Cuddy and Wilson sat there in the living room, not talking for fear of disturbing House, just slowly unwinding after the last few days, although Wilson did notice that Cuddy glanced at the clock several times and showed no inclination to doze off at all. With the living room lamp off and only the street lights from outside and the light left on in the kitchen spilling into the room, House's face looked less obviously bruised. He almost looked peaceful.

Like clockwork, after nearly 2 hours, House abruptly shifted and gave a murmured protest. Wilson sat up in concern, looking at him, wondering if he had shifted wrong against the sore leg. Cuddy immediately leaned over to switch the lamp back on, got up, and started rummaging in Wilson's portable pharmacy, filling a syringe. House turned his head back and forth, and his fingers clawed at the blankets. Sweat had broken out across his forehead, and his mumbling was taking on a note of urgency. Wilson got up and bent over him. "House? You okay?" His friend's eyes were tightly shut, but his lips were still moving, and Wilson bent over closer, trying to pick out the words.

"No! Dad, don't make me fall. I'm sorry."

Wilson straightened up, and shocked brown eyes met Cuddy's sadly resigned blue ones. She finished drawing up the injection and reached for an alcohol prep pad. Wilson shook House lightly. "House? Wake up. It's okay, just a dream."

Cuddy by this point was prepared for the violent jerk as he awoke, but Wilson wasn't. He retreated a few steps in reflex. House's eyes snapped open and roamed wildly around the room, his breathing still ragged, trying to orient himself even as his right hand immediately went to his thigh. She stepped up in front of Wilson, deliberately blocking him from House's sight for the moment, and leaned over the couch. "House, I've got some more medicine for your leg to stop the spasms and let you rest. Okay?"

House was still recovering from the dive back into the past. His leg wasn't happy, either, although he had enough residual left over from the first injection that it hadn't totally seized up again, at least. He looked at the syringe in her hand, which he knew as well as she did wasn't merely diazepam, and nodded. Cuddy waited until she was certain he understood and had consented, and then she efficiently prepped the site and plunged the needle home. His eyes slid closed, and she gently stroked the back of his right hand with her thumb until his breathing had leveled out again and she was sure he was under. She then put the needle in the sharps container and picked up the thermometer, the blood pressure cuff, and the stethoscope, getting a set of vitals. Everything was stable again, although he was still running a low-grade fever. Satisfied for the moment, she tucked the blankets back firmly around him and finally turned to face Wilson.

The oncologist had been standing in the middle of the living room stunned. Cuddy waited patiently. Wilson fought to recover the power of speech. "He . . . what . . . did you . . .his . . . damn."

Cuddy nodded, her eyes filling again with tears on House's behalf. "Damn."

(H/C)

They sat in the living room chairs with two more cups of tea which Cuddy had made for them. The lamp was still on, and now they had no fears of disturbing House. He was far beyond dreams for the next several hours. They could have moved the emergency conference to the kitchen, but both of them wanted to stay close to their friend.

Wilson was still trying to grasp what Cuddy had already wrestled with unsuccessfully for two nights. "How could any father . . . "

"I don't know."

"He wasn't House's biological father, as it turns out, but still. . . " Wilson ran his fingers through his hair. Cuddy didn't even blink at that bombshell; she'd had too many larger caliber ones the last few days. "He's been having that dream since he was hurt?"

She nodded. "The first time was the nightmare before he regained consciousness, and that one was by far the worst."

"Worse than we just saw?"

"Yes. I swear, when he's only asleep and not unconscious or drugged out, some part of his subconscious tries to keep it down and avoid being noticed. It's very clear on the monitor records, though, as well as watching him; he can only really sleep about 2 hours max before he starts dreaming again. But then he wakes up with a jerk like that every time, and he actually hurts himself doing it. Leg and head."

"And that's why you knocked him out chemically . . ." Wilson sighed.

"He wasn't doing the concussion any good. Not to mention the leg. I know it isn't a long-term solution, but for the first few nights until he's in better shape physically, I do think it's best."

Wilson looked directly at her. "I'm sorry," he said. "I totally misjudged you . . . and him. You even told me truthfully why you gave it to him."

It was Cuddy's turn to look away. "Apology accepted, but think about what I did. I'm the one who dragged this skeleton back out of his closet in the first place. He's never slept what I'd call well, but I know he hasn't had dreams like this every few hours round the clock until I made him fall. It's my stupid prank that started it."

Wilson's voice cut like a knife through her guilt. "It's his bastard of a non-father who started it, Cuddy. You couldn't have known. I mean, your prank was still stupid and irresponsible and thoughtless . . ."

"Thanks for the reassurance," she said.

". . . but you had no way of knowing. None of us did."

"Didn't we?" She looked back at him. "How many times have we just ignored clues from him? The funeral should have been a dead giveaway - if you have to drug and kidnap a son to get him to his father's funeral, there are serious problems there that were NOT all on one side."

"And every time they've visited." Wilson was starting his own list of missed signals. "And that girl, Eve, who was raped. He was so negative at the end of that. A major breakthrough when she talked about it, and he dismissed talking things through as just making someone cry. I've always wondered what he told her. I know he tried to smokescreen a few times, but she wouldn't let him. He never would tell me what he said at end that made her open up."

"Maybe that's why she wanted to talk to him in the first place," Cuddy said. "She saw it. In 5 minutes in the clinic of all places, she recognized what none of his friends have seen in 20 years."

They sat there for a minute in silence, watching their friend's battered but peaceful face. House was totally out. "What are we going to do?" Wilson asked finally.

"He'll probably work it out that you know. I was just trying to keep him from having to deal with someone else knowing at the moment, when he'd just had another dream. He needs to rest tonight." She looked at House. "I've done a lot of thinking over the last two days on strategy. I couldn't tell you, Wilson. I had to let you find out for yourself. I'm sorry."

He nodded, understanding. "How did he react to you knowing?"

"He didn't realize the first day that I knew. When I told him, he totally shut down and didn't want to talk about it, and I just made sure he knew that I was there, was available, and would listen. Then I changed the subject. We actually never talked about it again before his great escape."

"But he came to you. He was listening."

She gave a sad smile. "And last night, I did say I'd like to discuss some medication options for sleep - zolpidem maybe - for the future, and he said he was too tired to talk then, but he didn't go full speed into denial. Maybe we're not totally past redemption as friends."

"And maybe he isn't totally past saving." The oncologist looked at House. "We've got to get him healthy. Physically, I mean."

"Right. I think the key on the abuse is going to be not pushing him. Just be there, but don't corner him with it."

"That's going to be hard." It wasn't in Wilson's nature to only stand and wait.

"Yes." She remembered walking away from House's room after telling him, wanting nothing more than to stay there and talk it out but knowing he needed space to process the idea of his secret being shared. "We'll just have to try harder."

Rachel's cry was heard from down the hall, and Cuddy stood up. "Why don't you try to sleep a while after dealing with her?" Wilson suggested. "He'll be out for several hours, and if you'll forgive me saying so, you look half dead."

Her mind revolted against the idea, but her body was exhausted at the last few days. She knew she had to get more rest. "Only if you do the same. You could sleep in the recliner so you'd still stay close to him if he needs anything."

Wilson started to protest, then realized that he no doubt looked as exhausted to her as she did to him. And she, like he, had a point. "Okay, deal." Rachel's cries kicked up a notch in volume, and Cuddy hurried down the hall.

Left alone with his friend, Wilson stood and walked over to the couch. He reached out and took his temperature, making sure the fever wasn't climbing, and he left his hand there on House's head for a minute. "All these years . . . you should have said something. But we should have noticed. I'm sorry, House." He went back over to the recliner and forlornly sat down, feeling like a guard assigned too late to sentry duty at a building that had long before been broken into, robbed, and damaged.