"I'm blind Jimmy, not retarded. I've survived this long pretty all right. I'll be OK. I'll wait here."

Wilson gave him a suspicious look.

"Stop giving me that look and go," said House as he made shooing motions.

Wilson put up his hands in defeat. He was only going to be a few minutes. They just needed a few things from the grocery store. House would be fine. "Okay, okay. There is a bench about ten feet to your left," he said as he began to walk away.

Wilson dropped the bags. Ten minutes. I was only gone for ten minutes. What can happen in ten minutes?

House was sitting on the ground near the bench holding the two halves of his broken cane in his hand. He flinched slightly when Wilson put his hand on his shoulder, but didn't move.

"House?" said Wilson tentatively after a while. "You OK?"

House let out a shaky sigh and ran a hand across his mouth, smearing the blood on his chin. "No Jimmy, I am not OK. Not in any sense of the fucking word."

"Hold it still Goddamnit," growled Wilson in frustration as he tried to cut a straight line.

"I'm trying to."

"Well don't blame me if it is the wrong height."

"No Jimmy. I won't blame you," yelled House as he let go of the cane, the sudden release sending Wilson flying.

Wilson blanched. "House," he called. But House was already crashing down the hallway, collecting bruises as he went.

The sound of a door banging shut ended the outburst and Wilson was left standing in the kitchen holding the half sawed cane in his hand. He put it down on the bench and slowly continued his task – cutting it down to the right height and fitting the little rubber tip.

It was a beautiful cane: black and sleek with a gold ring. Not that House could tell though he thought sadly.

Then Wilson quietly padded down the hallway and left it leaning up against House's bedroom door.

"Hello, my name is Doctor House, but you can call me Greg. I'll be your doctor today. Some of you may have noticed that I am both blind and crippled, but that doesn't mean I can't diagnose you by smell alone."

"House – what are you doing? How did you get down here? And where is Cameron?"

He swung around in the direction of the very irritated female voice. "Why Doctor Cuddy. I am doing my duty by clinic duty," he said.

Cuddy strode over to him. "House. As much as I hate to say it: You are excused clinic duty for the time being."

She tried to pull him away to her office, but he broke away from her. "What… am I so pathetic I can't even cure the hypochondriacs and cold sufferers."

"Not here," she hissed. "Get to my office – now!"

"Are you pointing the way – cos I can't tell?" he bellowed loudly. Everyone in the clinic was staring at them. Drastic action was required. That was why they paid her the big bucks.

She reached up and grabbed his left ear. "This way," she said as she gave it a good twist.

House tried pawing her away, but she hung on tight and began to move. He could do nothing but follow.

Wilson came to pick him up. He took in the scene. Cuddy was at her desk, intently doing paperwork and ignoring House. House was sitting miserably on her couch. 'Caney The Fourth', as House called it, was propped up next to Cuddy's desk.

"Oh," was all he said.

"Oh, exactly," said Cuddy looking up.

A lot can happen in twelve hours.

In twelve hours you can go from being relatively happy to blind (now there was a word he had come to hate) drunk. In twelve hours you can blind your best friend.

Every night he imagined it. The screaming: raw, ragged, jagged sounds of agony that just went on and on and on. Writhing on the dirty ground. The pain making him twist and struggle as they tried to hold him down and cuff him. The sickening thud of the nightstick as it mercifully sent him into oblivion.

And where were you Jimmy boy? Where were you?