I can't forgive, can't forget, can't give in I'm so lost, I'm barely here.

What went wrong I wish I could explain myself,

Because you said this was right. But words escape me.

You fucked up my life. It's too late

--My friend Ryan. To save me.

You're too late.

You're too late.

--unknown

A few scotches later, a few agonizingly uncomfortable minutes later, House decided he couldn't avoid the bathroom any longer.

That man…there was something very intimidating about a man bigger than you scowling like you shot his mother. House's palm was sweaty and it felt slick against his cane as he stood from the barstool. He failed to think about giving himself a reasonable distance to walk between himself and the row of people sitting along the counter as he drunkenly limped towards the restroom.

He kept his head bent downward as he began to limp a bit faster. He stumbled over a large foot clad in an even larger black boot. He regained his balance before he actually fell to the floor but it still hurt. The best glare he could muster was wiped from his face when he looked up to see the man towering above him.

The man snarled. House hid all of the fear from his face as he stood up straight, staring right back at him.

"Can I help you? Because I know this lovely young lady," he pointed to the woman who was obviously ignoring the man's attempts to bring her home, "won't go home with you. But that's for obvious reasons. Still, it doesn't mean that I'll go home with you either. Not my type."

The man curled his lip's back in a vicious snarl, and clenched his fists. "That your bike outside, man?" He growled.

"Oh! Sorry, my bike won't go home with you either." He replied, trying to step past him. Didn't work, he moved back in front of House and shoved him back a bit.

"You think you're better than me man? Bringin' that flashy bike all the way out here?" The man's knuckles were turning white. House poured a couple Vicodin in his mouth, chasing them around with his tongue until he swallowed all of them.

"You see, I'd answer that," House slurred, "But that would be stating the obvious, and you'd probably tell me to point out how I am better than you, and that would take another hour or so. And I really have to pee."

House saw the man's jaw clench and he tightened his grip on his cane.

"You ain't better than me man." The man's words came out as a low grumble, deep from his throat.

"Everybody lies…" House muttered, trying once again to step beside him towards the bathroom. The man pushed House backward again, even harder this time. He stumbled a bit, knocking into somebody else.

The second guy was fairly smaller than House, but turned around right away and drunkenly pushed House into the first instigator. As soon as he knew what was coming, he was shoved once again and this time fell against the bar's counter. His leg twisted a bit and he released a sharp hitch of breath. He stood straight and looked back at the man, who was suddenly catapulting himself towards House. He tackled him down onto the floor and hit him once before some random man who was sitting at the bar pulled him off.

House grabbed onto a stool and slowly pulled himself off. He looked at the man who was holding his attacker back.

"Let him go. He isn't finished." House growled. The man looked at him skeptically and it made House angrier. "Think you have to protect the fucking cripple?" He shouted. "Let him go. He isn't finished yet."

The man reluctantly let go of his attacker. Once released, he just stood there staring at House.

"Come on man, you gunna start a fucking fight then at least finish the job!" He shouted, pushing him backward. He didn't care. His leg was killing him from his last fall, his jaw hurt from the punch, he could feel a headache forming behind his eyes, and his ribs hurt from when he fell against the counter. His adrenaline was flowing faster and harder than it had in a long time. And he was taking advantage of this. It's the first time he actually felt something other than the pain in his leg. He was going to milk this for all it's worth, being able to feel something other than his fucking leg and the pain that shot through his chest when he heard Stacy's name, or saw something that reminded him of her.

The man shook his head and winded his fist back, eyes glowing with rage. His massive fist collided with House's jaw but he was able to stay standing, swaying a bit. He rubbed the side of his face momentarily before lifting his cane and whacking the man with all the strength he could muster into his leg. The man bent over and groaned, and launched himself yet again towards House. He ended up tackling him into the bartender, who just got close enough to try to stop the fight.

"Knock it off you guys! Knock it off!" The bartender shouted.

Fuck no. House was taking advantage of this. He pushed the bartender back and turned to punch the man again. The two threw punches back and forth until the group of colossal men House referred to as the Bulks stepped in. One half went to hold the attacker back as the other went to grab House.

They struggled in their grips, writhing and twisting and shouting obscenities.

"Let him finish!" House shouted, flailing and struggling to get away from the men holding him back. "Let him finish! Let go! He isn't finish! I don't need you're damn protection! Get away from me! Leave me alone!" He shouted.

The men let go momentarily when House started throwing punches and the other group let go.

House stood face to face with the attacker, glaring at him.

"Finish me off you fucker!" He shouted, stepping closer. "I don't think you finished."

The man's faced was flushed; he was furious. He winded his fist back once more and smashed it into House's mouth and jaw.

House fell to his knees, the thick crimson pooling from his lip, dripping onto his shirt and to the floor.

Several men bent around to help but he swatted them away. He coughed a few times and fell down the rest of the way, laughing. He was laughing. It was a sad laugh, a mix of a groan and an actual joyous laugh. It was slightly unnerving to the people watching.

One of the spectators noticed House's hand was trembling and stepped forward.

"Hey, I'm Sean McGivney. You alright man?" He asked.

House's right hand was desperately clutching his right thigh while his left was curled around his cane so hard his knuckle was white. He was still emitting the laugh. They weren't sure if it was a laugh exactly.

Once McGivney was sure that House wasn't going to answer, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his cell phone. He hit the number one and waited for the person whose number he just dialed to pick up. House still wasn't responding, he was just lying on the floor, eyes squeezed shut. The laughing subsided and his head was lolling back a bit.

The ringing stopped and a slightly frazzled voice answered. "James Wilson."

"Uh, I'm sorry to disturb you Mr. Wilson, but this is Sean McGivney. I'm calling from the Sand Horne Bar down in downtown Princeton…"

"Can I…help you?" Wilson asked. He had a gut feeling that something was really, really wrong.

"Do you know a-" He looked at the drivers license from the wallet in House's pocket. "Gregory House?"

Wilson's panic radar went off. "Is he okay?"

"I'm not really sure. He's kinda just lying on the floor. He's pretty beat up. He got into this bar fight with some guy who they escorted out of here. He's pretty bruised up and his lip split open. And something with his leg, he's holding his leg a lot." He reported, observing House's actions.

"Sand Horne Bar. You got the address?" Wilson asked.

McGivney told him and as soon as he finished he slammed the phone onto its receiver, grabbed his jacket and keys, and ran out the door.

As soon as Wilson was sure House wasn't dead, he was going to be in so much trouble.

I wish you guys knew how much I struggled to write this chapter. It was so hard, and I'm still not satisfied. It's driving me nuts...but if I don't post it now I might not ever get it up, so please, PLEASE, R&R.