Title: Getaway, Part 5

Disclaimer: I don't own House, Wilson or anything else related to House, MD. Don't even rent them. Only thing I'm looking for is the satisfaction of continuing the story for my own amusement.

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Wilson lay crumpled near the base of the steps, logs scattered around him and a layer of ice covering his parka. Damn. He must have fallen on the way up. How badly was Wilson injured? Badly enough, House's mind automatically answered, that he'd yet to pick himself up let alone get back to the cabin.

Forcing himself to breathe, House called down again. "Wilson, move something. Show me you're okay." The sound of frozen rain falling on Wilson's still body competed with the pulsing of his own heartbeat. Nothing happened other than his worry increased a huge notch. "Dammit, Wilson, move!" Was that a twitch? "Again!"

Slowly, the ugly blue snow hat tilted backwards and Wilson's brown eyes met his. House exhaled with relief. Wilson wasn't dead and, with a little luck, maybe not even seriously injured. But the longer Wilson stayed outside, the worse things would get.

"Hold on." It came out with a lot more confidence than he felt. Only eight steps separated him from Wilson – eight icy, slippery steps that would challenge an able-bodied man. He clearly needed help if he was to make it down the stairs without sharing Wilson's fate. Anxious eyes roamed the cabin's outer walls searching for anything to aid his descent. There! Coiled onto a rusty hook was a green-striped garden hose. House had no idea how many years it had hung there exposed to the elements but he needed an anchor and this was it, short of returning inside. And there was no time for that.

House secured one end of the hose to the railing and the other around his waist, trying to avoid thinking about whether it would hold him. Halfway down, his foot again slipped out from under him and only a simultaneous grab of the hose and railing kept him from instantly joining Wilson at the bottom. Damn that hurt.

"House!" Wilson's voice from below was weak and raspy. "Careful."

The smile that creased House's face at the sound of Wilson's voice faded just as quickly. No wonder Wilson had fallen – a portion of the second step from the bottom had given way. The entire stairway was probably rotted out.

At this point, he had little choice but to keep going. His speed increased and his luck held. The instant his feet hit the ground, he was at Wilson's side, automatically searching for injury.

"I'm okay," Wilson hissed.

Firm hands steadied Wilson's face. "Did you hit your head?" It was hard to tell much in this weather, but the pupils seemed equal and reactive.

"No."

"Know where you are?"

"Cabin."

"What day is it?"

"Saturday."

"What's Cuddy's cup size?"

Wilson gave him an annoyed look. "Venti."

"Bra size, you idiot, not Starbucks," he growled, at the same time unable to suppress a smile.

"Venti," Wilson repeated more forcefully.

"Got it." House pressed icy fingers against Wilson's equally icy carotid. Pulse was fast, but strong. Satisfied, he pulled his hand back. "Any numbness?"

Wilson seemed to consider the question for the moment, as if mentally checking his own limbs.

"Wilson?"

After a few seconds he shook his head.

"What does hurt?"

"Knee." A grimace. "Chest." Getting out each word seemed to be a strain. Wilson held up his left hand. "Wrist, I think."

Wilson had mentioned chest pain. His breathing was shallow and rapid but that could be due to the cold and shock as much as the injury itself. Still, best to get some confirmation. House cocked his head and fixed Wilson with his sternest clinical appraisal. "Any trouble breathing?" he asked in a tone that dared Wilson to equivocate.

Wilson managed a look of annoyance. "No. Hurts though."

Pain on inhalation suggested a possible rib fracture – something else that House couldn't do much about here. "Okay, let's get you inside." Out of the cold and where he could do a more complete exam. He didn't fully trust Wilson's self-assessment of his injuries.

Wilson stretched out a hand. "Help me up."

"Hold on. Let me check your leg first." Wilson had mentioned leg pain and it wouldn't do for him to put weight on a broken bone or torn ligament. He stooped down, and ran his hands along the leg, finding no obvious fractures or instability in Wilson's knee.

The situation with his own leg was another matter; the constant strain of this rescue effort was taking its toll. House crushed the pangs of his own discomfort; he could deal with that once he'd taken care of Wilson. Hips braced against the railing, House slipped a hand under Wilson's armpit. Wilson exhaled painfully, protecting his chest and leg as he was slowly pulled to his feet.

"Come on, Wilson," House implored, his thigh crying out at the effort of holding the weight of two men. "I can't lift you by myself."

Grunting and groaning, Wilson managed to stand, supporting himself on his left leg, left arm wrapped tightly around his midsection.

"I'd carry you, but . . ."

"'sokay."

"Can you put any weight on the leg?"

The effort was met with another painful grunt. Best to keep Wilson off it as much as possible. "Okay, here's what we'll do. You scoot up the steps on your ass and hope they hold out for one more trip. Then, we'll slide you to the door. I'll take pictures and sell 'em on Ebay."

Wilson made a face, then nodded and leaned into him for support.