Thanks for the wonderful reviews, everyone! Here's where the meat of the story really begins. And no, I don't know anything about the future of the show. I'm leaving Chase out only because he annoys me with his two-facedness. So I figured I'd create a character who's annoying, but who I can control. Hehehehe!

Chapter 1 - Out of the Woods

Immanuel and Elijah crept through the woods, low to the ground, their bare feet absorbing the sound of their footfalls. Immanuel was 13, and Elijah was 9. Neither boy wore a shirt in the heat of the summer, and the sweat glistened on their browned backs, stuck their thick black hair to their heads. If the heat or the sweat or the branches scrapping their flesh bothered them, there was no way of knowing. Were this not the 21st century, the boys could easily have passed for Native Americans, prowling the woods of New Jersey, in search of food or sport.

As each carried a rifle at their side, the illusion was even stronger.

Elijah stayed behind his bigger brother, moving just as silently, as if he'd been doing it for a long time. Actually, he noticed that his brother wasn't as quiet or careful as normally. Immanuel's toes caught on a root and he barely caught himself with a low branch. The sudden noise shocked the still woods, as several birds took flight in annoyed screeches. Elijah swiftly brought up his rifle but they were too far away and were probably not even worth shooting at.

Elijah reached out to help his brother stand, but Immanuel violently ripped away from his brother's arm, cursing under his breath. But Elijah could see his hands. They were shaking. Elijah could hear the rifle's barrel rattling under the force of the tremor seizing his brother. Now, being so up close, he could see it, the trembling of his brother's entire body. And his eyes. Elijah could only bare a sideways glance at them.

His eyes wouldn't stand still.

And what made it all worse, was that this wasn't the first time.

Immanuel pushed away and went to a tree, leaning on it with his free hand, back facing Elijah. Elijah knew better than to approach. So he waited until the tremor passed and Immanuel's body stilled, his shoulders sagged, and he motioned them forward.

Again, with the forest expectant, they silently slid through it. Elijah watched the taunt movements of his brother, and felt very cold despite the sun beating down on them.

Suddenly Immanuel dropped to a crouch. Elijah immediately followed, peering into the woods, looking for whatever it was that caught the other's eyes. Immanuel pointed to their side, but snapped his hand back. The tremor had returned. Elijah did not notice, because he was focused on peering into the green woods, into a spot where no light managed to pass through the lush canopy.

"Immanuel, I don't-"

"It's there," Immanuel hissed through clenched teeth. "A big one, with twelve points. Now's your chance."

Elijah brought his rifle up, clicked off the safety and peered down the sight, still not seeing anything in the woods.

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, forget it," he hissed again, bringing up his own rifle. The end of the barrel bounced around, refusing to play nice for the boy, as if it was suddenly objecting to killing. Immanuel growled, swearing louder.

Elijah cringed. This wasn't his brother. Timidly, he inched away from his brother.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Ssshut uppp," Immanuel replied, setting down his gun. "No ssshoot, bbbefore it gggetsss awaaay!"

Elijah sighted again. Still nothing.

"But I don't see anything."

"Idiot, give me that!"

Immanuel lunged for the rifle, grabbing the barrel in his shaking hand. Elijah refused to let go.

"No, Immanuel, there's nothing there!"

They struggled, Elijah amazed he was able to hold on as long as he could. But Immanuel was shaking worse, his eyes darting, unable to rest.

"I said give me your gun!"

With a sudden jerk, Immanuel wrestled the rifle towards himself, wrenching it from Elijah's grip.

But Elijah's finger was still crooked on the trigger.

And the rifle's shot shattered the still of the woods.

With the barrel pointed directly at Immanuel's leg.

Each boy stared at the other as the sound and smoke dissipated into the woods. For a split second, Immanuel's body went rigid, freed from the trembling. Then the blood started to flow, covering Immanuel's hands as they investigated the hole in his leg.

Elijah watched from where he fell, his face frozen beyond shock and fear.

Immanuel looked down at his younger brother, and started to laugh. Deep, uncontrollable, wild laughter flowed from him as quickly as the blood. The trembling returned, stronger, jerked him to the ground as his legs gave way.

And he kept laughing.

XXX

The glaring summer sun was setting, swathing the sky in severe yellows and oranges. The helicopter buzzed angrily, insisting on immediate clearance as it circled once around the heliport on top of the Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital, nestled in a finer area of the garden state. It circled once more, watching the ER and trauma doctors scurry out with their gurney and wait out of reach as it settled down, scattering errant leaves and debris off the pad like an angry broom. Just as it bounced to settle firmly, the doctors rushed forward, bent nearly in half to avoid the angry blades.

The cargo inside could not be kept waiting any longer.

The paramedics skillfully launched Immanuel, tied down to a portable backboard with IV and red-stained bandages decorating his still sweaty, trembling body, unto the rolling gurney. He was immediately wheeled away, doctors, surgeons and nurses busily shouting orders at each other to try to be heard over the buzz of the blades. Only one nurse remained as a paramedic handed over Elijah, eyes wide, lips trembling, whole body shivering as the sweat met the sudden downdraft of the blades.

The nurse wrapped him in a blanket and led him inside. Elijah said nothing. If he blinked, it was lost in the chaos as the sun and the helicopter departed.

XXX

"You made me miss American Rejects," House grumbled, popping a Vicodon as he limped down the hallway. Dr. James Wilson, the bravest soul in the hospital (or so his wife called him), traipsed along besides the gaunt doctor, hands in pockets, smile on face, amiable to any gruffness his friend could dish out. It was all a show. A very good show - even fooled Wilson at times.

"You mean American Idol," Wilson corrected.

"Yeah, whatever."

"That doesn't run in the summer."

"Fine, Mr. Nielson, you made me miss valuable beer guzzling and whoring time!" House shot back, with absolutely no twinkle in either his gait or his eyes, which were now shooting daggers at his friend's profile. Okay, so the show was definitely without a laugh track today.

"I didn't make you miss anything! You agreed to sit in on the budget meeting because you wanted Volger to see you do it!"

"Puffed up nancy boy thinks he's so big just because he's got money…" House's grumble trailed off as they rounded a corner in time to be met by the ER procession.

The doctors worked furiously over Immanuel's leg, opting to go straight to the OR, and were completely oblivious of anyone else in the hall. Wilson quickly caught House's arm and pulled him against the wall as the tempest of medicine rolled past them. House didn't even notice his friend's imposition. His eyes were fixed on the unconscious shivering boy tied down to the gurney. He could swear he saw a smile underneath the air mask.

Then the nurse arrived, following slowly, keeping Elijah at a distance from the commotion over his brother. Elijah looked straight ahead, but it was doubtful he was seeing anything of his brother. Or any of his surroundings.

House knew that look. He'd seen it in the mirror, after…

"A GSW to the leg," Wilson sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "I sure hope they aren't brothers."

House pulled himself from his thoughts, and back to his grumbling. He wanted to be in a bad mood, not a suicidal one.

"Boys shouldn't play with guns. Give them slingshots if they want to torture things."

House continued his amble down the hallway, and Wilson picked up besides him.

"Or a medical degree," Wilson observed.

"Where do you think it all starts?"

"Well, I know it doesn't all start with you just off-handedly wanting to rattle Volger."

"Fah," House snorted contemptuously, smugly, "there's nothing off-handed about my torturing tactics. More like, even-handed. I'm an equal opportunity torturer."

"No argument here. This wouldn't have to do with a certain sexy new addition to your department?"

House glanced at his friend, but let go the comment that sprang to mind when he caught the look on Wilson's face. Wilson's taste for women - many and varied - was no secret, no surprise, and was becoming no fun to tease him on. Well, at least not today.

"You mean the new fly in the old ointment? The self-proclaimed bitch-"

"She told me you and Dr. Cameron called her that-"

"-who thinks she's a know-it-all upstart in search of a mentor slash father figure?"

"You've got her all figured out then, and you know Volger, so why rattle him now? After that incident with Chase, you've been doing all you can to avoid him."

House stopped, leaned thoughtfully on his cane. Wilson turned to face him.

"Does this have something to do with you and Al-"

House's thoughtfulness quickly reverted to icy glares, and Wilson quickly shut his mouth.

House resumed his staggering gait, leaving Wilson in the dust.

"Because she's a mystery. And I love a good mystery."

Wilson watched his friend step into an elevator. House turned back just in time for the doors to slid shut, but Wilson caught that brief instant. That chink in House's armor. The one with long dark hair, glasses, and a stubbornness he'd only ever seen in one other person - the main in the suit of armor himself.

Wilson didn't know everything that happened with Dr. Cameron during the Volger headhunting incident, the one that resulted in Chase's departure. And having Stacy return, just then - well, it was as bad as anything he'd seen on that soap House insisted on watching. And now add on a new character...

Wilson ran his fingers through his hair again, shaking loose strands that had decided to relocate to his fingers. It was stress. Either from the job, or from handling House.

Hell, handling House was his job.