I've decided to continue it! But there's no telling when my chapter output suddenly drops off of the face of the planet and then I never ever ever update it again. I'm also ending up to be sticking to canon. Can as 'The Contract' has it, and mostly to 'Exigencies.' Except this is wholly and completely from House's point of view, and he was present (sort of) during the catatonia except he doesn't remember it. Odd, huh?

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Wilson had to leave.

Of course, he'd promised he'd come back every day even though it was a 2 and a half hour drive from Princeton. Wilson said he'd get a hotel, that he didn't really care. He said he had to help House get everything sorted out anyways, with the legalities and all of it. Even if he didn't have House to help there was still the part he played in this whole mess. Wilson knew House needed a friend, and more than that.

But, Wilson still had to leave.

Everything seemed okay while Wilson was here. The horror of Thompson seemed somehow far off, as if Wilson was protecting him. He knew a middle-aged (40) year old Jimmy boy wonder oncologist could hardly protect him from the goons Thompson had hired, but he felt just a little bit safe. And frankly, he could run with that. He could run with just about anything for now.

They had a police guard, the Agent Matthews that had found him, stationed with him that night in the hospital. House actually wouldn't let anyone else be by him, because he was being so damn untrusting. But the impression he, and everyone else, got, was that after what he did, he got to be so damn whatever he wanted.

He hoped that would wear off, though. Frankly, he didn't see himself as that great of a man, as he believed contrary to what he had spouted that anyone would do the same in his position and he was a selfish bastard in the wrong place at the wrong time. He hoped that one day, years off, he could be that untouchable doctor again.

Though he really did know that that was never going to happen, not again, and he'd die a pitiful man in pain. At least he wouldn't die bloodied and bare.

House looked around the room slowly. He didn't think he'd be getting to sleep that easily tonight. His men could be around that doorframe, could be one of the nurses, hell one of the other inmates could bust his way in and rough him up. Not like that hadn't happened before, he doubted anyone would stop them. Matthews was only here because he had to be, not because he wanted to be. House could feel the ever present fear burbling up again like some unwanted beast. He did his best to appear not afraid, so that nobody would notice and they wouldn't do anything. They only did things when he was scared.

Maybe he should just sleep. He knew he could sleep on-command when his bones weren't broken, because he rarely ever had a real chance to. He'd just sleep it off and wake up in the morning, having never disturbed anyone.

……

He woke tied to the chair, bound but not gagged. His wrists, arms, legs, and ankles bound to a chair bolted to the middle of the floor in his 'cosy' solitary cell with thick gray chains. The lawyer, standing next to Boot Boy, held up a switchblade real close to House's voicebox.

"I heard you've been screaming." He said silkily. "The others tell me you've been screaming in your sleep. Screaming when we come in for our dues too. We can't have that, oh, no, that's alerting someone. That's against the contract, Greg." He looked at House, a 'put up your best defense' look. House knew he wouldn't be reprimanded for protesting right now. The sick lawyer loved to hear his pitiful whinging.

House seized his chance. "No, please, I'm sorry, I'll be good. I'll be quiet! I'll-"

But at that moment the switchblade ran down from his chin across his throat all the way to his collarbone, dragging slowly and chopping a thick, rough line. House tried to cry out but couldn't, because his voicebox had been mangled just like intended. All he managed to do was cause himself more pain.

"You won't be talking now, Greg, you won't be making any noise at all." The lawyer said with a glint in his eye and nasty smile playing across his features.

House was untied and unceremoniously pushed to the ground as the lawyer strode out, Boot Boy giving him a complementary kick on his way out. House bled out on to the concrete floor, thinking he might be bleeding to death right here in this cell. But he couldn't do that, Jimmy and Boss and Blackie and Wombat and Mum and Dad, they'd all die. He couldn't even remember who they were but he knew that none of them, even dad, should die. Nobody deserved to die but him, because he was scum, but only the good can run away from pain.

House grabbed his shirt and began to sloppily blot up the blood, trying to make as little noise and move as little as possible. As soon as he had gotten the shirt nestled up against his neck, he passed out.

……

House startled awake, only sign that he was doing so was eyes flying open in a panic. He had been trained to wake up completely silent and still, because someone might hurt him again if he didn't. He never thrashed during his nightmares nor give any sign he was having them.

House looked around for any sign of the ever present attackers before remembering; He was saved, if at least for the moment. It couldn't be permanent, he couldn't be sure, but it might have happened.

He looked at the time. 6:30. Wilson would be getting here in an hour and 45 minutes, right? That was enough time to be okay waiting. He'd be alone, but he'd be alright, right?

Damn. Matthews was sleeping. Someone could get him now again, come in and silently break his arm. Silently slit his throat to prevent him talking, or communicating what they'd done. oh, god, he'd never thought of that. They'd try to kill him now that he was able to do something back to them. They'd come in with the poison or the knife and they'd silently suck all his life out of him until there was nothing more.

House grabbed at the IV bag in a panic. Water. Why didn't they have him on any meds? He squished the bag; not viscous, meaning just water. Whatever meds were in there probably consisted of nutrients. Or dissolved aspirin, but not enough to kill him. That'd be visible.

House laid alone on the hospital bed trying to think around the fear. They'd imbued the fear of god in the form of Thompson in him. He was unconsciously convinced that overtime he saw a person they'd hurt him, and that everywhere he'd look would be that lawyer with an addition to the contract. That when people laid him in a bed they'd strap him and really kill him this time. They'd really inject him and stop his heart and lungs and heed feel their last beat, his last breath, and has he'd die he'd remember the lives he'd failed to save. Jimmy, Lisa, Eric, Robert, Mum, Dad. He'd failed them. They'd all meet Allison and then he'd have some explaining to do.

House looked at the clock. 6:45. Oh, come on, he wasn't going to make it that long. Somebody was going to come, they always did. He never knew what time, he never could keep track anyways. Just knew the squeaky cart was 8:00, 12:00, 5:00. That was it, it was always it. Always bringing (or not bringing, in his case,) The tasteless mushy slop that they fed everyone. He couldn't even eat it half the time because Boot Boy had kicked half his teeth out. He had to lick it, like a dog.

Boot Boy came storming into the cell, brandishing his spiky boots like a weapon, which they were. He always seemed to come alone, while the 12 other nameless goons came together in masses.

House was just beginning to eat his food having successfully crawled over to it with his broken leg. He looked up at Boot Boy, still eating. Boot Boy seemed to be watching him with great amusement. Right at House's third bite, he dumped the bowl everywhere on the dirty, dusty, bloody floor. The beige typical mush speed and flowed like an amoeba.

Boot boy kicked dust and blood onto the food and smeared it on to the tip of his shoe, and shoved it up to House's mouth.

"Eat it." He commanded. "Eat it like the dog, or rather, prisoner, that you are, 502." He said, his crooked smile thin, wide and leering.

House licked up the food while not looking up once, and he was grateful for every bite.

"Look at me." House tilted his head up slowly. Boot Boy's eyes were full of delight, an evil, sadistic delight. Boot Boy kicked him in the jaw, leaving it broken, and left him with the dirty, bloody pile of mush.

House came back to himself to find himself crying silently curled up in a ball. 'Pathetic', he thought to himself. 'Pathetic I should be crying. I'm not even allowed to cry, I'm just a dumb convict. Or rather, a dumb soon-to-be ex-convict. The fact remained that I got an innocent woman, Allison killed, and that I am worthless. Worthless convict druggies don't cry, they aren't allowed to show their dumb emotions.'

House sniffled and looked around, making sure he didn't disturb anyone. His pillow was wet, so he turned it over. 7:15. Oh good, Wilson should be here any second. Rather stupid that that should relieve him to the degree it did, but he didn't mind at least feeling a little safer.

All of a sudden a figure showed up in his field of vision and said "Hey!"

House jumped back about a mile, and threw his deformed arms up to protect himself. After a couple seconds he looked to see Wilson, standing there and looking shocked. His eyes were raised and his face was set in a position of sudden sympathy.

"Oh my goodness, House, sorry for startling you." Wilson said quietly. House's heart was still racing a bit from being startled. Wilson noticed House eyes. red rimmed from crying, and asked the obvious.

"Were you crying?"

House glowered at Wilson, attempting to send the signal that he never wanted to talk about it. Ever. Luckily Wilson saw fit to leave it be, as he had remembered just then that House had plenty to be crying over, but he suspected it would be brought up again.

"Hey, I'm going to only be able to stay here until 7:40, because I'm going to have to meet with your lawyer. Since I am still your proxy after all of this time, I have to take care of the legal stuff until you're out of here. Which they said would be in about a month." Wilson looked at House.

"Okay." House rasped out. House then looked at the ceiling. "Thanks." Wilson deserved it. He stood by House's side and agreed to be here every day, by the bed of a convict who was chained and bolted to the bed. By the bed of a man who killed a woman.

Wilson's eyebrows flew to the ceiling. "What for? You deserve this at least, House, completely. Anyone who suffers 5 years of unending torture to save their friend's life deserves have said friend sit by their bed and help them."

"So you don't actually want to be here?" Wilson's mouth popped open. "You're just here because of my neediness? That's Wilson for you, but then I don't deserve even this so..."

"You do deserve this! but I'm not here to thrive on your neediness. You're my friend, House, and I'd do anything for you. Anything at all." Wilson said pleadingly. "I love you House, I really do."

House looked suspiciously at Wilson. How did he know that Wilson felt this and didn't just say it to weaken him or something to that effect? He really wanted to believe Wilson, but everyone else in his life had failed him. Actually, since Wilson had before, everyone had failed him. He did want to trust Wilson, but he didn't think he could that much yet. He just knew Wilson wouldn't hurt him, physically.

"I love you too, Wilson." House said, looking at the ceiling and hoping for his and Wilson's sake that what they had just both said was true.

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You have to review, partly because I can't be depended upon to update…. No joke. I've all but abandoned my Harry Potter fics. :(