Present day
Officer Jones had been given the job of checking on any slaves that were in the kennels each morning. He was young, and was paid to keep his mouth shut about anything he found there. Some of the officers liked to have a little fun with any slaves that were brought in. There was no harm in it but no need to publicise it either. Jones was discreet.
Although he was accustomed to finding slaves a little bit worse for wear he was still shocked at the state of the slave in the only occupied kennel. The slave was almost hanging from the bars with a chain wrapped around his collar. He appeared to be only semi-conscious, his body making small twitching movements. He was butt naked which wasn't unusual but the harness and dildo fastened around his waist were. This one must have really pissed someone off.
Jones donned some rubber gloves and went into the kennel. He made short work of unfastening the slave, and removed the dildo with a quick yank which brought a soft moan of pain to the slave's lips and an effort to scuttle away. Jones held him in place by his collar while he looked him over. The slave was old - well past his prime. His leg was disfigured by an ugly scar. Hardly a prize catch. He shook his head. Well, someone had enjoyed him last night anyway. He'd seen that bastard Tritter hanging around down here yesterday - he was well known for fucking anyone who couldn't move away fast enough.
He let him go of the collar and the slave collapsed by his feet, his body shaking. He made a pathetic effort to try and pull himself into the proper kneeling position but couldn't manage it. His lips were dry and cracked and his mouth parted as he tried to say something.
Jones looked around for the water bowl and saw that it had been placed out of the slave´s reach so he picked it up and shoved it under his nose.
"Drink that."
The slave obediently lapped at it weakly with his tongue. Jones waited patiently until he'd nearly drunk the entire bowl.
"Thank you, sir," the slave managed to say in a weak voice.
Jones grunted and snapped a leash on his collar. The slave struggled to his hands and knees which was enough for Jones. He pulled on the leash and unlocked the cage, taking the slave out to the yard. He went the back way out of sight of everyone.
Once in the yard he hitched the slave up to a post with his leash and rinsed him off with the hose the police slaves used to wash the cars. When he was satisfied that he was at least clean on the surface he left him shivering there and went to retrieve the pile of clothes he'd spotted outside the kennel. They were filthy and smelly but the slave would be used to wearing clothes like that. He picked up an old rag off the garage floor and passed it to the slave.
"Dry yourself with that and then put your clothes back on."
The slave took a while to obey but finally he was more or less dry and dressed in his old clothes. He still looked pale and was shaking but that could be explained by a night in a kennel. There were a couple of bruises on his face but again, that wasn't unusual for a slave taken into custody. His owner could hardly complain if his slave was a little worse for wear. Jones didn't know what other damage the slave had taken but at least it didn't show.
He took the slave back to his kennel. The boy didn't want to go back in but a couple of quick strikes with a crop to his thighs got him moving. Jones left him there while he went to get feed for him. When he returned the slave was still kneeling in the same position. He put a bowl of slave chow on the ground.
"Eat that." He watched in disgust as the slave ate messily, his face down in the bowl. He didn't even attempt to use his hands. Slaves really were little better than animals. The slave ate every piece and then knelt up, his body still quivering.
Jones nodded. His job was almost done, then he could get out of this filthy place.
"What happened here last night?" he asked, to check.
The slave stared at him wide eyed for a moment and then his face went blank.
"Nothing this slave didn't deserve, sir." He gave the standard answer. Slaves only became damaged when they deserved it.
"Good. Nothing happened. Remember that. You don't want to have to come back here do you?"
The slave trembled all over. "No, sir. Nothing happened. This slave is sorry, sir. This slave will do better, sir."
Satisfied that all was well Jones locked the cage again and went and reported that the slave was ready for pick up whenever his owner decided to turn up. Hopefully he wouldn't have to spend another night here, taking care of him had taken up a large part of Jones' morning, he didn't have that sort of time to spare again.
Wilson was at the front desk of the station as soon as he could get there the next day. It hadn't been easy getting all the things that he'd been required to get but he didn't want to leave House here longer than necessary. He didn't like the way the police officer had treated him yesterday.
"Hello, I am Doctor James Wilson, I am here to pick up my slave - Greg," he said to the officer who was in the front desk of the station. It still felt strange to refer to House in that manner. As if he was a piece of lost property.
"Hey, Jones! This man is looking for his slave." The man at the front desk called out to a younger officer who was working in the other room. "Go and fetch him for us. He's the lame one they brought in yesterday."
While Jones was gone Wilson presented his receipts for his purchase of the harness and other equipment and the desk officer gave it a cursory glance over.
"Yeah - that looks good. SAC will be out again to inspect anyway. They have a flag on you two. Guess you must have annoyed them."
When Jones reappeared he had House at the end of a leash. House was limping severely without his cane and to Wilson's professional eyes he looked terrible. Exhausted, in pain, and with a dead look in his eyes. There were a couple of dark bruises on his face and Wilson wondered how many were hidden on his body.
Jones unclipped the leash and gave House a pat on the ass. "Go to your owner and behave yourself or we'll take you back to the kennel."
House bowed his head and answered respectfully. "Yes, sir. I will. Thank you, sir." He shuffled towards Wilson, and then slipped to his knees by Wilson's side, his head down. Wilson was aware of an unpleasant smell coming from him. The fine clothes he'd purchased yesterday were stained and torn. He looked at the desk officer who stared back at him with a bored expression. Protesting the treatment of a slave would be suspicious so Wilson swallowed what he was going to say and looked down at House.
"Get to your feet and let's go. I've wasted enough time on you today." He said harshly, aware of their audience and was surprised when House flinched. Surely he knew it was an act?
Without his cane House had difficulty walking even that small distance. He lurched heavily, his gait even worse than usual. He was shaking and Wilson realised that he hadn't had any Vicodin for almost a day. On top of everything else he was going into withdrawal and probably in agony.
House stopped by the back door of the car. Wilson waited for him to open it but it seemed he wasn't going to. Wilson reached around him and operated the handle, opening the door. House stared in at the harness that had been installed. It was chain and leather and would hold him completely still when he was in the car. There was an attachment where the hood was clipped on. With the harness fastened and the hood draped over his head he would be completely helpless.
"Okay," he said quietly, almost as if to himself.
Wilson didn't like how quiet House was. He was almost like a zombie - like the soul of his friend had gone and only this shell remained. What the hell had happened during that night at the police station?
When House made no move to enter the car Wilson gently asked him if he knew how to put the harness on, or if needed help.
House turned his head and stared at him. His eyes were dead and empty; there wasn't a trace of expression on his face. Then suddenly a change came over him, a spark of something came back. Wilson was puzzled for a moment and then realised what the emotion was - fierce anger. House was furious.
"I may be a piece of crap slave but I know how to put a fucking harness on." He clambered into the car awkwardly and pulled the straps of the harness around him. The fit was tight already but he pulled the straps savagely until not an inch of movement was left to him. "You'll need to lock my hands down."
Wilson swallowed hard and leaned in to place the cuff straps around House's hands and clip them into the rest of the harness. Now he couldn't even move his hands. Then he took out a key and locked the central mechanism. House wouldn't be able to get out of the harness, and therefore out of the car, until Wilson allowed it. One less freedom.
Wilson realised that House's anger wasn't directed at him, or the harness, but at the whole shitty situation. At whatever had happened while he'd been in the keeping of the police.
Anger was at least better than the zombie like detachment he'd been previously presenting.
He tried to connect again. "You look like crap, what happened to your face?" he asked. He fished in the pocket of his pants and took out House's Vicodin. Then he realised that with his hands locked down House couldn't take them.
House's eyes were riveted on Wilson holding the pills. He licked dry lips. "Please... Can I have them..." Then he opened his mouth wide, his eyes pleading with Wilson.
Wilson hadn't meant to make him beg. He flushed and put a pill on House's tongue. House quickly closed his mouth and crunched the bitter pill into pieces. Wilson flinched, House must really be hurting. House was still looking at the pills and Wilson took pity on him and held out another. That one went as quickly as the first.
Wilson put the bottle away. "House, I'm serious - what happened?"
"Nothing. Nothing happened."
"Something must have. You look..."
"Nothing happened, Wilson. Leave it at that. Please. Put my hood on." House turned his head away and Wilson reluctantly dropped the hood over his head.
He drove home in silence.
After Wilson had parked up he came around to the back door to let House out. The hood was still over his head as he couldn't remove it with the harness holding down his hands. Wilson quickly took it off and then while House sat there in silence he fumbled with getting the key into the central lock on the harness.
When House could finally get out of the car he staggered to his feet and stood in front of the apartment, looking up at it. All the windows were now barred with heavy steel bars.
"They came and fitted them yesterday" Wilson said, almost apologetically. House just nodded and waited for Wilson to walk to the house. When he did so, House followed with the proper distance between them.
Once they were inside Wilson quickly closed the curtains and locked the door and House relaxed slightly. For the moment he had a few minutes to breathe and just be House for a while. Or as much as he could be.
"I made the changes that you suggested. I think we are ready if the SAC come again." Wilson said hopefully. House followed him to his own bedroom and when he entered he could see that the king sized bed had gone, replaced with a much smaller single bed. He was relieved that it still looked comfortable, far more so than any bed he'd slept in for the last three years. A mile away from his accommodations last night.
A set of chains was attached to each corner of the bed, each chain ending in a padded cuff. House swallowed hard, he'd been chained to the bed quite a few times in his training - and his first postings - for discipline. Once he'd been left for two days, tightly chained, gagged and blindfolded. He'd lain in his own waste, with only his pain for company. After two days of that he'd been ready to serve his masters in all the cruel and humiliating ways they'd demanded.
A steel cage sat ominously in a corner of the room, in the space that a dresser and a mirror had previously occupied. The stylish curtains at the window had gone, now only the steel bars could be seen. The room was empty of any other furniture other than a small closet with a padlock on it. House would have to ask Wilson to open it to get any clothes he was allowed out.
The room now looked less like a guest bedroom and more like a slave's quarters - even if it was still large and with its own bathroom.
"I'm sorry I had to change it. I wanted you to be comfortable."
House felt a pang of guilt at his friend's sad expression. All this was far more than Wilson had bargained for. He didn't deserve any of this.
"It's okay, Wilson. This is more... far more, than I've had since I became a slave. It's going to be all right." He lightly rested his hand on his friend's shoulder. Wilson managed a small smile.
"Yeah, we can do this. Do you want me to order Chinese? Celebrate your return home." As if this was something to celebrate.
House shook his head. "No, no more take out. It's too risky. They might be watching."
"You don't think you're being a little paranoid?"
"No," House said flatly. Tritter was out there, and he didn't want to risk this little sanctuary. "I need to have a shower." He had been scrubbed down by the kid at the police station but he felt dirty, violated. He'd almost lost it there at the station; he'd gone so far into the headspace of being a slave that he hadn't been able to get out until he saw Wilson.
Wilson looked at him, his eyes soft, as if he knew why House wanted to have a shower. House hoped he didn't - that he would never know. "Of course. I'll be outside, yell if you need me."
House left the door to the bathroom and bedroom open, because a slave was owed no privacy. He hoped Wilson would stay away; he didn't want him seeing this.
After getting undressed House looked at himself in the mirror. His waist was ringed with dark bruises where the chains had held him tight the night before, under his collar the skin was the same. Other bruises mottled his body.
His fingers when he probed his asshole came away without blood although there was a lot of soreness there. All in all the damage could have been worse.
In the shower he turned the water up as high as he could, grabbed the soap and began scrubbing.
He knew that everything wasn't going to be okay. He could lie for Wilson's sake and pretend but this moment of peace was only fleeting, and any illusion of safety was just that - an illusion. Tritter was out there - waiting for him. One false move and House would be taken away from here forever.
He scrubbed until his skin turned red but he couldn't remove the memory of Tritter's hands on him. Of the violation of his body, and his will. He couldn't remove the knowledge of what he had become.
Three Years Earlier
House stood outside his patient's room and watched the parents with their son. Timothy was very sick. The little boy would be dead in a few hours if they couldn't find out what was killing him.
His mind churned over the symptoms. He knew Timothy had been abused in the past by his father, and he suspected it was ongoing. The kid being sick now could be a coincidence, but all his instincts were telling him that there was a connection.
If his father had caused this than it had to be some sort of poison. They'd tested for a whole array of heavy metals and they had all come back negative. What the hell was the father feeding to his son?
"Doctor House, can I help you?" He looked up to see that the impatient voice belonged to a nurse. "You're blocking the corridor."
He was about to launch a verbal attack on the woman when his attention was caught by a shiny gold band on her finger. The nurse followed his gaze.
"Got married last Sunday," she said proudly.
"Congratulations. Send me a card for the divorce." He barely registered the nurse's sound of annoyance. Gold. One metal they hadn't thought to test for.
Memories came to the surface. His stay in Egypt when he was ten. His father had been stationed at the marine base there for a few months. They had been in the middle of nowhere and there was nothing to do. Desperate to get out of the house and away from his father's scrutiny he'd taken to exploring - and searching for mummy's tombs. He'd never actually found one, but he'd learned a lot of what his father had called 'useless shit'. Like the fact that stannous chloride turned bright purple when mixed with gold. And he had a vial of that very substance back in his apartment, a long kept souvenir of his time in Egypt.
He hurried to the elevator. He needed to get home and retrieve the chemical. His father hadn't approved of his mummy hunting ways, but he was pretty sure that they were going to help bring Timothy's father down. He almost smiled at the poetic justice of it.
It took him nearly an hour to get home, find the chemical and get back to the hospital on his bike. As he took the elevator up to Timothy's room his mind was working furiously on how best to expose Brad. He needed to get the man just after he'd been handling the gold, and before he washed his hands. He was probably using gold sodium thiomalate, an arthritis remedy that was rarely used in the States but was common in Mexico - where Brad often went on business. A little of that sprinkled on Timothy's cereal and the result was a very sick child in a hospital bed. He didn't know Brad's motivations - maybe he wanted to get rid of his kid, maybe he just liked watching him suffer. It didn't matter, House had known since he was a child that some people were just monsters.
He saw the activity as soon as he got off the elevator. Brad and Claire were outside their son's room. Claire was crying, Brad was just standing there, not even comforting his wife. Several medical staff could be seen in the room but House could see that they weren't clustered around the bed, working frantically over Timothy. As he watched they all began to file out. A sheet had been pulled up over the boy's face. Timothy was dead.
House stood rooted to the spot. He'd had the solution. He'd just been too late, Timothy had been too sick. His father had killed him.
He started moving towards the room. Brad spotted him first.
"Well, if it isn't the famous doctor? Come to see what you've done?" he sneered. "My son is dead."
House went up to him and grabbed one of Brad's hands in his own, holding tight.
"What the fuck are you doing? Let go of my hand." Brad pulled back and got away. House held up his own hand. It was stained purple.
"Proving that you're a murderer."
Brad's face darkened. "You're crazy!"
"You've been feeding the kid sodium thiomalate. The residue is on your hands." Brad looked down at his own hand which was also purple.
"You're just trying to cover up your own incompetence. You said you'd save his life. And you failed. I bet your father would be so proud of you. His useless failure of a screw up kid. You're a pathetic waste of space." Brad pushed him away hard and turned away.
A red mist of anger filled his vision and House didn't even think. He just took his cane and swung it at the man's back. It connected with a thud and drove an anguished sound out of Brad.
House followed the blow up, launching a punch at Brad as he began to turn back. He connected solidly with the man's jaw.
Brad staggered back, shaking his head, and House closed in on him, his fists raining blows. "You bastard! You killed him!"
Brad started fighting back, his own fist catching House a glancing blow. House was peripherally aware of the boy's mother screaming and sounds of running feet. There were people shouting as he wrestled with Brad. He began to stagger under the weight of the other man, and felt fists pummelling his body. Blindly he swung back, before tumbling to the ground.
Brad aimed a kick at his fallen body and House grabbed his ankle, jerking him off balance. He took advantage of the opportunity to feel for his discarded cane. Grabbing it by the handle he swung again and again at the other man.
"House! House!" He heard her before he saw her. Cuddy advancing on them. "Somebody stop them!"
Hands grabbed for him, pulling him away and then holding his arms behind his back. He struggled to free himself but they held him tight.
"House! Stop it!" Cuddy said, moving closer to him. She put a hand on his face and it came away smeared with blood. "That's enough. God, House. What have you done?"
He looked past her to see Brad lying on the ground, groaning. Several hospital staff were bending over him. The floor was stained with blood.
House slumped in the hands of the people holding him. The adrenaline from the fight was draining out of him and he felt exhausted and empty.
"He was poisoning his son, Cuddy. Sodium Thiomalate. Probably picked it up in Mexico."
"House... that's a serious accusation." Cuddy said worriedly. "Can you prove it?"
"Test the blood for gold. You'll find it's off the scale." House didn't have the energy to explain further. He knew Cuddy would cover all the bases.
"We're going to have to call the police, I can't keep this quiet," Cuddy said. House understood. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. His patient was dead.
"Do what you have to do."