"What are you doing?" Wilson asked. He'd just taken a long shower to try and relax, he felt like a tight bundle of nerves after the events of the last few days. On top of all the anxiety the current situation was causing him he felt a burden of guilt at the plight of his friend. However bad this was for him it was ten times, a hundred times, worse for House. However foolishly House had acted to get himself into this position he didn't deserve what had happened to him. Nobody deserved this.

While he'd been showering and changing House had been cleaning. The kitchen was immaculate, the floor clean enough to eat off. Each tile shined. The wooden floor of the main room was also shining, as if the floor had just been laid. Wilson wondered if slaves were given special lessons on how to clean. He didn't think he could achieve this level of perfection.

"Rowing," House answered his question flatly. He was surrounded by Wilson's books. He was dusting each one and putting them back on the bookshelves. Looking closely Wilson could see that he was arranging them by specialty. "And trying to find something to listen to on your crappy playlist."

"Amy Winehouse, and Adele - that's all you have?" House asked, pointed at Wilson's open laptop sitting on the coffee table. "I always knew you were secretly a girl."

"I have other stuff," Wilson said defensively. Then he realised how much House must have missed his music. Next to medicine it was his greatest passion. Besides playing the guitar and the piano he used to have a huge vintage record collection, and an expensive sound system. Wilson had often seen him relaxing at the hospital with earbuds in; listening to sounds only he could hear. "I can download whatever you want, blues maybe, some jazz..." he offered.

House went back to his cleaning, his face averted. "Yeah. John Lee Hooker, Doctor John, anything like that."

"Why don't you stop doing that for now? You don't need to work all the time." His leg must be killing him after all this activity. "We can kick back for a bit, have some beers, watch some television, like we used to."

House shook his head. "No. No alcohol for slaves. And I've got to do the bathroom after this." He was obsessed. Wilson had seen House obsessed before, but never over cleaning.

Suddenly the sharp contrast between old House and new House was too much for him. He grabbed the dusting cloth out of House's hand and looked down at House where he was kneeling.

"Stop cleaning and sit on the couch with me so we can watch some porno, or monster trucks or whatever the fuck you want. I can't take this anymore." If House was a slave who had to take orders then Wilson was going to order him to do what he wanted.

House stood up, not looking cowed like Wilson had half expected. "Give me the damned rag and let me do my job or I swear you will be the one ending up in that cage."

"No! You're my friend. I don't want you to be a slave, and I don't want you to be a janitor in the hospital. I can't change either of those things, but I can decide what you do at my home." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, House, you need to understand. You've been gone for three years. I need my friend back sometimes, even if it's only for a few hours. I can't... I can't see you as a slave here, as well as out there." The strain of the last few days came out in his voice, his words muffled with unshed tears.

House's gaze softened. "Wilson, I told you. If the SAC come, and this place isn't spotless... You've seen what they can do. I don't want to go back."

"They won't come tonight," Wilson said, smiling a little, hoping to reassure House. "Please, just give me this one night. Tomorrow, I'll help you clean. We will be prepared if they come - I promise you." He touched House gently on the arm, something he would have never done before all this happened.

House bowed his head. "Okay, just tonight." It wasn't like he didn't want it too.

"Can I ask you one more thing? Can you cover the collar up? I'm sorry - I know it's much worse for you, but the sight of that thing, and my tag on it. It just makes me sick." He felt ashamed by his own words - all that House had endured and he was struggling with this.

House was quiet for a moment. "It makes me sick too. I can't look at myself in the mirror. Since that day everything changed my own reflection horrifies me. But I can't conceal it; I can't forget I'm a slave, Wilson. This isn't 'let's pretend'."

"I know... but please, just the collar." It wasn't like he wouldn't still see the SAC tattoo on House's cheek. But he needed one normal night, just one.

House hesitated and then nodded, walking off to his room. When he emerged he was wearing a rolltop sweater. He almost looked like his old self. He had a two day stubble going, and his hair was growing; now it was close cropped to his head rather than the shaved head that he'd first had when Wilson found him. The bald head was dehumanizing - it made all the slaves look the same.

Wilson smiled and patted one side of the couch with his hand, he turned on the TV and they both watched it in comfortable silence, their legs up on the coffee table, a beer in their hand.

For House it was an agonizing memory of what used to be, and what he had lost. For Wilson it was a momentarily open door out of this living hell.

Wilson was woken the next morning by a heavy banging on the front door. He heard voices demanding entrance and then the door opening. House must have gotten to it first. He quickly pulled on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt and went to investigate, his heart pounding.

House was on his knees in the living room, hands laced behind his head. The rolltop of the night before was long gone and he was wearing ragged old clothes instead of his new ones. A mop and bucket were in evidence. He must have risen early to continue the cleaning Wilson had ordered him to stop the night before. Just as well as the visitors he had let in were two SAC officers. One of them was the older officer, Crowley, from their previous encounter who had been suspicious of Wilson's motives.

"Doctor Wilson, good to see your slave is working hard. This room looks spotless." Crowley caressed Greg's stubbly head. "And he let us in promptly this time."

"It's early - is there a reason for this visit?" Wilson was getting annoyed at these constant intrusions into his, and Greg's life.

"Just checking that you have made those changes we told you about on our last visit. I have a police report that the slave was taken into custody overnight because you didn't have a harness for him."

"I have one now, and chains for the bedroom."

"Good. We'll have a look. You get back to work, slave." He kicked the bucket beside Greg and its contents slopped over onto the wood. "Looks like you have something to clean up."

Wilson gritted his teeth as House bowed his head submissively and started cleaning up the spill.

Crowley walked off towards the bedroom as if he owned the place and Wilson had no choice but to follow, leaving House behind.

"This bed is still too soft for a slave, but you're getting there." Crowley said, feeling the mattress on the bed. "Take away this mattress and have him sleep on the base, or better still on the floor."

"I told you he needs a bed because of his disability. He can't work if he's crippled with pain."

The officer laughed. "You'd be surprised what a slave can live with." He tested the chains at each corner of the bed by tugging on them, they held fast. "What are you going to do with him when you are at work? You can't leave him unsecured and he needs to be working. If you don't work them hard slaves get lazy and into trouble."

"I've arranged for him to work at the hospital as a janitor. He starts Monday. He'll be under my supervision."

The officer frowned. "That's irregular - he used to work there according to his file."

"Not as a cleaner he didn't. Believe me he doesn't want to go. Half the staff there hate him - he's in for a rough time. I took him with me yesterday and locked him in the slave cells there. My boss had to stop people from harassing him."

"Hmmm. Well, we'll be checking that he's being properly worked there." His gaze lit on the cage and he turned to his younger companion. "Go and fetch the slave, Rollins. Have to check the fit of this cage."

Wilson paled. House hadn't been in the cage of course, Wilson never intended for it to be used. Rollins came back with House on the end of a chain leash attached to this collar.

"In you get, slave. Let's check this cage that your generous master has provided you with is a good fit. Wouldn't want you to be cramped, would we?"

House dropped to his knees and entered the cage. He couldn't lie in it properly; he had to curl up on one side. Rollins slammed the door shut and the men all stared at the slave in the cage. House stared at the ground.

"Well, he won't be comfortable but then we don't want him to be, do we?" Crowley said with a laugh. "He can stay in there while we check the rest of the place."

They toured the rest of the apartment, checking House's work and Wilson's feed supply. All the bars on the windows were checked. Finally Crowley nodded. "Okay, that's all good. Go and get him, Rollins."

When Rollins returned with House Wilson could see he was stiff and sore from being in the cage so long. He dropped to his knees again, with his hands laced behind his head.

"He has some bruising." Rollins ran one gloved hand over House's face and then pulled aside his collar to reveal some more dark mottling that Wilson hadn't spotted.

"The police had him for the night." Wilson explained and both officers laughed.

"That would explain it, I bet they gave you a good working over, didn't they, slave?" Crowley laughed again, giving House a pat on his head. "Well, we'll be going. Just one more thing. My boot is dirty." He looked down at his boot where the water had splashed over it earlier. "Clean it for me, slave."

House hesitated and Rollins swore at him and cuffed him over the back of his head.

"You heard the boss, slave. Clean his boot up."

House bent his head down, obviously knowing what was required. Wilson watched in horror as he licked the boot clean. Rollins kept him out at it until the boot was spotless. House knelt back, his head bowed.

"He was slow to obey. Shall we get him to do yours, Doctor Wilson?" Crowley said. Wilson was about to protest when he saw the fearful look House shot him. If he said no would that be taken as a sign that Wilson was being too soft on him?

Wilson nodded and hesitantly stuck a foot out, his eyes pleading with House for understanding. House bent down, tongue working at his best friend's shoes until they shone. Wilson felt sick. How was he going to look House in the eye again?

Crowley gave House another patronising pat on the head when he was finished and nodded. "Okay, we'll get going. Well done, Doctor Wilson. We'll be checking on him at the hospital as well but it looks like he's making good progress. You should get him to do your shoes like that regularly. It's one of the first things they teach slaves how to do. That, and how to be a good fuckhole of course."

They left and Wilson returned to where House was still kneeling, his head bowed.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry, House. I'm so, so, sorry."

House's voice was hoarse when he answered. "Don't worry Wilson. You did the right thing. It doesn't matter. None of it matters. It's what I am, now."

"No, you're more than this, House. You are. Don't ever think that you're not."

House shook his head and Wilson slumped down on the couch in despair. There was nothing he could say to make this better.

"I'm going to my room," House said after a while. He limped off slowly, his shoulders slumped and his head down. Wilson heard the door close softly. House wasn't even up to slamming it.

An air of despair hung over the apartment after the visit from the SAC officers. Wilson knocked on House's door several times, proposing different plans - lunch, watch a game, play the piano, help him with a case. Every time House was just lying on his bed, unresponsive, not sleeping but not fully awake.

After Wilson ate a sad and lonely dinner by himself he tried once more, going to House's room only to find him gone from the bed. Alarmed, he went to the bathroom and saw House standing there, naked except for a towel about his waist.

"Damn, Wilson - don't you knock?" House yelled at him.

Wilson stood staring at him, frozen. His friend's torso was mottled with dark bruises. There was a thick line of bruises across his body, as if he had been chained for a long time. One of the bruises on his chest was the shape of a bootprint.

House saw him staring and slammed the door in his face.

Wilson stood there until he heard the shower come on. Again he was faced with the reality that his friend was now an abused and humiliated slave. What had been done to him wasn't even illegal. There was no-one to complain to, nobody who would care what had been done to him. The collar around House's neck changed everything, and took away all his rights.

It was an hour later before House walked into the living room, finding Wilson sitting on a couch with a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring at the TV without seeing it.

House had put the rolltop back on, concealing his collar. Wilson didn't need to see it right now, and the SAC probably wouldn't be back for a while.

House took two beers out of the fridge and sat next to Wilson on the couch, giving him one of the beers. His friend nodded but didn't say anything.

"Just ask what you want to. Waiting for the interrogation to start is the worst part," House said, taking a sip of his beer to fortify himself.

"I don't want to 'interrogate' you."

"You're concerned. You're Wilson, you can't help it. You want to know about the bruises."

"They're fresh, and bad. You should have told me. What did the police do to you?"

"Some people think a collar isn't enough, that a slave needs to be reminded all the time." House had run into more than one of those types. Tritter wasn't even the worst.

"House. I need to know, what they did... what they did to you..."

House stood up abruptly, his fragile calm shattered. He threw the beer bottle down; it hit the edge of the coffee table and shattered into pieces - sending glass flying into the air. "The cops chained me up tightly, that's all. I've had worse. Now drop it."

"Sorry..." Wilson said, his eyes wide in shock. House stared at him; there was a trickle of blood on Wilson's cheek. The glass must have cut it. Wilson didn't even seem to realise.

House leaned back down and touched Wilson's cheek with his hand, wiping the blood off.

"I'm sorry, Wilson. I hurt you. I didn't... I didn't mean to... you're always trying to help me. I don't know why you bother." He'd screwed up his own life and now he was dragging Wilson down with him. This nightmare was never going to end.

"It's okay, House. It's just a little cut. It doesn't even hurt."

House examined the cut, it was going to need stitches, three at least. "I'll get the first aid kit." He knew there would be one, probably two, Wilson was anal like that.

When he came back he gave Wilson an ice pack out of the freezer to numb the cut - there being no lidocaine in the kit. Once the area was numb he quickly put in the stitches, the first bit of doctoring he'd done in three years. Then he cleaned up, sweeping the broken glass off the floor and cleaning up the beer spill. He'd have to clean the floors again in the morning.

"I'm sorry, House - I shouldn't have asked you."

House couldn't believe Wilson was apologizing to him. "It's not your fault, Wilson. None of this crap is. I'm the one who caused all this. I shouldn't have lost my temper at you. I'm a slave - what I did would have any other owner ordering a whipping."

Wilson looked at him, his eyes wide again. "Don't talk like that - don't ever say that." He put his face in his hands in despair. "I wish I could turn back time. I wish none of this had ever happened. I used to call you an ass all the time, but nobody deserves this."

"You were right, I was an ass. If I hadn't been I wouldn't have ended up being enslaved. I wouldn't have ended up broken. I thought I was broken before, but you're not as low as you can go until some bastard makes you clean your best friend's shoes with your tongue." House made a sound that might have been supposed to be a laugh but cut Wilson's heart to pieces.

In the heavy silence House stripped off the rolltop sweater and dropped it at Wilson's feet. "It's been a long day. I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Wilson."

"Goodnight, House," Wilson managed to say.

He heard House make his slow way to his bedroom, and then shut the door softly behind him.

Wilson touched his cheek where House had stitched it. The stitches were small and neat. The work of an expert Doctor. Wilson wouldn't have any scars.

Or none where they showed.

Three Years Earlier

He woke up the next morning to a thumping headache and the loud chatter of the television. He'd fallen asleep on the couch sometime during the evening. He grabbed his Vicodin off the table and downed a couple - that should take care of the headache. With a groan he levered himself to his feet, using the couch for support. His cane was hanging up halfway across the room and he slowly made his way over to it.

The empty Scotch bottle was on the coffee table, as was the remains of a pizza - he must have ordered one for dinner although he couldn't remember doing it. He left them where they were and went over to his answering machine. The light was blinking furiously.

The first couple of calls were Wilson - demanding that he get his ass back to the hospital. He erased them and then listened to the last. It was Cuddy.

"House, I had to suspend you. Too many people saw what you did. The Board is meeting tonight to decide whether you should be dismissed. House... I'm going to try and stall them but it's not looking good. Ever since Vogler, and then Tritter, they've been looking for an excuse to get rid of you. The medical board has requested a hearing as well. The police have been here. It's a mess, House. You need to come in and face the music. Wear a suit. Don't come in drunk, or hung-over. Now, House. In my office."

He erased that message as well and threw the machine against the wall. To fuck with the lot of them. He didn't regret what he'd done. Damned if he was going to crawl back to the hospital and beg for his job.

He took another Vicodin and headed for the shower. Once he'd cleaned up he'd be able to think a lot better and decide what to do.

"House! House!" Wilson banged on the door. House hadn't shown at the hospital. He wasn't answering his phone. Wilson's mind supplied images of House lying on the floor in a pool of his own vomit only a few months ago. Maybe it had been an accidental overdose, maybe it had been something worse - Wilson had never been sure.

There was still no answer so he fished in his pocket for House's spare key and unlocked the door.

He glanced around quickly but there were no bodies on the floor. Just some empty bottles on the coffee table and the remains of a pizza. House's answering machine was lying on the floor. He quickly went through the rest of the apartment but there was no sign of House. Coming back to the living room he looked around. House's motorcycle helmet was missing from its normal spot and when he tried to think what else was missing he realised that House's guitar - the one he'd had since he was a teen - had been taken off the wall.

He looked down at the coffee table and saw something in the mess he hadn't seen before. A check. When he picked it up he could see it was made out to him. It was in the amount of $10,000 - which was what he'd had to put up to bail House out of jail. He turned the check over and on the back was written one word. Thanks.

A chill went down his spine. There was something final about that message. House didn't repay money - not unless he was forced to and he rarely said 'thanks' to anyone.

He rang Cuddy and brought her up to speed and then he contemplated his next move. Go out and look for House? Or stay here and see if he came home? His mind was made up when he realised that he couldn't just sit here and do nothing while who-knows-what was going out with House. He scrawled a quick note of his own and took off. He'd find House in whatever Godforsaken bar he'd dragged himself to and make sure he got home. Then he'd talk some sense into him and they could plan a strategy that would keep House out of jail and in a job.

Seven days, and seven nights, of searching later and he had to concede failure.

House was gone.