Well, I got five reviews, and they were all fairly positive. I am therefore continuing – if you happened to hate the first chapter, you can blame BethTX, gh2005, bmax, TakeAWhackAtIt and Boys Don't Cry.

(You guys rock.)

Chapter 2

Two weeks previously...

Lisa Cuddy was a wonderful person, mused House as he made his way towards the check in desks. Two weeks in Hawaii, in the sun, all expenses paid, away from the clinic and away from Cameron's diabetes-inducing sympathy. God, he had had enough of that to last a lifetime. If he never saw the woman again, it would be too soon.

Sure, he knew that the only reason Cuddy had sent him had been that she felt guilty about him going to rehab. And so she should do. He didn't have a drug problem – he had never had a drug problem. He had a pain problem. If he took more Vicodin than he was prescribed, it was because he was in pain. Why did nobody else understand that?

Well. There was one person that understood. After all the years that House had spent fighting to make Wilson understand that his pain was real, the oncologist finally seemed to get it. The last few months had made the biggest difference. Wilson had come to visit a few times while he as in rehab, and the two of them had, as Cuddy put it, "kissed and made up". Wilson had apologised for selling House out to Tritter. House had apologised (in his own way) for not apologising to Tritter in the first place.

Then had come the kissing part.

Yep, thought House, the two of them were well and truly reconciled.

He thought back to the conversation that they had had just before House had set out for the airport.

"House!" Wilson called out, jogging to catch up with the older man.

"Wilson!" House replied, turning around.

Wilson was slightly out of breath. "House, before you go, I need to talk to you about your pain management regime."

"What pain management regime?" House asked bitterly. "Cuddy seems to believe in the power of healing through positive thoughts."

"Yeah, well, I happen to believe in the power of healing through medicine." Wilson held out a pill bottle, which House took. He examined the label.

"Vicodin?" Wilson nodded. "I only just got out of rehab. What are you, my enabler?"

"I'm just your friend."

"That's not what you said last night," House leered.

Wilson flushed. "Keep your voice down. Look, take the damn pills. You're in pain, you need to manage it. Just... promise me you'll only take them when you need them. One every four hours, maximum. And no dry swallowing."
"Okay, mom." House rolled his eyes. "And I promise to wash behind my ears, and eat my greens. I've got a flight to catch." House pocketed the Vicodin and turned to leave.

"Don't you want a kiss goodbye?"

House froze. "Now did I say that?" He turned to face Wilson again, and leaned inwards so that his lips met Wilson's. The kiss only lasted a few seconds, but all the same, Wilson was blushing when the two of them broke apart. House was smiling.

"Sir? May I see your passport please?" The woman at the check in desk brought House swiftly back to reality. His smile, however, remained on his face.

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House sat down at a table in the airport café and checked his watch. Five past eight in the morning. Good job he had coffee. He still had a good half hour to kill before he needed to get on his plane. He found himself wishing that he had dragged Wilson into his office to say a proper goodbye. That would have been a much more entertaining way of spending thirty minutes than drinking overpriced airport coffee at an overpriced airport coffee shop.

Suddenly, there was something hard pressing into House's back. If Wilson had been there, that would have been a good thing, but as it was, the mysterious pressure was unlikely to be good. Whenever this happened in movies or crime novels, the mysterious hard object turned out to be a gun. Still, he shouldn't jump to conclusions.

"Is that a pistol that you're grinding into my back, or are you just pleased to see me?" he asked no one in particular.

"You had it right the first time," hissed a low voice which sounded vaguely familiar to House. "Don't turn around. Stand up, slowly, and walk out of here."

House didn't move. "Put the gun down first." He wasn't exactly afraid. He'd already been shot once – okay, technically he'd been shot twice – so he figured that he could survive a third bullet. Still, the first two had been moderately painful, and he wasn't keen to go through that again.

A soft, familiar laugh from behind him. "Just do what you're told, House, or I'll fire my 9mm into your heart."

"From behind?"

"I'm a good shot. Don't make me ask you again." House heard the telltale sound of the safety catch being removed. This, he decided, would be a good time to start doing what the gunman had instructed. He rose slightly unsteadily to his feet. He still wasn't afraid, he told himself. His leg was a little cramped, that was all.

"Good boy," the gunman told him condescendingly. House felt the gun slip underneath his jacket – the gunman was making himself less obvious. Damn. "Now start walking towards the exit. If you talk to anyone, try to let anyone know what's happening, I'll kill you. Just get out of here."

House's mind raced as he followed the man's orders. He was being threatened; he hadn't been shot outright. That meant that the man wanted him alive, at least for the time being. If he could just figure out who his captor was... Someone that he knew well, or had known well. Someone who probably didn't normally whisper – otherwise, House would have a name by now. Was it worth taking a chance and looking to see who his attacker was? He tested it by jerking his head slightly to the right.

The gun dug deeper into his back. "Eyes forward, House. No turning around unless you want my finger to slip."

Okay. That was a 'no' on the turning around front, then. Still, he had learned that the gunman knew his name. That meant that this, whatever this was, was personal.

The two of them walked out through the main doors of the airport. House stopped.

"Where now?"

"That police car, just over there. Walk over to it, open the door and get in."

House did as he was told. He was moving on autopilot – his brain was completely dedicated to trying to work out who this voice belonged to. Fairly deep, mildly husky, definitely male. Words spoken slowly and deliberately, weight given to each syllable.

House opened the rear door of the squad car and swung himself into the seat. His attacker slammed the car door shut, and as he did so, House caught a glimpse of his face for the first time.

His heart pounded in his ears. No way. No fucking way.

Michael Tritter sat down in the driver's seat and levelled the gun at House once more.

"It's good to see you again, House. How have you been?"