The angst continues... reviews and constructive criticism welcomed, as always. Thanks muchly to those who've provided some really great advice and feedback on previous chapters.. you know who you are.

In Self Defence - Chapter 5

The first thing House was aware of was pain. He was used to pain. He lived with it every day, it was a part of life, part of existing; a familiar companion who walked at his side from the moment he awoke until he escaped into sleep. House knew pain.

But this, this was different. This was not the old familiar pain he carried with him every day. This was not the constant, grinding ache of damaged nerves, not the slow, inevitable build up from background hum to sharp, discordant shriek that only Vicodin could relieve. This was sudden and all-encompassing, a wave of dark heat that washed over him, wrapping itself around him in a suffocating cloak.

There was only darkness and pain. He was on fire with it, every cell in his body screamed, firing bursts of electricity up his spinal cord into his brain, telling the brain they were damaged, triggering a warning response that the body interpreted as aching, grinding, shooting, screaming, goddamn pain. Messages from a myriad pain receptors flooded his brain, colliding and tripping over each other until he couldn't tell where the pain originated. It was everywhere, he was tangled in it, unable to think around the relentless onslaught of sensation. He tried to speak, to scream, to give voice to the agony but he couldn't hear through the roaring in his head, the awful cacophony of pain receptors firing over and over and over again.

Awareness leaked in around the edges of the pain and he struggled to make sense of his surroundings. His eyelids felt heavy and stiff, his limbs weighed down by some invisible force. He became aware of sounds; an incessant, shrill beeping that echoed around his skull, ringing in his ears. And all the while the relentless pain snapped and snarled at him, scrambling his thoughts, making him dizzy and nauseous. He tried instinctively to move and felt the air rush from his lungs as the pain spiked, hot and angry.

For a moment he thought he heard a sound, a voice that sounded familiar, and then he was suddenly blinded; glaring light shining in his eyes. He cringed instinctively, trying to pull back from the intrusive glare, and the movement left him gasping. He couldn't think through the pain, couldn't separate the thought process from the pain process… all he could do was feel. And all he could feel was pain.

"House?"

Wilson leaned anxiously over the bed. He felt almost sick from the wave of relief that washed over him at the realisation that his friend was finally regaining consciousness.

"House? Can you hear me? Its Wilson…"

He frowned, not liking what he saw. House was sluggish and confused, his eyes still firmly shut as he stirred restlessly. Even as he watched, his friend's breath hitched painfully and Wilson saw the shudder pass through House's thin frame, a light sweat breaking out across his forehead. A shrill beep from the heart monitor warned of a sudden rise in heart rate.

"House?"

His mouth set grimly, Wilson pulled his penlight from the pocket of his lab-coat and, as gently as he could, lifted first one eyelid then the other, quickly checking for pupil reactions. House's response was immediate, flinching away from the light, the movement drawing a strangled cry from his lips. Wilson was relieved to find both pupils equal and reactive, a good sign. Less encouraging though was House's obvious confusion and pain.

Loathe to leave his friend for any longer than was necessary, Wilson grabbed the chart from the foot of the bed and was writing up orders for pain medication in a hasty scrawl even as he half walked, half ran to the nurse's station. He practically threw the chart to the nearest nurse before grabbing the phone and dialling the extension for the diagnostics department from memory.

The conversation was short and to the point. "Foreman? It's Wilson. I need you here. Now."

It was rare that the charming, unassuming Dr Wilson threw his authority around – but when he did, people were wise to respond in a timely manner. Wilson was actually quite impressed that Foreman had made it down from the fourth floor in under three minutes – he suspected the neurologist had forgone the wait for an elevator and had simply ran down the stairs. Nonetheless, by the time he arrived in the ICU the nurses had already started House on an IV saline drip and Wilson had a syringe of pain medication already drawn and ready to use.

House was still half-conscious, reacting to external stimuli but refusing to open his eyes. His breathing was rapid and shallow and his body shook frequently as spasms of pain caused his muscles to tense involuntarily. The brief three minutes it had taken Foreman to arrive had seemed like years as Wilson stood helplessly by, watching his friend tremble with pain. He couldn't imagine what the expression on his face looked like when Foreman entered House's room, all he knew was that the neurologist took one quick look at him and moved immediately to tend to House, no words needing to be spoken.

Wilson watched impatiently as Foreman checked House's vitals, mirroring the actions he himself had already taken. Rationale and logic told him that thoroughness was a good thing and that these procedures shouldn't be rushed but the need to take action, to do something to help his friend was overwhelming. Anxiety formed into an unbearable tightness in his chest and he had to remind himself to breathe slowly and calmly. He fought the urge to tell Foreman to hurry the hell up, flinching when House groaned quietly, another shudder wracking his battered body.

"Dr House? Dr House!" Foreman spoke loudly, frowning at the lack of response. "How long has he been like this?" he questioned.

Wilson glanced at his watch and shook his head wearily.

"Almost ten minutes." he replied. "He's conscious but I can't rouse him properly. He's in a lot of pain.. his injuries…" he gestured helplessly at the bed, the loaded syringe heavy in his hand.

Foreman nodded solemnly and, much as House and his fellow antagonised each other a great deal of the time, Wilson saw in Foreman's carefully schooled features a measure of empathy for House's condition.

"You know we can't give him anything until he's had a full neurological assessment?"

Wilson tipped his head in acknowledgement, his voice tight as he carefully and deliberately laid the syringe down within easy reach. "Then let's get on with it."

Loud voices jolted him from a fever-dream of red agony. Sensation filtered through the wash of pain, hands touching him, jostling him. He tried to tell them to leave him alone but his throat felt tight and raw and all that emerged was an unintelligible mumble.

"Come on House, it's Wilson. I need you to open your eyes for me."

Wilson. He knew that name, that voice. Yes. Wilson. He tried to focus but the pain ripped through him, scattering thought and comprehension.

"Open your eyes House!"

A different voice. He knew that voice too. That voice had a name…

"House? Open your eyes."

Sensation. Touch. Pain. Fingertips on his face. Pain roaring through him.

Light. Glaring, blinding, painful light as his eyelid was peeled back. Images too bright for him to take in, colours blurring and moving together. Pain roiled through him, stealing away his breath, trampling his consciousness, squeezing his eyes shut in an involuntary grimace. He was wrapped in pain, sinking beneath the surface till it swallowed him completely.

"HOUSE!"

Jesus. So loud. What? Wilson? He latched onto that solitary thought and clung to it as the waves of pain washed over and around him, threatening to sweep him away. He licked dry lips and tried to force a sound from his aching throat. "Wilson?"

"Yes House. It's Wilson. Open your eyes House."

His eyelids felt like lead. It took hours, days, years of concentrated effort to raise them. The sudden light flared red against his retinas, making his head swim. Pain skittered along raw nerves. He squinted into the light. "Wilson?"

"Hey there. You had us worried."

Colours seeped in as his eyes adjusted to the light. Green. More green. Oh god… pain made his muscles tense and quiver. Focus, dammit. Green. Ceiling?

Something blocked out the green. A face. "Wilson"

"I'm here House. Do you know where you are?"

He swallowed thickly. Thoughts slipped away from him like sand running through his fingers. Pain bit and snarled angrily. Green. Green ceiling.

"Ngghh. Hospital?" Was that his voice? It sounded faint, hoarse.

"Do you know what day it is?" The other voice. Foreman. He fought to focus. Yes, Foreman. What was the question?

"Day?" he mumbled. "It's today.." His head was swimming. Pain thrummed through him.

That was Foreman. Foreman was talking again.

"Oriented to time and place. Sorta…"

Oh. Not talking to him. Good.

He gritted his teeth as fresh pain trembled his limbs. He felt disorientated, nauseous; the voices talking over him were distant, disembodied. Fingers gripped his and someone told him to squeeze. He could feel himself slipping away again, the angry riptide of pain pulling him under, overturning conscious thought.

Fingers snapped in front of his nose, jerking him back to the here and now. He grumbled apathetically, trying to follow instructions, counting blurred appendages, answering random questions. And the pain was his constant companion, wrapping itself around and over and through him, scraping its nails down his nerve strands, snarling and shrieking in his head.

The voices overhead were fading. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate on the words.

"Confusion"

"Disorientation"

"Blurred vision"

"Concussion"

Random syllables that meant nothing. Abstract concepts floating on a red sea of pain. He felt cold and hot at the same time. His body was not his to control; it trembled and shivered and screamed.

He felt so tired. The constant ache of pain sapped the strength from his limbs. Overwhelmed with constant sensation, he wished for nothing more than oblivion - absence of sensation, absence of thought, sheer, pure nothingness.

A new sensation washed through him. It flowed outward from his left arm.. a cooling tide that left a shiver in its wake, followed by a sweet, delicious numbness. It crept insidiously into each and every cell in his body, slicing through the burning fire of pain, settling heavily over frayed nerves and aching muscles. Slowly but surely, pain receptors stopped firing. The red tide of agony receded, left him limp and exhausted on the edge of a deep and comforting darkness. It was the most delicious sensation he'd ever known. He felt inexpressibly heavy, his body weighed a thousand tons and the weight was pulling him deeper and deeper into darkness. The absence of pain allowed him a moment of clarity and he knew who had he could thank for this sweet release. He murmured his thanks, a single word, a last sigh of gratitude as the warm darkness closed over his head, swallowing him whole; "Wilson…"

James Wilson stood for a moment with the empty syringe still in his hand. He watched as House's eyelids grew heavy and finally closed over clouded blue eyes. With a sigh he turned and dropped the used syringe in the sharps box. He thought he heard a whisper from the bed, a murmured exhalation of breath, but when he checked House was out for the count. Wilson collapsed more than sat in the armchair beside the bed, feeling more exhausted than he could remember being in a long time. He stretched his legs out and felt his feet bump against something on the floor. Leaning forward, he reached down and retrieved House's cane from under the chair. He sat for a moment turning the smooth wood of the cane in his grip, his face unreadable. Then he planted the cane solidly in front of the chair and rested his forhead wearily on the polished handle.

With a shaky breath, James Wilson closed his eyes and surrendered himself to the passing of time.

TBC...