A/N - Flashback scene in this chapter written by nickythehippi

Present Day

Wilson breathed a sigh of relief as he finally shut the door behind House at his apartment. They'd made it. He'd successfully rescued House.

"I can't believe you're here. It's been so long since you disappeared. What happened to you? What have you been doing, where have you been?" The questions rushed out before they'd even left the entryway. He had been in too much of a state of shock during the car trip to talk to him freely, but now they were safe he wanted to know everything. He wanted to know how House had ended up being a slave.

House just stared at him. His expression was shuttered, his eyes distant. "What have I been doing? I've been a fucking slave! You really want me to tell you all the crap I've been through? Believe me Wilson, you don't want to know."

"You need to talk about it..."

"No, I don't," House cut him off. "There's one thing I don't need to do and that's 'talk about it'. Ever."

They both stood in silence for a moment before House sighed.

"It's not over, Wilson. You need to know that. You may have brought me here," he waved a hand at the apartment, "but it's not over. Not while this collar is on my neck. You have no idea. You should have left me where I was."

Wilson was horrified to hear him talking like that. "You can't be serious!"

"I'm just going to make your life fucking difficult. You can barely look at me, let alone do what you need to do to me." He turned and limped down the hallway to the living room. There he stopped and stared.

The baby grand piano from his old apartment in Princeton was there.

When House had disappeared Wilson had taken over the lease of his apartment, keeping the rent payments up. He held out hope that House would one day come back and need a place to live. After two years he'd had to face the reality that it wasn't going to happen. He'd had most of House's possessions put into storage but the piano he'd had moved to his place. House would never have forgiven him if he'd let the piano rot somewhere.

House went over to it and touched the gleaming surface. He carefully opened the lid over the keys and stared down at them, swallowing hard.

Wilson waited expectantly but House put the lid back down gently without touching the keys. He just stood there with his head hanging down. Then he limped down the hallway towards the guest bedroom.

Watching his awkward gait reminded Wilson of the one other thing he'd kept for House. He retrieved the spare cane he'd found in House's apartment and followed the other man down the hallway.

House had stopped at the door to the bedroom and was surveying it.

Wilson hadn't had chance to make the room up for House specifically - he hadn't been home since first seeing House, events had moved that quickly - but he always kept it ready as a guest bedroom.

"This is where I'm sleeping?" House asked, his eyes riveted on the quite ordinary bed.

"Yes, the linen is clean but let me know if you need anything else. I haven't had chance to get things ready. I want you to be comfortable here."

House turned to look at him and then his eyes flicked to the cane in Wilson's hand. Wilson held it out. House took it wordlessly, his fingers fitting over the curved wooden handle.

"It's okay, House. Everything is going to be okay now," Wilson said. "You're home." He tentatively put a hand on House's shoulder, hoping to reassure him. Instead he felt House flinch away from him, as if expecting a blow. Wilson quickly dropped his hand and they stood in silence - a gulf lay between them that Wilson had no idea how to cross.

"Cuddy, are you back in Princeton?" Wilson asked, holding the cellphone in his left hand.

"Hi Wilson! Yes, I just got home tonight. I had a great trip, if you ignore my Mom and sister. What's up?"

"I need to see you."

"Okay, we can have lunch tomorrow at work, if I get out from under the mound of paperwork that is probably rotting on my desk."

"No, I need to see you now." Wilson said urgently. He couldn't carry this knowledge by himself any longer. He needed to talk to his friend. Cuddy would be able to help.

"Can't it wait until tomorrow? I'm knocked out from the flight."

"It's about House," he said, lowering his voice.

"What? House? Did you find him?" Her voice was filled with excitement. Like himself, she'd never completely given up hope that she'd see him again. "Is he okay? Oh Wilson, don't tell me he's..."

"He's alive, Cuddy. But I can't talk now. I'll meet you at Berlin," he said, naming a coffee-shop near his place that they sometimes went to. "I'll be there in twenty, okay? Wait for me."

When Wilson got there Cuddy was already there, waiting anxiously at a table. She plied him with questions and he waved his hands.

"I'll tell you everything; just give me a minute please." He quickly filled her in on the accidental meeting at the New York conference. Strange to describe meeting House in the bathroom of the hotel rather than attending the conference as the world famous doctor he was.

"He's... he's a slave, Lisa. He has been for two years."

Cuddy stared at Wilson in shock, her clear grey eyes already shining with tears, her hand covering her mouth.

"No... not House. He couldn't... he wouldn't..."

Wilson knew what she meant. House was the last person he could ever have seen becoming a slave.

"At first he pretended he didn't know us, that he had been mind-wiped. Later on he told me he couldn't cope with the idea that we would see him like that. He just wanted us to go away and forget we'd ever seen him."

"What do you mean, 'later'? Did you talk to him again? Where is he? We have to get him back."

"He was 'working' for Rent-A-Slave in New York. I brought him yesterday - they were keen to sell him. A crippled middle aged slave isn't worth much apparently."

"You have him?"

Wilson nodded. "Yes. He's at my apartment."

"That's brilliant, Wilson. Now you can free him."

"No, I thought the same but it's not allowed. House was given a minimum sentence of seven years - he's been a slave for two, he has to stay enslaved for another five before he can be freed."

"Seven years? Shit, Wilson. What the hell did he do?"

"I could barely get it out of him; he doesn't want to talk about it. He's ashamed of what happened. I had to piece it together and I think I still don't know the half of it." Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. House was really reluctant to say anything at all about those missing three years. The couple of days he'd been at Wilson's apartment he'd mostly spent staring out the window.

"After you... after what happened he just took off. Left all his stuff behind as you know, got on his motorcycle and disappeared. He told me he moved around a lot and lived off his savings. He couldn't get his Vicodin legally without using his real name and he couldn't do that. So he bought Vicodin illegally, and maybe other drugs as well, he wasn't very clear on that. The cops busted him when he had a big stash; he was convicted of dealing and sentenced to seven years enslavement."

"He could have contacted us; we would have gotten him a better lawyer, a deal, something!"

Wilson shrugged. "That's what I told the idiot. You know how he is - he stuck his head in the sand and pretended it wasn't happening until it was too late."

"I need to see him -he's at your apartment?" Cuddy stood up, in a hurry to go and see him. Maybe she could do something to help.

"Yes, but... he doesn't want to see you, Cuddy. He doesn't want to see anyone. He's barely tolerating me seeing him like that."

"Like what?"

"Like... like a slave."

"Well, that's stupid. It's been three years, Wilson. I need to see him. I need to talk to him." She found her voice breaking and Wilson hugged her tight.

"I know it's hard, Cuddy. But House has lost everything. All his possessions, his career, his freedom, everything. He's been trained to be a slave. He's been told he doesn't have any human rights, that he isn't a human being anymore. He's a slave - he's just property. What he went through at the Slave Administration Centre I can't begin to guess. There are scars... so many scars, Cuddy." His own voice filled with tears. "He needs time. He can't even look me in the eye. He's ashamed of what he's become. I think... I think he would almost have preferred that I never found him."

He looked up and out of the window and his eyes widened. A SAC response vehicle was driving down the road. As he watched it pulled up outside his apartment and a squad of officers piled out.

"Oh, shit!" He let go of Cuddy and ran for the door, Cuddy following close behind him as they ran up the road to Wilson's apartment.

Three Years Ago

Their patient was in the pediatric wing. The bright colors and happy clown faces that were painted on the walls made a sharp contrast to the sick child, lying in a bed in a single room. The child's parents were seated by his bedside, the mother was holding the boy's hand - the father was sitting a little bit back from the bed. His arms were crossed and he was leaning back in the chair, a bored expression on his face.

Both adults looked up as House entered.

House ignored the parents' surprised looks as he threw the door open and walked over to the sleeping child. House would have been sleeping too, if it hadn't been for Cuddy's persistence in getting him on this case. The least the kid could do was be awake long enough for House to ask him some questions.

"Who are you?" Asked the boy's mother in a tired but concerned voice. She instinctively put a hand out to stop him getting near her child.

House glanced at her for a moment and then back down to the child. "I'm just a figment of your imagination. Sitting near bedsides for hours on end can lead to hallucinations." He tapped the bed rails with his cane. "Wake up, need to ask you some questions."

The boy let out a moan of pain as he stirred. The father got up from his chair and moved towards the bed. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

House looked at the man in faked confusion, "Well... I thought I was waking the patient up so I could figure out what is killing him, but if you'd rather I didn't then we can forget all about this and I can get back to my soaps." He gave the man a hopeful look. "All you have to do is tell Doctor Cuddy that you'd rather not have me on the case and poof... I'm gone. People do it all the time," he reassured him. "And what's one kid's life after all? You've probably got some spares at home."

"Brad," the woman said reaching an arm out to him but stopping just before touching him. "If he can help we should let him.

Brad was glaring at House like he'd rather hit him than talk to him. He looked at his wife and then threw his hands up in exasperation.

"Do whatever you want. I'm sure you know best." His voice was heavily sarcastic as he said the latter and Claire looked nervous. After looking at Brad for reassurance and receiving none she turned to House. "This has been hard on all of us; none of us have gotten much rest. This is the first time Timothy has been able to sleep for more than half an hour," she said giving her son a sympathetic look and then looking back at House. "My name is Claire, who are you?"

"You can call me Doctor House, or God - either is fine. I'm your son's doctor."

There was a sound from the bed and House looked down at his patient. Timothy had woken up. He was obviously in pain, but he didn't cry out like most children would. He was three years old; he shouldn't be lying there stoically enduring the pain without complaining.

"Hey, kid - how does your throat feel?" He asked.

"His name is Timothy," Brad said. "If you're his doctor why haven't we seen you before now? Where the fuck have you been?"

"I try to avoid seeing patients as much as possible - it makes me unhappy. When I'm unhappy I start ordering all kinds of crazy test. Ask my last patient in room B604 if you don't believe me. Now, if you don't mind I was talking to your spawn here." He turned to the child again, observing how he watched them with wary eyes, but still didn't speak. "Timothy, does your throat hurt?"

Timothy glanced at his parents and then back at House. "My chest hurts," he said softly.

House nodded, "I know about your chest, but what about your throat? Does it hurt to talk?"

Timothy looked at House with wide eyes, "No, sir."

House's frowned. He turned to Claire. "He's not whining and complaining about the pain like most kids his age would be. Is that normal for him?"

Claire seemed to think about it some, "Well when he was a baby he cried about everything but in the last year he's really grown up. He hardly ever makes a fuss about anything," she said with a small, proud smile that quickly faded. "Why? Is it important?"

House looked at the father. "Most children his age, and most people, verbalize pain - it's a natural response."

"I didn't raise my son to be a cry-baby," Brad answered in a calm neutral tone, but his eyes were hard as he stared at House.

House felt himself tensing as he wondered how the man had 'raised' his son. He noticed that the man was in great shape with cropped hair, intense eyes and the air of a fighter. "Which branch did you serve in?" he asked casually.

"How did you know..." Claire began to ask, surprised, but was abruptly cut off by her husband.

"Marines in Afghanistan for two tours, six years total," Brad said with pride. "Have you served?"

House smirked, he'd found what the man loved and now he was going to see how Brad handled it when someone diminished it. "No, I had a brain and decided to use it rather than follow orders like a toy soldier."

Brad stood up gritting his teeth. "You're a coward! While you were hiding behind your books at some nice college brave men were fighting for your freedom." He eye was twitching and his hands were balled into fists. His wife put a hand on his forearm but he shrugged her off.

"You sound like my dad; he was in the Marines too. He's a very tough, brave, and patriotic man but just between us he isn't the sharpest tool in the shed," House said with a grin. "He can't do math in his head or write an essay, but he can kill just about anything. Seriously, the man would hunt bears with a bow. He was the perfect little toy soldier."

Brads face was red with anger, "Your cocky ungrateful sack of crap, you'd speak about your own father who served to protect his country, to protect you like that!" he said taking a step towards House. "I ought to show you just how a marine fights!"

"Brad, don't, not now," Claire pleaded trying to hold him back, "It's not important."

Brad turned to her, "What did you say to me?" he barked at her with a warning glare.

House had the reaction he had been aiming for. He turned away from Brad and watched Timothy whose body was trembling as his father's voice rose. He was taking quick, panicked breaths. His was scared of his father's anger. House knew how that felt.

House looked back to see Brad and Claire arguing. "Are any of your family or friends in the medical field?" he asked as the man let go of the hold he had on his wife's thin wrists.

Brad turned to him again as his wife drew away from him. Her cheeks were reddened and wet with tears. "Why the hell do you want to know?"

"That's a 'no' then," House said with a shrug, "I'm not surprised."

Brad puffed out his chest, "Actually my father is a veterinarian, you bastard," he answered. "I helped him ever since I was ten and still am while I'm getting my degree in business management. So how does that fit with your idea that everyone who served this country is an idiot?"

House kept the smile off his face; the man had given him everything he needed to prove what he was already thinking. There was no doubt in House's mind that this man was abusing his son and even if the boy's hospital records didn't prove it he would bet money that if they did full body scans they were going to find evidence of past injuries. Injuries that hadn't been treated at a hospital. After that all that would be left was to find out what the father was doing, or using, to make him so sick.

"Most people are idiots," House answered, replacing Timothy's chart. The child was still watching him and he held out his fist to him. Timothy's eyes were wide as he stared at him, and then he tentatively put his fist out as well. House bumped it gently and was rewarded by a genuine smile.

"Do you know what's wrong with him?" Claire asked anxiously.

"Not yet, but we will." House stared straight at Brad. "Then we can help him."