WARNING: This chapter is VERY intense!

Chapter 12

The Mother of All Nightmares

It started with the mother of all nightmares.

He was trying to sleep, but it hurt too much. As he lay shivering, he heard the door screech open behind him. No, he thought. Not today. But they didn't play by his rules. Nothing played by his rules.

"Wake up, you piece of shit!" said Boot Boy, kicking him in the side as his buddies laughed. He tried to stand up, but the pain was too bad.

After beating on him briefly—nothing out of the ordinary—they dragged him out of his cell and took him down to the courtyard. After days in a dark cell, his eyes weren't used to the light. He squinted into the bright sun.

With a sense of horror creeping over him, he saw the table from the factory. He began to struggle, desperate to get away. He broke free for a moment, but of course he couldn't get very far. About four of them overpowered him, hauling him to the table.

As they slipped his arms into the cuffs chained to the table, they forced his head around so he had to look back toward the prison. His breath stopped, and his heart started pounding. He was going to be sick. They had all of them. His parents, Cuddy, Foreman, Chase and Wilson. They were standing up on a platform, handcuffed to each other.

"Save us!," cried Cuddy. "Don't let them hurt us, House. Save us!"

He swallowed hard and began to weep.

He felt them rip off his shirt and take off his pants. With sickening certainty, he knew what was going to happen next.

There was a voice behind him. It was the sticky, sweet voice of Robert Thompson, the man who had brought all this upon him.

"You've been a bad boy, Greggie," said Thompson, "and we can't have that. You'll have to be punished."

Craning his head around to try to see what they had in store for him, he saw the lash of the whip just as it curled past his face. He could barely breathe. He felt the cool air hit the lash marks, causing exquisite pain.

Of course, they raped him—they all raped him, including Thompson. Out there in the open, with Wilson and the others watching, pleading with him to save them. It was his fault they were here. All were crying now, not so much for what they were witnessing but because of their own terror of what would happen to them.

When the guards and Thompson were done with him, they unchained him and forced him to stand facing the platform. And then—no! It's not possible—they efficiently and unemotionally killed his mother by shooting her in the back of the head. Then his father, then Foreman, Chase, Cuddy and finally Wilson. It was over.

Wilson was at a baseball game and the Mets had just won the World Series. Everyone was cheering and yelling in the stands. What a nice dream, he thought as he began to wake up. Somehow, though, he could still hear the yelling. Suddenly, he woke up, realizing that what he was hearing was House, next door, making sounds Wilson had never heard before. What on earth?! Good God, he thought, as he grabbed his keys and glanced at his watch. It was 3:17 in the morning.

He could hear the screaming the whole time he was making his way next door. It wasn't the usual loud scream or two, followed by sobbing. This was a nearly constant scream, punctuating only by the occasional intake of breath. How could he even make a noise like that, with his vocal cords so damaged? Someone's going to call the police.

When he got to House's bedroom, it was completely dark. Because House had so much trouble sleeping, they'd installed blackout curtains, hoping that absolute dark would help him rest. Wilson flipped the light switch to find that the room was a shambles. The lamp had been knocked over, the dresser was askew and the bedclothes were scattered around the room. He didn't see House, but he could hear him. The screaming was so loud, Wilson had to cover his ears.

"House! House! It's me, Wilson! Wake up! It's okay! You're safe!"

The screaming continued.

"House!! Where are you?!"

From the sound, Wilson knew House had to be here in the room somewhere. But he wasn't crammed into his usual corner, and the room wasn't that big. Closet? No. Where…? Yes, he had wedged himself under the bed. Lying flat on the floor, with his right hand still covering his left ear, Wilson groped toward House with his left arm.

"House! House!! You've got to wake up! House!"

As Wilson's hand touched House's arm, the sound stopped for a second, and then started up again.

"No, House! It's Wilson! It's me! Come on, big guy! Wake up!" He grabbed House's arm, and started trying to pull him out from under the bed. House struggled against him, screaming all the while.

Finally, using both arms, Wilson was able to ease House out from under the bed. "House! It's okay! It's okay! WAKE UP! Whatever it is, it isn't real! You're having a nightmare. Please wake up!"

He grabbed some of the bedclothes and wrapped them around his shivering friend. For a fraction of a second, in his desperation, he was tempted to muffle the screams by stuffing part of the quilt in House's mouth.

He put his arms around House's upper body, took a deep breath and started talking soothingly into House's ear. What seemed like an eternity later, the screaming began to quiet down. Or had it? Wilson groaned. It was a siren. Someone had called the police.

"House, you've got to stop. Please. It's okay. I'm here." Slowly, House's yells died down and turned into deep, heaving sobs.

"Police!" Wilson had left the front door open in his urgency to get to House. From the sound of them, they were in the living room.

Torn between leaving the room and staying with House, Wilson compromised.

"Coming!" he yelled. Helping House to his feet, Wilson half-carried him to the living room, where he gently set him down on the couch.

"Sorry, officers," he said. "My friend here had a nightmare." House was shivering and sobbing, still lost in his own mind.

"That must have been a helluva nightmare, buddy," said one of the cops, whose name badge said Aiello on it. "Someone three doors down called us."

"Look, I live next door, and if you can give me a minute to get him settled, I'll explain everything to you."

"We don't need explanations," said the other cop, whose name badge said Jimson. "We know what we need to know. This guy woke up half the neighborhood, and he's going to have to be booked for disturbing the peace."

"Is that guy right in the head?" added Aiello, helpfully. "Maybe he oughtta be locked up."

At that, Wilson lost it.

"That's the problem, you idiots! He was locked up! Don't you guys ever watch the news? This is Gregory House, the doctor who was tortured in prison." He hated saying it aloud, but it was the only way he could think of to get through.

Aiello, who seemed to be the brighter of the two, appeared to recognize the story. Jimson wasn't convinced.

Wilson offered to pay whatever the fine was for disturbing the peace.

Jimson took charge. "That's okay by me, buddy, but it don't solve the problem of him waking up half the neighborhood. We gotta take him in."

"No, really, Officer… uh, Jimson, you don't. Listen to me. I'm a doctor—I've got ID over at my place next door. This is a very sick man."

Aiello looked as if for the first time at House, who continued to shake on the couch. He did not look well. Not only was he shuddering and crying, but… the cop finally began to notice the scars on his face and the mangled hands.

Aiello spoke first. "Holy shit. Look at `im."

Jimson, who seemed determined to play by the book, reluctantly looked over at House. His jaw grew slack and he just stared.

"Fuck, man! That guy's a fuckin' mess."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," said Wilson, quietly, trying desperately to remain calm. Thank goodness House was still out of it. He hesitated to think how he'd react. First off, uniforms and House were not a good combination. And second, being put on display was not his favorite activity.

"Just tell me what the fine is and let me pay it, okay?" He wanted to get these guys out of here before House snapped out of it.

"Okay, buddy. Sorry about your friend." The two continued to stare. Wilson guided them out the front door and over to his place, where he paid the fine and watched them depart.

As soon as their car was out of sight, he ran back over to House's place.

House was curled up in the fetal position on the sofa, nearly covered by the quilt. Only the top of his head and his nose were peeking out. Wilson got him sitting up, and put one comforting arm around House's shoulders, which were still heaving with sobs.

"Hey, House. It's all right now. They're gone. It's safe now, okay?" He put his other hand on House's face, tilting it up so he was looking into House's eyes. Slowly, very slowly, House focused on him. Exhaling one final desperate sob, he came back.

"Wilson? Wilson!"

House looked at him frantically. He reached out and grabbed Wilson's arm.

"What is it, House? What on earth happened?"

House searched his face anxiously. Finally, he closed his eyes for a moment, a few tears sliding out from under his eyelids.

Then, very quietly, with his head down, he said, "You're not dead."

Wilson took a deep breath and thought for a moment before replying.

"No," he said, "not last time I checked. What the hell did you dream?"

House's eyes unfocused again. Shaking his head, he said, "Doesn't matter. It was just a nightmare."

"Do you want me to call Jacey Liu?" asked Wilson. In all the time since House's release, he'd never seen anything as bad as this.

"No, I do not want you to call Jacey Liu," mimicked House, getting testy. "It was a nightmare. That's all it was. It wasn't real."

"House, listen to me. I know it wasn't real. But you were screaming for nearly 15 minutes. You were so loud one of our neighbors called the cops, and I was just barely able to keep them from taking you in for disturbing the peace. This wasn't just any old nightmare."

House stared at Wilson. Had it really been that bad? Wilson nodded. Even my own subconscious betrays me, thought House.

"Well, I'm okay now," was all he could think of to say.

"Wanna try going back to sleep?" asked Wilson.

Almost before he finished the phrase, House blurted out "No!," then took a deep breath, and mumbled something about watching television. The last thing he wanted to do was go back into that place in his mind.

The day went down hill from there.