Summary: A deadly and sadistic killer is on the loose and he's collecting Doctors. He has his deadly sights set on House, Wilson, Cameron, Foreman and Chase; he wants to add them all to his collection. Please read and review!

Authors note: Sorry this chapter has took longer to upload than the others, my muses were away on holiday. Thanks so much for all the reads and reviews, love reading each and every one of them :) Some swear words in this chapter and some violence, have moved the rating up to a T.

Chapter 5 will be up in two weeks, I am on holiday in sunny Italy and France :D

Disclaimer: I don't own House or any of its characters (wishes she owned Dr House)

Chapter 4

"House, do you have to put your feet up on his bed?"

"Why? Do you think he'll wake up? Maybe we should set off an alarm clock in his room tomorrow morning and see if he reaches out to switch it off. Sure-fire way to tell if he's faking or not."

House and Wilson were sitting in the room of a patient who'd been in a coma for two years and still hadn't woken up. They had been in there ever since Wilson found House hiding in there from Cuddy and the inevitable task of him having to do clinic duty.

Wilson also knew that House was in there for another reason though. The events that took place yesterday morning had troubled him. From Chase being kidnapped to the lunatic who took him leaving an excerpt from the Rudyard Kipling poem 'The Houses', ironically addressed to House.

House didn't have a clue why the kidnapper had addressed the note to him, nor did he know what the significance was. If it was some disgruntled patient who he'd offended from the past or present who was just trying to fuck with him, then it would be one hell of a long list to compile. He'd told the same thing to the police yesterday when they'd took a statement from him.

Another thought also niggled at House, if it was someone with a personal grudge against House, why take Chase and not himself? What did Chase have to do with any of this? All these questions annoyed House to no end because he didn't have the answers. The puzzle wasn't coming together at all and he felt like he'd lost a dozen pieces.

"So, do they have any clue as to who it might be? Did the kidnapper leave any clues at the crime scene?" asked Wilson. He was getting increasingly worried for Chase. He knew House was too but was trying not to show it. House was dealing with it the way he dealt with all things: Keep your feelings inside and deal with them on your own. Don't involve anyone else with your personal emotions.

"Well Sherlock," House began, again trying to deflect his worry with humour, "They have squat. No fingerprints were found at Chase's home. No witnesses saw or heard anything out of the ordinary and the note the psycho left was typed and printed from Chase's computer so it couldn't be traced. Forensics are looking for hair and fibre but that will take a while, I doubt they'll find anything anyway. Whoever took Chase is covering their tracks well."

House's deep blue, hypnotizing eyes became cloudy as he sat deep in thought. They transformed back to their usual piercing sapphire when Wilson interrupted his thoughts.

"Have Chase's family been notified?"

"Yeah but with his parents deceased there were only a few that he still speaks to every now and then. The police are going to keep them updated."

There was a knock on the door of the patient's room, cutting House and Wilson's conversation short.

"If it's Cuddy, I'm not here," said House, his fear of clinic duty making itself known.

"Right, hold on I'll just get those invisibility pills you've been prescribed. Good substitute for the Vicodin mind you," Wilson exclaimed sarcastically.

The door opened and Cameron entered, a troubled look on her face.

"You do know that the guy's in a coma. You hardly need his permission to enter now do you?" House remarked.

Cameron gave him a stern look. "I thought I'd find you here. I'm here because Forman hasn't shown in for work yet and it's nearly lunch time."

House and Wilson exchanged glances. Wilson looked worried and House felt exactly the same, hiding his feelings and trying not to jump to conclusions.

"I've tried calling him but he's not picking up. Should I tell Cuddy to send someone over to his place?" Cameron looked worried; she was thinking the exact same thing as House and Wilson. Had he been taken just like Chase?

"No, I'll go and check on the place myself," House said.

"Are you sure that's a good idea? Why not just let Cuddy send someone? Or better yet, let's just call the cops," Wilson suggested.

"Look, I'll be there in ten minutes if I go on my motorcycle. That's much faster than some fat security guard who will probably make a stop at the donut store on his way. Plus if we call the cops and it turns out to be nothing, which it easily could be, then they're going to be pissed at us for wasting their time. I'll be back in half an hour."

"Wait, what do I tell Cuddy if she asks where you are?" Cameron shouted after House who was already making his way out the door.

"Don't tell her anything," House replied as he made his way down the corridor and towards the parking lot.

XXX

House arrived at Foreman's apartment building eleven minutes later. He parked his motorcycle up and took the elevator to Foreman's floor. He had looked at Foreman's file often enough to know where he lived and which apartment number he lived in. It was a good job too seeing as this was the first time he'd ever been to Foreman's place.

House limped down the corridor, popping another Vicodin on his way and stopped outside Foreman's door. House knocked and after getting no response, knocked again.

"Foreman? You in there? Come on, open the door. I know you don't like me very much but I made the effort to come all the way down here. I even took the stairs and everything," House lied.

House tried the door handle and to his surprise, the door swung slowly inward. He felt a twinge of fear in the pit of his stomach. Why was the door unlocked? If Foreman was indeed inside still asleep then he surely would have locked it the night before. He also would've locked it if he was out. House pushed the door the rest of the way open with the end of his cane. The light from the hallway spilled in to the apartment, illuminating a few feet infront of him. House could see that the blinds in the living room were pulled down and the lights were off. So either Foreman hadn't been awake yet or... House didn't want to think about the other possibility.

House stepped into the apartment and switched the lights on. Everything looked in place; nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just by looking at his living room, House could tell that Foreman was a bit of a neat freak. There was no clutter or mess anywhere in the room, no empty pizza boxes or Chinese food takeout menus scattered about the place. It kind of fitted though. Foreman was always thorough and well organized at work so why shouldn't his home be the same?

House made his way down a small hallway and entered the first room on his left. It was Foreman's bedroom and at first glance there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary here either. Everything was neat and tidy except for the bed which appeared to have been slept in, which means Foreman must have been here. But if he was here and had stepped out somewhere, why wasn't the bed made? Foreman seemed like the type of guy who wouldn't leave his bed unmade when he got up. And that's when House noticed the syringe lying next to the bed on the floor and a white slip of paper on the nightstand.

"Shit," House muttered moving towards the bed, his dread increasing with every step.

He kneeled down on his bad leg (so he could prop himself up on his good one) and with his sleeve covering his hand; he picked up and inspected the syringe. There was a small residue of liquid left in the syringe which House guessed was probably a sedative. There was also a small drop of blood on the needle which House hoped wasn't, but probably was, Foreman's blood.

Using his cane to get himself to his feet he looked at the piece of paper on the nightstand and he could see that it had his name printed on it, again in big bold capital letters. He didn't want to pick it up and read it. He just wanted to leave it where it was untouched, almost as if touching it would be playing into this freak's hands and putting himself in the front seat of this sick little game the guy was playing. He thought that whoever this person was, it was probably a male. He physically took down Chase and even though Chase was no heavyweight, he knew it would take some strength. He doubted a woman would be able to do that and wouldn't use that method.

House didn't want to read it but he had to, his curiosity outweighed his fear. He reached out to take the note and found that his hands were shaking. He willed them to stop and unfolded the slip of paper, remembering to use his sleeve again. It said what he suspected it would say. In neatly printed words was the second verse of the Rudyard Kipling poem 'The Houses':

For my house and thy house no help shall we find
Save thy house and my house - kin cleaving to kind;
If my house be taken, thine tumbleth anon.
If thy house be forfeit, mine followeth soon.

House noticed that his heart was beating faster and his breaths were coming out quicker. He felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. First Chase and now Foreman. He put the paper back where he'd found it, placing it down rapidly as if it were a wild animal. He told himself to stay calm as he was on the verge of panicking, and when you let panic take over, you were no use to anybody. He quickly calmed himself and retrieved his cell phone from his pocket. He waited a few seconds until his breathing returned to normal and called the police.


The black man is different to the blond one. When he awakes from the sedative and finds himself strapped down to a hospital bed and turns his head to the left seeing his colleague in the same predicament as him, he remains as stone faced as he can. The black man doesn't fool his tormentor though. He can remain as passive as he can manage but his eyes don't lie. Those deep brown pools are brimming with fear and he knows that it's just a matter of time before he will bring that fear out of the black man, making him scream all the while he's doing it.
The man looks at his two possessions. He looks at the blond one who has passed out from the pain that has been inflicted on him. What a beautiful sight to behold. His hair is matted to his forehead with sweat and blood. Blood has dried in many places on his face including his chin, his nose and his left cheek. Fresh blood trickles from the three inch gash on his forehead. That wound made him scream the loudest. It's like looking at a work of art; he looks so peaceful lying there but his eyes move rapidly behind his lids. It's as if he's in a deep slumber and can't escape the nightmares that plague him, too scared to stay asleep but too terrified to wake up.

With a sadistic grin and a hint of glee in his eyes, he turns toward his newest addition. This one isn't struggling like the blond one and he is trying not to panic. He knows that struggling is pointless and it hasn't done his colleague any good so it won't work for him. He is scared though and he will scream. The man walks over to the black man's bed and takes the tape off his mouth in one swift motion. He expects the black man to plead and beg but he instead stays silent and meets his eyes with an angry and fearful stare. This pleases him. He likes the defiant ones; it makes them so much more fun to break.

He retrieves his instruments of fun that he used on the blonde one and stops the tray beside his prisoner's bed. He picks up a pair of surgical scissors, the light reflecting off them as he holds them up for the black man to see.

He first holds the scissors near the black man's right eye which gets a flinch out of his victim but still no words. He then taps the scissors on the black one's chin and then holds them to his throat, enjoying immensely fucking with the man's mind. He then decides to go for the left earlobe and begins cutting through it with excitement. The black man starts to moan and as the scissors cut off more of the lobe a muffled scream escapes through his clenched teeth. His captor is having fun and starts snipping faster and harder, a chuckle sounding in the back of his throat. Blood is spurting from the incision and the scissors make a squelching sound when cutting through the flesh. When he is finished, the black man is sweating and breathing heavily. He's happy with this reaction but not happy enough; he wants to hear him scream.

He kneels down and retrieves the steel pipe that is underneath the bed. The black man's eyes go wide at the sight of it and he scrunches up his eyes, awaiting the inevitable. But he only makes that muffled screaming sound again when his legs are being pounded repeatedly with the pipe. He doesn't even scream when a few of his bones break.

The man holding the pipe stops, breathing heavily and eyes filled with excitement. This one is tough, his soul is really strong. That's good, that's very good. But he will break and he will scream.

This is going to be fun, he thinks, reaching for the scalpel...