He was choking on blood. Instinct made him flail desperately until he was able to roll over and let his head hang down, hearing the blood spatter on the concrete floor as it dripped from the well of his mouth.

Pain blossomed in his face at the movement. Jaw broken again, he thought. The blood was mostly from his tongue, though, where he'd bitten it accidentally from the force of the guards' blows.

The pain and the blood helped distract him from the memory of his father's cold, dead eyes. If he concentrated on the hurt, let it consume him, maybe he could forget that his mother was dead.

The broken jaw meant a stay in the infirmary -- or else this time they'd just let him starve. Either option was fine. Anything was fine as long as he didn't have to move or think or remember.

Footsteps. Three men.

The sound stopped at the door of his cell. The lock snapped open and the door was thrown wide with an echoing clang, hellishly loud down in silent solitary.

"On your feet, prisoner," Boot-Boy growled.

He tried. Tried to get his arms under him, his legs to move, but he seemed to be weighted with lead.

"I said on your feet, you fucking piece of shit!"

The men approached him. Panicked now, House struggled to move, to get up, to breathe.

With a convulsive push he thrashed upright, flinging himself off the bed to land in a heap on the floor.

-----------------

Wilson started at the loud crash and was running toward House's room before he was fully awake.

House was crumpled on the floor on the far side of the bed, half curled up in a tangle of bedclothes, shaking violently. The harsh rasp of his breathing was loud in the bedroom's confines. Wilson was kneeling at his side in seconds, checking rapidly for clues to House's physical and mental condition.

"House? House, it's Wilson, are you okay? Are you awake?" He put his fingers on House's neck, finding the frantic pulse. House was gasping for breath like a drowning man pulled to the surface. "It was a nightmare, just a nightmare," Wilson told him, giving his friend time to reorient himself. Wilson used his touch and his voice as a beacon to help House find his way back from the terrifying memories. He stroked the short, damp hair and gently rubbed the man's back, talking softly and soothingly.

The clenched, spasming muscles under his palms eventually began to relax and House's breathing slowed. When he was finally able to speak, House's voice was thin and wheezy. "I'm really getting to like this floor."

Wilson smiled in spite of himself. "Can you bring yourself to part with it now?" House was lying in a heap, his arms trapped beneath him. Half the bedclothes were twisted around him.

"Yeah. Help me up ... my hands hurt."

Wilson unwrapped the blanket and sheet from his legs, then gently pulled House to a sitting position propped against him. "What about your hands? You okay?"

House passed the back of his right hand across his mouth, then gingerly touched his jaw. In the dim glow of the night light, Wilson saw him raise his left hand and look at it. "Broke a finger."

"What?" Wilson reached around and took his wrist, holding his hand up for a better view. The skewed pinkie finger was now even further askew. "We better get that set," he muttered worriedly.

"Yeah." House still sounded dazed. "Don't wanna jeopardize my future as a surgeon."

"C'mon, let's get you back up on the bed." Once House was settled, Wilson went to the hall closet where the medical supplies were kept. When he'd won his petition to the court to have House remanded into his care, he'd stocked up on everything he could think of, from syringes and gloves to a wheelchair and an IV unit.

Back in the bedroom, he dumped his armload on the bed and turned on the bedside lamp. House was lying on his side, eyes screwed up against the sudden light.

"Let's take a look." Wilson pulled up a chair and gently took House's wrist.

The abuse House had suffered to his hands had left both little fingers practically useless, and his left ring finger was mostly numb. He also had carpal tunnel syndrome in both wrists from the accumulated effects of trauma.

Wilson touched those hands as carefully as he would a small child's. "I'll numb this up before splinting it."

House barely stirred. "Don't bother. It doesn't matter."

Laying out the tape and scissors and gauze, Wilson paused to look at him. "It's gonna hurt without it."

"I know. I don't care."

"Well, I care. And you're stuck with it." He prepared the syringe and gently injected the numbing agent. "Remember me telling you about Dr. Yeung? Best hand surgeon on the East Coast. He thinks he can help you. Repair some joints, straighten your fingers a bit. From what I hear, the guy's an artist."

"Wilson ..." It came out as a soft sigh. "What's the point?"

"What do you mean, 'what's the point'?"

"I mean I'm 50 years old. Do you really think I'm gonna see 60?"

Wilson turned to set the syringe on the nightstand, using those few seconds to frame his answer. "Sixty? I think you'll see 85 or more. It's only the good who die young," he said with a grin.

House gave a soft snort.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson escorted Blythe inside House's side of the duplex so she could share breakfast and a few more hours with her son before her sister came to take her back to Trenton. She had gotten no more than three steps into the living room when she spotted House, who was already seated at the dining room table.

"Greg, what on earth did you do to your hand?"

Like most mothers she seemed to have a supernaturally keen sense of observation when it came to her son.

As Wilson pulled out a chair for her at the table, House gave one of his half-shrugs. "Stumbled a little, knocked it against the sink," he mumbled. Wilson had splinted and bandaged the broken finger, making House even more awkward with that hand.

Blythe sat down and immediately held out her hand, a wordless command to her son. Grumbling, House let her see Wilson's bandaging job. She clucked her tongue and looked up at Wilson. "Thank you, James. I'm sure Greg forgot to say it."

Wilson smiled back at her. "If he ever did, I'd probably fall over dead from the shock. You're both welcome."

"We're both hungry," House piped up. "Where's breakfast?"

The presence of his mother was making him more than usually obnoxious, Wilson figured. He was gratified to see Blythe lightly smack her son's arm. "Gregory House, I did not raise you to be such a boor."

House looked at her. "Did too. Where else do you think I learned it?"

"You were born with it," Wilson sighed. "It's okay, Blythe. I don't blame you for him."

"Oh, thank goodness." The ghost of a smile curled her lips, though.

House turned wide, beseeching eyes to Wilson. "Please sir," he falsetto'd in a bad Cockney accent, "May we please have our porridge?"

Gesturing his surrender, Wilson headed into the kitchen. Truthfully, he was fascinated to see House with his mother, the one person in his life House loved and respected. More fascinating still was the strange power mothers exerted over their offspring. House was still an annoying bastard, but he never turned his sharp tongue or withering observations on her. To Wilson it was like getting a tiny, faded glimpse of the young man House had once been.

Blythe loved her son unconditionally, and despite his vehement protestations against the theory of unconditional love, House responded to it with his version of kindness and affection toward her.

Wilson brought out the meal -- fresh-squeezed orange juice, coffee, omelets, toast and muffins with jam on the side -- and took his place at the table. Blythe seemed well-rested and better for having visited her son. She didn't pretend he was perfectly fine, but seemed to see beyond what had been done to him to acknowledge that he was alive and healing and mentally himself again. Blythe House was a practical woman. She understood, to some degree, the challenges her child faced in getting on with his life, and she approved of the progress he was making.

"This omelet is perfect," she said, helping herself to more toast. "Where did you learn to cook so well?"

"Ladies' Home Journal," House said. "He's had a subscription since he was ten."

Blythe reached out and patted Wilson's hand. "Ignore him, James."

Wilson adeptly turned his glare at House into a casual smile for Blythe. "Oh, my dad cooked all the time. Mom was good, but Dad was better. He taught all of us how to cook when we were kids."

"That's wonderful. Everyone should learn how to cook. You know, when he was little, Greg used to help me out in the kitchen."

Wilson stared at her. "Really?" He processed that bit of information. "To steal food?"

She laughed. "Often. But he really did help. I remember taking a picture of him one night while we were making a cake for dessert. He had one of my old aprons tied around his neck, and his face buried in the icing bowl."

A slow smile spread over Wilson's face. "You ... have pictures of little Greg? I'd love to see those."

House's head came up like a wolf scenting danger, eyes narrowed. "Nope, sorry. I burned all those photos years ago. All gone."

Blythe looked down and smiled, shaking her head. "I've got albums full of pictures, James." She turned the sweet smile to her boy. "And Greg, if you follow your doctor's orders and do all your physical therapy, maybe I won't show them to him."

"That's blackmail."

Her smile never faltered. "Think of it as incentive, dear. Oh, that reminds me. I have some of your things I need to return to you. Your diplomas, yearbooks, all that."

Wilson nodded. "We'll drive up one of these days and get all of it. Then you'll have the chance to show me those photo albums."

"Ship the stuff C.O.D.," House said. "Wilson is never stepping foot in your house again."

"We'll see," Blythe replied with a wink to Wilson. "Now tell me, what's it like being back at work?"

"Fine." House used both hands to lift his coffee mug. "I don't actually have any patients yet. Chase and Foreman have some, though. Guess Cuddy wants to make sure I won't kill any of theirs before she gives me my own."

"Everyone's glad to have him back at the hospital," Wilson said. If he didn't tell Blythe, House certainly wouldn't. "His email is full of well-wishes, and you should see all the gifts people have been sending him. A lot of people want to see him succeed."

The warm glow on Blythe's face at hearing that more than made up for House's warning scowl.

"Oh, and I talked to Dr. Cuddy yesterday," Wilson added. "She went in to the office to check on some things, and apparently spent the whole time on the phone. You're a wanted man. Time magazine, Nightline, 60 minutes. Oprah."

"Oprah? Really?" Blythe looked excited. "I love her show."

House almost sprayed his mouthful of coffee. "What'd she tell them?"

"Nothing, I guess. Wants to hear from you."

"Was one of them Rolling Stone?" House's gaze unfocused as his imagination took over. "I always wanted to make the cover. Preferably as a rock star, though. With millions of adoring fans buying copies."

Wilson raised an eyebrow, impressed. House was really keeping it clean in front of his mother. "I'm sure they'd jump to talk to you."

"Greg."

Both men turned to look at her, hearing the soft warning in her tone. She looked her son in the eyes. "Be careful. You might not be prepared for all this just yet. Try to find it in your heart to forgive people their curiosity."

He looked down and nodded. "I don't want the attention, Mom. If I stay on the down-low, it'll all blow over and pretty soon no one will remember." A wistful smile brushed his lips. "But it's gonna be hard to turn down Rolling Stone."