The sound of steadily beeping monitors and hushed voices slowly filtered through the drugged haze of sleep that surrounded House, as he gradually drifted back toward consciousness. He stirred on the hospital bed in which he lay, wincing at the slight stretching pain it caused the wound in his torso.

The quiet swiftly became chaos when the others in the room -- Wilson and Cuddy, House soon realized -- became aware that he was awake. Nurses were in and out for the next several hours, taking his vitals periodically while various tests were run to make sure that he was recovering well from the gunshot he'd taken, which had, fortunately missed all his vital organs. The damage – thankfully, mostly superficial – had been surgically repaired while he was unconscious. Now all that remained to be seen was that there were no further complications.

In House's opinion, the situation was already complicated enough by far.

When the police arrived, House calmly, quietly told them the story that Wilson had fed to him at the apartment, along with the additional details Wilson had come up with during the brief moments they'd had alone since House woke up.

"I was at home by myself, when a man broke the door in and came inside. He seemed panicked to find somebody in the bedroom, like he'd expected no one to be home, and wasn't sure what to do when I was there. Then, Wilson came home, and the guy lost it. He shot me and ran."

The police seemed vaguely confused by his story, but no one bothered to contradict him until he was alone in the hospital room with one of the detectives who lingered behind.

"Something strange about what you've told me," the detective mused, pensive. "If the intruder was surprised by your partner's arrival... why'd he shoot you? Wouldn't it be more rational if he'd turned around and shot in the direction of the perceived threat -- Dr. Wilson?"

House kept his expression neutral, shrugging his shoulders as he countered, "Wouldn't it be more rational not to go breaking into people's apartments with guns?"

The detectives left with nothing more than the story Wilson had laid in place for them, corroborated nearly word for word by House's story. As soon as they had gone, Wilson returned to House's side, anxiously questioning him about what the detectives had asked him, and how he was feeling -- but mostly what the detectives had asked him.

House tensed automatically at Wilson's presence, but did his best to remain calm, reassuring Wilson that their secret was safe. Wilson cried and begged for forgiveness, thanking House profusely for forgiving and protecting him -- though as of yet House had promised to do neither. House just passively, silently accepted Wilson's gratitude and regret until finally, Wilson had to leave the room to see to some of his patients.

House immediately called the nurse, and asked her to get Cuddy.

She gave him a concerned look as she walked into his room, then glanced around the room and visibly relaxed a little – obviously relieved to find herself alone with him for the first time since his admission.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, sitting down in the chair beside him and reaching out impulsively to take his hand. "I ordered the ketamine treatment you requested when you were admitted. What was that about, anyway? Are you feeling all right? In any distress? Do you need...?"

"Cuddy."

At the sound of his hoarse but urgent voice, she stopped at last, drawing in a shaky breath before replying with a shake of her head and an apologetic grimace.

"... Yes?"

"I... I need to tell you something. You... you were right. About everything."

Cuddy frowned, momentarily confused. "About..." Abruptly her eyes went wide, and she glanced anxiously toward the door before meeting House's eyes again and whispering, "Wilson? House... what happened last night..."

House shook his head, holding up a weak hand to halt her outraged questions. "I don't... don't want to talk about it. Someone broke in, like I said. End of story. I just... just need you to know that... you were right. And... I need you to help me."

Over the next two weeks that House spent as a patient at PPTH, Cuddy set about making arrangements for his physical therapy -- as well as the other matters he'd asked her to help him with. There were phone calls to make, preparations to be laid in place – none of which could safely be done in Wilson's presence – and Wilson hardly left House's room.

Safe in public, with Cuddy seated at his side, House finally informed Wilson that he'd decided to go through the six weeks of physical therapy that would be required at a facility six hours away in Philadelphia, where a former colleague of his practiced.

"There are perfectly qualified therapists here," Wilson had argued, clearly troubled by the idea of House's being so far away. "Why do you need to go all the way to Philadelphia?"

But House had insisted, and Wilson hadn't dared protest too much -- not when there were several witnesses constantly in and out of House's room to observe his behavior. And besides, after what House had been through, it would have made Wilson seem like the worst kind of bully had he pushed him too hard to go along with the way of handling things that Wilson thought was best.

Reluctant and grudging, Wilson finally accepted House's decision, despite the fact that it would mean they'd barely be able to see each other throughout House's recovery. House acted sympathetic and understanding, as if that prospect bothered him as much as it bothered Wilson.

In reality, House was surprisingly very much okay with that arrangement.

The day that House was supposed to come home from the rehab facility, Wilson made the drive to Philadelphia to pick him up, arriving at the facility in the early afternoon -- only to find that House had already left in a taxi several hours earlier. Wilson called House's cell phone several times as he returned to his car and got back on the highway, but received no answer on the first few tries.

Every call after the fourth went directly to House's voicemail.

When Wilson arrived at the apartment, at nearly ten o'clock that night, to find House's car in the driveway, he felt a sense of relief at having found him -- only to have that relief swiftly replaced by a sinking feeling of confusion and fear when he found that his key would no longer unlock the door.

He knocked on the door, calling out to his lover. "House?"

There was no response, but the car parked outside the apartment told him that House had to be there. He knocked again, louder, calling out again and again -- but to no result. As his attempts proved in vain, Wilson's fear and confusion were replaced by hurt and seething, then boiling rage.

"House! You'd better open this damn door, now!" he snarled at last, slamming his fist against the newly placed steel door that had replaced the wooden one he'd destroyed.

Frustrated and furious, Wilson finally gave up -- for the moment -- and stalked back to his own car. He didn't know where to go since he was locked out of his own home; so he made his way to his office at PPTH, where he bunked down on his couch, miserable and uncomfortable, for the night.

He woke up the next morning exhausted from the poor night's rest, as well as irritable from the questions and worries that filled his mind.

Why would House change the locks on me? He was acting like everything was fine. Why would he lie to me like that, just to turn around and do this to me?

Those questions were underscored by a subtler, darker voice in the back of his mind, whispering ugly promises of things to come.

I don't care why he did it. He's going to be sorry... thinks he's going to walk out on me... he's got another think coming...

Wilson checked his watch. It was still before eight in the morning, and he highly doubted that House would have arrived at work yet -- if he planned to arrive at all after what he had done. Still, Wilson made his way down the hall to House's office to check. Cameron was sitting inside, going through a few patient files. Neither of House's other team members were there yet. Cameron looked up when she saw him and gave him a little smile and wave; but Wilson did not acknowledge her, just turned with a scowl and headed back toward his own office.

A stranger met him at his door -- a young woman in a smart business suit -- and held out several sheets of stapled paper.

"I need you to sign this, sir. You're being served."

Wilson's eyes widened with alarm as he took the papers from her and looked them over hurriedly. As he slowly realized what they were, his rage began to intensify, swiftly rising toward the boiling point.

A restraining order... he got a restraining order against me...! How dare he?!

Wilson signed the sheet she held out to him, then walked calmly into his office and tossed the papers into the bottom drawer of his desk. He paced back and forth for a few minutes, his mind racing, his fists clenching and unclenching as he tried to decide on a course of action from this point.

He didn't know how he would convince House to take back the restraining order -- or if that was even possible. All he knew was that no matter what it took, no matter what he had to do -- he was not going to lose House.

He's mine, damn it, and there's no way in hell I'm going to let him get away with walking away from me!

Wilson abruptly turned on his heel and stalked out of his office, not bothering to lock the door or take any of his things with him besides the keys to his car. He broke the speed limit as he made his way back to the apartment, where he immediately resumed pounding on the door, heedless of the early hour or the fact that he was very likely infuriating their neighbors.

And they're still our neighbors, because I'm not going anywhere, House. You'd better get that through your head, I am not going anywhere!

***************************

"House! House, you'd better open this door right the hell now! House!"

House huddled on the other side of the door, his back braced against it, his knees drawn up in front of him, his head resting on the shaking metal, eyes closed, as he fought to resist the deeply ingrained impulse to obey. Some traitorous part of him wanted nothing more than to get up and open the door, to let Wilson back into his apartment and back into his life.

But he knew better.

The tone in Wilson's voice was enough to warn him that if he did, he was likely to lose all the physical progress he'd made in therapy in the space of a few minute's time. Wilson was as furious as he'd ever heard him, and House knew that in this particular mood, Wilson could do him a lot of damage.

Guess he got the restraining order, then. I could call the cops. Should call the cops. They'd come and get him, and... and take him to jail... and... God, is that really what I want? That seems so extreme. How can I do that to Wilson? Maybe I shouldn't have gotten it in the first place. Maybe I should just open the door...

House recognized the dangerous turn his thoughts were taking and took his cell phone from his pocket, dialing the number of the only friend he had left at this point.

"Hello?" Cuddy answered, a note of concern in her voice. "House, what's wrong?"

"He's here." House's own voice sounded small and unsettlingly vulnerable to his own ears. "I... I don't know what to... what should I...?"

"House, whatever you do, do not open that door," Cuddy ordered severely. "Do you hear me? Do not open it. I'm going to hang up for a few minutes, and I'm going to call you right back, and don't you dare let him into that apartment, do you understand?"

House nodded, silent for a moment before realizing through his shaken state that she could not hear him and murmuring a small, timid, "Y-yes. Okay."

Cuddy hung up the phone, and House clutched it in his hand, counting the seconds until she called back, just to keep his mind too busy to think of the possibility of giving in and opening the door.

*********************************

When Wilson's phone began to ring, his first thought was that it was House, and he snatched it from his pocket, hitting the receive button and putting it to his ear without looking at it.

"You'd better open this door right now, House, or so help me, I'll..."

"You'll what?" Cuddy's voice was like ice water sliding over his skin, filling his mind with a trapped, sick sense of guilt. "What are you gonna do to him this time, Wilson? The man just got out of physical therapy for a gunshot wound. Is that what you did the last time he pissed you off?"

"This is none of your business," Wilson muttered, preparing to hang up.

"Don't you hang up on me, Wilson, or I'll have the cops there so fast your head will spin, and that restraining order means you'll spend at least a night in jail."

Wilson froze. He was fairly certain she was wrong, and he'd be able to get out more easily than that -- but what then? If he returned to the apartment and was caught there again, he knew the consequences would be a little greater than the first time. He waited in stony silence for her to go on, his jaw working with repressed, impotent fury.

"You're going to leave now," Cuddy stated with frigid calm, a dangerous note in her voice. "House might not call the police on you -- but I will. And I'm going to be there in ten minutes. If you're there when I get there, trust me, you will go to jail tonight. Do I make myself clear?"

Wilson was stubbornly silent for a long moment, struggling against his own pride before finally gritting out through clenched teeth, "Yes."

"Good." Cuddy's voice was mockingly bright as she went on. "You'll need to come by my office in the morning, as well. I believe we had an agreement regarding your continued employment at my hospital; and unless I'm mistaken, you're currently in breach of that agreement. I'll see you in the morning, Wilson. Don't let me see you before."

With those curt words, Cuddy disconnected the phone, leaving Wilson staring down at it in outraged disbelief. After a moment, Wilson turned back toward the door, slamming his fist into it in helpless rage, so hard that he feared he might have actually cracked something in his own hand.

He didn't care.

"I'll kill you for this, House," he snarled. "You hear me? I'll kill you!"

And without any other choice at the moment, Wilson turned and stormed away, slamming his car door and leaving the squeal and acrid scent of burning tires in his wake as he drove away.