Okay, it's finally here. It has taken me ages to update this story because I have really, really struggled with this chapter. I knew where I wanted the story to go from the end of the last chapter and this chapter was kind of a fill-in, needed to move the action along and get it to where I want things to be. For some reason I found it incredibly difficult to write. I'm still not entirely sure about it. Please review and let me know what you think – all constructive criticism gratefully received, as ever.

Hopefully the next update will come rather quicker – lots more lovely House angst to come! (Grin)

In Self Defence – Chapter 10

Dr James Wilson was supposed to be doing paperwork. He had patient files to review, requests for consults to respond to, and a pile of administrative work relating to his positions on the board and on the transplant committee. He had more than enough work to occupy him.

Dr James Wilson was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands.

Lack of sleep from the night before was catching up to him and the stress of the last 24 hours had taken its toll on his stamina. He couldn't decide whether he felt like crying or throwing up. So he sat at his desk, surrounded by neglected paperwork, feeling dejected and exhausted.

Getting the CT scan done had been traumatic, for everyone concerned.

He'd been through so many emotions in such a short space of time that he hardly knew what to feel anymore. He'd been afraid for House, angry at his assailant, worried about his condition, relieved that he was ok, exasperated at his stubbornness.. a tumult of emotions that had become so tangled up he couldn't separate one from the other and had found himself almost feeling annoyed at House for putting him through this ordeal. Exasperation had warred with relief as it had become evident that House's irreverent sense of humour had survived intact and, before he knew it, he'd been wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, feeling almost cathartic at the release of emotion.

The laughter hadn't lasted long.

Foreman's face had been a picture as he'd poked his head round the door to find the two of them chortling like idiots – the look of disbelief on his face had only made them laugh all the more but House's levity had abruptly died with a sharply indrawn breath and his sudden pallor had sobered Wilson up quickly.

House's arm had been curled protectively against his ribs and he had seemed to be trying his damnedest not to breathe.

All the fears and worries had come flooding back and Wilson had been unable to keep the concern from his voice.

"House? You ok?"

He'd kicked himself almost as soon as the words had left his mouth; it was a stupid question - it was more than obvious that House was not ok - and one that House detested. He hated the insincerity, claiming people only enquired as a sop to their own conscience, to make themselves feel better, and had no desire for an honest answer. Wilson had fully expected to get a snide remark to that effect and cold anxiety had coiled in his stomach at House's uncharacteristic lack of response.

He had fired off orders to Foreman whilst House had simply withdrawn, his attention focused inwards as he struggled with the pain; shutting himself off, his body held stiffly, his breathing slow and careful, for the interminable minutes that it took for Foreman to return with the medications Wilson had requested. House's eyes had been closed, his face a frown of concentration, as Wilson had carefully pushed a reduced dose of painkillers into the IV port. Now that he seemed more alert and aware, trying to manage House's pain had become a delicate balance – enough medication to relieve the pain from his injuries without making him too dopey or knocking him out completely – and it had been a long ten minutes before House had let out a shaky sigh and allowed some of the tension to ease from his muscles. Wilson wished he could have given him something a bit stronger but knocking House out with high dose pain meds was not a sustainable treatment option and House had enough neurological complications from his concussion without adding to them with drug-induced confusion and disorientation.

He had remembered all too well the cold fear that had gripped him less than an hour earlier when House had awoken still tangled in the strong grip of pain medication, his vacant gaze looking straight through Wilson, his normally sharp blue eyes blank and unfocused. It had terrified him to see his friend so disoriented and incoherent and he'd had to entertain the awful possibility that the confusion was a further symptom of concussion, a further injury for House to battle. The relief had been overwhelming when House had snapped out of it, aiming his usual sarcasm at Foreman and even joking about the attack.

House's tightly-held posture had relaxed as the painkillers had finally worked their magic but he'd kept his eyes closed, his face turned away, and Wilson had felt his heart sink at House's obvious awkwardness. Awake and alert, without the confusion of concussion or drugs to numb him to his surroundings, House's walls and defences had been quickly rebuilt. He hated people to see him as weak or helpless and went to great lengths to hide his pain even from those closest to him – even from Wilson. The last thing he would want right now was people hovering over him.

Wilson had shot Foreman a look which tried to convey all of this and more. The neurologist had taken the hint with a surprising show of understanding and had announced that he was going to head down and make sure things were set up for the CT, telling Wilson and House that he'd "see you down there". The door had hussshed closed and for a few moments the only sound in the room was the steady rasp of House's breathing.

Wilson had given House the space he needed, leaning back in the chair, training his eyes on the bland green of the ceiling, and letting the room grow heavy with silence. After a while he had heard a soft rustle and dropped his eyes to find House had turned his head and was regarding him with a deliberately empty gaze.

"Hey"

House had grunted in response and they had both honoured the unspoken agreement to just let it ride. Don't ask, don't tell.

With a wordless nod Wilson had gone to inform the orderly that they were ready and, between the two of them, they had unhooked House from his array of monitors and manoeuvred the bed out into the hallway with a minimum of disruption. House had remained uncharacteristically silent during the trip, staring disinterestedly at the ceiling passing overhead, his attention focused elsewhere. Wilson had been surprised to feel a moment of trepidation as they had pushed through the doors to the radiology department and he had wondered briefly if he would ever be able to see this hallway again without his vision being coloured by the memory of yesterday's events.

House had been grumpy and uncooperative in the CT suite, snapping at Foreman when he tried to take charge, and Wilson had had to hide a small smile at the look of frustration on the neurologist's face. His amusement had faded rapidly when the time had come to transfer House from the bed to the CT machine. Despite the painkillers Wilson had given him, any movement was obviously difficult for House – his entire torso was bruised and tender and any kind of movement pulled painfully at swollen flesh, stealing the breath from him and sapping him of strength. They'd tried to move him as quickly and as carefully as possible but even so the transfer had left him trembling and sweating, biting back a curse as he tried to breathe through the pain, his rapid breathing tense and shallow in an effort to avoid aggravating the pain from his broken ribs. By unspoken agreement they'd let him be, giving the painkillers time to do their job, before starting the scan.

Wilson and Foreman had been sitting in the control booth, preparing to start the test, when the door had been quietly pushed open and Dr Cuddy had slipped unobtrusively into the room. After the difficulties they'd had in waking House they were running a good 30 minutes behind on their allotted appointment time and yet somehow she had known exactly when to turn up. Sixth sense, he'd wondered idly.. or just the mark of an extremely efficient administrator? She'd wordlessly taken a seat next to him, throwing him a quick smile that spoke of a shared apprehension, as Foreman had started the scan programme. The machine had hummed to life and the three of them had sat in shared silence in the gloom of the control booth, their faces lit only by the eerie green light of the screens; eyes, minds, thoughts focused on one thing alone.

The scan seemed to take an interminably long time.

Though more than adept at reading CT results, Wilson and Cuddy had deferred to Foreman, as the neurologist, to confirm the diagnosis. The smile on his face had shown a relief as genuine as their own as he had pronounced, "It's clean. No visible swelling or abnormality."

They'd spent a scant couple of minutes discussing the results, suggesting prognoses and treatment plans, before House had given voice to his frustration at being unable to move about under his own steam and had started yelling for someone to "get me out of this damned machine!" Cuddy's raised eyebrows had spoken volumes and her voice was warm with resigned amusement as she had commented, "He seems to be feeling better?"

Foreman, knowing he would bear the brunt of House's ill-humour, as usual, had merely rolled his eyes as he'd headed out into the main room. The look Wilson had shared with Cuddy had been more serious.

"He's doing better," he'd agreed, answering her unspoken question. "He's mostly lucid and oriented, though he gave us a fright this morning.."

The flash of concern on her face, minute enough that those who didn't know her well might have missed it altogether, had cleared as he had explained further, "Confusion due to the medications. We were worried for a while that it was another symptom of the concussion but his neuro results are ok... considering..."

She had nodded her understanding, her gaze on him coolly assessing as she changed the subject.

"How are you holding up?"

Lisa knew him too well. He could put on a good face for his staff, for his colleagues, but a shared history of friendship with – and concern for – House meant she could read him like a book. She could see the fatigue, the stiffness from sleeping in an armchair, the worry that weighed down his shoulders and settled like a lead weight around his heart. He'd tried to shrug off her concern with a smile but one look at her face had told him she wasn't buying.

"You need a break," she'd lectured seriously. "I know you're his friend and I know you're worried but you can't spend every minute looking after him."

Her had mouth curved into a wry smile and he couldn't help himself from joining in as she'd reminded him, "Besides, you're depriving him of all the fun of having nurses to shout at – you know he won't truly feel better until he's made at least one member of staff cry.."

She'd put her foot down when he'd tried to protest, "You have work of your own to see to Dr Wilson; I can't have both my Head of Diagnostics and my Head of Oncology out of action."

Her mood had been decisive, stepping easily into her accustomed role as organiser, decision-maker, as she'd held open the door to usher him out of the control room.

"You said it yourself, he's awake and lucid and his injuries aren't life-threatening. He's going to be tired and grumpy, not to mention downright miserable until we get his meds sorted, and the ICU staff can handle him well enough. Get him settled and then I want you back in your office.."

She threw him the quickest of winks as she followed him out into the main room, her smile taking the sting from her words.

"I don't care whether you get any work done in there or not but I want to see you in your office – or the clinic or the wards, anywhere that isn't ICU – until at least lunchtime today. Okay?"

House had been less than thrilled to see Cuddy emerge from the control booth along with Wilson. "Checking up on me again, Cuddy?" he'd sniped irritably. Lisa had let his comment ride, taking House's rudeness calmly in her stride, her clinical gaze swiftly taking in the sweat beading the pale skin of his forehead and the careful shallowness of his breathing. She'd favoured him with a serene smile, knowing it bugged him to not get a reaction to his jibes, and ignored him in favour of a last admonishment to Wilson, "Lunchtime. I mean it."

House had turned his head to follow her exit from the room before fixing his friend with a baleful glare. Wilson had fully expected some scathing comment about lunch dates with colleagues or Cuddy using him as a substitute while House was out of action and he'd been mildly surprised when no snide remarks were forthcoming. The transfer back to the bed had taken more out of House than he would admit but Wilson knew him well enough to see the signs.

House had remained stubbornly silent during the short trip back to the ICU and he had lain seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts whilst Wilson had settled him back into his room and reattached the monitors. Wilson knew from experience that House would snap out of his sulk when he was good and ready and that there was really no point in him being here right now in any case, as House clearly was not in the mood for company. He'd been hanging the IV bag back on its stand when the door had slid open and he had looked up to see Cuddy accompanied by the same two detectives who'd been hovering in the radiology department yesterday.

The look on Lisa's face was apologetic as she'd introduced himself and a disinterested House to the detectives, explaining that they wanted to question House about the attack. He'd found himself interrupting, protesting at the futility of the attempt, "But he can't tell you anything.."

The older of the two - Detective Lindman was it? – had overridden him smoothly, agreeing that it was probably a wasted effort but that nonetheless they had to try. Wilson had looked to Cuddy but her expression had said that she'd been through all this already and she'd indicated with a resigned shrug that they obviously weren't going to understand how complete House's memory loss was until they found out for themselves.

House had seemed tired and apathetic, scowling at the intrusion but making none of the caustic remarks that Wilson would have expected. His friend had looked tired and uncomfortable and his responses to the detectives' opening questions were abrupt and impatient. Wilson had been aware of the tightly controlled frustration in House's voice and it had occurred to him that they really hadn't had chance to talk yet about the memory loss and its implications. House was a man who lived his life, partly of necessity since the infarction, on an intellectual level; treating the world as a puzzle to be solved, storing data and nuance, filtering experiences through the sharp focus of his mind, constantly thinking, considering, analysing. Wilson could only imagine how frustrating it must be to have a piece of his own mind, of his own experience, essentially missing, unreachable; the puzzle unsolvable because a vital clue was missing.

Lisa's pointed glance at her watch as she had held the door open in invitation had reminded him of her lecture in the CT department, and made it clear that she was not about to rescind her orders.

And so he had reluctantly left House to the tender mercies of the Princeton Police Department and now here he sat in his office, ignoring several piles of paperwork in favour of indulging his exhaustion, struggling to sort through 24 hours worth of emotional upheaval. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, feeling like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. A glance at the clock told him it was only 10am. Cuddy had been explicit in her instructions not to return to ICU until lunchtime and he figured that any earlier than 12 o'clock would be risking her wrath.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, making a conscious effort to try and relax, to focus. He let the breath out and opened his eyes. He couldn't sit here feeling sorry for himself like this for the next two hours – there was work to be done, patients and families who needed him. Pushing his exhaustion aside, he reached for a file from the top of the pile and flipped it open, his fingers reaching automatically for a pen. With one eye unconsciously on the clock, he focused determinedly on his work.

TBC..