Worry kept Wilson up that night, as he tried to determine what was the wisest course of action given the current circumstances. The urgency of the need to keep his secret was steadily increasing, with Cuddy and House's mother both pressing him for answers as to House's whereabouts.

Stupid to establish yourself as the only person who's had any contact with him since he "disappeared"… Shouldn't have given them that mental association in the first place…

He knew that the more he talked to them about House, the more likely it was that he would accidentally let something slip to give their arrangement away. House was safe and sound within his care, but neither Cuddy nor Mrs. House was likely to give up looking for House unless they could be reassured that he was okay. Wilson wished that he could just tell them that House was with him, but he knew better.

They'd never understand the lengths to which I've had to go to protect him…

A twinge of guilt struck Wilson, however, as he remembered the note of sorrow and concern in Blythe House's voice. She had just lost her husband of more than fifty years – and now, without a clue where House was or how he was doing, she had to be wondering whether or not she'd lost her only son as well.

She deserves to know that he's okay… and House deserves to be at his father's funeral. Regardless of what he thought of the man, he'll regret it at some point if he's not able to be there… and he'll resent me for it, too.

Wilson's frown deepened as he considered his options, trying to think of a way to reconcile his conflicting desires.

I'd love to take him to the funeral… but I'd have to be sure he'd keep his mouth shut and do as he's told…

****************************

House heard Wilson's swift, purposeful steps on the stairs and turned his eyes reluctantly away from the small patch of white-grey light which had consumed his focus for the past hour. It was his only connection with the outside world, and House found that, when he was allowed his sight, it arrested his attention more readily than the bare, boring stone of his basement prison.

He warily looked up as Wilson approached the place where he had bound him, sitting on his mattress with his hands locked behind his back and his legs free to move as he pleased. His stomach dropped as a feeling of nausea came over him at the cold determination he saw in Wilson's dark, narrowed eyes.

House's voice was hushed and cautious as he ventured a tentative question.

"Wilson… what…?"

A vicious kick to his bare stomach silenced House's quiet words. Wilson followed him as he stumbled backward onto his side, grabbing him by the hair and jerking him back up to a seated position. House winced at the pain to his abused scalp as Wilson shook him slightly, leaning in close to his face.

"Did I say you could talk, House? Did I?"

House shook his head rapidly, his breath shallow and ragged, his body tense and trembling with instinctive panic as he answered in a voice that was barely a whisper.

"No, no, you didn't… please… I'm sorry… why…?"

"Shut up!"

Wilson demanded, striking him again, this time slamming his fist into House's lower abdomen with enough force to drive the breath from his body. He gripped House's arms and yanked him close, his face inches from House's own. His voice lowered to a dangerously soft murmur as his fingers tightened painfully on House's arms.

"Look at me."

House hesitated, meeting his eyes for just a moment before looking away, disturbed and frightened by the intense scrutiny of Wilson's gaze.

"I said look at me, House, or do I need to hit you again?"

House forced himself to hold Wilson's gaze, his own eyes wide with shock and bewilderment at the unexpected and entirely unprovoked attack. Wilson's mouth twisted into a cruel smile as he ran the backs of his fingers gently down House's cheek, his lips twitching with a hint of amusement when House flinched away from his hand.

"You don't ask me why. You don't question at all. You just accept my decision as best for you, and do as you're told. Do you understand me?"

House nodded hurriedly, having no idea what might have set Wilson off this time, only knowing that he had to appease him before he hurt him any worse. "Yes… I'm sorry… I'm sorry, Wilson…"

"Shut up," Wilson repeated, calmer this time, but no less commanding.

House obediently said nothing else, unconsciously biting the inside of his lower lip in an attempt to hold back the desperate words that wanted to pour out of him. He was deliberately pliant and cooperative as Wilson unchained his wrists, then pushed him down onto the mattress on his stomach.

House trembled as Wilson chained his wrists and ankles, flinching slightly when the cuff locked around his right ankle. Wilson hadn't made him wear that particular restraint since he had started giving him his Vicodin again, and House had hoped that he wouldn't make him wear it again at all. He didn't understand why Wilson seemed so angry, and was being so rough and violent with him for no apparent reason.

House bit back a whimper of protest as Wilson covered his eyes with the blindfold, aware that voicing his displeasure would only serve to further infuriate his captor. A sense of overwhelming despair came over him when Wilson ordered him to open his mouth, and pressed the gag past his lips, fastening it tightly behind his head. Like the chain on his right ankle, Wilson hadn't used the gag in days.

Without a word of reassurance or explanation Wilson stalked away, his rapid, purposeful footsteps echoing in House's ears as he was left helplessly confused, frightened, and utterly alone.

****************************

Wilson called Cuddy on his way to his car, mentally rehearsing what he was going to say to her when she answered. He made his tone one of surprise and relief as he heard her pick up the line.

"Hello?"

"Well, I just heard from House." He put a trembling little laugh at the end of the words, as if he almost couldn't believe it.

"You did?" Cuddy sounded incredulous, but relieved. "Where is he? Is he all right?"

"He's fine," Wilson assured her. "And I know where he is, but… he asked me not to tell anyone else. He said… he said he just needs to disappear for a while, you know?"

Cuddy was silent for a long moment, and Wilson held his breath, hoping he was being as convincing as he thought he was. When she finally spoke, her voice was solemn and uncertain.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"No," Wilson ruefully replied. "I'm not. But… he's an adult. It's his call. If he doesn't want anyone to know where he is, as long as he's safe, it's not my place to tell anyone where he is. And just so you know, I did make that a condition of my silence. He's going to call me at least once a week to check in and let me know he's still… you know… alive… until he decides he's ready to contact everybody again himself. In the mean time, he said to let you and his mom know to call me to get messages to him."

Cuddy was quiet and thoughtful as she replied, grudging relief mingled with the concern in her voice. "I know he's been through a lot in the last month or so. I know it's got to be hard to deal with, and he has a tendency to withdraw even more when he's going through something, but… that's what has me worried. He should be in therapy, not secluding himself like some kind of hermit…"

"I know, I know," Wilson conceded with a weary sigh. "I've said all that to him. You know how well he listens."

"And he listens to you better than most," Cuddy admitted. "So… I guess this is the best we're gonna get from him right now."

"Probably so." There was sympathy in Wilson's voice, and he hoped that it adequately covered the relief and satisfaction he was actually feeling.

"Did you tell him about his father?"

"I did."

Cuddy was hesitant. "Is he… How did he take it?"

"About how you would have expected him to take it. He said good riddance, basically, and that he isn't going to go to the funeral, but I told him he needs to, no matter how he felt about his father. If nothing else, he at least needs to be there for his mother – and if he doesn't go, even though he doesn't think so, he will regret it at some point."

"So… you convinced him to go?" Cuddy sounded hopeful at the prospect of House coming back into contact with his old life in any way at all. "He'll be there?"

"He'll be there," Wilson confirmed. "I'm going to pick him up and take him myself. Trust me, he'll definitely be there."

"Thank you, Wilson," Cuddy sighed. "You're really a lifesaver. You have no idea what a weight you've taken off my mind."

"No problem. I was really worried too," he replied. "And don't worry about anything else. I'll call his mom and let her know what's going on."

He hung up the phone feeling rather optimistic about the plan he was putting together. He stopped the car outside the shop that was his ultimate destination, where he would find the one thing more he needed in order to ensure House's cooperation with said plan. It took him about twenty minutes to make his purchase and get back out to his car.

He used the drive home to call House's mother and give her the same story he'd given Cuddy. Fortunately, she seemed to believe it just as readily as Cuddy had. The thing that worked in Wilson's favor most strongly was that it really wasn't unlike House at all to just disappear without telling anyone where he was going. House's past behavior made Wilson's story that much more believable.

Blythe House didn't ask a lot of questions, and accepted it when Wilson gently, tactfully told her that House didn't want her to know where he was right then. She just seemed relieved and grateful that Wilson had found her son and was going to bring him to the funeral.

Wilson parked his car in the driveway, then took a moment to process the steps he'd just taken, closing his eyes and resting his head on the headrest for a moment, breathing deeply in an effort to steady himself.

This is going to work. This is going to work. They're all set up to believe whatever you say, and you'll be able to get him there and back again without any trouble…

Still, Wilson couldn't shake an uneasy sensation of uncertainty.

… as long as you can keep House under control… as long as you can make him obey and keep him from opening his mouth… everything should be fine…

Wilson picked up his purchase from the passenger seat beside him, then went inside, where he sat in the living room, preparing it. He held it tentatively at first, testing its weight, adjusting to the feel of it in his hand. Then, he set it down on the coffee table and stared at it for a while, wrestling with his own uneasiness at the mere thought of handling it.

It wasn't the type of thing he would have bought under any other conditions.

But it might be just the thing to convince House that I mean business – that there's no choice but to go along with whatever I say, and that it's definitely in his best interest not to try to start something when we go to the funeral…

Steeling himself for what he had to do next, Wilson rose to his feet, taking the small black pistol he'd purchased off the coffee table and grasping it tightly in a nervous, shaking hand as he made his way purposefully toward the basement stairs.