House didn't sleep that night. He lay awake, eyes open and looking into an endless hell of pain. Between the kneeling, the running around the garden and the hard fucking by the five men his body was wracked with agony. His leg was aflame. The two Vicodins Wilson had given him when he returned barely touched it. He almost welcomed the pain, it took his mind away from dwelling on what had happened to him, last night and ever since he had become a slave.

Sometimes he felt like he was still himself - still Greg House, asshole genius doctor. Sometimes like tonight, he felt like he really was nothing more than a slave, not even human. Tritter had shown him that the second was the reality. He'd crawled, he'd eaten food from a bowl on the ground, and shared water with a dog. He'd opened wide, mouth and ass, for five men he would have called morons in his past life. And he'd thanked them, he'd thanked them for what they had done to him. A human being wouldn't have allowed that to happen to himself.

His tears stained the pillow on the narrow bed and he shivered and trembled his way through the night.

"House, why aren't you up?"

Wilson was staring at him with concern. House had gotten up earlier than he had every day since he'd started work at the hospital, He had to clean the apartment so that any inspection by the SAC would find it spotless - full time work at the hospital was no excuse for a slave to let his standards slip.

He stared back, finally croaking out a response. "Sick." His throat was raw and inflamed from the fucking the men had given it.

Wilson came over and felt his forehead. "No temperature."

House just looked away. Wilson could believe him or not. He couldn't move anyway, let alone walk.

"House, I know things at the hospital aren't what you'd like. But you can't stay here."

"You can chain me up, I can't go in."

"No. Come on, get up and have a shower, you'll feel better."

"I can't. Please, Wilson. Please. Chain me. Leave me here."

"House. Is something wrong? Is this to do with whatever happened to you last night? Please talk to me, tell me." Wilson came forward and sat on the side of the bed. House shrank away from him. He needed Wilson to leave. The longer he stayed the more suspicious he would get. House couldn't hide this level of pain for long. He gathered up what little energy he had for an angry outburst, hoping desperately that Wilson would buy it.

"For fuck's sake! There's nothing's wrong. I'm just sick and my fucking leg hurts. Even slaves can get sick. When I was at Rent-a-Slave I had to work, no matter how sick I was. I thought it would be different with you. I guess I can drag myself in if that's what you want, Master ."

Wilson flushed, as he always did when House reminded him of his status. House knew how much he hated 'owning' him. "Of course you don't have to work if you're too sick. But if I leave you here I have to chain you to the bed. I don't want to do that, House. "

"Just do it. Please."

"If the SAC comes..."

"They'll find a chained slave." They couldn't hurt him worse than he was already hurt, House thought. "Please, Wilson. Please." He turned his head to one side, where Wilson's hand was resting on the bed. He gently touched it with his lips. A gesture of supplication he'd been taught as a slave. Then he closed his eyes and waited.

Wilson talked some more but House couldn't hear him over the pain. Then he felt his wrist being lifted and a cuff placed over it. A tug on the wrist and he was chained to the bed by his right wrist. The chain was pulled so that there was little slack - couldn't have a slave choking himself with the chain. House opened his eyes again to see Wilson standing over him, his face filled with grief.

"What about the bathroom... " Wilson said, waving vaguely at the door.

"Leave a bottle. And some chow, and a bowl of water by the side of the bed. Don't want you to be accused of neglect." House laughed hollowly.

"Is this to do with where you went last night? You were gone for hours." When House had been dumped by Tritter on the street he'd taken over an hour to drag himself back to Wilson's apartment. Wilson had been on him as soon as he walked in the door but House had refused to answer his questions and had gone straight to bed - his clothes hiding the evidence of abuse his body bore.

"Wilson, leave it. You can't do anything. You can't change what has to be. Just go to work and just... just don't ask."

After setting up water and food Wilson gave him another double dose of Vicodin. House accepted the pills gratefully and turned his head away from his friends questioning eyes.

Finally Wilson left. House had nothing to do but lie on the bed like a trapped animal. He stared at the ceiling and held himself still and waited for the painkillers to kick in.

Wilson was looking at some files but not really reading any of them. He was so angry at House's situation. He couldn't stop thinking about him, and about how both their lives were going to be for the next five years. He was afraid.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. The three former fellows were standing in the doorway. Their faces held various expressions of worry. He sighed internally. House again, more problems.

"What's up?" he asked casually, trying to look like he'd actually been working.

"Do you know where House is?" Chase asked, his Australian accent broader than normal. "We need a consult with him. This kid is getting worse."

"He didn't come in; he wasn't feeling well."

"So he can stay at your place when you're not there?" Cameron asked. "Then why are you bringing him here every day when he's being..." Chase grabbed her arm and shook his head at her.

"Do you think I bring House in so people can treat him like crap all day because I enjoy seeing that? Do you think I don't know what the manual labour does to his leg? That I don't know how much of a hell his life is?" Wilson asked, his voice rising. "Do you think I like this? For your information he can't just 'stay at home'. I have to chain him to the bed for the day. For one year the SAC can just barge into my home whenever they want. They inspect us to make sure that House is being treated like a miserable, piece of shit, slave. They've been twice already since I brought him home. If they come today God knows what they will do to him. If they came and found that he hadn't been restrained they'd take him away again."

He ran a hand through his hair, aware that his voice had risen until he had been almost shouting at them. They all looked alarmed at his outburst.

"Cameron didn't mean to criticize you, Wilson. We know you're doing the best you can for him. We really do need to speak to him though. All these cases that Cuddy had us take on so House would have something to work on... well, we don't have time to wait for him to come back in." Foreman shot a glance at the other two that Wilson couldn't interpret.

Wilson had an idea - he was worried about how House had looked when he left him. He could get the fellows to go check on him. He himself was tied up at the hospital all day.

"Look, I'm sorry to dump on you like that. None of this is your fault," he said to them, getting himself back under control. "Here are the keys to my apartment. The key to his chains is on the living room table. I couldn't leave it with him in case the SAC came. Can you go and get him something to eat? I was going to go home for lunch but I have a patient coming in. Just try and treat him as normally as possible."

Foreman took the keys with a nod but Cameron shook her head. "I don't want to see him like that - and he wouldn't want me to. I'll stay with the patient."

Wilson watched them go with a sigh. He hoped House would forgive him for sending them but he needed some allies in this. It was too much for him to carry by himself. Foreman and Chase would have their back - he was sure of that.

They paused at the door to Wilson's apartment, reluctant to go any further. They looked at each other uneasily until Foreman sighed.

"Come on, we just have to treat him like the bastard he always was. And he can treat us like crap same as usual." Foreman tried to sound casual, but they both knew that things were different now.

They let themselves in and went to the guest bedroom. House seemed to be asleep. One hand was raised by his head and they could see a chain connecting his wrist to the corner of the bed. In the corner of the room was a steel cage - one which looked far too small for a man of House's size. There were bars on the bedroom windows and the place was as stark and bare as a prison cell. Foreman felt a momentary flare of anger at Wilson leaving House like this, but then remembered that he had no choice. He recalled what Wilson had said about the visits by the SAC. No doubt they'd forced Wilson to keep House in such a bare, depressing room.

He entered the room and went over to the bed. He shook House's arm gently and after a few seconds House's eyes snapped open and he sat up abruptly, his breathing accelerated. He moved awkwardly, finding himself brought up short by the chain around his wrist. There was pure fear in his eyes.

Foreman was shaken by his reaction, and shared a glance with Chase. If there was one thing about the old House, he had never been scared of anything - let alone his employees.

Suddenly House seemed to come back to himself, his gaze focusing on Foreman.

"Morons!" he said, but it was strained. Foreman thought he was trying too hard to be normal.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. We just need a consult." He stepped back from the bed, giving House room.

"Black man and a wombat breaking into my place and waking me up - yeah, I can't see how I could possibly find that scary."

Foreman stamped down his automatic anger at House. He's trying to put on a brave face , he reminded himself, and he's the one chained to a fucking bed.

He put the key to House's chains by his bed. "Here's the key. Get yourself ready and come eat. We brought lunch." Chase seemed to be about to protest but Foreman shook his head slightly. The least they could do was give House the dignity of getting himself up and ready in private. He didn't need them gawking at him.

Once they had left the room House unlocked the chains, shaking his arm out where it had become numb. He was grateful that they had left him alone, and even more so when he stood up on shaky legs. His body still felt split apart. He had some Vicodin hidden in the bathroom and he took an extra on top of his normal dose. He splashed some water on his face, and brushed his teeth and felt a little more human - but not ready to socialise with his former fellows. What the hell had Wilson been playing at, sending them here?

"We got Chinese, can you grab some plates?" Chase said, already seated at the table with Foreman.

House glanced at the clock - it was three in the afternoon. Foreman and Chase were obviously making an effort not to emphasize House's current status by pretending that it was a working lunch, like they had often had around the diagnostic conference table in the old days.

"Yeah, as if you hadn't already eaten at the hospital - it's three o'clock. Morons! Did Wilson tell you to come and have a little tea party with me?" House nevertheless grabbed the plates and some forks. Slamming them down on the table he sat down himself and pulled the folder of scans towards him.

While he shoveled the food into his mouth with one hand he rifled through the scans with the other. Then he started shooting questions at them, forgetting his pain for a little while as they went through the DDX. By the time he was finished with lunch the fellows had a new diagnosis. House was sure this was the correct one - a common measles virus that the patient couldn't fight off, transmitted due to the unprotected immune system of his biological mother.

Foreman and Chase both shook their heads. They hadn't seen the answer, and House, who'd been through hell in the last two years and spent the morning chained to a bed had made his diagnosis without ever seeing the patient.

They helped House clean up - apparently everything had to be immaculate in the apartment in case of a sudden inspection by the SAC - and then reluctantly chained him to his bed again.

"Go away, and stop looking at me like I'm some helpless puppy," House said as they lingered. "I'm sure your patient is in worse shape than I am. Put the key back where you found it and lock the front door behind you. I'll see you tomorrow at the hospital. Have a good case ready so I don't have to spend all day mopping the fucking floors."

Once they were gone House relaxed back onto the bed. He was still sore, but now he felt less like a wretched slave, and more like Gregory House - world famous diagnostician. They had taken a lot of things from him, almost everything he had, but they hadn't taken his gift. They couldn't take that.

Wilson watched out for Chase and Foreman to return and called them into his office as soon as he saw them.

"How was he?"

"Diagnosed the patient," Foreman said. "We're running tests now but I wouldn't bet against him. Sometimes you just know when he's right."

"But how did he seem? He was in a lot of pain when I left this morning."

Foreman shrugged. "I'd say he was still in a lot of pain. He ate some lunch though and he seemed a bit more relaxed when we left."

"I guess it's been hard for him to adjust to being back here like this," Chase said with a shrug. "Can't be easy for him."

Wilson looked at him sharply. "Have you heard something? How is he being treated by the staff?"

"A lot of people weren't here three years ago To them he's just another slave. So they do what people normally do with slaves - ignore them, or put them to work. Some people who were here don't care, and a few feel sorry for him. But, you know House - he pissed off a lot of people when he worked here. Some of them have been hassling him. Calling him names, walking over the floor he's just cleaned, stupid crap like that."

"Nothing worse than that?" Wilson couldn't do much about petty harassment, and it wouldn't look good for him to try, but if it escalated he could intervene as House's 'owner'. Legally he didn't have to put up with people abusing him. It would be better if he didn't have to take legal action. But he suspected that House had met up with someone from the hospital last night who had beaten him where the marks didn't show. Why he'd met up with them was a different matter.

Foreman and Chase glanced at each other and then Foreman shook his head. "No, not that I know about anyway."

"You'll look out for him?"

Chase looked insulted. "Of course. He might be a bastard but he's our bastard, you know?"

"We'll keep an eye out Wilson, but we can't be trailing him around the hospital 24/7," Foreman added. "Hopefully he'll tell you if he runs into something he can't handle."

Yeah, and pigs fly, Wilson muttered to himself when they had gone. House was a stubborn ass before he disappeared, and he was just as stubborn now. Luckily Wilson had plans to try and help House when he wouldn't help himself.

He pulled out his phone and started up the app he had downloaded that morning. House's collar had a GPS chip embedded in it, for obvious reasons. Wilson had been informed that he could track it with an app but he'd never bothered downloading it and initialising it. This morning while he was checking on House his phone had synced with the collar. Now when he pulled it up he could see House's location on the map. Currently he was right where he was supposed to be - in Wilson's apartment. If he tried to pull a disappearing trick again Wilson would be tracking him. He'd know exactly where he was going.

The second part of his plan would be implemented tomorrow.

The next day House was back at work, dressed in his slave coveralls and mopping the floor in the ICU when he heard the familiar clack of high heels walking over the ceramic floor. She always walked that way - as if she was on a mission that couldn't wait. He bowed his head tiredly. He did not want to deal with Cuddy at the moment.

"House, I need to talk with you. Can you come to my office?"

"Working," he answered shortly. He pushed the mop around the already clean floor in demonstration.

"Please, House. We'll get lunch. I've already bought you a reuben, no pickles! I'm sure the floor can wait. It looks spotless anyway."

He didn't like Cuddy seeing him like this. Wearing these ridiculous bright orange coveralls with the word 'slave' emblazoned on the back. Scrubbing the floors of the hospital while his friends and former colleagues continued on with their professional work. He couldn't stop feeling shame at what had happened to him. He wasn't even considered a person anymore, he was property - Wilson's property, and he had the tag on his collar to prove it.

Although Cuddy had phrased her request like a question he couldn't refuse her - and he didn't want to be put in the position of being ordered to go with her. He could at least keep up the pretence of having some free will.

"Okay," he said. "I'll come. Just don't tell Wilson I'm standing him up for you. He might get jealous."

With his head bowed he followed her to her office, walking just behind her. All the time he was conscious of the stares of the people they passed in the corridors. He heard a pair of nurses giggling as he was led past them. It wasn't doing Cuddy any good to be seen like this with him. There'd been rumours about them back when he was was a doctor here. Heaven's knows what the hospital's gossip mill was making of his reappearance as a slave.

Once inside her office he sat uninvited on one of the chairs in front of her desk. She cleared a space on her always crowded desk and produced the reuben for him and a salad for herself. Once she started eating he took a bite of the reuben. It was good - very good. His life was still difficult, but at least the food had improved since Wilson bought him. He'd dreamed of these reubens after two years of eating nothing but slave chow for every meal.

After they'd been eating for a couple of minutes she sighed and put down her fork. She'd barely been playing with her food and he waited for her to say whatever was weighing on her mind. He had known the food would come at a price.

"House, this is difficult so I'm going to get straight to the point. You need to tell me the truth."

"No, I am not a woman," he said, his mouth full of sandwich.

She barely cracked a smile at his joke. "House, I need to know if you're being abused." There was a small quiver in her voice.

He stared back at her. "I'm a slave. I can't be abused. I can be used, which is legally fine." He talked flatly, his face wiped of expression, his voice a monotone.

"Bullshit, House!" She stood up, leaning one balled up fist on some papers on her desk. "This is not the Slave Administration Centre. Don't talk like that. You don't believe that and neither do I. If someone is hurting you tell me who it is and I'll stop it."

He threw the remains of his reuben down on the desk and struggled to his feet. "Why does it matter, Cuddy? I'm just like that table there - a piece of property. It doesn't matter what happens to me. You need to get that through that delusional head of yours. You can't do anything to change what I am."

"House, please don't do this. Don't withdraw like this. You need to talk to me. I can help you." She grabbed his arm as he tried to walk away, pulling him slightly off balance.

"Why do you care, Cuddy? You kicked me out of here. What do you care about a fucking slave?" She had everything. What did one slave matter to a woman like her?

"Are you serious, House?" She yelled at him. "Why do I care? I care because I have known you for more than twenty years. I care because you're my friend not a fucking slave. You don't deserve this, House. You don't deserve for people to treat you like a piece of furniture or a... or a... sextoy, House." She stepped close to him, one hand caressing his cheek gently, tears in her eyes.

"Don't..." he whispered. "Don't touch me like that."

"It's my fault. All of this. You left because I said that the Board were going to fire you. If I'd backed you up more you wouldn't be..."

She was crying now and he had to swallow a lump in his own throat.

He brushed a hand across her face, wiping away a tear.

"Cuddy, none of this is your fault. What I did that day, the way that I lost it... that was all me. Running away was all me. There was nothing you could have done. Everything I did after leaving here, none of that was your fault. I did this, Cuddy. I screwed up."

He stepped back, away from her. He couldn't stay here.

"I have to get back to work."

He turned his back and walked out of her office, leaving a sad and confused Dean of Medicine behind him.

After House had gone Cuddy picked up the phone and reported her failure to Wilson. It wasn't as if they had expected anything else but conspiring to help House was an old habit for them and Cuddy had been glad to try. Wilson had shared his concern that someone from the hospital had lured House out at night - to do God knows what to him. Wilson had reported that he'd been barely able to move the next day and she had seen for herself how gingerly he was moving even today.

Well, she wasn't going to tolerate that sort of thing happening in her hospital. As Dean of the hospital she'd had to deal with slaves before of course. The slave cells in the lobby had been a distasteful but necessary device to cut down on the mistreatment of slaves belonging to staff and visitors. The slaves who actually worked in the hospital - mostly in the janitorial department - were usually kept busy enough that the staff didn't have time to make use of them. She was sure it still happened occasionally but not enough for her to officially take notice of it.

What had apparently happened with House was in a different category altogether. She didn't know who it was, or what threat they had used with House to get him to comply, but she was going to make every effort to find out. And if House wouldn't tell her she'd have to try other means.

She made a note to take Brenda Pavin to lunch. She and House had battled over House's clinic duty many times in the old days but she also knew that Brenda had her ear to the ground when it came to hospital gossip. If there was anything to know, she'd know it. And if she didn't she'd find it out.

She picked up House's discarded reuben and threw what remained of it in the trash. She should have waited until he was finished before asking him about the abuse. She was sure that Wilson was doing his best but House was still too thin, his features drawn and haggard. He looked like he'd aged twenty years in the time he'd been missing.