A/N: Apologies for the long wait! Life's been… interesting. Just a warning that a good chunk of this was written in the early hours of the morning after consuming unholy amounts of sugar and junk food over the weekend. I cannot guarantee work of the highest caliber, and I know it could certainly be better, but at least chapter 2 is here now… :)

And if you happen to enjoy this story, know that without the amazing OccamsRzr, I don't think I would have even posted it to begin with, let alone finished my first second chapter of anything!

And all around your island

There's a barricade

That keeps out the danger

And holds in the pain

-"Walls" by Tom Petty

[9:30am]

"The destination is on your left," Foreman said, coming to a stop in front of House's apartment.

Remy rolled her eyes. "The Global Positioning Physician has led yet another successful expedition down the treacherous roads of Princeton, New Jersey — I thank you for your service."

"Always a pleasure," he replied with a smirk.

She felt a jolt of something unplaceable at the easy banter they slid into. His reputation at PPTH as a stone-cold hardass was usually quite accurate, but if she was being honest, Eric Foreman certainly had his moments. Not nearly often enough, unfortunately. But still, they were undeniably there, peeking out between the facade of indifference he projected far and wide — more of Iceberg Foreman was hidden than would ever see the light of day. Of all the comparisons she had heard made between him and House, one similarity stood out to her over all else — their walls. Both men would vehemently deny it, but there was something in each of them that cared far more than anyone would ever know. Cared so deeply that it frightened them into hiding it, even from themselves. They guarded it as fiercely Smaug and his treasure.

Not that Foreman would get that particular reference, Remy thought, surprised to find a small smile appearing unbidden on her face. Not exactly one to appreciate fictional worldbuilding, Elvish, or hobbits, that man. She had tried countless times to coax him into watching 'just one film!' when she discovered this profound deficit in his cultural knowledge, but to no avail. 'What's the point?' He had asked. What's the point? The point is that there is no point. You throw yourself into Middle Earth to avoid something, not get to the bottom of it. It's not a ddx. But it seemed he was so far into avoidance he couldn't even acknowledge its existence. Exactly what he was avoiding, Remy wasn't sure she would ever fully understand. But she had done enough of it to see it in another — her finely tuned gaydar dish had a companion, one that sought out that which she never really wanted to know. Except when it mattered most.

Unlike Foreman, when Kutner had overheard her extolling the brilliance of Tolkien in an impromptu speech to a new radiologist who had "not all those who wander are lost" tattooed in swirling letters on the back of her left hand, he had enthusiastically planned a marathon watch-party, which Remy begrudgingly agreed to host. 'Party' meaning, of course, that she and Kutner sat on her couch (the radiologist had slid away from the conversation when Kutner started rambling on — a shame, really, she was gorgeous), eating the bag of snacks he had brought while taking turns pointing out the differences between the books and films. A few times he would fall silent, and upon glancing over, Remy would find him mouthing along with bits of dialogue under his breath, fully absorbed as if he were actually there in Middle Earth, as opposed to perched on her tan sofa, bag of pretzels lying forgotten in his lap. Kutner. What was he avoiding? What caught him in the end? Why would he...

Remy was thankfully kept from venturing too far down that rabbithole by Foreman clearing his throat, at which point she realized she had practically frozen halfway through opening the passenger door.

"You there?" He asked, looking concerned.

"Nope, this is a hologram; actually, I never left Thailand. It's all been an illusion. Congrats on being the first to spot it."

"Of course. How could I have missed it, all this time? The slight glow around your figure, the fuzzy edges…now that I see it, your projection skills need work."

The two fellows approached their boss's apartment. Foreman raised a hand to the door before hesitating, fist suspended in mid-air.

"I don't think Cuddy meant you to take 'don't bother knocking' to heart, Eric." Eric. He never really struck me as an 'Eric,' even when we were together — he's a 'Foreman', through and through.

He completed the motion. No response. He knocked again, waited a minute, then knocked a third time, before turning to Remy. "He's not going to answer."

Lost. House was lost in a level of hell that the human language lacked the proper descriptors to even attempt to articulate. A tenth circle which even Dante couldn't name. His leg seemed to have reached a comfortable volume of screaming, and planned to stay there indefinitely as far as he could tell. Unfortunately, the volume at which pain found itself experiencing pleasure was decidedly not a volume at which House wanted to be experiencing life.

Knock, knock. Who's there? I don't care. All that registered now was the shrieking of his thigh, a building headache, and the metronome pounding in his chest, beat after endless beat, to the rhythm of abject agony. 1-2-3-4, 2-2-3-4, 3-2-3-4, counting misery measure by measure. That which can be counted has to have an end, distant though it may be. Pain is not truly irrational, it isn't pi, can't go on forever. Not at this level. Rational, pain is rational fuck rational no, rational ends it ends wait 8-2-3-4, 9-2-3-4…

Remy sighed. So much for not having to drag House out of bed. It was worth a try. She reached around Foreman and turned the handle. "You were taking too long," she said, shouldering the door open. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing as they stepped through the doorway.

"House? Are you up? Cuddy's on the warpath!" Remy yelled from the entry. "Oh, and she's wearing that red blouse you like!" No need to add that that's a total fabrication. Taking the lack of response as an invitation to go on a House-hunt, she and Foreman made their way through the apartment; House was nowhere to be seen.

[9:35am]

Finally, they reached the last room — the bedroom door was slightly ajar, but there was no light creeping through the crack.

Again Foreman hesitated at the door, and Remy rolled her eyes, walking around him and holding it open for him. "After you, Princess Caution."

"What did you — Princess Caution?" Foreman asked in astonishment.

"I admit, that needs work. Now go in," Remy said exasperatedly. "He's more bark than bite, just wake the sleeping beast so we can get back to the hospital." Foreman shook his head but stepped into the room, and Remy followed suit, praying she wasn't about to see her boss naked and/or doing God knows what.

House was lying atop a pile of blankets and sheets — and, she was happy to note, clad in flannel pants and a t-shirt. Thank god he doesn't sleep in the nude. The rest of the scene, however, did not inspire any joy whatsoever.

As she entered the room, her nostrils were assaulted by a putrid stench — and then there was House himself. His legs were curled up to his chest. Both of his hands were balled into tight fists, the left pressing up against his mouth while his right arm was bent across his chest, twitching in the direction of his thigh every so often but never actually reaching to touch it. As she cautiously stepped closer, Remy flinched inwardly, noticing dried blood and deep indentations on his right bicep. Those look suspiciously like fingernail marks. His eyes were squeezed shut. On the floor was the source of the odor she had noticed — a pile of dried vomit, half digested food and bile, with a stained pillow lying beside it.

Remy felt the edges of panic begin to creep in, totally unprepared for whatever the situation at hand was. "House? It's Dr. Hadley — Thirteen. Are you all right?" He gave no outward indication of having heard her. She reached out a hand to take his pulse at the carotid artery, not needing to count upon feeling it to know it was far too fast. She moved her hand from his neck, placing it on his shoulder in an attempt to get his attention. "House?" She could feel him trembling under her touch. Suddenly, he gave a low groan, his breathing alternating between nonexistent and rapid gasping. His eyes flew open, frantic gaze searching around aimlessly before landing on her. She saw surprise and a hint of recognition flash across his face before being replaced by desperation and raw agony that made her wince just to look at. He finally moved his fist from his mouth to speak, and she noticed with a jolt that his lip was bleeding as though he had been biting down on it rather forcefully.

"Thirteen?" He asked, voice low, gravelly, strained, forced out from between clenched teeth.

"And Foreman," she added, gesturing for him to stand beside her.

"What're you doing in hell?" House muttered darkly.

At least he still has his sense of humor. Maybe this isn't as bad as I thought. "Figured we should pay a visit to both sides just in case, so we know what to expect either way," she answered, going along with him, and anticipating a 'both sides' joke coming her way. Her answer received no response, and he looked to be in pretty bad shape. Trying to remain calm, objective, she continued on. "Your leg?"

House gave a curt nod.

"Can I take a look?" Remy asked, gesturing to the problematic limb.

House flinched away involuntarily, wincing at the movement. "Don't… don't touch it."

Not as bad as I thought, no. But maybe worse.

Foreman finally decided to step in. "House, we can't help you if we can't see what the issue is."

"The issue is that it fucking hurts," House ground out, eyes now closed, before another muffled groan escaped him.

Foreman sighed. "Have you taken anything yet?"

House jerked his head in the direction of the vomit. "Lost it," he said bitterly.

Right, then. "Is there anything we can do?" Remy asked.

"Just go 'way," he muttered, waving a hand at them, eyes still squeezed shut.

This time it was Foreman's turn to speak. "We're not leaving, House. You're stuck with us, so you might as well put us to use. If you won't let us examine the leg, at least give us something to work with. What would you say your pain rating is — can you rate it on a scale of 1-10?"

"I know what the pain scale is."

Foreman tried to bite back a retort. "Could you use it, then?"

House hesitated before responding. "Maybe a 7…" Suddenly he stiffened up, expression closing off entirely, hand going back over his mouth for a minute. "9… it's… it's a 9…." He amended in a shaky voice when the tension lessened slightly for a moment.

Remy was still standing at House's side, and found herself placing her hand back on his shoulder — and was subsequently surprised to find that he didn't even flinch away from the touch. God, I don't think he's exaggerating. I've never seen him in this much pain, even on bad days. "House? Look at me," she said softly.

He cracked his eyes open. "Hurts…"

"I can tell, and I believe you. I understand that this means nothing to you, but I promise, it's going to be okay, alright? If you want us to help though, we're going to have to look at the leg," she said, gesturing to herself and Foreman.

"Fuck — fine," he replied through gritted teeth.

Foreman approached. "I'm going to roll up your pant leg now," he said, following Remy's lead. He reached for the right-leg cuff of House's striped pajama pants and started to slowly push it up. House moaned, his whole body twitching as Foreman reached his thigh and paused, looking closer. "I think that's blood…" he said, continuing to push up the pant leg, and then freezing when he reached the recent surgical site. He cleared his throat to get Remy's attention, and pointed at House's thigh.

Remy's eyes widened. "House, the incision reopened — did you feel the wound dehisce?"

"Might have…"

As her eyes ran over the damaged tissue, Remy saw the remaining muscle around the incision start to jump and twitch, and she could tell that House was stifling the urge to cry out.

"How long has it been spasming?"

"Too long..."

Remy winced in sympathy. "If the spasms were forceful enough, that could be the culprit for the dehiscence. Combined with you checking yourself out AMA and limping around on it, that is," she couldn't help adding.

House waved a hand. "I'm … an idiot. Got it."

"Yes, House, you're an idiot. And you're going back to the hospital."

[9:47am]

Remy pulled her phone out of her coat pocket. This should be fun. "Dr. Cuddy? It's Dr. Hadley. Yes, he was at his apartment, we're on the way to the hospital now…I don't know if that will be necessary, he wasn't… Yes, I do understand. Look, if I could just explain for a minute? Thanks. We have House, and we're heading back to the hospital now. But I don't know how much help he is really going to be with the case…" She went on to explain the situation.

As Foreman slowed the car down, approaching the hospital parking lot, Remy turned her head to look at their backseat passenger. House had been withdrawn ever since they got him into the car, and he had yet to move an inch; he appeared to be focused on breathing and nothing else. His expression was closed off, shuttered — his walls were fully up, in striking opposition to the vulnerability that had been visible in his apartment. At least he has one place where he is willing to let the pain show — one place where the walls can be lowered.

Remy suddenly found her thoughts lingering once more on the poem from which that beautiful radiologist's tattoo had been taken. All that is gold does not glitter. She could think of no line more fitting to describe her experience with the two men she now sat in a car with. Their bare walls concealed the gold within. Foreman risked his medical license to try and prolong my life. And House — House offered to kill me.

A/N 2: I will probably go in and do some reworking on general flow and so forth later this week, but I wanted to get something out there before I lost motivation completely. Should you feel so inclined as to leave a comment, it would be very much appreciated :)

Also, I practically never listen to music while writing, but for some reason I have found myself listening to Jakob Dylan's album 'Seeing Things' on repeat for the past three days, including while finishing up this chapter. I can't say that it directly influenced anything, and I don't believe that any songs from it really hold any similarity to this fic, but it's brilliant and if you've not listened to it, I strongly recommend it.