His skis were parallel, running smoothly and quickly over the snow. Head down, body coiled over itself for maximum speed, poles tight against his sides. A tree rushed past and then another. Vibrations rippled through his body as his skis hit a bump, thighs and calves straining with the effort of forcing them back onto the snow.
The path ahead was clear. His knees bent into the turn, muscles burning as they battled gravity, then slipped back into the tuck. Speed and more speed, trees blurring his peripheral vision. Wind batted his face, eyes protected by the visor, as he pushed himself down the mountain, faster and faster. He approached the next turn, left hand reaching out, nearly dipping into the snow. Quickly, he returned to his tuck, pushing ahead and down, approaching a hard and fast turn to the right.
His right leg pressed toward the snow to get the angle. It was coming so quickly – he wasn't going to make it. He pressed harder, thigh screaming in agony. It wasn't enough, his turn wasn't tight enough. His leg was giving out, sliding underneath him, sending him tumbling toward the tree line. A towering pine lay dead ahead. He turned his body to take the impact on his side. He pivoted to the left, thigh slamming into--
Pain! Fire! The two-pronged assault on his senses startled him awake. He tossed off the quilt and immediately grabbed his thigh. Damn! The intensity of the pain made him momentarily nauseous but the breaths he forced himself to take tasted like smoke. He had to get out of here. He lifted his right leg off the bed, unable to stifle a howl of pain.
"Wilson!" He pushed himself onto the floor and grabbed his cane from the nightstand. With his first step, his leg gave out, and he nearly fell flat on his face. Shit.
Only a few halting steps had taken him as far as the bedroom door. He felt around its edges as he'd been taught in some stupid fire prevention course. He'd always doubted it did any good but was still relieved when smoke didn't poor through the door as it opened.
"Wilson!"
"What?" Wilson stood at the end of the short hallway hands on his hips.
"Where's the fire?"
"In the fireplace." Wilson pointed to the burning kindling and newspaper shooting smoke into the chimney.
"Shit, you might have told me."
"Shit, you were asleep. You wanted me to wake you to tell you that I was starting a fire?"
"You said this place was heated."
"A fire's part of the atmosphere."
"At night, not at seven in the morning."
"Look, last night's rain turned to ice and it's still coming down." Wilson pointed out the front windows. "We'll probably lose power and I wanted to get a fire started before that happens."
"Boy Wonder turned boy scout." House involuntarily grabbed his thigh. Now that the adrenaline rush had worn off, the stabbing pain was back with a vengeance. The narrowing of Wilson's eyes and slight change in posture meant that he'd noticed. For probably the millionth time, House cursed the fact that Wilson was a doctor. Of course, even a medically-ignorant, just plain old friend Wilson would have noticed his discomfort.
"How long has your leg been hurting like that?" Wilson asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep his tone casual.
"About eight years ago, I had this infarction. And the well-meaning but incompetent doctors treating me—"
"House! I mean this morning. Pain's worse than usual, isn't it?" He sighed, already satisfied with his diagnosis. "Being crammed into the car yesterday didn't help. Let me take a quick look at it. I brought some stuff, just in case."
"It's fine." House brushed past Wilson into the kitchen. It wasn't but, if allowed to see the truth, Wilson would insist on examining him, would bitch about his dependence on pain meds, and that would inevitably lead to a discussion he didn't want to have. He'd rather curl into a ball until the pain receded enough to let him function. Or, give himself a shot of morphine. Or both. "Just need my morning meds."
Wilson favored him with a disapproving look as he downed two Vicodin. "It's not enough any more, is it?" Wilson asked, in a voice filled with resignation. "That's why you were hoarding all those pills, that's why you pulled the brain cancer stunt." He leaned against the counter, crossed arms obscuring the logo on his sweatshirt. "Why didn't you tell me the pain's been getting worse?"
Shit, House thought to himself, here we go again. "Why do you always have to be a doctor? Why for one weekend, can't you just be a friend?"
"I am your friend, or trying to be. Although friends don't usually hide brain cancer."
"For god's sake, I didn't have brain cancer!"
"As for being your doctor," Wilson continued, as if he hadn't spoken, "I'm not. Not really. Patients are supposed to tell their doctors when their medication isn't working, not forge their signatures to get more drugs."
"Is that what this trip's really about?" House was shouting now, pointing his finger in accusation. "Rubbing my nose in it?"
"It didn't have to happen."
"Well, it did. It happened. And now it's over. If you want to spend three hours a week rehashing every gory detail with your goddam shrink, then do it. But leave me out of it."
"House, nothing's changed." Wilson's voice remained maddeningly calm, almost sad. House hated that. "We got dragged through hell for months and now you're right back where you started. Still not doing PT. Still taking way more Vicodin than you should. And, judging from the look of you this morning, it's not even working."
"I told you last night that you're not responsible for me."
"I am as long as I'm prescribing for you."
"Then stop. Stop being my doctor. Stop being my friend. Stop doing whatever makes you miserable, whatever makes you scarf down bottles of anti-depressants. Get on with your life and leave me alone."
Wilson stood there unmoving, his expression a combination of hurt, anger and more emotions than House could count. Come on, House thought to himself, play the game. Yell back at me. Get all passive-aggressive like you always do.
Instead, Wilson stepped away from the counter and grabbed his parka off the back of a chair. "I'll get some wood for the fire."
"Forget the fire. Let's get out of here. This whole relaxation thing isn't working."
Wilson didn't turn around as he pulled on his gloves. "Roads are covered with ice. Until it melts, we're stuck." He stepped outside, allowing a blast of cold air to enter before slamming the door shut behind him.
House shivered and edged closer to the fire, watching the flames leap upward and recalling Wilson's earlier comment about the cabin seeming like a prison when you're not getting along. A cold prison from which there would be no escape for at least a day. A day of pain for him and psychobabble from Wilson. Just what he needed. At least the tentacles of Vicodin had finally grabbed onto his pain and eased it ever so slightly.
Coming with Wilson to the cabin had been a mistake. Not only did every word seem to spark flames of anger, but the usual avenues of escape were gone. He hadn't counted on the brother thing. It had been a shot in the dark, asking Wilson if he'd prescribed for David. Maybe that's what was making Wilson so sensitive about writing scrips for his pain. Of course, his situation wasn't the same. He had chronic pain from a real medical condition. He was a doctor. It was different, entirely different.
He absently massaged his thigh. The pain was worse, had been getting worse over the last couple of months. Or had his tolerance to the pain meds increased? Shit. It was all so complicated and made even more so by Wilson. Despite what he'd just said, House wanted him as a friend and needed him as a doctor. Or was it the other way around?
Thuds across the porch signaled Wilson's imminent return and time for him to escape. He couldn't go far but staying in the main room would inevitably lead to another confrontation over Tritter, Vicodin, or any other subject that would have them in each other's face. He had to get out, even if "out" was only a few feet of separation.
Fifteen minutes and a hot shower later, he returned to the main room. The shower had done almost as much for his mood as the Vicodin had for his leg. He was still pissed at Wilson, but not as much. On the floor near the fireplace, a small pile of logs testified to Wilson's progress.
House searched the kitchen for a pre-breakfast snack, settling for a handful of cereal that tasted like trail mix and wondering whatever happened to Sugar Pops and Cocoa Puffs. The cabin remained eerily quiet other than the sound of his munching. Something was wrong. It was the same nagging feeling he often got in the middle of a case when he'd overlooked an important symptom. What was it?
House's eyes were drawn to the pile of logs. He counted eight. How many would Wilson bring each trip? Three at least, at a couple of minutes per trip. A glance at his watch showed that more than twenty minutes had passed since he'd gone to take his shower. There should either be more logs or Wilson should be fixing omelets.
Wilson's pager and cell phone were on the kitchen table, exactly where he'd tossed them last night. No way would Wilson leave without them. A quick search proved Wilson wasn't anywhere in the cabin. House stared out the front windows, but the falling sleet obscured any footprints. Where in the hell was Wilson?
Outside, the only sound was the splatter of the icy rain. House grabbed his coat from the back of the sofa realizing that he hadn't brought a hat or gloves. Heading out with a cane and tennis shoes wasn't smart but, if Wilson wasn't in the cabin, there was only one place he could be. And only one person who could find him.
The instant House stepped onto the porch, his foot slipped and only a last-minute grab of the doorframe kept him from falling flat on his ass. Pain radiated from his arm to his toes as he inched along the cabin wall, grabbing onto anything solid with his right hand, holding the cane in his left, and damning his slowness with every miserable step. He yelled Wilson's name, then listened over the soft tapping of freezing rain.
It was a sound, a voice. Could be Wilson's voice. But it was off, somehow. And Wilson would never let him outside under these conditions if he could prevent it. House refused to think what that meant.
"Hold on. I'm coming."
Cursing the cabin, the weather, his leg, and everything else that slowed his progress, he inched his way to the end of the porch and peered over the edge, getting his first look at the steps and the ground below. His heart sank.