An explosion of sound and darkness and pain was all that House was aware of for a long moment. He couldn't breathe, and his chest ached, his heart seized with a sudden, sinking certainty that this was it – the end. It was over. Relief mingled with the despair that thought carried, that at last the nightmare of his imprisonment and Wilson's insanity would end.

And then… everything began slowly fading back again.

He opened his eyes, blinking into the late afternoon sunlight that flooded the room, overwhelmed by the rush of voices and footsteps as the tiny motel room filled up with police officers and FBI agents. His head ached, and he could feel the warm rush of something wet trickling down his temple. He looked around the room, but couldn't seem to see Wilson – couldn't seem to focus on anything at all. Disoriented and confused, one thought still made its way into his consciousness.

You're bleeding… but you're conscious and aware… so he couldn't have shot you in the head. But… then… how…?

Someone crouched directly in front of him, and House flinched instinctively. In his recent experience, anyone getting that close to him was the first indication that some form of pain or suffering was about to take place. He cringed, jerking back away from the young police officer as he reached for something attached to his belt.

"Easy, not gonna hurt you," the officer murmured, holding up his free hand in a gesture of harmless intent before carefully reaching to grasp the handcuffs that bound House to the dresser. He took a small key from his belt and explained quietly as he turned it in the lock. "It's like a skeleton key; should open just about any set of cuffs."

As the handcuffs fell away from his chafed, sore wrists, House couldn't quite process what was happening. He looked blankly up at the officers milling about the room, vaguely aware as he heard one of them calling for two ambulances to be sent to the scene. He glanced down toward a source of commotion, a point around which several officers were gathered – and froze when he recognized Wilson's prone form on the floor a few feet away from him.

A sense of panic rose up within him at the sight – followed by a self-directed fury that he should feel such fear, such concern, for the man who had kept him chained up and degraded like less than an animal for the past several months.

But… it's Wilson. God, what if they killed Wilson?

The thought was barely formed before it was followed by a second, far more reasonable observation.

Two ambulances. Two. That means… he's still alive…

"Hey…" A soft voice spoke close at hand, and House looked toward it to see that a female officer had joined the young man already crouching at his side. "… can you stand up? Are you hurt anywhere, besides…" Her voice trailed off as she reached a hand up toward the source of the pain in his head.

House shook his head slightly, his thoughts confused and fuzzy. "What… what happened…?"

"The gun hit your head when he was shot," she explained gently. "It looks like just a surface wound. You should be fine, but we'll let the paramedics check for sure when they get here."

"Wilson," House whispered, his gaze returning to his friend. "Is he… is he gonna…"

A brief flash of confusion passed over the face of the male officer at his question, before he answered quietly, glancing toward his colleagues who were working over Wilson, following basic first aid procedures to stop the bleeding. "The paramedics will do all that they can, and we'll get him to a hospital as quickly as possible."

"Right now, though," the woman interjected with concern, "we need to worry about making sure that you're all right…"

"I'm okay," House whispered, his gaze locked onto Wilson.

Now that he knew he hadn't been shot, he barely felt the sluggishly bleeding wound at his temple. All he could think about was whether or not Wilson was going to be all right, and trying to figure out how he felt about that question – and how he should feel about it. He watched the officers working with Wilson, doing everything they could – doing everything right.

If they hadn't been, House wasn't sure whether or not he would have stepped in to try to help.

He wasn't sure whether he wanted Wilson to live or to die.

He wasn't sure of anything at all.

When the ambulances arrived a few minutes later, the officers with House waited while the paramedics rushed in and loaded Wilson onto a stretcher. Accompanied by two armed FBI agents, they put him in the back of one of the ambulances and rushed away. The entire process took under a minute by House's observation.

"Okay," the male officer said quietly once they wouldn't be risking getting in the way. "Let's get you out of here, all right? Come on. Let me help you…"

House flinched at the firm touch under his arm, helping him carefully to his feet. The female officer placed her hand on his back to steady him, and he felt his body begin to tremble. After so long in isolation, with the only human touch always leading to pain and punishment, so much physical contact was disconcerting and overwhelming.

But resistance had always led to suffering as well; so House simply followed along, allowing them to guide him toward the waiting ambulance.

He felt lost, confused, with a vague detached sense of surreality, as they helped him into the back of the vehicle. The female officer got in with him, sitting beside him and placing what she certainly thought was a comforting hand on his knee.

"You're going to be just fine," she assured him softly. "It's over now."

No, it's not.

House knew better.

It's far from over.

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

He was quiet and withdrawn, not speaking a word as the emergency room staff checked him over, making sure that the head wound was the worst of his injuries. His wrists ached from being bound for so long, and he was covered in various bruises and other marks of the abuse Wilson had inflicted. His limbs were stiff and sore from prolonged disuse, and he was fairly certain he probably had a mild case of malnutrition from the irregular meals Wilson had provided, consisting of mostly fast food hamburgers and french fries. Though there weren't really any physical signs to point to, he knew that he was probably a little dehydrated as well.

He didn't offer any of this information to the staff hovering around him, though he was fairly certain they were missing some of it.

He didn't dare correct them; he had learned well the lesson not to argue.

A part of his mind was aware that he should feel relieved – should feel happy, even – to have finally been released from the nightmare of the past few months. Somehow, however – he felt nothing. There was a cold numbness deep in his chest that seemed to extend to his thoughts as well, as if the greater part of him didn't quite believe that this was real – that he was finally free again.

He kept expecting to wake up and find himself back in the prison of Wilson's basement, chained down to the floor and naked and helplessly waited for whatever Wilson decided to do to him next.

When the nurses and doctors spoke to him, House barely even answered. He nodded or shook his head when he could, only whispering responses to their questions when absolutely necessary. Even then, he didn't dare to so much as meet their eyes as he spoke. A part of his mind was aware that it didn't make sense – that these people would not hurt him as Wilson had done for such trivial infractions.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to break the "rules" that had been so brutally instilled into his mind.

Once they had finished the rather cursory physical and bandaged his head and wrists, they moved House to a private room, where they attached an IV to replenish his nutrients and fluids, and told him to try to sleep.

"The police will want to talk to you," one of the doctors warned him apologetically. "But they can wait until you're feeling a little better." He hesitated, clearly ready to leave the room, but unwilling to leave the obviously vulnerable, damaged patient. "Is there… someone we can call for you? Someone you'd like to meet you here?"

One of the police officers had asked the same question back at the motel, House vaguely remembered. He also remembered simply shaking his head, not really paying attention to the question, too focused on what was happening to Wilson and whether or not he'd be okay.

Now, he looked up at the doctor, startled – as if just then remembering that there were other people in his life, other people who'd existed and cared about him before Wilson had locked him away from the world.

Cuddy… she's probably on her way…

My mom… God, my mom. What will she think…?

He hesitated, wanting to ask the doctor to call his mother for him – and yet dreading the idea of her hearing about everything that had happened to him. He thought back to the funeral, and to all that she'd lost so recently. He couldn't bear the idea of adding himself and his own recent trauma to the list of her burdens. His lips parted to speak, but he couldn't find the words to say, couldn't decide how best to answer the doctor's questions.

At that moment, there was a quiet knock on the door to his room, just before it opened and a familiar face peered around the corner.

Cuddy.

Immediately upon seeing House, she lost all sense of courtesy or propriety and rushed into the room and to his side.

"House," she gasped with obvious relief, sitting down on the edge of the bed and reaching out to take his head. "My God, I thought you were… I thought…"

House didn't mean to. He knew she wouldn't hurt him; yet somehow he couldn't help it. He flinched at her sudden nearness, jerking his hand away from hers. Cuddy's words died instantly, her eyes widening with dismay as she took in his reaction.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, House, I didn't mean to…"

He shook his head, eyes downcast, feeling his face flush warm with shame. "It's nothing," he muttered. "It doesn't matter."

"It doesn't…?" she echoed in disbelief, her voice trailing off as she shook her head. "House… you've just been through… How can you say it doesn't matter? You have every right to whatever reaction you have right now! I'm the one who wasn't thinking. How many trauma patients have I dealt with, and I come in here…" She shook her head again in clear frustration with herself. "I'm sorry," she repeated softly. She was quiet for a moment before adding gently, "But… you're safe now. And the doctors told me you're going to be okay."

Am I? Am I really?

"I called your mother," Cuddy informed him, and House looked up at her sharply in alarm. In response to his wordless look, Cuddy added defensively, "She had to know, House. You can't just keep this from her forever."

"I don't want her to worry," he whispered, looking away – though he wasn't quite sure that was his actual reason for not wanting to call her.

"Like she hasn't already been worried for the past few months?" Cuddy pointed out. "She's seen you one day in four months – and that was for your father's funeral. And then, you were visibly drugged out of your mind and… and not okay. You think she could be any more worried than she already is?"

House couldn't deny the truth of her words. He knew that regardless of his discomfort, his mother had the right to know where he was and that he was okay. She had just lost her husband; the last thing she needed was to think that she had lost her son as well.

"But… you don't need to worry about that right now," Cuddy went on, her voice softening with compassion. "She's flying in right now, should be here in a few hours. I've spoken with your doctors and let them know that I'm your PCP. I'll get you sent back to PPTH as soon as possible if that's what you want…"

"It's not." House's voice was hoarse, barely over a whisper, as he stared down at the bed.

Cuddy considered that for a moment, then nodded in understanding. "Then… I'll take a few personal days. It's not unheard of – for anyone but me, anyway." She gave him a rueful half-smile. "I'll supervise your care here…" She paused, hesitation creeping into her voice. "That is… if you want me to…"

House finally looked up at her, sensing the vulnerability and uncertainty in her voice. He tried to control the emotions that were sliding back into place, tried to keep his expression calm and neutral, even as his eyes filled with tears that in the past he'd never have allowed her to see fall. Despite his efforts, words slipped from his lips before he could stop them, a hushed, trembling whisper.

"I thought you were dead."

Cuddy's expression crumpled and she bit her lip to hold back a sob, a tremor passing through her shoulders as her own eyes glittered with tears. She cautiously moved forward to put her arms around him again; and this time he did not pull away, simply lowered his head to rest on her shoulder in quiet acceptance of the comfort she offered.

"I thought you were, too," she whispered back. "But you're okay. You're going to be just fine, House. Okay? You're going to be just fine."

He simply stayed there in silence, allowing her to comfort him as best she knew how, and trying desperately to believe that her words might be true.