Disclaimer: checks nope, I have not recently won the lottery, so I am not capable of buying the rights to Gregory House, James Wilson, and all related characters….they're still someone else's property…sigh

Okay, we get into some serious symptoms in the next chapter, it's been kinda dragging I know. But I really like this chapter, we get inside House's head for awhile and I think that part is wonderfully written….if I do say so myself!

Well, thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed! And if you read this, please please review! I love feedback!

Thanks!

Love and music are forever

P.S. I'd like to hear if everyone likes the segments written from inside the character's heads, so if you could tell me in your review! hint hint Thanks again!

Chapter Three

Gregory House awoke abruptly, not knowing exactly what it was that had roused him from his dreamless sleep. He never woke without reason, so he knew that there must be an abnormality. House hated abnormalities.

Lying in the darkness he tried to think of everything that could have torn him away from sleeping.

The room was silent, he didn't even hear cars on the road outside. The couple upstairs hadn't decided to work out their marital problems by throwing their personal belongings at each other again. All his neighbors seemed to be sleeping peacefully…or if not peacefully at least quietly. He reached over and grabbed his pager. His eyes were thick with sleep so it took him a second to read the neon screen. Nothing. No new pages. His leg wasn't in any more pain than usual. What could it have been?

He considered getting up to go check the apartment, but he didn't want to go through the arduous process of standing.

Scowling, he rubbed the scraggly growth of his beard. 2:04: too early for someone to be calling, unless it was a medical emergency, but then Foreman—who was on duty tonight—would have paged him.

Then, he heard it, a soft rustling as if someone tangled in fabric was thrashing around gently.

He thought for a moment that the couple upstairs were making love—what they normally did when they weren't screaming at each other—but the noise was too quiet and too nearby for that.

Reaching out in the darkness, his fingers curled around the wooden handle of his cane.

Soft mumbling floated down the hall.

It could just be Wilson…but who would he be talking to at this time of the morning?

Greg desperately didn't want to stand. If he did, it would mean long moments of incredible pain that always seemed like it'd be enough to kill him.

Another moan was this time preceded by a soft thud.

Biting his lip, House rolled over so that his legs dangled over the side of the bed. He reached down and pressed his hand over the old wound, as if the pressure would somehow ease the pain.

The first step is always the worst.

His life was a series of failed firsts. The first time always hurts the most. And it wasn't just the first step out of bed every day. The first time he'd fallen in love, Stacy. She was gone now and all that remained was an empty place in his heart. The first time he'd realized he couldn't climb a flight of stairs. The first time he'd really resigned himself to being crippled for the rest of his life. Failures, heartbreaks and pain. That's what the first time doing anything meant.

But he took the first step anyway. He tried to bear all his weight on his cane, but even that wasn't enough, just the impact of his foot on the floor sent shockwaves of pain up his leg.

Every day he managed to rise was another day where he didn't give into the pain and self-pity. Hundreds of times, people—Wilson among them—accused him of being addicted to his pain. In some way, they were right, pain made him who he was. Gregory House was defined by his pain. But he wasn't addicted to it. The definition of an addiction was the compulsive physiological and psychological need for something. House didn't need his pain. He lived with it, he managed it, but he didn't need it. Someday he thought he would give anything just for the pain to go away.

The only reason that he kept striving after firsts that he knew would hurt him was because if he didn't he would become addicted to the pain. It would become the only thing in his world. Wilson would have said that the pain already caused him to shut people out of his life, maybe it did. But if he ever became lost in that pain, he would shut everyone out of his life. He'd shut himself out of life. Gregory House would cease to exist anymore, he'd be creature ruled by pain.

Another step forward and his leg nearly crumpled underneath him.

Maybe sometimes the first step wasn't always the hardest, it was the repetition.

The hardest part of chronic pain was knowing that it would be there, day after day. There was no escaping it. The initial failure sometimes wasn't as bad as the hopelessness that followed. The futileness that filled every day. Knowing that every failure would be repeated a hundred times over.

Another step.

He wanted to collapse backwards onto his bed and give into the pain. Only for a moment. He thought. Let me surrender just for a second.

There was another thud followed by a sharp cry. House had heard too many sounds like that fall from his own lips to not recognize the feeling behind it. That was what drove him on.

He limped out into the other room.

His eyes worked well enough in the dark to see that Wilson no longer occupied the couch and that the coffee table was terribly crooked.

Using his cane, he flicked on the light.

Wilson was lying on the floor tangled in the blanket. His side was lying against the leg of the coffee table; he must have rolled into it while he slept. House couldn't hide the fact that he was annoyed, he'd been forced to get out of bed just because the man that slept on his couch was having a scary dream.

Poor baby.

"Wilson, you're pathetic." House grumbled and reached out his cane to flick the light off again. It was then he saw the thin sheen of sweat that covered the oncologist's pale skin. He was as white as the Clorox-bleached t-shirt he wore, except for a scarlet flush on his cheekbones, that seemed as out of place as a wine stain.

House moved closer and he could now hear the slightly labored sound of his friend's breathing.

"Hey." He said loudly, trying to wake the other man, but Wilson was lost in a fever-dream.

"Wilson?" House had to sit down on the couch in order to lean over and touch his friend's shoulder. (If you've ever tried crouching down without a thigh muscle you learn very quickly that it's simply not possible to do)

"If you really want to sleep on a floor stay in your office tomorrow night." House grumbled, shaking Wilson gently in what seemed like a vain attempt to wake him.

"Wilson?" He pushed the edge of his cane gently into the other man's cheek. If he had done it with his hand instead he might have noticed the Wilson's skin was hot to the touch.

"James? Jimmy?" House moved the cane down and nudged him gently in the side this time.

"What!" Wilson shot up nearly slamming his head against the edge of the coffee table. His voice was hoarse so what was surely meant as a cry of surprise came out as a rough whisper. "Wha—" The word was swallowed by a fit of coughing.

House reached out and ran a hand over Wilson's back while he coughed. His touch was almost soothing. House pulled his hand away suddenly—Wilson wished he hadn't. But the tender nature of the gesture had surprised House. Physical comforting was not something he did…comforting was just not something he did. He hadn't even thought about it though, it had been almost instinctive.

Swallowing hard, Wilson finally managed to stop coughing. He tried to breathe deeply, but it hurt too much. So he tried to take slow, shallow breaths.

Finally, the coughing subsided. "You die in my apartment and I'll take the money from your wallet to pay the undertaker." House replied, back to his normal, impassionate manner.

"Don't worry about me, I'm fine." Wilson said, he hadn't even realized that House hadn't asked this question.

"I don't believe that's the response my remark merited…unless of course the words 'die', 'money', 'wallet', and 'undertaker' have somehow taken on the meaning of 'are you alright'?"

Wilson couldn't concentrate on what House was saying. His head was pounding so intensely he thought it was being torn apart from the inside. Everything swam before his eyes as if he had just stepped off a dizzying amusement park ride. His throat ached and his stomach was threatening to revolt against him. And he was so cold. He didn't even realize he was shivering until he felt a blanket draped around his shoulders and two firm hands hold it there in place.

"I deal with sick people all day in the clinic, and then I come home and have to deal with you. Remind me to thank you as soon as you're conscious enough to realize what I'm saying." Greg sighed. "Come on, you should be in a real bed, sleeping on my floor isn't going to make you any better."

House waited for Wilson to protest the awkwardness of them sharing a bed, but he was too weak for that. So, House continued on with his witty remark as if Wilson had made the comment anyway. When House had a clever response he didn't let incorrect timing spoil it. "And don't worry, you sick and sniffling is not a turn-on for me." House never missed a chance to bring sex into it either.

The sniffly, sick oncologist was now functioning well enough to realize that the last remark had been a joke. He allowed the ghost of a smile to flicker onto his face, he hadn't quite registered what was said so he couldn't make an actual remark about it.

"You're going to have to stand by yourself." Said House, waving his cane slightly to show that he wouldn't be of much assistance in this case.

Wilson saw the regretful helplessness in his friend's eyes. In all honesty, he didn't think he had the strength to stand unassisted. Already he felt weakness seeping into his muscles like some sort of toxin, they felt thick and heavy, entirely incapable of movement.

He had to get up though; he couldn't let House feel that useless.

Wilson would have laughed at the irony if the sound had been able to escape his inflamed throat. He was sick and still he was the one protecting House.

He grabbed the coffee table so hard that his knuckles quickly turned white. His jaw clenched and brow furrowed as he tried to pull himself up to his feet. His arm shook violently and his knees quaked so severely it was as if he were suffering from a seizure. He wanted to fall back down and pass out on the floor, but it was the look in Greg's eyes that somehow gave him the will to pull himself to his feet.

The sudden change in altitude made his stomach fight even harder to expel its meager contents. Swaying dangerously on his feet, he had to grab the back of the couch to keep from falling. He squeezed his eyes closed, but somehow even the darkness continued to spin.

He felt an arm wrap around his waist, and a hand guided his arm around a slanted shoulder.

"Come on." Ordered Greg curtly.

Wilson felt too weak to move, but House drew him forward, nearly carrying his weight.

Every step was pure agony for House. His leg could hardly support his own weight on a good day, today was not a good day, and now it was being forced to carry Wilson's weight as well. He tried not to think about the pain, because if he did, it would consume him.

Selflessness.

The word floated across his mind. It seemed almost foreign and he had to pause for a second to even recall the definition.

Another step another knife was slammed into his leg.

Selflessness—being motivated by no concern for oneself but rather by the needs of others.

Blood was spilling over his jaw from biting down on his lip so hard.

Was he really putting Jimmy's pain above his own? Or was he simply repaying a debt that he'd never been able to recompense before.

He was almost thankful that Wilson was shivering himself so that he wouldn't notice how fiercely House was shaking.

Step…swallow down the urge to scream…step…

House

Step…swallow down the urge to scream…step…scream in anger…step…scream in pain…frustration…step…loss…just scream…step…

Even the five steps across my hospital room were too much. I reached down to massage my aching thigh. My fingers brushed over the surface of my skin as if touching something alien. I still expected to touch a whole leg. My hand was trembling, not from pain, but from the terrible realization.

I am a cripple.

Part of what Gregory House had been was gone. He is forced to redefine himself by his disability and his pain.

I am half a man now, some sort of three-legged freak.

Who Gregory House had been was dead; a new man had to be born. Born from the pain like some hideous Venus born from the water.

Broken…shattered…

These were the words that would define my life.

I turned and tried to walk the five steps across my room again.

Step…swallow hard…step…clench jaw…step…bite lip…step…gasp…step…

I hadn't known pain like this could exist. What I had taken for granted was now a struggle.

Step…

"Greg?"

The glass door to my room slid open, I was half-way through taking the next step. I tried to turn at the same time, but the moment I did I realized the movement was a mistake. The cane slid on the floor and clattered just out of my reach.

I fell.

And all I could do was scream. All the screams that I'd been fighting back burst from my lips in an uncontrollable rush. The pain exploded in me like some sort of white light, blinding me.

"Greg!" Someone was at my side; a hand was on my shoulder.

I recognized the voice, it was Wilson.

"Here, let me help." Wilson was saying.

Let me help…let me help…let me help…

The words seemed to echo. They all treat me like a child, like I am incapable of doing anything for myself…

And maybe I am…

Would part of the redefinition of Gregory House have to be dependence upon others?

NO.

Wilson's strong arms wrapped around me and started to bring me to my feet, but I shoved him away. "I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP!" I screamed. "Just get away from me."

But Wilson didn't move.

"GET AWAY FROM ME!"

Wilson slowly moved away, but only two steps. Standing posed, like an over-protective mother.

I reached out for the cane, but it was just out of my reach.

Wilson's eyes flashed with pity.

I hated that look.

I reached further, until my fingers finally brushed over it and I managed to pull it towards me.

Trying to stand, I pushed the cane underneath me and in order to use it to lever my weight up off the floor.

I fell again.

The pain was more intense this time, I was on the verge of passing out from it. But I wouldn't let myself scream.

I wouldn't give Wilson the satisfaction of knowing that I couldn't do this alone.

Again, I tried to stand.

And again I fell.

Then, I saw him outlined in my mind. Gregory House—a cripple, a man who constantly receives pity from others, a man who can't even stand up for himself, a man who is weak. That's who Gregory House was.

"James, I—"

A single tear spilled over his cheek, as if he didn't want me to say it. He didn't want me to be defined by this.

"I need help."

The first time always hurt the worst. I'd never had to say those words before.

Another tear splashed to the white tile floor. Wilson knelt down and slowly lifted me to my feet. He helped me over to my bed.

Embarrassment colored my cheeks.

I looked at Wilson. More tears were spilling down from his eyes. Tears he didn't seem to be ashamed of.

But I was ashamed of them. They were tears for me. Tears for what I had become. Tears for my weakness.

I never wanted to see those tears again.

I didn't ever want to be this weak…

But I was

Step…fight…step…

House wasn't going to be weak this time. He wasn't going to fall again. The tables had been turned and Wilson was the one depending on his strength this time. He wouldn't fail.

There was no selflessness in this act. It was greed, pure and unparalleled. He wanted to prove that he could be just as strong.

House lay Wilson down on the bed and pulled the covers over his form. He turned to leave again.

"Greg?"

Gregory House turned; this time he made sure he had finished his step and that his footing was stable. "Yeah."

"Thank you."

House pivoted all the way around and took the three steps back to the bed. He touched a hand to the side of Wilson's burning cheek.

A tear hit the carpet.

A tear out of pity.

The innocence of Wilson's thanks made House ashamed. He hadn't done that for Wilson. He'd done it for himself.

Gregory House had been redefined as a self-serving man, a man who couldn't care for anyone else. That's what pain had done to him.

Broken…shattered…selfish…

That's who Gregory House was.