AN: Hi everyone. Sorry for the wait, but like I said before, school started a few days ago and my exams begin in five weeks. However, since five more people reviewed, I've started thinking up a list of excuses for writing fic over revising. I'll let you know how I get on with that. Final part of my extra-long author's note – I love my reviews, and therefore I love my reviewers. Huge thanks and hugs to Dr. Gregory House, Hatori Soma, gh2005, Ravenwood85, TakeAWhackAtIt, DreamsInAbsinthe and bmax.

On with the fic! Which is still an M! Read at your own risk.

Chapter 5

When House woke, his leg felt as though it was on fire. He was lying on the floor, but somehow he knew that it wasn't the floor of his apartment. Lying on the floor of his apartment would mean either that he had gotten blind drunk the night before and passed out, or that he and Wilson hadn't made it all the way to his bed for the previous night's escapade. Both a killer hangover and a stiff back and leg were entirely preferable to a leg that felt like it had been stabbed and a lurching fear in his stomach.

Why was he afraid? What was he afraid of?

Well, if he wanted to find out, he was going to have to open his eyes. He cracked open one eyelid, before immediately shutting it again at the influx of blinding light. The sudden brightness made his stomach lurch in a whole different way and he found himself tasting bile in the back of his throat. He gagged and began to retch, vomiting his meagre stomach contents onto the floor, eyes still tightly closed.

He heard a soft laugh as his puking fit ended. A familiar laugh. An all too familiar laugh.

Tritter. Of course. He was in a warehouse with Tritter and a gun. His leg hurt like hell because... Oh God. His leg was...

It couldn't really be as bad as he remembered it being, could it? (Yes, the pain told him, yes it is.) He knew for a fact that Tritter had squeezed the damage muscle a few times, which accounted for the extra pain, but the part where Tritter had broken his femur and punctured the skin with it – that had been a dream, or a hallucination, right?

He forced his eyes open, unable to suppress a groan as the light flooded his brain. For a few seconds he was unable to think. Then the light adjusted to a more bearable level and he could see. He could see Tritter, sitting on a chair a couple of meters away, cradling the gun in his lap, stroking the safety catch with his thumb. The guy was crazy, House concluded. He needed some serious therapy, or alternatively, euthanasia.

He could also see his leg. And his leg bone. The broken end of the femur was poking through his pant leg, and the wound was still bleeding slightly.

House suddenly felt dizzy, his head pounding and his vision swimming. He couldn't look at the leg any more. There was too much blood. It made him feel even more nauseous than he already did. Only, that wasn't right. He couldn't have a fear of blood. He was a doctor. He wasn't afraid of blood.

It was because this blood was his. That blood should be in his arteries and in his veins, not soaking through his pants and spreading across the floor. He could smell it, and something else as well. Urine. Perfect. Just what he needed. As if Tritter hadn't already taken enough of his pride. The clinical, detached part of his brain told him that losing control of the bladder was expected following intense trauma, such as another man snapping his leg in two. He was pretty sure that he'd done exactly the same following the shooting, only no one had ever brought it up, or, he expected, even thought about it. He certainly hoped not. Really, his fellows weren't so bad. Good to have around in an emergency. Like now. Early he had been glad to get away from Cameron, but right now if she came through the door, he would kiss her. On the mouth. For about ten minutes. He would probably kiss Vogler if he came in right now. Oh yeah, he was getting desperate all right.

Damn. Tritter had got up from his chair, and was walking towards him.

"Good to see you awake, House. How are you feeling?"
House couldn't bring himself to reply. This was the man that was responsible for all his pain, all his humiliation. He was either too angry, or too scared to reply. He prayed that it was the first one.

"Anything I can get you?"

House found his voice. "How about a nice big glass of fuck the hell off, you crazy psycho?"

Tritter's smile widened. House was beginning to despair. Was there seriously nothing that he could do to piss Tritter off?

His thoughts were interrupted by Tritter's hands around his neck, squeezing. He couldn't breathe – his airways were being completely closed up by the pressure. Instinctively he attempted to breathe more deeply, but this only succeeded in making him panic more when this tactic failed. House shook his head violently, attempting to dislodge Tritter's hands. No way was Tritter going to kill him, no fucking way. This wasn't how he was going to die. He had an appointment with liver failure in his late fifties.

Red spots were appearing across his vision again. Loss of oxygen to the brain, he realised. Tritter wasn't letting up. He was going to die. Shit. He had never wanted Wilson to be with him more than at this moment. God, he wasn't ready to die yet. He had another ten years. It was all figured out. There were still things he wanted to do.

He laughed internally at how clichéd his thoughts were becoming. Still, being killed did tend to have that effect on people.

Jimmy, I love you.

And then he was gasping for oxygen, his lungs filling with wonderful, life-sustaining air. He had never realised that breathing could feel this good. His eyes were watering, tears streaming down his face.

Tritter's face swam into view. "Crying, House? Looks like you were wrong, doesn't it? It didn't take long to break you, did it? The things that pain will do to a person..."

In the back of his mind, House registered what Tritter was saying. He was gloating. He thought he had won. Tritter was almost right – House was becoming afraid of the older man, and in House's mind, that made him weak. But Tritter didn't know that, and House wasn't so afraid of his torturer that he couldn't still retort to that last taunt.

"No," he gasped, still breathing deeply and rapidly. Mentally, he tried to slow his breathing. If he kept going at this rate, he would start to hyperventilate, which would be almost as bad as being throttled. "I'm... I'm not... Not afraid of you. You're pathetic. You... haven't destroyed me yet, and... You're not... going to."

For a fraction of a second, Tritter looked furious. His facial expression quickly morphed from anger to determination.

That wasn't good.

"I am going to break you, House," Tritter whispered. "It's just a matter of time. You'll see."

House felt Tritter take hold of his left hand. He tried to pull away – he didn't want Tritter touching him. Tritter caused pain. Flinching away from him was fast becoming a reflex. Tritter, however, held on tightly. House felt him take hold of his little finger, and then felt a surge of pain as the bone snapped. He gave a grunt, and hissed in air through his teeth, but to be honest, this wasn't so bad. It distracted him from the agonizing pain in his leg. A gating mechanism. Just like the time he had broken his hand during the detox.

Then Tritter was breaking his ring finger, and then his middle finger. The pain was fast growing worse. House was getting dizzy again, and his stomach was twisting and lurching. He was about to throw up again, he realised, but he swallowed down on the bile and tried to ride the pain out.

Tritter broke his index finger next. The pain in his hand was now rivalling the pain in his leg, and it certainly didn't help that Tritter was clutching all four of his broken fingers tightly in his own hand.

Then Tritter broke his thumb, and House lost control and yelled out in pain. A desperate mixture of pleading and prayer (which was odd, because he had never been religious) spewed out of his mouth, and Tritter was standing up again, towering above him with an expression of triumph on his face.

And why shouldn't he be triumphant? After all, he had won.