Present day
Wilson drove them both back to his apartment, his mind churning over with the events of the last few days, and plans for the future. He was beginning to realise just what being House's 'owner' entailed. It was difficult enough while he was off work, but once he went back - in a few days time - what the hell was he going to do with House? He wasn't going to leave him chained up on a bed all day that's for sure. Every glimpse in the rear view mirror at the hooded, silent, figure set his stomach churning. Despite the occasional glimpses of the 'old House' it was apparent that his friend had been deeply hurt over the last two years of his slavery. Wilson didn't know how he could begin to help him heal while House still had to endure another five years of being treated like something less than human. The scene in the clothing shop was burned into his memory - how many similar scenes, and much worse, were in House's nightmares?
He was so wrapped up in his frustration and anger that he didn't notice the police car behind him until the sirens were blaring at him. He glanced down and realised he'd been speeding. Cursing himself, he pulled over. This was the last thing either of them needed.
"Sorry, House. Cops. I was speeding." It felt strange talking to a hooded figure in the back of the car and he wasn't surprised when he didn't receive an answer.
The police officer approached at an easy pace, his ticket book already coming out. Then he glanced in the rear of the car and stiffened. He stopped and with one hand on the butt of his gun he called out to Wilson.
"Get out of the car, driver. Hands where I can see them."
Puzzled, Wilson did so and the officer eyed him suspiciously.
"That your slave?"
"Yes."
"Show me his papers."
"I haven't got them with me." Wilson had filed them away carefully in his home office.
"How long have you had him? You need to carry his papers at all times."
"I just bought him a couple of days ago. Sorry officer, he's my first slave - I didn't know I was supposed to carry his papers. Is there a problem?"
"He's not secured properly. Should be in a harness. He can just reach around and get himself out of that seatbelt. Don't want him throwing himself out of the car. Slaves are fucking stupid; you never know what they're going to do. I'll need to check him out. Get him out here. Leave his hood on."
Wilson wanted to argue - the last thing he wanted to do was expose House to any more public scrutiny - but the officer was still standing with his hand on the butt of his gun. So he opened the back door of the car.
Leaning over House he released the seat belt.
"House, the officer wants to see you. I'm sorry. You need to get out. Just stay calm okay? I'm sure we can sort this out. I won't let anything happen to you." They both knew that the last was an empty promise.
House's reply was muffled through the hood but audible. "Easy for you to say."
"I'm sorry," Wilson repeated.
"Sorry doesn't help me."
With House unable to see Wilson had to help him out of the car, making sure he ducked his head so he didn't hit it on the frame.
"Move away from the slave, sir. Slave, you stand very still." The officer barked at them and Wilson reluctantly backed off a few steps.
Once he was clear the officer stepped up, kicking at House's leg.
"Kneel down, slave. Hands behind your head."
House dropped to his knees and put his hands behind his head, the hood still in place. Wilson could see he was trembling but otherwise he held still. The officer yanked on his collar, feeling for the tag. He scanned it with his hand-held device and then told House to lie face down on the ground, arms and legs spread-eagled. House instantly complied, his face lying against the rough surface of the pavement.
The officer patted House down, pulling his shirt up and feeling inside his waistband, checking the front and rear of his pants and running his hands through House's hair. Then leaving him there like that he went back to his car and ran the tag against the slave ownership records.
He returned to Wilson.
"The slave checks out. There's a flag on his file from the SAC. Apparently you've already got a warning for improper restraint. I'll need to take him back to the station until you get your shit together. You can pick him up tomorrow after you've bought the harness and the other stuff. Get on your feet, slave!" he called out to House and House staggered to his feet, looking blindly around.
"Is that necessary? I can take him and get the harness immediately," Wilson protested.
"Yes, sir. It is. Regulations." The officer said, stepping forward to grab House's arm. With a tight grip he led him to the patrol van and opened the back door. There was a cage in one corner and to Wilson's dismay he shoved House into it. He had to curl up tightly to fit. The officer slammed the door shut and locked it. He rapped on the cage with his knuckles.
"You stay nice and quiet, slave. Otherwise you can spend the night in there."
He slammed the door closed and faced Wilson.
"There, that's how you restrain a slave. You can't pussyfoot around with them. You have to speak a language they understand." He tore the ticket off his book. "Here's your speeding ticket. You can pick your property up tomorrow from the station once we inspect your harness."
"You can't just take him!" Wilson protested again, cringing at the image of House crammed into a tiny cage. He must be terrified. "He's mine. I own him." The words were ashen in his mouth, but it was better to assert his possession of House than to let him be taken away.
"He's still yours. I'm just borrowing him for the night," the officer grinned unpleasantly. "Goodbye, Doctor Wilson. Have a nice day."
Officer Carter arrived back at the precinct and opened the cage. The slave was curled into the small space and he struck out at the nearest limb with his baton.
"Out you get."
The slave was awkward, as he couldn't see with the hood on and also appeared to be lame. Carter ended up almost dragging him out and dumping him on the ground at the back of the van.
"Get up," he ordered, giving the slave another strike with the baton to get him moving. The slave staggered to his feet - why the hell would someone buy a slave this useless? - and stood waiting, his head bowed.
He was about to take the slave to the kennels, where they kept any slaves they had taken into custody, when he was stopped by an older officer.
"What have you got there?"
"Picked him up on the road. SAC have a flag on him - think his new owner is being soft on him. The owner didn't have a harness for him so I brought the slave in. That should put a rocket up his owner."
"Take his hood off, I want to see him."
Carter grabbed the hood and took it off the slave's head. The slave blinked in the sudden sunlight and then stared at Carter's colleague. His eyes went wide with fear.
Michael Tritter grinned. This was going to be fun.
"Well, well, Greg House. Should have known that a piece of dirt like you would end up as a slave. And I bet your new 'owner' is Wilson isn't it? Still picking up the pieces after your sorry ass." He stepped closer to House and lifted his chin with his baton. "Well, slave, this time you've done something that Wilson and that bitch Cuddy can't fix for you."
He stepped back and eyed House.
"Get down, slave! On all fours, just like the dog you are." He snapped - knowing that House's ingrained slave reflexes would kick in and he would obey.
House dropped to all fours. He was trembling in a way that made Tritter grin in anticipation.
"I'll take him to the kennels," he said, taking the leash from Carter and clipping it on House's collar. He caressed the slave's stubbly head. "What a good boy you are. We're going to have a great time aren't we? Just you and me."
"You can't touch me, I'm tagged," House said, his voice breaking. Tritter slapped his face hard, rocking his head back.
"Shut up, slave. If I want you to talk to me I'll tell you. Wilson may have a tag on you but the SAC also have an eye on you. All I need to do is tell them what a 'special' relationship you boys have and they'll take you off him and put you back to auction. So if you know what's good for you you'll keep that fucking big mouth of yours shut, until I tell you to open it nice and wide for me."
He tugged on the lead. "Come on, slave. We're going to the kennels." House had no choice but to crawl after him on hands and knees.
The pain in his leg was excruciating by the time they reached the kennels. It had been hours since his last Vicodin, and he knew there was no hope of one until tomorrow morning at the earliest. His leg was cramped from being in the cage, and the crawling was adding its own agony.
On the way to the outside kennels House had to crawl past some holding cells for free people. Drunks, or junkies, spending their night in jail. As he crawled past they hurled insults at him, jeering at the slave who was so much less than they were. They had a proper cell to spend the night; he was going to be locked in a dirty kennel. The same sort of kennel as a police dog might occupy - although theirs would probably be cleaner.
The kennel was completely devoid of furniture, or anything else. There was no bunk, or toilet in the corner. No blankets, nothing. One small round container on the floor held some dirty water as a minimum concession to human needs.
Tritter led him to the middle of the concrete floor.
"Kneel," he commanded and House did so. He spread his knees widely, clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head in the correct fashion.
Tritter walked behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You're shaking. Are you scared?"
House didn't answer. There was nothing he could say. Tritter trailed a hand around the back of his neck, and then pressed lightly on the nerves there.
"I asked you a question. Are you scared?"
"Yes," House whispered. It was the truth anyway. When Tritter had been investigating him - back in that other life, over three years ago - he had taunted House with the possibility that he'd be imprisoned and then enslaved. He had promised him that if that happened Tritter would take his revenge for the stunt with the thermometer. House had escaped then, but now he was trapped. Tritter could do whatever he liked to him.
"Good. You should be." He pressed a bit harder on the nerves and then let go. He patted at House's shoulder instead.
"Those are nice clothes for a slave. New too. Did Wilson buy them for you?"
"Yes." There was no point denying Wilson was his owner. It was a matter of record now.
"Take them off. All of them."
House hesitated. The clothes provided little protection but at least they let him retain a shred of dignity. He didn't want to lose them.
Tritter came around to the front and knelt in front of him, his face close.
"You don't want me to do it for you do you? I'd have to use a knife to cut those fine clothes off, and you might lose something of importance." Tritter placed a hand on House's groin, squeezing his balls through the fabric. House tried to squirm away but Tritter held him in place. "Let's get one thing straight here. You're a slave. That means you do what I say, when I say it." He released his hold. "Now, take those clothes off."
House reluctantly took off his new clothes, item by item. He handed them to Tritter who dumped them outside the kennel on the muddy ground. Then House knelt back into position.
Tritter took a step back and scrutinised him.
"You've lost weight."
"A slave diet will do that for you," House shot back without thinking. "You should try it."
Tritter put one booted foot out and pressed down hard on House's right thigh. The kneeling position had exposed the scar and Tritter's foot found the heart of it. House gasped as the pain shot up his spine.
"Maybe you," Tritter leaned in harder and the pain doubled, "should keep your mouth shut."
Keeping his foot in place he unclipped the leash from House's collar. Only then did he move his foot. House gasped and slumped down.
"You've lost weight," Tritter repeated, almost conversationally. This time House knew the correct response.
"Yes, sir."
Tritter patted him on the head. "Good boy. See, you can be a good little slave can't you? All you need is a little discipline."
He left House kneeling there and left the kennel, locking the heavy steel door behind him. He looked back in through the bars.
"Don't worry - I won't be gone long. I just have some preparations to make. Make yourself comfortable. We'll talk more later." He said, his cold expression never changing. He toed the clothes lying on the ground. "Nice clothes. Too nice for scum like you."
As House watched from his kneeling position Tritter unzipped his fly and pissed all over the clothes and shoes Wilson had bought for him. Then he zipped himself back up and walked off without another glance.
House went to the back of the cage, as far away from the door as he could get. He wrapped his arms around his body and huddled there, waiting for the waves of pain still surging through his leg to subside. He wouldn't give in to this - he was a man, not a dog, not a piece of furniture. Tritter could abuse him, but he could never break him. He only had to survive this night and Wilson would come and get him. He just had to hold on.
Three Years Earlier
He was alone in his office. His young patient, Timothy, was stable for the moment and the fellows had all gone home to grab some sleep. It was dark outside, well into the evening, and the hospital was quiet. He should have left for the night as well, but somehow he was still sitting here, alone.
He startled as he heard the soft sound of a throat being cleared and looked up to see a slave standing hesitantly in his doorway.
"I told you before not to sneak up on me," he said and the slave seemed to shrink in on himself.
"This slave is sorry, sir..." he bowed his head.
House sighed. "I also told you not to bother with that crap around me. Just come in and do whatever it is you need to do so you won't be tossed into a cage, or whipped, or whatever it is they do to you."
The slave's eyes went wide and House wondered if the cage wasn't closer to this slave's reality than he'd realised.
He'd first noticed the slave a few months ago when he'd been at the hospital late. He'd startled him by coming back to his office while the slave was cleaning it. The slave had looked half starved, beaten, and over-worked. His clothes hung off him. House had just stolen some food from the fridge in the Oncology department and he saw the way the slave's eyes fixated on it. He'd made a show of throwing half a sandwich in the trash and left the office. When he came back the trash had been cleared out and the sandwich was gone. Maybe the slave had eaten it, maybe he hadn't, but since then House had generally left some treat or other in the trash for the slave who cleaned his office to find.
The slave hesitantly entered his office and made for the trash can. There was no food in there; House had been too preoccupied with the case to think of food for himself, let alone a slave. The slave didn't even look inside; instead he just grabbed it and made for the door. House could see that there was a cart parked outside, with a larger bin. The slave emptied the trash can into it and then came back with it.
"What's your name?" House asked abruptly.
The slave froze in the act of putting the can down and House sighed.
"I'm not going to bite you, just tell me your name. You do have one don't you?"
"Dave, sir. My name is Dave."
"Were you born a slave?"
Dave bit his lip, looked around and then finally shook his head.
"No, sir. I used to be free. A long time ago."
"What happened?"
Dave looked at the ground, his body starting to tremble. He said nothing. House was on the verge of telling him to forget it and go back to work when Dave answered him.
"I made a mistake, sir. And this happened to me."
House raised an eyebrow. "Must have been a helluva mistake."
"It was, sir. The biggest mistake of my life, sir. I regret it every day."
House didn't know what to say to that. His father had a saying that he liked to berate his only son with - 'mistakes live forever'. Looking at Dave, and at the collar around his neck, House knew that was true. He sat silently while Dave finished his work and then the slave left his office with only a quick bob of his head as acknowledgement.
He should go home. Staying here wasn't helping the kid, and it wouldn't change the past.
He moved to his Eames chair and stretched out. He should go home. But he needed to be here.