I own nothing but the plot.

"Shouldn't they do an MRI or something?" House asked, staring through the glass longingly, watching Chase hastily cut through Wilson's torso.

"No time for that," Foreman answered, glancing at the TV screen above their heads.

House bounced his legs nervously, his hands clasped between his knees. The morphine had taken effect immediately, and while it didn't help with the soreness or general pain he always had, it took the edge off. Foreman was able to bend his knee for him and keep it from locking again.

I know there's no time for tests. I need to stop being an idiot.

House's heart jumped in his throat when he saw way more blood pooling in Wilson's torso than was normal. Organs are badly damaged. Oh, God.

"I should get tested. See if any of my organs can go to Wilson. Just in case."

"Your organs are no good with the drug use," Foreman said with a slight snort, and House's legs stilled in anger. He took a steadying breath and began bouncing his legs again, ignoring the words Foreman had said. It's not worth arguing. He's right.

Minutes into the surgery, Chase looked up at the room House was in for a brief second, and House straightened. Foreman switched on the intercom.

"He's going to lose a kidney," Chase said hurriedly as a nurse connected a bag of blood to Wilson's IV, and hooked it above Wilson's head. He's lost so much blood.

Quickly, he raised his cane and pressed the button to speak to Chase. "Don't remove it if you can fix it." House lowered the cane and scratched his forehead, trying desperately to ease his thoughts and concerns. He doesn't play sports, at least not regularly. His diet is already superb. Losing a kidney isn't going to affect him much.

"I can't fix it." Chase shook his head and turned back to his patient, indicating the conversation was over, at least for him. House hung his head, feeling sick to his stomach.

"House?" Cuddy asked softly from the doorway, and he slowly raised his head to her. Tears blurred his vision and he did his best to blink them back, horrified that he was crying at all. "Do you need me to call his family?"

House nodded slowly. "Make sure they understand he's probably lost the bet he made with me a while back, about whether he'd die before me or not. If he dies, I have no way of collecting my winnings from him, so they'd have to hand it over."

Cuddy sighed as Foreman sharply said, "House!" He lowered his head again, wiped a rogue tear from his cheek, and resumed his leg bouncing. He watched the surgery, itching to go into the OR and help.

Cameron told him on their way up to the observation room that security guards had been placed at the entrance of the OR, so House knew he'd never get in there. She was paged back to the ER almost immediately after House and Foreman had gotten to the room. Part of House wanted her there – she was great at comfort and making him feel like he was at least staying strong and not over-reacting. The logical part of him knew it was better if she weren't there to bother him.

Before Cuddy could say anything more about House's comment, or Wilson's parents, Chase started talking again.

"Right lung is punctured from rib fractures, but nothing fatal. We can't find the source of the bleeding."

House's eyes turned up to the television and he squinted, trying to find something Chase and the other doctors might be missing.

Foreman pressed the intercom. "It wasn't the kidney?" House asked, glancing down into the room nervously. One doctor was removing the damaged kidney.

"No. There's a lot of damage, House."

House closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to grasp the words and force them to make sense. The driver wasn't going that fast. He didn't hit Wilson directly. Wilson hit the front headlight. He. . . can't die.

"I'm going to call his family. Do you need anything?" Cuddy asked softly, kneeling beside House's chair and placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off, shaking his head rigidly. This isn't happening.

Wilson's heart monitor started beeping loudly, frantic at a sudden rise in heart rate. House sat straight up, gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles hurt, as Wilson's heart stopped a third time in less than an hour.

With his chest already open, it took one shock directly to the heart to start it back up, and House slowly started to ease the grip on the chair.

"He's in good hands," Foreman said, trying to be soothing or optimistic. House just turned to him and stared blankly.

"Good hands?" He asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "He is good hands. I am good hands. Chase and these other fuckhead doctors, they aren't good. He's not in good hands with them."

"You wouldn't have had Chase around for so long if you really believed that."

"He was the comic relief to my comic relief. He's a shitty doctor," House snapped, and rose from his chair as smoothly as possible. He picked up his cane and started pacing.

Foreman opened his mouth to argue with, or reassure House, he didn't know which. Just as he started talking, Chase said, "found it!" Both doctors turned to the glass, holding their breaths.

"Ruptured vessels in the liver. Parts are badly damaged. I'll have to remove some of it," Chase said, sounding relieved. House leaned heavily on his cane, watching as the staff worked to stop the bleeding.

He paused, then pressed the intercom button. "The heart?"

"He's lost a ton of blood, and was just hit by a car. The anesthesia was a big risk. The heart is fine. I'm going to close him up in a few minutes and take him up to CT for his head and abdomen scans. There's a lot of bruising and minor tears in the stomach, spleen and pancreas. I have to fix the vessels. It'll take a little while. We'll meet you at radiology."

House hesitated, watching as the surgeons expertly cut away the damaged part of the liver. Another bag of blood was hooked up to Wilson's body. His vitals were improving, even if only a little.

"I'm staying until he's done," House said, glancing over his shoulder at Foreman. "Go tell Cuddy we're moving this field trip down the hall in a few."

"Are you sure –?"

"Yes I'm sure. I can walk just fine now, thanks. Go. I'll wait to start show and tell until after you get there. I wonder if we can keep the kidney. I could use it for all kinds of pranks. I wonder how much the Oncology kids would freak out over those kinds of things." He turned his eyes back to the surgery, his stomach in knots.

All of the times that he himself stopped breathing, or his heart stopped, or any damn time he could've died was nothing compared to this. This was huge. But if Wilson felt this way every time House's life was in danger, he owed the guy an apology. "You idiot," he said softly, unsure of whether he meant himself or Wilson, but it sounded right nonetheless.

----------**----------

House paced in front of the CT room, waiting for Chase to bring Wilson up from the OR, his mind racing. He'd watched the surgery all the way to the end, and was relieved that Wilson seemed to be better. At least his heart hadn't stopped, and his vitals stabilized.

Foreman walked down the hall with Cuddy behind him, each carrying a cup of coffee. A second cup was in Foreman's left hand, presumably for House.

"They here yet?" He asked, handing the cup to House. House took it without a word of thanks, not making a move to drink it. The warmth from the cup helped his hand not feel so cold, or shake so much.

"No. The surgery took longer than they thought it would. There were a lot of bleeds."

Cuddy took a seat across from the doors and House turned his attention to her. She gave him a weak smile. "His family is coming down as soon as they can."

"And the bet money . . .?"

She just crossed her arms and gave him a stern you are being inappropriate stare. Then she sighed and said, "when this is done, you have to go downstairs to my office. The police are on their way to take your statement."

"Tell them to shove my statement up their ass," House muttered, turning his attention to the end of the hallway. Chase was leading Wilson's stretcher down the corridor toward him.

House stayed still, waiting for them to come to him. The last thing he wanted was for people to think he was worried. In all actuality, House was trying to stall until the last possible moment in seeing Wilson up close again. This is all my fault.

By the time they were pushing open the doors to the room, House was torn between running to his office – or Cuddy's, to talk to the police – and staying here to watch the tests. Wilson was in good hands, and House had people waiting on him, and. . . all thoughts stopped when he looked at Wilson's face.

"Is he still asleep?" House demanded, moving forward toward the stretcher. A nurse looked up at him, startled. "The general should have worn off by now."

"He's had a head injury, House," Chase answered calmly, pushing the stretcher into the room. "He'll probably be unconscious for a while still."

"If he slips into a coma, I'm going to be so pissed," House said roughly, and cleared his throat quickly. He followed the group inside, and watched helplessly as Wilson's still body was moved onto the CT bed.

Foreman nudged House gently from behind, and House moved forward to the room with Chase, to watch the results as they came up. His stomach was in knots and he took a sip from his coffee, hoping to ease his nervousness.

As the test started, House fell into doctor-mode and leaned forward to study the images of Wilson's brain.

"He's bleeding," he whispered, his throat swelling shut at the words.

"Coup injury. Bruising right here from the impact on the car," Chase said, pointing along the frontal lobe of Wilson's brain. "I'm not sure it's too life-threatening though."

"Diffuse Axonal Injury," House said softly, shaking his head, disagreeing with Chase's diagnosis. "If he's in a coma, it's DAI, and he'll never wake up."

"If he's not in a coma and just pumped so full of drugs that any normal person would be passed out for days, then it's Coup. Or. . " Chase leaned forward, his words trailing off. He clicked the mouse a few times before glancing sideways at House with a brief smile. "Focal contusion. See there? He may have some permanent damage, as his frontal lobe is swollen and bruising, but he'll survive. He has a hairline fracture here and here, but they will heal easily. It's no worse than the one you got in the bus crash." House grimaced at the memory.

"We should relieve the pressure in his head," House said, eyeing the screen skeptically; diagnosing his patients was never this easy. He's not my patient.

"We'll check his head again in a few hours to see if it's getting worse, but it doesn't look like something that needs to be relieved. Thank God it's not DAI, or that he's not brain dead."

House turned his attention to Chase and narrowed his eyes. "It's not God who –"

"Sure it isn't," Chase said, cutting House's words off before he could get started. "Look at your boyfriend. He was hit by a car. A car that was going fast. You can't tell me that this is nothing short of a miracle, House."

"It's not God's work. It's because he was standing so close to me when it happened," House explained, lowering his right hand to his thigh and absently massaging the sore muscles.

"Oh, right," Chase said, throwing his hands in the air in mock indignation. "I forget. You are God reincarnate. You are the reason for the good and the bad."

"Don't forget it, either. Every time you see something good happen in this hospital, you'll know it was my doing. Actually, I deserve a few weeks off for this miracle," House waved his hand toward Wilson's unconscious body. Chase was clicking through the images on the screen, moving from Wilson's brain to his face. "And you need to back me up on this when Cuddy argues my authenticity. You are my witness."

Chase nodded briefly before saying, "he has a broken nose, and his right cheek is damaged. He's going to need plastic surgery for this. Is Taub in today? Maybe he'll like a go at this."

"'A go'? What the hell does that mean?" House asked incredulously. "He's not some ragdoll for all of you to have 'a go' at. That's my job."

"Do you want to do the surgery? Fine. Either way, he needs it." Chase clicked through the images and sat back from the screen, taking in the pictures of Wilson's neck. House pursed his lips and gave his full attention to the images. After a moment, Chase said, "well, no broken neck, but it's sprained."

The memory of Wilson's body hitting the car flashed through House's mind, and he had to admit it was a good thing that he hadn't been more severely injured.

They remained silent for the next few minutes, checking and double checking Wilson's remaining organs. House was relieved to see that Chase had done a good job in repairing the most serious and life-threatening injuries; there should only be bruises and soreness for a few weeks now.

"His pelvis is good," Chase observed as they moved lower down Wilson's body. "He's extremely lucky that it didn't break. Normally, it would. Perhaps the air surrounding you is blessed."

"The car was small and hit him on his thighs." House scratched his head and waited for the last of Wilson's body to appear on the screen.

As he expected, Wilson's right knee was badly broken. The left leg looked fine, aside from the sprains in his knee and ankle, but it wouldn't kill him.

"So much for my dreams of piggy back marathons," House said dejectedly, then raised his eyes to the machine as Wilson's body came back into view. He hadn't moved at all, which was concerning him more with each passing minute.

"He'll wake up," Chase assured him, as if reading his thoughts, and stood up from his chair. "I'll need to take him back into surgery to repair the knee before it causes any damage to the foot. Are you going to be there?"

"I'll be watching. Call Taub and tell him God has a job for him."

Chase shook his head with a small smirk and left the glass room. House stayed sitting, rubbing his sore leg with a grimace, watching the nurses and Foreman come into the room to move Wilson back onto his stretcher.

House couldn't help but think it was his fault. If he'd stayed inside the apartment, if he hadn't insisted on Wilson waiting for him. . . if Wilson hadn't waited, House would probably be on that stretcher. At this moment, he wanted nothing more than to switch spots with him. God knew he deserved it.

----------**----------

House paced in Cuddy's office five minutes later, waiting impatiently for the police to enter the room. They were speaking with Cameron – probably about the extent of Wilson's injuries – and said they'd be in briefly. For a moment, House wondered if the man from the other car was at this hospital. Nobody would tell him if he was, of course; House's behavior was just too unpredictable.

After an eternity, the police came into the office with apologies.

"I have places to be, you know," House snapped as he reached out for the clipboard one officer was holding out for him. "This is a hospital and people are dying."

"We're sorry," the second officer said calmly. "We just need a statement about what happened exactly. We took down statements at the scene from the witnesses."

"And? Did Dale Earnhardt get cited?" House asked, grabbing a pen off of Cuddy's desk and moving to the couch to sit down. He put the clipboard on his knees.

"Yes. We're going to set a court date when we find out when Dr. Wilson can make it. Dr. Cameron said he is still getting tests?"

House wondered why the man made it a question, and he shrugged his shoulders in response. He wrote down his name and then hesitated before writing what he remembered. The images and memory flashed through his mind, and he suddenly felt so tired. Oh, God, this is really happening. Wilson is down the hall, prepping for another surgery, and I'm here doing this shit.

"He'll pay for this, right?" House asked, raising his eyes to the police officers slowly.

"Well, his insurance –"

"I don't care about the bills. How much jail time are we looking at?"

The older police officer, who had handed the clipboard to House when they arrived, glanced at his partner questioningly. He was the younger of the two, but at least 30, with curly brown hair and blue eyes. The other officer was House's age, with graying hair and sharp green eyes. He shrugged.

"It depends on whether this turns out to be reckless driving, or vehicular manslaughter. We just arrest and detain; the court will decide his punishment."

House nodded, not trusting his voice. It depends on whether Wilson dies or not. Fury bubbled inside him as he thought about the man getting off with a slap on the wrist for reckless driving while Wilson spends the rest of his natural life in every kind of therapy. He'll probably never come back to work as a doctor.

The thought killed something inside House, and as he frantically wrote out the incidents as he remembered them he promised himself that it wouldn't end like that. And if Wilson lost his ability to work – his frontal lobe was damaged, there was a chance he'd never make it back as the James Wilson he knew – House wanted the driver of that car to pay for every excruciating minute Wilson will struggle through for the rest of his life.

After handing the clipboard to the officers, House snatched up his cane and – after smirking to himself about the irony of brandishing his stolen cane in front of the police – he fixed the officers with his most serious, pleading expression. Rage ran through his blood internally as he spoke, his words calm and collected.

"I want to press charges on the driver. As many as you can pin on him. Wilson may lose his entire career over this, along with brain and personality damage. Reckless driving isn't nearly as harsh a punishment as he deserves."

The officer nodded sympathetically, and the older one said, "we're going to be doing the best we can. That's all I can offer."

"Make sure it's the best," House told him, searching his eyes briefly before stepping around the cops. He didn't know what else to say, so he left.

Cameron stood near the nurse's station, apparently waiting for him. As she opened his mouth, he fixed her with an angry stare and said, "do not talk to me," before storming off toward the elevator.

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