Title: Vacant Lives 4?
Author: Michelle (CelticFaerie2)
Rating: Mature. This chapter is gen. But still. Overall rating will be mature.
Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, self destruction, adult situations, possibly language
Fandom: House

Spoilers: None really
Characters: Wilson, House, a few others along the way
Disclaimer: Genius to David Shore for creating such an addictive show, and of course Hugh Laurie and Robert Sean Leonard for playing House and Wilson so beautifully
Summary: Life goes on.
Notes: 1200 words.
Feedback: PLEASE!

He sat in the passenger seat of his vandalized car, the door open allowing him to stretch his right leg out, foot on the ground. He'd called his insurance company, he'd called for a tow truck. He'd called Dr Cuddy to inform her of the situation, so she could met Wilson's ambulance at the hospital. He'd called Dr Eric Foreman, one of his own staff, to come pick him up.

He'd talked to the cops, who finally showed up in response to his 911 call. They were milling around, both inside the bar and out in the parking lot, occasionally stopping to talk to potential witnesses. House had told them everything he knew, and had retreated back to his car to be alone. Despite the beer and the extra Vicodin, his leg was giving him fits. He sat with his head tilted back, his hands gently massaging his thigh.

"Hey, man. You need any help?" The voice startled him, he hadn't heard anyone approach. The person came from the back of the car, and House had to sit up and turn a little to see him. He was young, mind twenties, maybe. Well dressed, like Wilson, he stuck out in a place like this.

House took his cane off the driver's seat and tapped it on the ground, hoping he wouldn't have to get out of the car. He wasn't planning to get up until Foreman or the tow showed. "Nah, I'm good."

The kid nodded. "If you say so. That your wallet? Might not want to leave it laying around." The kid pointed under the car. No way House could see under there without getting up. "Hey, no worries. I'll get it."

He recognized it immediately and snatched it from the kid. James' driver's license and hospital ID were there, a few frequent diner cards, the pictures of the dog and Julie that he carried. No cash, no credit cards.

House leaned back against the seat again, with a sound that was half sigh, half growl. So they stabbed him, robbed him, and vandalized the car they assumed was his. Great. "What the hell happened in there?" he muttered to himself.

"Anything I can do?" the kid asked.

House cracked one eye open. The kid was standing there with his arm propped up on the open door. A little too close, and House had to stifle the urge to poke at him with his cane. "Thanks. I got it covered."

"Look. I'm sorry about what happened to your friend. They don't like strangers in this place."

The other eye opened. Twin pools of endless blue. "What do you know about it?"

The kid shrugged. "Not much. My uncle owns the bar. It's a rough neighborhood."

"Found that out," House grumbled. Didn't this kid realize he wasn't in the mood to chat? He was tired, he was worried, he was anxious to get to the hospital. He needed to change his clothes, he needed to be with James.

"Yeah. I hope your friend is okay."

"That my tow truck?" House interrupted, seeing the truck pull into the lot. "Why don't you prove your worth and flag him over here."

House turned completely sideways in the seat and set his left foot on the ground. Right hand gripping his cane, left hand on the door, he pulled himself up. He'd already doubled up on Vicodin, another pill was out of the question. He sighed and limped to the back of the car.

House didn't dare sit down after the tow truck took his car away. The pain in his right leg was worse than usual, and his left hip ached from the strain of going down on it in the bathroom.

He paced a bit, then settled against the wall of the building to wait for Foreman. Luckily no one tried to talk to him, maybe they could tell he wasn't in the mood. All he could think about was James, who was surely at the hospital by now, and wondering where House was, why he wasn't there. Unless he'd lost consciousness on the way, but House couldn't let himself think about that.

He had to believe Wilson was going to be fine. Despite the blood and the image of his friend laying on the bathroom floor. Surely it would take more than a couple pokes with a knife to keep James Wilson down.

He was still waiting for Foreman when his cell phone rang. The caller ID displayed Cuddy's name. "Cuddy?" He yelped. "What's going on? Are you with him?"

"They're prepping him for surgery now."

House hooked his cane on his left arm, freeing his hand to rub his face. Surgery. At least he was still alive. "Is he awake?"

"They said he lost consciousness five minutes out." House couldn't stifle a sharp intake of breath. "His stats are strong, House. But he's in bad shape. I'm sure I don't have to tell you it's too soon to know anything concrete. Where are you?"

"Foreman hasn't shown yet," House sighed, looked out to the street.

"I'm sure he'll be there soon."

"He better." House muttered, left off the threat to fire him. "Keep me updated."

"I will. But there won't be anything to report until he's out of surgery."

"I know." House sighed. "I think that's Foreman's car. I'll see you soon." He flipped his phone shut and replaced it on his belt clip.

House pushed off the wall and went out to meet Foreman. Foreman parked and swung his door open. "You look like shit." Foreman walked around the front of the car.

"I feel like it too. I'm sorry about the blood. I'll pay to have your car cleaned." House opened the passenger door, turned himself around to sit sideways. Foreman moved forward like he meant to help, but backed off when House glared at him.

They didn't talk much during the drive. House kept his head back, eyes closed. He tried to concentrate on the steady rhythm of the road, and let that lull his mind into a fog.

"Take me to the Ambulance Bay," House instructed when he opened his eyes to see they were approaching the hospital.

"You know they won't let me near it in a car."

"Yes, they will." House's tone left no room for argument.

The security guard flagged Foreman down. He had no choice but to stop. "Sir, you're not allowed back here."

"Dr Gregory House," House showed his ID. "He's dropping me off."

"Sir, civilian vehicles are not –"

"Do you enjoy your job? Because I'm sure I could arrange for a replacement within the hour. I have been paged to an extremely critical patient, and I assure you, you do not want to be responsible for any further delay."

The guard wore a conflicted look, but finally stepped aside. House took a deep breath. His hands were shaking terribly, there was no point even trying to put his wallet back in his pocket.

"You need any help?" Foreman asked. House had the door open, his body turned sideways. He grit his teeth as he surged upward. Without a word to Foreman, he used his cane to kick the door shut.