The hallway was narrow and dark, and the closeness of the walls made House feel off balance somehow. A trio of barely-dressed women giggled their way out of the bathroom. Arm in arm, they took up the entire width of the hallway, forcing House to step aside next to the payphone.
Moving out of the corner, his cane slipped, and he was grateful for the phone box because it gave him something to catch himself on. He looked down to see a bloody footprint. The trail led from the men's room.
"Fuck. Wilson!" He gripped his cane harder than was strictly necessary. He wasn't even aware of the pain as he took the few steps to the bathroom door. He used the cane to kick the door open, and his teeth cut into his bottom lip to stifle a cry of rage at the sight he saw.
James, on his back, bleeding from his mouth, blood on his thigh, under his back. His eyes were closed, his mouth slack, head lolled to one side. It didn't look good, but even from the doorway, before he could navigate his crippled body into the small room, he could see that James was breathing. Not deeply, but enough to push air.
"Son of a bitch! I need some help in here!" he yelled, and wrenched his cane under the door, effectively holding it open. The hallway leading to the bathrooms was suddenly vacant. House eased himself to his knees beside James, ignoring the excruciating pain gripping his right thigh. He could literally feel the dead nerves howling, but that was secondary to the scene before him.
Wilson was his best friend. His only friend, really. If he was honest.
"James!" he shifted to take his weight to his right hand and left knee. His left hand went to Wilson's neck, feeling for a pulse, his eyes scanning his friend's body. "Pulse is strong. Hang in there, James. Hang in there." House ran a hand through James' hair, making it stick up from his forehead.
Wilson moaned, his head shifting. "House…"
"I'm here. Don't. Don't move. Lay still. I'm going to call for help."
"No…no hospital…" House was concerned Wilson's words were slurred, his eyes unopened. As if he couldn't open them.
"Right. I'll take you back to my place and heal you with my magic touch." House fumbled with his cell phone, hated the belt clip he wore. His fingers trembled and threatened to misdial. He took a deep breath, eyes focused on the wall because he feared he would lose it if he looked at James.
"911. What's your emergency?" a female voice came over the line.
"A man has been stabbed." House identified himself as a doctor, told her the address of the bar, and assured her he didn't need her to stay on the line. He could handle things at the scene until the paramedics arrived.
"Stay with me, James. You stay with me." House demanded, his tone harsh because it was all he had to hide behind. Inside he was breaking down, he could feel it happening. There was so much blood on the floor, too much blood.
He kept his right hand on the floor, to keep his weight off his knee. His left hand held Wilson's hand, his grip firm, reassuring. "I just…want…sleep."
"No. Jimmy. No. You can't sleep. The paramedics are on the way. Hang in there." House looked up to the open door. Amazing how no one had come into the hallway. No one had answered House's screams for help.
Wilson's eyes closed. His body slumped, his grip loosened.
"Fuck. Don't do this to me. James! Damn it!" House let go of Wilson's hand. He inched closer to him, weight fully supported on his knees. He needed both hands now.
He shook Wilson's shoulder. His head rolled easily from side to side.
"Damn it, James! Somebody help! I need some help in here!" House looked down at his friend. James was pale and losing blood way too fast. "Where the hell are the medics?" House grumbled.
There was only one thing he could do. He thumped James' chest with both hands. Still nothing. Another thump earned him a groan. "Come on. Come on, James. Come back to me."
"House…" Wilson rasped. "Hurts…"
"I know. But you're doing good. You are. Just hang in there." House took hold of Wilson's hand again. It felt like a dead fish. House gave a gentle squeeze, but there was nothing from Wilson.
He hated this feeling. Helpless. Desperate. Hopeless.
"Hey, buddy. Everything okay in there?"
House looked up. A man stood a few feet from the door. "My friend's been stabbed. I've called for an ambulance. Go out front, see if they're here." House turned his attention back to James. "You still with me?"
Wilson moaned. He turned his face toward House, his eyes unfocused. House squeezed his hand again. "You're doing good, James. You're doing good."
In the silence, House heard the sirens approaching. "You hear that? The medics are coming. You're gonna be just fine."
House shifted himself back a bit. He wanted to be on his feet when the medics got in. The room was so small, he wasn't sure he'd be able to get out of the way easily. He brought his left foot up, tried to rock his weight onto that leg and pull himself up at the same time. His right leg refused to cooperate, and he was forced to catch himself on his hands.
"Fuck." He dragged himself to the sink, unable to avoid smearing the blood on his pants. He couldn't worry about that now. He had to get up on his feet. He tried again, using the sink for leverage, and failed again.
"How bad are you hurt, sir?" A fresh faced paramedic charged into the bathroom, headed right for House.
"Not me. Him. I'm not hurt. He's been stabbed." House gestured to Wilson who looked more pale than just a few minutes ago.
"911 said a doctor made the call."
"That's me. Dr Gregory House. Princeton-Plainsboro," House answered, irritated the guy was wasting time yakking when he needed to be tending to Wilson. "Your patient is Dr James Wilson, Head Of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro. He's had three beers, I wasn't with him when he was attacked. He's been stabbed, right leg and lower back from what I can tell. Possible concussion."
A second medic found his way to the bathroom, and stumbled over House's cane sticking out from under the door. Any other situation, House would have said something smart. But now, his focus was on James.
He watched silently as the two kids worked, and tried to reevaluate how he could get on his feet. He didn't want to distract the medics from James, but at the same time he knew he wasn't getting up on his own.
He waited until they had Wilson secured on a stretcher. "You think one of you could help me up?"
"You said you weren't hurt." The first medic stated.
He gestured at the cane still lodged under the door. "It's preexisting. Blood clot in my thigh. I need the cane to walk." He hated admitting that out loud. Just saying the word made his nerves twitch.
With one on either side, they eased him to his feet. "The cane? Please?" House prompted. The kid closest to the door wrestled it out and handed it to him.
"House…"
"I'm here, James." House moved to the stretcher. "They're gonna take you now. I'll be right behind you." He looked at the first medic who'd come in. "Take him to Princeton-Plainsboro."
"Princeton General's closer."
"No. He goes to Princeton-Plainsboro." House was surprised he was able to keep up with the stretcher, but he knew it was adrenalin. For the moment, he wasn't feeling his leg, but once he stopped moving… He also knew driving probably wasn't the smartest thing he could do, but he wasn't too thrilled about leaving his car in this neighborhood either.
"No…no hospit…" Wilson murmured.
A crowd had gathered outside the bar, people wondering what the fuss was all about. House paid them no attention. "Hang in there, James. I'll see you in a few minutes." House patted his leg. Wilson moaned, and his eyes fluttered. He raised a hand off the bed, House reached out to clasp it. "Be strong, James."
He watched them load the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. When the rig pulled away, he was left standing on the sidewalk, weary and blood stained, his weight distributed on his left leg and both hands set on the hilt of his cane. His arms were shaking. He needed to sit down.
He swiftly avoided looking at anyone as he limped to his car. He wasn't sure he'd even make it, except he had to. He couldn't collapse. Not yet. He needed to get to the hospital.
"Son of a bitch!" he hollered when he saw his car. The paint had been keyed, the tires slashed. Just what he needed.
He unlocked the passenger door and eased himself into the seat. He needed a few minutes to gather up his strength to make a few phone calls.
