn sofas that looked as if they had moved downstairs from some refitting of the hotel, and a large metal luggage trolley. It took Wilson a long moment to realise that Greg was sitting on the luggage trolley, his leash wrapped round the handle.

The security man sitting at the desk stood up and came over. "Doctor Wilson?" He unhooked the leash. "Come on, boy, your owner's here. Sorry, Doctor Wilson, he seems docile enough tonight, but this is the same slave that was involved in that altercation in the car park, isn't he?"

"Yes," Wilson said, taking hold of the leash. He tugged slightly. "Greg?"

Greg's head lifted: his eyes opened. He saw Wilson. He didn't otherwise move. Wilson handed him his cane and made a "get up" gesture with his hands, and Greg began effortfully levering himself to his feet.

"Well, it's the policy at this hotel not to give any slave two chances. If you leave him unattended or if there's any trouble, we'll take him down here. He seemed quiet enough, and Ray said you were just dealing with Mr Dennis, so I didn't put him in the cage. My guy who brought him down, by the way, he said I should make clear to you that the slave said he was supposed to stay there and wait for you."

Wilson nodded. Greg was on his feet now. Wilson tucked on the leash again. "Come on, Greg."

"Just to be clear about that," the security man said, again. "Your slave knew he was supposed to stay and wait for you. We brought him down here from where you left him."

"Got it," Wilson said, not particularly interested now he had Greg back, and went out: the lift whisked him back to his own floor, and, at last, an uninterrupted evening and a whole weekend ahead of him. He sat Greg down on the bed, unclipping the leash from his collar and taking the cane away again, and went to put his own things away: hanging up his jacket, putting his briefcase away, emptying out his pockets. His cellphone went into the room safe. After a moment's consideration, he took the cuffs out.

The bed was empty. Greg was slowly making his way into the bathroom. Wilson followed him, meaning to unset the lock so that Greg couldn't shut himself in there, but when he got to the door Greg was down on his knees by the pedestal: his body jerked, and he vomited into it. He went on throwing up for some time, as Wilson watched, half intrigued and half disgusted: by the time he was gasping and choking out nothing but liquid, Wilson was medically interested. This was how Greg had reacted their first evening together, when he'd believed he had been sold to Wilson.

Greg wasn't throwing up bad food or reacting to a virus, Wilson was pretty sure - he wasn't running a fever, he hadn't eaten recently - which pretty definitely left what Wilson would describe to a patient as "nervous stomach": he was vomiting because of anxiety or stress. Other possible reactions were ulcers or acid reflux. Wilson hummed thoughtfully to himself. When Greg stopped vomiting, he was still clinging to the pedestal, evidently not wanting to turn around and face Wilson.

Room service here was limited and expensive. Wilson filled a toothglass with water and picked up Greg's right arm, literally pushing the full glass into it. "Don't brush your teeth," he ordered Greg. "It's bad for the enamel so soon after vomiting. Wash your mouth out with this, and drink a little. Not too much." He walked away then, leaving Greg to drink the water and get up at his own pace. The room service menu offered beef or cheese sandwiches, with chips: Wilson ordered a plain cheese sandwich and a grilled beef sandwich: a bottle of beer for himself, a can of ginger ale for Greg. He got Greg out of the bathroom and made him lie down on the bed, sitting down beside him.

"It would be easier if you'd tell me what you're afraid of," Wilson said. "You know I'm not going to hurt you."

Greg stared up at him. He swallowed, turned his head away from Wilson, and shook, making a noise it took Wilson a moment, dumbfounded, to interpret as laughter: Greg was laughing at him.

Wilson stood up, took a couple of deep slow breaths to calm himself down, to remember his promise. He even went over to the wall safe, got his phone out, and sent a quick e-mail to Foreman to let him know that Wilson was concerned that Greg might have ulcers or acid reflux, to check him out on Monday. Greg hadn't moved when Wilson came back to the bed, and he cooperated only to the smallest extent as Wilson stripped him. He didn't resist, either: his limbs and body were heavy and limp as Wilson pulled his t-shirt and then his jeans off. He was wearing new, not slave-issue, undershorts: Wilson noticed as he was removing them. Something else Warner had bought for him.

When Greg was naked, Wilson rolled him over on to his back. Greg blinked up at the ceiling, not moving. Wilson took his right wrist and slipped the cuff on: Greg reacted to that, but too late - Wilson wasn't as fast as a guard, but Greg was slow this evening.

"I just want you to remember," Wilson told him levelly, "that you belong to me, you're tagged for me, and you get used how and by whom I choose."

Greg's head was lifted from the pillow at a strained angle for his neck. He was staring at Wilson, wide-eyed. Wilson reached out and ran a finger along Greg's throat just where collar met flesh, stirring the tag. "You're mine, Greg. You don't have anything to worry about or think about beyond that. On Monday you're going back to the hospital to work for Diagnostics, just like usual - I don't want you to worry about that either - but tonight, you're all mine."

He lay down beside Greg, enjoying everything about this: Greg naked except for his collar, helplessly shackled, rigid-helpless resistance melting as Greg realised there was nothing he could do. Greg's mouth opened a little: Wilson reminded himself not to kiss him, his mouth still probably stank a little of vomit. But he thought, staring down into Greg's face, tenderly stroking Greg's side down to the jut of his hip, leisurely anticipating the gentle exploration of the great scar on his thigh, that this could only be better if Greg was gagged. Not tonight, not even if he'd thought to bring an official gag from the hospital or buy one: too much risk if Greg were going to throw up again. But some night, soon. He thought about the cage downstairs: Greg had spent time in that cage, though Wilson hadn't witnessed it. When he had his own place, he could have a cage built for Greg: he could justify it on security grounds, if he had to, somewhere secure to keep the valuable slave off hospital premises. But he would love knowing that Greg was locked away, just his, to be taken out when Wilson wanted him.

There was a knock on the door. Greg flinched - a whole-body twitch, that nearly jerked him off the bed. Wilson grabbed at him and pulled him back. Room service.

"Don't worry," Wilson said fondly, and got up to open the door.

The slave who delivered the tray of food put it down on the table and went out again without apparently noticing the naked, cuffed man on the bed. Wilson rolled Greg on to his back and heaved his head up on both the pillows. He made Greg drink some ginger ale, then fed him a mouthful of potato chips. "Keep those down, and you can have the cheese sandwich," Wilson promised, before he picked up his own sandwich and bit into it. Corned beef on rye, no pickles: tasty enough, but they charged for speed of service, not haute cuisine. He ate half his own sandwich, sporadically feeding Greg more potato chips and sips of ginger ale.

It seemed that Greg was recovered from his bout of vomiting. Wilson tore off a bitesize piece of cheese sandwich, and handfed it to Greg, who ate obediently. Wilson went on feeding Greg the plain cheese sandwich slowly, taking occasional bites of his own sandwich: Greg seemed at one point to have longing eyes fixed on Wilson's food, but Wilson ignored this. He would make sure Greg got a substantial, plain breakfast tomorrow, and make time on Monday to clarify to Foreman what the problem was. He finished off Greg's meal with another couple of sips of ginger ale, and set aside the can for later: Greg was due to get his painkillers in twenty minutes or so.

Wilson lay down beside Greg again and just held him, petting the scar on his leg gently, nuzzling against his face and neck. He had a comfortable sense of reassurance and rightness. He had claimed Greg, fed him, cared for him, and soon, after he'd given Greg his meds, he would fuck him. Whatever Warner had done with Greg in Baltimore was irrelevant. It wasn't as if Greg had any real right to refuse: it was Warner's fault for making use of a slave she knew was tagged. He shouldn't be angry with a slave he had promised to care for. Wilson's hand moved, gently, on the scarred flesh. He liked Greg. He wasn't going to hurt Greg. But the thought of making Greg scream was turning him on.

Wilson gave Greg his meds with another mouthful of ginger ale. He'd picked up a bottle of handcream in the clinic this morning: that would do for lubricant. He could do a little shopping tomorrow. Given the cuffs, the most comfortable position for Greg, and one Wilson would enjoy, was on his back, his legs over Wilson's shoulders. It took Wilson a little while to get Greg into position: when Greg realised what Wilson was doing he went heavily uncooperative again. Wilson slid a handful of cream over his erection. Greg lay there, his hands cuffed together on his belly, his face closed-off, the collar dark against his neck, the silver tag shining. Wilson smiled at him. "You're going to like this," he promised.

Wilson sank into pleasure. Greg was tight. He grunted once as Wilson slid inside him, his mouth opening, his eyes going wider and darker. His fingers tangled together: his expression was still closed-off. Wilson frowned, pleasure-hot, thrusting deeper: he knew when he should have hit Greg's prostate. He jerked his hips, forcing a small cry out of Greg's mouth: "Oh ho," Wilson breathed. He jerked his hips again, and Greg tried to hold still, but, clearly quite against his will, when Wilson fucked him deeper, Greg's body twitched a response: and his dick was rising, swelling. Wilson wasn't even touching him. He could handle Greg whenever he wanted, reach for more of the handcream and give Greg a little appreciation, but it was more interesting to see how hard Greg could get just from being fucked.

That was why Greg tried to avoid getting fucked. Wilson grinned, changing the angle of his thrust a little, watching Greg squirm. He felt so good: Greg was incredible, snug around his dick, sending ripples of pleasure through Wilson. Not because Greg hated it. Because he liked it too much. Wilson thought he could make Greg climax, just from being fucked, and the idea sent another hot curl of pleasure through him. Greg's hands were clutching each other, twitching and struggling in the cuffs, his mouth open, his eyes wide, making noises, wordless, sobbing grunts. Wilson gripped his arms, stilling those hands, thinking of bruises, thinking of slapping Greg's face, thinking of the noise a whip would make landing across Greg's back, he was thrusting harder and harder into Greg, the noises Greg was making filling his ears, until he came, pinning Greg down and filling him.

Greg had come. Wilson was grinning in triumph as he felt the wetness between them. He slid out of Greg's ass, wishing he had seen it happen. Greg was still making odd noises as if he was going to come. Wilson lifted his head, studying Greg: he realised, with a curious pang at the pit of his stomach, that Greg was crying. Tears were welling up at the corners of Greg's eyes, and though his mouth was tight shut, his chest was shaking with suppressed sobs.

Wilson stared down. He would have liked to fuck Greg all over again. He wanted, in an obscure kind of way, to comfort him.

It wasn't Greg's fault if Warner had sex with him. Wilson reminded himself of this. If it was, if Greg had forgotten that he was tagged, then Wilson had a right to be angry with him. To punish him.

Better for Greg if Wilson never forgot he was just property, and couldn't be held responsible or blamed for how he was used.

Wilson didn't take off the cuffs. He wiped Greg clean and dumped the dirtied towel in the bathroom. He slid into bed beside his slave, tucking both of then under the covers. He held Greg close. He could still feel Greg's body shaking. "You're mine," he whispered in Greg's ear. "All mine."

*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*

Foreman had spent the weekend thinking about Greg. He hadn't intended to - in fact, he'd bought tickets for a Monster Truck rally and asked a paediatric nurse to go with him. He and Wendy had a good time: but even so, Greg stayed at the back of Foreman's mind.

How to discipline an insolent, arrogant slave, when the slave is used to being whipped, deals with pain on a regular basis, is treated as the hospital's most valuable possession and so can't be dealt with in any way that could cause him harm, and is - under normal circumstances - actually allowed to give three free people orders?

By Monday morning, Foreman had come up with a couple of ideas. He planned to put them into prompt execution, but as he was sitting at the conference table in the Diagnostics box, he saw not Doctor House, but Greg, shambling along the hall. Greg was limping and walking slowly.

Greg pushed the door open and limped through. He glanced round the room. He didn't say 'hello' to Foreman, or nod, or acknowledge his boss in any way: he just paused to look round, and limped on through to his cubby-hole. He went in and closed the door behind him. Foreman stood up to see more clearly: Greg sat down in the leanback chair, stretched his legs out on the ottoman, and leant his head back. He seemed to look at Foreman through the glass, but then he closed his eyes.

Utter, dumb insolence.

*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*

Cameron had spent the weekend trying not to worry about Doctor House. She'd gone out to a movie which should have given her a couple of hours escape at minimum - even if it was a run-of-the-mill thriller, and Harrison Ford was playing a computer security specialist and looked his age. The bad guys broke into the family home and took the family hostage, killing their slaves, and ordering Ford to rob the bank for them.

The three slaves were hardly even one-dimensional, bit parts - they were there on screen only to establish that the family were wealthy but not fabulously so. Killing the slaves was a cliche in this kind of thriller, it was an easy way to indicate how ruthless the bad guys were without killing off anyone the audience would identify with.

Cameron hadn't yet - she kept telling herself, yet - made any real friends in New Jersey. The Diagnostics fellowship meant unpredictable hours. It was difficult to explain that she was working for a slave, but she wouldn't have felt right lying about it. At the hospital, she hung out mostly with Foreman and Chase, because everyone else who worked at the hospital knew she worked for a slave.

Going home afterwards, her mind kept going back to Harrison Ford's closed-off, grim look as he realised the bad guys had taken control of his home and his family, and he had to do exactly what they said. They hadn't put a collar on him. But it was almost like they'd enslaved him. No wonder she hadn't been able to stop thinking about Doctor House.

*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*

Chase spent the weekend hiking. He drove up to Kittatinny Ridge with a beer buddy and they hiked up to the Appalachian Trail, slept out in one of the trail shelters Saturday night with enough beer to get happy on, and drove back Sunday evening. He thought about House once the entire weekend, when they passed a family out dayhiking and the little girl and the younger mom were both coughing.

Monday morning he showed up with a box of doughnuts and a bag of popcorn, looking forward to a week of House and Foreman going head to head. Foreman was in House's cubby-hole, door closed, yelling at House: Cameron was on her feet by the table, looking very uncomfortable.

"What's up?"

"House says he's not doing clinic duty this morning," Cameron said.

"He's not allowed to say that," Chase said. Cameron looked even more uncomfortable, and Chase added thoughtfully, "Though what's Foreman going to do, call security?"

Foreman stormed out of the cubby hole and stood there, looking at them both. "You heard that?"

"Are you going to call security?" Chase asked curiously.

"I can't just let him get away with this," Foreman said. "He's got two hours clinic duty this morning, he can't just say he won't do it."

Chase stepped to one side to peer past Foreman. House was collapsed on the Eames chair, looking as if he had been dropped there, white and tired. His eyes were closed, though he couldn't be asleep. He looked nothing like the confident slave of Friday morning.

"He looks exhausted," Chase said. "What happened to him over the weekend?"

As one, their three heads turned to look at the Oncology office, through the wall. It was like it must be, Chase thought, if you actually saw someone being eaten by a croc.

"He doesn't have to do clinic duty if he has a case," Cameron said.

"So let's go find him one," Chase said.

Foreman picked up the phone . "I'll call the clinic." He looked at them soberly. "Find one fast."

Chase came back from the burn unit with a file and a cheerful grin. He walked into the Diagnostics box saying happily "Guess what, they're asking for Doctor House - "

"We have a case," Foreman said. Cameron looked up anxiously. There was no file on the table.

"This one is good," Chase said.

"Greg," Foreman said. "Doctor Wilson e-mailed me on Friday: prolonged vomiting. Now Cameron tells me Greg was vomiting last week. Differential diagnosis."

"He throws up when he's scared shitless," Chase said. "Lots of people do. Burns unit has a patient, sixteen-year-old boy, burns over 40% of his body. His heart rate is a mess. They're pumping him full of fluids but his potassium levels are going down, not up - "

The door of the cubbyhole opened. Greg came out. He stood there looking at Chase without much expression. "And they're asking for me."

"Could be amphetamines," Foreman said. "Tachycardia could be explained by the burn."

"Which I assume the burn unit knows," Greg said. He lifted his chin. "Okay. Get me a reading on his heart. If there's not enough skin for an EKG, use a galvanometer."

When none of them moved, Greg looked at Foreman. "Right, Boss?"

Foreman handed him the file. "Sit down. Read through this."

"Will there be a quiz?" Greg sat down, looking up at Foreman. "Cameron. Go get a family history. Find out what kind of drugs he's on that his parents know about. Then find out what he's on that they don't know about."

*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*

"Phone call from Nirag," Cuddy's assistant warned her. "I have someone's assistant on hold for their CEO Research."

"Nirag?" Cuddy looked up. "Bafs SVF Nirag? The pharmaceutical company? Why are they calling me?"

"The assistant just said CEO Research wanted to talk to the Chief Administrator, and when I checked he said Doctor Lisa Cuddy, except he thought you were 'Linda' Cuddy."

Cuddy glanced at her watch. She usually avoided dealing with pharmaceutical representatives. But Bafs SVF Nirag were a French company, they didn't often deal direct with PPTH: and the CEO Research of a pharmaceutical company did not usually do sales calls.

"Okay," she said. "Tell the assistant I have ten minutes, ten minutes from now. Bring me coffee now. And in twenty minutes. come in and tell me I have an urgent meeting."

Twenty-five minutes later she put the phone down. CEO Research had been very insistant that PPTH at least consider Nirag's bid. Cuddy had repeatedly said that PPTH had no intention of selling Doctor House: that this was not a strategy to drive up the price. She had even acknowledged to the woman, under the rose, that PPTH held on to House because without him the hospital would be just another small-scale teaching hospital, not the internationally-known name that it was. That they had turned down Edward Vogler. (CEO Research had heard of that, and been impressed.)

"Check the drug records of the long-term ICU patients," Cuddy told her assistant. "And get me all of Greg's e-mails sent to addresses SVFNirag. If there are none, I need someone from IT to check his hard drive - the records will be on there somewhere."

"Do you want Greg?" the assistant asked.

"If he's in the clinic, have him brought here, urgently. If he has a case, I want him here, urgently, as soon as the case is over. Don't notify Doctor Foreman or Doctor Wilson until security are on their way."

*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*

Foreman walked into Greg's cubby-hole. The blinds were down and the lights were switched off. He was lying on the floor. Worried, Foreman knelt down and checked his vitals: Greg's eyes flicked open as soon as Foreman touched his pulse.

"Are you all right?"

"I have a migraine," Greg said. "And I was right." He closed his eyes again.

Foreman stood up, switched the light on, and glanced round the office. There was a non-standard phial of a Nirag drug on the desk... and nitroglycerine, in a PPTH-standard phial.

Foreman pocketed both phials. He looked down at Greg, who had put an arm up to shield his eyelids from the light.

You poor bastard, he nearly said, out loud. It was almost going-home time: they had set the maggots to eat the dead flesh of the boy's burns, and would see if this resolved the possible infection that possibly was causing the boy's problems. There was no reason for Greg to have to stay at the hospital, and he knew it.

Foreman waited till Wilson was done with the last one-on-one oncology patient of the day, and went in to tell him "Greg has a migraine."

"What?" Wilson said, frowning. "He's not liable to migraines."

"He's lying down in a darkened room and I've ensured he has appropriate pain medication and water to hand," Foreman said. "Sleep would be best. I'll inject a mild sedative before I go."

"I'll do that," Wilson said.

"No, I will," Foreman said. He took both phials out of his pocket and set them on Wilson's desk. "The migraine was self-induced." He stood up, keeping his face expressionless. He didn't want Wilson to get the idea that Foreman didn't like him. "I guess he really doesn't want to go home with you tonight, Doctor Wilson."

*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*

"You induced a migraine," Wilson said.

Greg was lying on the floor. He didn't move, except his eyelids twitched, flinching under the light.

"These are prescription drugs, non-FDA approved, illegal in this country, that you obtained ... how?"

Greg didn't answer.

"I looked up Doctor Phillip Weber. He runs the Weber Center for Pain. He studied at Johns Hopkins, the same years you were there. He got the Doyle internship at the Mayo clinic the year you were thrown out for cheating in a math test. You know Weber."

Greg's head twitched.

"He sent you these drugs," Wilson said out loud. He watched Greg's face, eyes closed, mouth set. "Foreman thinks you induced a migraine because you didn't want to come back to the hotel with me tonight, but you induced a migraine so that you could try out his treatment. What else is he sending you? How are you getting these drugs?" Wilson got tired of looking at Greg's closed-off face, and prodded Greg's ribs, ungently, with the toe of his shoe.

Greg turned his head to one side, eyes closed. Wilson prodded his ribs again.

"I believe you actually have a migraine," Wilson said. "There's no point in taking you anywhere. But you need to learn you aren't allowed to do this. You're under my care and control. I won't allow you to damage yourself like this."

He switched off the light and turned to go.

Greg's voice, from the dark, startled him. "I'm better at this," he said.

"What?"

"This," Greg said. His voice sounded very tired and far away. "Hospital equipment. Better at this."

Wilson snorted. "You're not much use to anyone like this," he said, annoyed. He went out, slamming the door to behind him.

*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*

Cameron came in early the next day, but Doctor Wilson was already there. Doctor House was sitting at the table in the conference room with a bottle of water and a plain toasted bagel in front of him. His head was bent and he was making no effort to eat or drink. Wilson stopped talking when Cameron came in, and looked at her.

"Do you still have a migraine?" Cameron asked House, pointedly ignoring Wilson. "You should have been better by now."

"I'm super. Patient?"

"The maggots did great for the burn, but the brainwaves are still all over the map."

House looked up. "Which means your regular old infection isn't causing his brain dysfunction, which means there's an underlying condition which means we've got to get inside his head. Do a lumbar puncture."

*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*

Chase found Greg in the supplies cupboard. He'd guessed he would have hidden there. The boy was still seizing, and they'd been eliminating all possible causes: Greg had disappeared from view about five minutes after Doctor Wilson went on grand rounds, and Chase was fairly sure that he'd gone somewhere he could think uninterrupted. The roof was too bright for a migraine sufferer, Wilson had free access to the balcony, and Foreman had free access to the cubbyhole.

Greg was sitting on the floor with a blanket over his knees. Chase squatted down beside him. Greg opened his eyes and stared at Chase.

"We did the spinal tap. He doesn't have MS or an infection."

Chase knew both the look of Greg the slave and House the doctor: this wasn't either of them. Greg's pupils were shrunk to tiny dots, he looked at Chase as if he barely saw him.

"I'm hallucinating," Greg said slowly. He stared at Chase. "I see music..."

Chase stared. "Your patient is dying and you decided to get high?"

Greg didn't answer. He was still looking vaguely at Chase. His head weaved. "You're ugly," he said finally. "No music..."

"What did you take?" Chase said. He was both angry and scared. "What the hell did you take?"

He got no answer. Greg was staring at the floor, as if he saw something too fascinating to ignore.

"What do you think he took?" Cameron asked.

"LSD," Foreman said. He looked furious. "I don't know where he got it, but I will bet that was it. LSD has been shown to be effective as a migraine remedy."

"That's not the question," Chase said. "Are we going to report him to Cuddy?"

Cameron said, her voice appalled, "You know if we do, he'll be ..." her voice trailed off.

"He'll be whipped," Foreman said. He was angry. "And I don't see that will do any good. But can you honestly say he doesn't deserve it?"

Chase remembered the boy, flat on his back, burned over so much of his body, dying. Whatever Wilson had done to Greg over the weekend (so scared he was throwing up) he'd left Greg's body intact. "No," he said finally. Both he and Foreman looked at Cameron.

"No," Cameron said, finally. She was distressed, but clear. "But what about Adam?"

*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*

The longer they left Greg hallucinating in whatever hidey-hole he'd found, the more anxious Foreman got: but they had to have a diagnosis for Adam or he would die. They had done every single medical test they could safely do on a burns patient: there was no more data to be gathered.

Cameron stood up suddenly. Foreman turned his head. Doctor House was walking down the hall, wearing surgical scrubs. He thought he heard Chase sigh with relief.

"Where the hell have you been?" Foreman said.

Doctor House lifted his chin. "Scrubbed up, did what none of you morons thought of doing: I examined the unburned portions of our pot roast patient. Cigarette burn on his left arm, nicotine stain on his right hand. He's a secret smoker."

"His parents would know - " Cameron said.

"Yeah, his dad says he'd kill his kid if he started smoking. So the boy buys anti-depressants secretly off the Internet."

"Tox screen was clean," Chase said.

"Yeah, but you know how much crap he's got in his system from dealing with those burns, the guy could have the Spanish Armada floating through his bloodstream and we wouldn't know about it. Until they started firing cannons. And by cannons, I mean repeated seizures and a brain so mixed up it's interpreting pain as pleasure and having orgasms from being handled. Why did none of you morons report that? Nurses who had to clean him up told me. This is a brain with too much serotonin."

"Serotonin affects mood, appetite, it doesn't cause a brain to shut down," Cameron said.

"Antidepressants fake brains into thinking they have more serotonin than they actually do. Every 10 million or so cases, sets off a chain reaction; produces too much, enough to fry itself."

"If Adam has Serotonin Storm, it's deadly," Foreman said. He was angry now.

"But treatable," Chase said. He really did sound relieved. "Cyproheptadine."

"Unless he doesn't have Serotonin Storm," Cameron said. She sounded relieved too, almost happy, even if she was coming up with objections. "He could just as easily have too much dopamine as serotonin, but if it's dopamine the cyproheptadine will kill him."

"We can prove this one way or another," Foreman said. "Chase, Cameron, go check out the patient's home. Find his secret cigarette stash or his anti-depressant stash. Check his computer, find out what he's been buying online. If Greg is right, we administer cyproheptadine. If not..." Foreman hesitated. "Adam's failing. Either Greg's right, or Adam's dead."

"I'm right," Doctor House said. "And since Adam's dead either way, I already ordered administration of cyproheptadine."

Foreman stood up. "I'm overseeing your practice. You have no right - "

"To save the kid's life?" Doctor House looked at Foreman. "Funny. I got the idea that was what we were here for. Kid's already getting better, by the way. Brainwaves are almost normal. I was right."

*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*

Doctor Philip Weber wasn't an entirely unexpected visitor, but he was a badly illtimed one. He'd flown up from Virginia, and he wanted to speak to Doctor House.

"I have got nothing but a damned runaround from this hospital," Doctor Weber said.

"I apologise for that," Cuddy said, having cleared ten minutes off her schedule for this meeting. "How can I help you?"

"House works here," Weber said. "He's been running a study here on an experimental medication that the FDA has not yet cleared for use in this country. That drug is a breakthrough."

"I've already been contacted by Bafs SVF Nirag," Cuddy said. "They're very impressed by Doctor House's study." So impressed that they want to buy him.

"House was an arrogant know-it-all when he and I were med students," Weber said. "He's got personal reasons for bearing a grudge. I want to see his study records. I want to know how he got hold of this drug. I want to know how this study got cleared!"

"I'd like to know those answers too," Cuddy admitted. Satisfying Weber was almost certainly going to mean admitting that Greg was owned by the hospital. Her phone rang.

Foreman's voice. "We got the diagnosis," he said. "I need to speak to you about Greg."

"The patient's recovering?" Cuddy asked.

"As well as any other serious burns patient," Foreman said. "We're done."

Cuddy thanked him, told him her assistant would be in touch about their meeting, and put the phone down. "Doctor Weber, I have a serious disciplinary meeting, very urgent, shortly. Are you staying here?"

His flight was at nine. Cuddy got rid of him, promising him dinner on the hospital before his flight back, inviting him to lecture at PPTH some day soon, promising to see him again in an hour or so when the disciplinary meeting was concluded.

Cuddy listened to what first Foreman, then Wilson, and finally the IT officer who had checked Greg's e-mail records and the ICU head nurse who had checked the coma patients. Greg had been brought to her office without his cane. He was kneeling in front of her desk: Wilson and Foreman were seated on one side of the room, Hayes from IT and Nurse Ross on the other.

"I don't find there's any need to summon a disciplinary hearing of the Board," Cuddy said finally. "This is not an issue of medical misconduct. Greg, you conducted medical experiments on patients without their or their family's consent, making use of a non-FDA-approved drug which you obtained without the approval of the patent-holder, the FDA, or your owner."

"They got headaches," Greg said. "Which they were not awake enough to feel. If getting a migraine woke them up, that would be a breakthrough, unlike Dick Weber's quack migraine-preventation medicine which he's tested on one control group in India and which doesn't even work!"

"Greg," Cuddy said, sharply. "Fifty lashes is what you should receive for abusing a patient. You abused five: two hundred and fifty lashes. Bafs SVF Nirag's research department have insisted on sending PPTH a bid to purchase you, which I will have to put forward for consideration by the Board at the next meeting. Perhaps fortunately, I don't believe their CEO Research cares what physical state you are delivered to them in."

Greg's mouth shut. He ducked his head and hunched his shoulders, making himself look smaller and more submissive.

"Head up," Cuddy said.

After a moment, Greg lifted his head. He looked at her with a closed-off, arrogant expression.

"You self-harmed by taking a non-FDA approved drug, by inducing a migraine by taking nitroglycerine, and by taking an illegal hallucinatory drug to relieve the migraine. For each instance of self-harm, ten lashes: for persistent self-harm, which three instances within 24 hours certainly proves, standard procedure is to immobilise and restrain the slave to prevent further self-harm. Fortunately for you, I don't consider any of these to be serious suicide attempts."

She glanced at Foreman and at Wilson. Wilson had a barely-restrained expression of eagerness on his face as he stared at Greg: well, anyone who wanted to tag and make use of a crippled slave probably had issues about pain. Foreman gave her a closed-off look that was the twin of Greg's, and glowered at Greg.

"Finally, Hayes and Ross have established firmly via ICU records that you have obtained access to the hospital mainframe, which you are not allowed, and Hayes confirms that you are using your e-mail account for communication on matters not directly related to diagnostic consults, which you are not permitted either. Fifty lashes for the unauthorised mainframe access: ten lashes for each unauthorised e-mail: Hayes has found nine. In total, four hundred and twenty lashes."

"That would kill him," Foreman said, in a strangled voice.

"Probably not," Cuddy said, with a shrug. "But it would certainly unfit Greg for work for quite some time, especially as the long period of recovery would have to be accomplished without any pain meds. Greg. Look at me."

Greg's head had twisted to look at Foreman. He looked back at Cuddy swiftly.

"I'm aware that a previous employee of this hospital, who has now resigned, had unfortunately chosen to behave in an unprofessional manner, making unauthorised use of a tagged slave. I choose to assume that your behavior over the past few weeks was due to her emotionally abusive behavior towards you, and to show leniency." Cuddy kept her voice even. She was, in fact, truly angry with Stacy Warner, but she didn't blame Warner wholly for what Greg had been doing. "You will receive fifty lashes tonight and fifty lashes in forty-eight hours. You will be immobilised in the slave ward until your back has healed over. Your access to the Internet is suspended indefinitely: the computer you use will be removed from Diagnostics. Doctor Foreman, please notify the other Diagnostics fellows that Greg is not permitted to access their computers: he is allowed no online time at all until further notice. Ms Hayes, please forward all mail for "Greg House" to the Diagnostic fellows e-mail accounts: they'll now be responsible for replying to it. Ms Ross, Greg is now banned from the ICU and all associated wards, if he attempts to enter on any excuse at any time, call security to have him removed."

They nodded and got up: Cuddy glanced at the other side of the room. "Doctor Wilson, you have the right to witness Greg's punishment, please ask the head of security for the time it will take place. Doctor Foreman, as acting head of Diagnostics you would technically have the right, but I don't recommend you do so as your appointment wil expire shortly."

As she had expected, Wilson left with only one glance at Greg: Greg put his head down and his shoulders hunched up. He was a huddled, scared slave now, nothing more. Foreman stood up. He glanced briefly down at Greg, but he spoke to Cuddy. "Did you ever really intend to give me this job, or were you just trying to stop me from stepping down?"

Cuddy smiled, briefly. "Well, you've got nearly two more weeks in charge. Hopefully the next case will go better."

She called Doctor Weber back. Greg stayed where he was. He would have difficulty getting up without his cane.

When Weber came in, he glanced at the slave, and sat down in the same chair as last time: he said to Cuddy, "If you haven't finished your disciplinary meeting, I would have been glad to wait."

"Almost done," Cuddy said. "The individual responsible will be dealt with. You can request an additional penalty, as you wish, up to fifty lashes."

Weber turned his chair round. Greg lifted his head.

"House?" Weber jumped to his feet. He stared from Greg to Cuddy. "Medical school was twenty years ago, grow up!"

Greg stayed on his knees. "Yeah, you were always the grown-up." His voice had a sarcastic edge, though it was very faint. "Do the responsible thing. Tattletale!"

"You cheated!" Weber snapped.

"I cheated then, you're cheating now! Your drug doesn't work."

"Oh yes," Weber was snarling, "you would like to believe that because it plays right in to your fantasy."

"Your math skills blow, just like they did in med school. I read about your 'breakthough' in Neuroscience New Delhi, I wondered why you weren't publishing anywhere in English, I tested your drug, and I was right: it doesn't work. Your pharmaceutical company already told you, didn't they? They're dropping you."

"You waited 20 years to do this," Weber said. "What's next? Break up my marriage?"

Greg grinned, showing most of his teeth. He lifted his chin. "What, you think this is a fashion accessory?"

Weber went white and sat down as if his knees were giving way. "This is not some kind of joke? You're..." He stared at Greg, at Cuddy. "He's a slave?"

"Greg is a valuable asset," Cuddy said coolly. "Though expensive to maintain, and to discipline. He will receive one hundred lashes over the next 48 hours for the various offences he's committed. If you wish him to be punished further...?"

Weber shook his head, sharply, looking sick.

"Or to witness his first fifty lashes before you return tonight?"

"No," Weber said. He stood up again. "I'll... House, how the hell did this happen?"

Greg was again a humble, huddled shape on the floor. He didn't look up.

"He was enslaved for debt after his second fellowship, and I acquired him for PPTH then," Cuddy said.

*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*

Wilson watched as the guards fastened Greg up to the whipping post. He was stripped naked, shaking, and passively resisting, throwing his weight against the guards' grip. They lifted his wrists into the cuffs, shackled his left ankle to the ring at the left, used a device that, Wilson realised as they fastened it, supported and immobilised Greg's bad leg.

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck and then folded his hands behind his back. He was keyed up with anticipation. There were other people there - security staff, a legal witness - and he didn't want to show too much excitement.

Greg's face was hidden. One of the guards tilted his head back by his hair, and another fastened a gag in his mouth.

The guard with the long single-tailed whip positioned himself, and raised the whip. When the first lash landed, there was a noise almost as loud as a gunshot, and though Greg was gagged, Wilson heard him scream.

Forty-nine more...

tbc