"Why don't you go ahead and sit at the table, Greg?" The man behind the desk suggested gently. House, his eyes in his lap, hesitated a moment, then looked around at Wilson, who smiled encouragingly. Still, he paused. His last speech and language session had been full of frustrating questions, prompts, expectations place on him that he just didn't know how to meet. Filled with apprehension, he suddenly felt the need to turn his chair around, to race away from the office as fast as his ruined hands would let him.

All he had wanted since entering rehab a week ago was to return to his apartment where everything was familiar, where there was no one to care how he acted, how he moved, whether he was able to remain in control of his body. He needed time alone to work through his issues himself, in private. But Wilson was standing next to him, ready to support him, his gentle face held so much anticipation. He had no idea yet how little House was able to do, how he would fail to make any kind of improvement this session. House did not relish the look of disappointment Wilson would soon be wearing. His friend still held hope that the House he knew was merely locked away, waiting to be freed with the right combination of questions, therapies, and exercises.

His hands gripped the wheels of his chair, ready to spin 180 degrees towards the door. To escape to this room, to flee so he could relax in the peaceful gardens below; the only place in this hospital that didn't trigger an overwhelming influx of information and sensory overload.

Wilson moved past him to squeeze into the second chair at the desk. House took the opportunity to make his escape, he gripped the wheels and wrenched them, felt himself half turn, spinning his chair towards the door behind him. He reached out his left hand, and gripped the door handle, ready to pull it open and propel himself to freedom.

"House!" Wilson's voice was the firm, almost commanding voice he used to use… before the accident, when House was still only a little bit broken. When he was almost, but not quite, whole. His interest was piqued. He released the handle and running his hands over the wheels, he spun back to greet his friend, whose face was full of conviction. "Sit at the table." He added. Interested in the change of demeanour, House complied.

Applying the break, he grabbed his crutches, kicked the footrests out of the way and levered himself to his feet. Too quickly; the room swayed dramatically at the sudden change in position, he felt himself stagger but caught himself with his good leg. His sight was reduced to a narrowing tunnel, which quickly fogged over. Spots danced languidly in his eyes for one beat, two beats, three, four, five. When his vision eventually cleared, he saw both men standing uncomfortably close to him, both bracing his wilting body. He could see they were talking to him, but the words sounded distorted. A few seconds more allowed him to recover enough to shrug off their pawing hands. "You ok?" Wilson asked, his eyes full of concern. He felt himself nod minutely. "You sure?" He didn't answer but pulled himself upright, gripping his crutches harder and got his balance.

Both men stepped back, watching him to make sure he wouldn't collapse again before returning to their seats slowly, Wilson trailing behind in case House needed him again. 'Pathetic!' His brain fired at him. 'Can't even stand up without passing out!' Frustration made him clench his jaw and squeeze the handles of his crutches. Haltingly, he made his way to the vacant chair, stowing the crutches within easy reach between the two seats, repositioned his own so he wasn't sitting too cloyingly close to his friend next to him, then settled. His eyes briefly fell on the notes on the table blotter. They held Keller's thoughts on their previous session and an itinerary for today's session. Sighing, he positioned his eyes on the serene view out of the window.

"Good. Now they we're all settled shall we begin?" Said Dr Keller, who then paused expectantly. House didn't know if a response was needed here, so he stayed quiet. "Welcome Dr Wilson. It's always a pleasure when family and friends come to support our patients in their recovery."

"Thank you for letting me sit in on such short notice." Wilson returned without hesitation. Such banal formalities were lost on House. Instead, he found himself wondering at the ease with which they conversed. How did such exchanges come so easily for everyone else? House wondered for the fiftieth time that week.

"We have been working on Greg's conversations skills. Greg… are you ready." House nodded, still looking at the gardens below him, watching a small bird darting amongst the trees. "Greg?" Keller said, his voice raised at the end, clearly trying to catch his attention. "Remember what we've been working on? Eye contact is an important part of communication. Please look this way."

He felt himself sigh again, then ripped his eyes away from the tranquil view and turned to face his therapist. The bland smile plastered on the man's face didn't reach his eyes. He reached forwards and tented his fingers in a pose that screamed, 'I'm invested in your recovery.' Again, this failed to impress House, who was already analysing the man in front of him; his nails, House noted, were bitten down to the quick, the skin ragged. He suffered anxiety and bit his nails during attacks. The bags under his eyes and his grey pallor spoke of chronic insomnia. His cheap dress shirt was wrinkled, his tie smudged. His wedding ring hung loose on his finger; House had preciously observed him worrying it during their other sessions this last week; a nervous habit. He lacked confidence in his own abilities.

"Shall we continue with what we were working on last session?" Keller asked, his voice carrying a hint of affected enthusiasm. Since House knew he had no choice in what they worked on he felt no need to respond, his eyes moved to study the scant collection of books lining the shelves behind the therapist. "Greg?" He prompted.

"What?" House said, preoccupied, still scanning the many volumes. Some had been pulled out and replaced since he'd last been there and this inspired his curiosity.

"Greg, please look at me." House looked again, and again he was assaulted with information. Keller's nose hairs needed trimming. His eyes were bloodshot. He had a tiny paper cut on his left pinky. Ink smudged his right thumb. "Shall we continue where we left off last session?" Again, House saw no need for a response, but refrained from looking away this time. Wilson shifted in his chair next to House, from the edges of his vision he could see Wilson watching him closely. "Greg… please can you respond?"

"Ur… sure?" He was puzzled, why did he need to respond, when nothing he said would make a difference to what the other man had planned.

Keller turned to Wilson, "Greg's difficulties with social interaction and concentration have been the main focuses of our sessions this past week. I've been working on trying to retrain him to use the basic social skill we all learned as children and take for granted." He explained.

A smothered chuckle Wilson's mouth. "Sorry." Wilson quickly began as Keller's eyebrows warily furrowed in confusion at the outburst. "It's just that House was never really one to observe social niceties in the first place. And he only really feels the need to focus on those things that really interest him. It may not be that he's lost these abilities, but that they were never a high priority in the first place." Wilson explained with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Keller frowned. "Then I'm sure you can see what an opportunity this is for Greg. Perhaps you could join us in some of our role play work?" House's eyes drifted back to the bookshelf. All of the books were accounted for, but three volumes had been removed, on the same day judging by the fact that they had been to different locations on the shelf. He scanned the books that had been perused: Social and Communication Disorders Following Traumatic Brain Injuries; Communication Disorders Following Traumatic Brain Injuries; and Transformed by Trauma: Stories of Post Traumatic Growth.

Indistinctly, words sounded, threatening to derail his train of though. "House… are you ready to begin." He wasn't ready, he was interested in the books and their significance. Did Keller pull them down in preparation for House's session today? Was House really that difficult a case that Keller needed to consult his meagre library for what to do next? No, that wasn't it. Keller was young, late twenties. Not long qualified. This was his first major posting. He didn't have the experience needed to treat patients with complex issues. He was in way over his head. "House, look at me." Keller's voice broke through his musings. Reluctantly, his eyes left the shelf and settled on Keller again. "It's time to begin." Ok, at least he knew what was expected of him. He settled in his chair, ready to begin the monotony. "How was your morning?"

It always began in the same way, but no matter how he responded, he never seemed to please the man in front of him. "I had a couple of seizures." He ventured.

"Really? So how was your morning then?" Keller's tone deceptively light.

He had just answered this question. House felt his eyebrows furrow in confusion, wasn't the next step for Keller to inquire how he was feeling? "I had a couple of seizures." He said a little louder in case the man hadn't heard him correctly. He heard Wilson shift again next to him.

Frustration edged into the man's voice now. "What I'm asking is how your morning went. You have given me a statement about something that happened to you, but you haven't told me the impact this had on your morning."

Confused by the concept House ventured, "It made me tired?"

Keller leaned forwards, his face composed, but his fingers began to drum his leg repetitively. "So would you say it was a good or a bad morning?" He asked.

"It wasn't good. I… had… a… couple... of… seizures!" House's own mounting frustration now edging into his voice. He heard Wilson stifled a laugh next to him. Keller looked over to the other man.

"I'm sorry." Wilson said again. "It's just that House would never engage in small talk before the accident. His response was actually pretty close to how he would normally answer." House's confusion bubbled over at this statement.

"Then why are you making me do this?" He asked Keller. "I must have gotten by ok without questions about my morning or what I ate for dinner last night!" He looked at his hands in his lap again. "Does anyone really care about that stuff?"

Wilson turned to face him now, he could see it from the corner of his eye, but didn't look up. He didn't want Wilson to see how confused he was, how he was failing again. "You don't care about that stuff. Other people don't really either, but it's the social contract… it's expected that we show interest in other people's lives. Then they ask the same of us, and our responses are usually equally bland. It's actually refreshing not having to make small talk with you. At least not this kind of small talk." When House didn't face him, he looked back to Keller. "Why don't you try something else?" Wilson ventured.

"I'm… I'm sorry, but these interactions are important if you want to fit in with society." Keller stuttered, clearly flustered at the fact that his methods were begin challenged.

"But House never wanted to fit in, he never could. He doesn't work that way." Wilson explained patiently. He was beginning to see why House had made so little progress in his time here so far. "You've spent the last week treating House like everyone else, judging him by everyone else's standards of normality when he is far from normal, he's a genius. He's exceptional."

Enough was enough, House had wasted too much of his time here already. "We're done. I'm done with this." House grabbed his crutches and stood up clumsily. He had spent a week thinking he wasn't good enough, when the problem wasn't with him. Keller clearly had no idea what he was doing. "You're what? Qualified a year? Either find me a therapist who actually knows what he's doing or don't. Either way, I'm done with you."

HHHHHHHHH

The rest of the morning was equally enlightening. There were no more major bombshells, but Wilson continued to encounter other well-meaning therapists and medical professionals who tried to base their treatment models on the average person. They attributed all of House's behavioural differences on his head injury and didn't try to get to know House, the House he was before his skull was caved in.

Wilson was just as angry with himself as he was with them. If he had just taken the time to get House settled in properly - instead of gratefully handing the burden over to strangers, telling himself House was taken care of, instead of visiting him for a token hour or two at the end of each exhausting day- he could have saved his friend from enduring a week of pointless exercises that stripped him of what little confidence and motivation he managed cling to since the accident. It was a wonder he made it out of bed each day.

The final session he sat in on was House's daily physio session. A 30 something, muscled bound frat boy took House through a series of strengthening exercises while chanting motivational platitudes that clearly had little impact on the man in front of him, breathing heavily and sweating. Wilson cut the session short and suggested that the younger man use House's competitive nature to motivate him. Short term goals would work better than focusing on the end game.

By the end of the session House was racing Wilson and the younger man across the room, all three using crutches, Wilson and the therapist's legs bound together with resistance bands. House actually left the session smiling faintly at having bested the two younger men.

Before leaving to get to his afternoon appointments, Wilson organised meetings with House's other care givers and therapists. This time he was going to do what he should have done when House checked in; tell them exactly who his friend was and what he was capable of, what motivated him and just what would and wouldn't work.