Chapter 20

House slowly forced his mutinous eyelids open. Nothing but nuances of black and grey greeted him; it was difficult to make out more than a few indistinct, looming shapes. After a few moments his eyes adjusted, revealing the dank underground basement of the factory, huge shadowy machines standing sentinel over his broken body. He was back underground, covered in dust and grime, staring up at the gaping hole in the ceiling. Blood covered his leg, stiffening his filthy jeans, meandering lazily down into a spreading, crimson pool. No, he though, this isn't right. I got out. I'm lying in a hospital bed right now.

Suddenly, a rustle to his right caught his attention. He tried to turn towards the sound but bound hands trapped him on his back, directing his gaze up to his only obvious means of escape. It was then that Cuddy appeared from behind a pillar, smiling down at him. She was dressed in figure hugging pink scrubs, her hair pulled back into a no nonsense ponytail. She knelt down in the bloody pool, fingers idly swirling the oozing liquid before reaching up and stroking his sweat and dust matted hair. "It's ok." She whispered, reassuringly. "We are going to get you out, just lie back and relax." She slowly pushed his shoulders down onto his rock strewn, concrete bed, jagged pieces of concrete and stone cutting painfully into his bruised flesh. But she didn't stop when he was laid flat, she continued pushing, forcing him further into the biting ground. House looked up, alarmed.

The sound of a power tool alerted House to Wilson's presences as he too rounded the pillar. He handed the tool off to his boss, then took her place, restraining the man on the floor. House tried to speak, but a long flexible tube had been inserted into his throat, making him gag, silencing him. He tried to sit up, to get some idea of what was happening but the hands holding him down were too strong. "Shh, relax. It'll be over in no time." A sudden ripping sensation in his thigh told him everything he needed to know. He struggled fiercely against the hands holding him. Heard Wilson chuckle darkly over the sound of the saw going to work. Heard Cuddy's whispered words of comfort, belied by the manic grin on her face, now flecked with blood.

House came to sitting bolt upright in his hospital bed. Bright overhead strip lights making him squint painfully. The world suddenly tilted on its axis and he felt as though he would surely tumble from the bed, in that moment he was actually thankful for the restraints around his wrists, binding him to the bed. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision but that made things worse. He had to ride it out, slowly the world righted itself. Sweat clumped the hair on his forehead and ran icily down his spine. A Nurse stood on either side of him. Two sets of hands placed on his shoulders, trying and failing to prevent him from moving; from tearing out any more stitches. He gasped as the shocking images slowly began to recede. It was only then that he noticed the nurse from the previous day whispering to him, "Shh, it's ok. Just lie back and relax."

He realised that his hands were twisted awkwardly behind him, still attached to the bedrails. Looking around he took a moment to scan the room, to reassure himself that he was actually out of the basement. One look down though, told him that his leg was not whole, as he had hoped. That much of the dream was true. He finally allowed himself to be pushed gently down onto the bed, his ribs shrieking in protest at the movement, his head throbbing in time with his thundering heartbeat. When she was certain he was settled the Nurse from the previous day volunteered to stay with the patient, dismissing the other woman. When the door swooshed closed she looked at House, concerned. He was a second too long in pulling his shields into place, allowing her to see all the pain, sorrow and terror he felt in that moment, before it was shut away. He looked towards the window, embarrassed.

She was tactful enough to allow him some time to compose himself, determining his condition from the monitors before questioning him. Ascertaining pain levels, gaging the severity of his concussion, checking dressings, asking whether he wanted to talk. Finally, after coaxing out a few clipped answers she caught his eye. "I'm truly sorry for the way Dr Dixon has dealt with your case. I could see straight away that you were not a danger to yourself. And… I'm sorry about the IV… I'm usually so good with needles, everyone comes to me…" Realising she was making him uncomfortable she looked down, awkward, then changed the subject. "It's almost 7, how about you try to eat something? Your chart says you have had some juice and water but not much else."

The thought of food so soon after being jolted awake was not appealing, despite the medication he felt a distant and nagging nausea turning his stomach. Concussions sucked! His muscles felt sore and stiff, his various wounds throbbing uncomfortably through the morphine and that underlying agony he felt the day before, despite receding somewhat, was still present. "I'd rather have a bath." He blurted out, shivering slightly in his rapidly cooling sweat soaked gown and sheets.

Her face fell slightly at this request. "I'm sorry Dr House, I can go and check, but that may not be possible yet. You might have to settle for a bed bath."

Not really believing he would actually get a bath, he merely grunted in response, his eyes now trained on the window again, the only link to the outside world he had. She disappeared but returned a few minutes later with a trolley holding a steaming bowl of water, wash cloths and fresh sheets and a gown. "Sorry." She replied sheepishly when she saw him eye the bowl.

It didn't matter anyway. He now felt too tired to move around and didn't even have the energy to argue with the young Nurse. What difference did it make? They had bathed him, changed his catheter, tended to his various wounds, all while he was unconscious. He was just another patient to her.

He stared out of the window as she began to undo the gown preparing him for his sponge bath. It was then that he felt the biting restraints on his wrists being loosed, then removed altogether. He glanced at her in surprise, then looked back out of the window. However, he enjoyed being able to stretch out his aching shoulders, and the warm water as it began to clean his sweaty skin.

20 minutes later he was clean, dry and in a fresh gown. The sheets had been changed, causing him to stifle groans as he had to move to allow the sheets to be pulled free, then again as fresh ones were pulled up the bed.

Now that he was free she seemed reluctant to tie him down again. "How about we get you that breakfast?" She pushed the trolley bearing the soiled bedding and now cool water bowl from the room and returned with a breakfast tray holding a small bowl of oatmeal and a glass of orange juice. She put it on the table before wheeling it in front of him. "Sorry I couldn't get you something more exciting but you need to start slow." Despite the small portion House could only manage half a glass of juice and a few spoons of oatmeal before he was done, too exhausted to even eat.

Seeing that he was fading she spoke softly, as if afraid she would startle him. "You are scheduled for dialysis in 30 minutes that should help with your energy levels." He considered pointing out that he was a Doctor and a Nephrologist, but didn't have the energy to speak." In the meantime you should get some rest." With that she patted his arm, removed the tray and walked out. House was distantly aware that she had not retied the restraints before he drifted off to sleep naturally for the first time in over a week.

HHHHHHHHH

When he awoke late in the morning he heard the whir of the dialysis machine next to him as it removed his blood, cleaned it and returned it to his body. His eyes lingered on the machine for a moment, watching it work before movement caught his eye.

Cuddy sat up when she noticed that he had once again awoken. She trained a smile on him and walked over, perching herself on the edge of the bed. Wilson was nowhere in sight. "Hey, how are you feeling?"

He looked her over for a moment before answering; she looked tired, strained, nervous about how he would react to her. He was unsure of how to react to her, his thoughts still felt muddled, a headache was building behind his eyes. Suddenly uncomfortable under her scrutiny he looked down at his hands; they were back in the restraints. "Fine…" He heard her sigh and realised this wasn't good enough and fought against his programming which told him to evade, to deflect all personal questions. "Better, I think. The pain is getting better." He forced himself to look up, to meet her eyes, they looked sad. He suddenly felt a need to connect with her, to take her hand, tell her that everything would be ok, but hesitated, he wasn't used to offering comfort, to being the caring, empathetic boyfriend. He tried to bring his hand up, to place it on her hand, shoulder, cup her face but was pulled back, tethered to the bed. Both of them looked at the restraints, Cuddy looked uncomfortable but he felt the first prickles of anger. His emotions seemed to be at war with each other, all fighting to come to the surface, he mused dimly.

"I'm sorry Greg." He started at the use of his first name, looking up at her. "When Dr Dixon placed you in restraints we were in shock. You took the news about your leg so badly that we didn't know how to react. When we realised what he was doing we tried to stop him. We told him you weren't trying to hurt yourself."

"Wasn't I? How could you be so sure? I have a history of self-destructive behaviour, remember?" His voice quiet, but intense. She looked uncertain of how to proceed so he pushed the point. "Maybe I was trying to hurt myself. How do you know that I won't try it again?" He could feel his voice getting harsh now and tried to pull back, but days of hurt, and frustration were bubbling to the surface. "Are you sure you didn't agree with him? Just a little?" His heart rate and breathing were speeding up, adrenaline began to pump through his system, fuelling the fire that had smouldered for days. "Are you sure that you and Wilson didn't have one of your little chats and decide that it would be better for me if I couldn't move, better for you if I couldn't talk?"

"Stop!" Cuddy shouted after failed to interrupt his diatribe. "Just stop. I know you. I know when you are lashing out, when you are being self-destructive and when you are looking for proof. If I believed Dixon I wouldn't have drawn up the paper work to have you transferred back to PPTH. You are all set to leave tomorrow. No more sedation, no more restraints."

This caught him by surprise, but again new emotions began to course through him. "No!" He barked, shocking even himself. "I am not going." She looked at him, shocked and hurt. "Do you really think I want to go back there, where everyone is going to look at me and know what happened? To have them whisper that that ass Greg House finally got what he deserved? That I want to be treated by people I have yelled at, undermined, blackmailed?" He longed to get up, to pace the room as he yelled, to stand toe to toe with Cuddy as he had so many times but he was chained to his bed, unable to stand, too weak and crippled to walk. "I'm never going back there." He finished, feeling suddenly impotent, his headache now a throbbing roar.

Tears began to well in Cuddy's eyes. "Do you hate me?" Her voice cracked as she whispered these words. House hated seeing her like this, hated feeling like this, his emotions exposed, out of control. Slowly he shook his head, causing another wave of dizziness. She paused for a moment taking in his answer, his apparent dizziness, then forged on. "I… we did everything we could to save your leg, we waited for three days, but you were getting worse, you were slipping away. Your heart stopped once and nearly did a second time. I thought I would lose you. I knew I could lose you either way, but I couldn't just let you die. Please don't punish yourself… and us for that decision." House took a moment to process the information. He didn't have a clue what happened to him after the ambulance ride; even that was fuzzy. He hadn't considered the burden that was placed on Cuddy while he was unconscious.

Warring emotions battled in his head. He wanted to tell Cuddy that she did what she thought was best, that she had saved his life, and that he loved her but something held him back. A lifetime of trusting people only to have them turn on him as his father had, as Vogler and Tritter had, or let him down, as his mother had, as Stacy had during the infarction, as Wilson and Cuddy often did when they tried to change him, to normalise him. Experience made it difficult for him to reach out, to be vulnerable; it just hurt too much when things went wrong. For years he kept people at a distance, even Wilson, never letting them see his true emotions, pushing people away before they rejected him, that way he could rationalise that they hadn't rejected him, they didn't know him. The night of the crane collapse was the first time in such a long time that he allowed himself to be vulnerable with anyone, to allow them to see his true feelings, to see him as he really was. It terrified him but he realised that it was the only way he would be able to finally connect with Cuddy, to finally have a chance at happiness. And he had been happy, at least for a while. But something always came along to change that.

The look on Cuddy's face told him that he had been quiet too long, she began to pull away, convinced that he did not accept her apology, her explanation. She stood up. He suddenly felt the need to make her stay, that if she left they wouldn't make it. He would be alone again. He knew that he would never love again if she walked out of his room. He made to grab her hand again but again was pulled short. "Don't… Don't go." He looked her in the eye, feeling completely vulnerable in a way he could only let himself be with Cuddy. She sat back down on the bed, not smiling but relief had lightened her features. Hesitantly she reached down and took his hand in hers.