A/N: There is some medical stuff in here. I have done research on the internet (as House says, who needs med school when you've got wi-fi?), but if there are any inaccuracies I apologise. I gave up on aspiring to be a doctor when I was fifteen, and most of my medical knowledge comes from "House, M.D." So if I'm way off about something, sorry, my fault.

7.17—"Down by the Side of the Road"

"Hey," Wilson said into his cell phone. "Are you gonna be home soon?"

"Yeah, I'm just leaving," House replied, slipping into his leather jacket with the hand that wasn't holding his phone. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes, and you'd better be naked."

Wilson grinned, glad that House couldn't see him. "All right, see you when you get home, then. I love you."

House rolled his eyes at the phone while trying to hide a smile as he slipped it into his pocket. He grabbed his backpack and helmet and exited his office. He'd almost made it to the front door when Cuddy accosted him.

"Dr. House, there you are."

House groaned. "And if it weren't for this cane, here I wouldn't be. I'm off the clock, Cuddy. It's late, I'm exhausted, and Wilson's waiting naked for me at home, where I'm going now."

"I didn't need to know that," Cuddy said. She tried to hand him a blue file, but he sidestepped her.

"House–"

"–It's nine-thirty. I just solved a case. And now I'm going home."

"House, this guy's dying," Cuddy said, stepping in front of him and trying to get him to take the file. "Please, just run a differential with your team and they can keep an eye on him overnight. I wouldn't even ask, but he might not make it till morning and you have the chance to save his life."

"Not interested."

"House." Cuddy used her boss voice. She stared intently at him until he gave her a look of pure loathing and took the file.

Slowly heading back to the elevator, he pulled his phone out of his pocket to send Wilson a text.

'Change of plans. Had a case forced on me. Don't wait up.'

Then he sighed and slipped the phone back into his pocket, moodily opening the file.

His team, looking no more excited at the prospect of staying late than he was, was already in the patient's room.

"She got to you too, huh?" Thirteen said, taking the man's blood.

"Quit doing that and give me a differential," House ordered. "The sooner we have a diagnosis, the sooner we all get home to our loved ones." He shrugged at Foreman. "For those of us who have loved ones, that is. So tell me, what causes vomiting blood, dizziness, and–"

The heart rate monitor started beeping erratically.

House glanced up from the file. "–apparently, heart attack," he finished as Chase called for a crash cart and the fellows went to work.

"Clear!" Thirteen shouted and shocked him. The machine flatlined. "Clear!"

House glanced at the patient, then looked at his watch.

"Clear!"

The flatline continued.

Everyone in the room looked at each other. Thirteen sighed. "Time of death, 21:47."

"Oh well," House said, shrugging. "They'll figure it out at the autopsy. And as much as I was looking forward to spending the night surrounded by your loving faces...wait, what am I saying?" He shook his head and left the room.

[]

House loved the motorcycle. He loved going fast. He knew it was a poor substitute for running because pressing on pedals was hardly exerting his body, but he could go much faster on a motorcycle than his legs could carry him. As fast as a car, but without the confinement. The feel of the wind rushing past him, the knowledge of how close he was to the road, the elements, the air, the world.

Wilson hated the thing, but not House. And he wasn't too bad about speeding. It was the middle of the night; the two lane highway was deserted. 10 mph over wasn't too bad. Besides, he'd told Wilson not to wait up for him back when he thought he'd be getting a case, and if he hurried he might catch him before he went to bed.

He saw the stalled car. There were no streetlights on this part of the road and the car itself didn't have lights on, but House's headlight was enough for him to see the car with enough time to avoid crashing into it. Just not enough time to slow down. The rate he was going gave him about a millisecond to choose between two options: swerve to the left or swerve to the right. Swerving to the left might cause a problem with oncoming traffic—not that there was any at this time of night—but it was enough of a reason to make his choice for him. He swerved to the right.

House's intention was to just ride the shoulder around the stalled car, but the fact that this particular road's shoulder was made up of a large bump where the asphalt became gravel, combined with House's speed and sharp turn, was not conducive to such a plan.

House liked the motorcycle because it was almost like flying. He'd never planned on actually flying. This—soaring through the air as his body slowly detached from his bike—this was not a good feeling. He knew landing would not be a good feeling either. But the worst thing, worse than the flying, worse than the landing, was right after he crashed to the ground when his bike landed with him. On top of him. Specifically, on top of his leg. His right leg.

[]

Wilson woke up and upon discovering House didn't have an arm clamped around him, automatically reached back. He didn't feel anything, causing him to turn over, open his eyes, and discover the empty bed. He shook his head. It was morning, much too early for House to be up already, especially considering the late night he'd had, and even if he'd had insomnia, that problem usually got fixed by the time the sun rose.

"Greg?" Wilson called, getting up. He wasn't in the bathroom or the kitchen/living room. Wilson deduced he must have spent the whole night at the hospital. He checked his phone, but the only message from House was the one he'd received last night, just after nine-thirty, about staying late. Wilson sighed and got ready, figuring he'd just see his best friend at the hospital.

[]

House wasn't sure if it was the pain or the noise that woke him. He was lying on a hard surface, and his leg hurt—not just where it usually did, but all over—his right shoulder was killing him, and his chest hurt, too. He opened his eyes as he started to remember what happened. He'd been in an accident. His helmet was still on—it had probably saved his life, he realised, and he was lying in a grassy, muddy ditch with his bad leg trapped beneath his bike. House took his helmet off so he could see better, and looked around. He could hear the highway, but couldn't see it, which meant that no one on the highway could see him. That explained why he was still out here. It was morning, and House knew it had been around ten at night when he'd gotten into the accident.

And he also realised, with a jolt of terror, that no one knew he was here. After the patient died, House hadn't bothered re-texting Wilson to tell him he was coming home after all. Wilson would assume he was still at the hospital until he got there and realised he wasn't. House looked at his watch—about 5:30. It would be at least two hours before anyone even noticed he was missing.

House reached into his pocket, hoping he hadn't lost his phone during the accident, but it wasn't there. Wincing, he propped himself up on an elbow to see if it was within reach. There—just a couple feet away, but...House reached for it, but being pinned by the bike gave him limited movement, and his hand didn't even come close. He strained, he attempted to pull his leg free of the motorcycle, but that just caused him to gasp out in pain, and he passed out again.

[]

Wilson checked House's office first, but he wasn't there. He doubted the diagnostician would be working in the clinic this early, but it was possible he was napping somewhere. Not Wilson's office; he had stopped by there first to drop off his briefcase and grab his lab coat, but he could be somewhere else.

He wasn't in the clinic or the coma ward or the morgue. Wilson even checked the roof for good measure, but he wasn't there either. There was no sign of him in the cafeteria, but Wilson ran into Cuddy there.

"Hey," Wilson greeted, walking beside her. "Do you know where House is?"

Cuddy checked her watch. "Isn't it a bit early for him? He only comes to work on time when he's riding with you."

"What are you talking about? He was here all night—you gave him another case. You remember that."

"I gave him a case, but the patient had a heart attack and died fifteen minutes later," she explained. "After that I assume House went home."

Wilson shook his head. "He was gone when I got up this morning. And his parking space was empty..." he cut himself off in mid-sentence, mumbled an "Excuse me," to Cuddy, and left the cafeteria. He went outside to check House's parking space at the hospital, but it, too, was deserted.

"He's not here," spoke Cuddy, who'd followed Wilson outside without him realising it. She shrugged. "Maybe he's grabbing breakfast or something."

"Maybe..." Wilson said, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

[-]

The dulcet tones of "Dancing Queen" jerked House awake again. Moaning, he desperately tried to reach for his phone again, but his leg erupted in pain and his fingers were still nearly a foot away.

"Wilson," he said to the deaf piece of plastic. "Wilson, I can't reach my phone! I've been in an accident. I need help..."

The phone did not hear him, and without him pressing a button, neither would anyone on the other side. House turned his head, looking hopelessly at the grassy hill that led to the highway, where he could hear the cars roar past.

"Help!" House shouted hoarsely. "I need some help!"

He knew it was just as useless as trying to talk to Wilson without picking up his phone. If there were no cars going by and someone happened to be standing outside on the highway, then maybe he could be heard, but over the sounds of traffic there wasn't a chance.

House leaned back against the ground, wincing. He was in pain, and he was scared. If no one could see him and no one could hear him...how was anyone ever going to find him?

[-]

"He's not answering," Wilson told Cuddy as they went back inside.

"Wilson, I'm sure he's fine," Cuddy said, turning back to her office. "Maybe he didn't hear his phone, or he left it in his backpack or something. He probably went out for an early breakfast and now he's hanging out at home until when he decides it's an appropriate time to come to work. Speaking of which, it's something we've both got to do. I'll talk to you later, Wilson."

She went into her office and, trying his home number, Wilson reluctantly headed to his.

"Hello, you've reached James Wilson and Greg House–"

"–Could you get any more boring?"

"House, be quiet. Leave a message and we'll get back to you–"

"–He'll get back to you–"

"–as soon as we can."

"House, it's me," Wilson said into the phone, trying not to sound overly worried. "Please pick up if you're home, you didn't answer your cell...well, call me, all right? I...I'm sure I'll see you soon. Okay, bye."

He put his phone in his pocket and tried to shake off the feeling that something wasn't right.

[]

House had gone into doctor-mode on himself. His right leg was hopelessly trapped beneath the nearly half-ton motorcycle (not to mention hurting like a bitch), but his left leg seemed reasonably okay. Though he'd been conked out through the night, he was conscious now, and clearly alive, so even if there was internal bleeding, it couldn't be too severe. No major arteries nicked, he could breathe fine so he hadn't punctured a lung, though upon inspection he might have a couple of broken ribs. His arms were fine except for bruising and some superficial scrapes. The worst pain was in his right leg—his normal pain in addition to the pain of having a motorcycle pinning it to the ground—and his right shoulder, which he must have landed on. He didn't think his scapula was broken, but it hurt like hell. He tried to lean on his left side to put less pressure on it.

He knew it wouldn't be too long before he became dehydrated, and though his heartbeat seemed normal considering the circumstances, there could easily be damage to his liver or kidneys that he was unaware of.

According to his watch, he'd been here about twelve hours. The fact that he was still alive meant he hadn't bled out, which meant his injuries couldn't be too severe, especially considering that he was on blood thinners. Assuming he was found, he would probably survive. However, he had no idea how anyone could find him if no one could see or hear him and he couldn't reach his phone.

Since the bike had fallen with him, there wasn't any evidence on the side of the road, nothing to catch anyone's interest and inspire them to call the authorities to check it out. But maybe if there were...House couldn't move from where the bike pinned him, but he could move his arms and he could prop himself on his left elbow. He reached for his helmet, which he'd taken off upon waking up, and looked up the hill to the highway. If he could somehow attract attention...

House summoned up all his strength and threw the helmet toward the highway, hoping, almost praying, that someone would see it and check it out.

The helmet landed near the top of the hill, where it promptly rolled back down and settled in the muddy ditch a few metres away.

House groaned in frustration and considered calling for help again, but he could barely hear himself think over the thundering of the traffic; there was no way someone in the interior of a car would be able to hear him.

He knew the chances of being found as he was were very slim. Wilson probably noticed he was gone by now—he would probably worry his brains out (and not without reason, House conceded)—but he wouldn't be able to file a missing persons report until House had been missing for twenty-four hours. And even once that happened, how soon would they look here for him—a ditch on the side of the road? Yes, he might be found eventually, but that might not be until after he died of dehydration or kidney failure—or from the pain plaguing what felt like every inch of his leg. If he was going to get out of this alive, he'd have to do it himself.

If House could only reach his phone, he could call an ambulance. He couldn't reach his phone, but...his cane! If he could reach his phone with his cane, he could pull it within reach of his hands.

Feeling like an idiot for not thinking of this sooner, House leaned himself up, wincing with the pain in his shoulder and abdomen, and reached for his cane, where he kept it clipped to the side of his bike. Except it wasn't there. There was the clip, House could feel the clip, but no cane. House raised his head from the cold ground and looked around. There, he spotted...not his cane, but half his cane, on the ground, even further out of reach than his cell phone.

House leaned back on the ground. He was exhausted and thirsty and in pain, and he could see no way to remedy any of those problems lying in a muddy ditch. If he couldn't move with the bike on top of him, he'd have to find a way to get the bike off of him. He couldn't sit completely up because of the way the bike held his leg, so he used his abdominal muscles to lift himself as upright as he could and tried to lift the motorcycle.

It was hopeless.

Not only did the thing weigh upwards of five hundred pounds, his position was painful and impossible to maintain, and he also knew the medical dangers of suddenly having the pressure on his leg released, especially alone in an uncontrolled setting. Of course, if he got out from under this thing, there was a much smaller chance of him dying than if he stayed trapped.

After several more failed attempts to raise the motorcycle up and slide himself out, House collapsed to the ground again, panting. He couldn't lift it. Maybe if he tried again he could wriggle out—if not all the way, then maybe at least enough to come within reaching distance of his phone.

House planted his palms in the ground and attempted to push himself out, but the pain that followed was so excruciating that House gasped, eyes streaming, and passed out again.

[]

"Wilson, there you are," Foreman said. "Do you have any idea where House is? He won't answer his phone."

Wilson's stomach flipped. "He hasn't come in yet? None of you have been able to contact him?"

Foreman shook his head, and Wilson reached into his pocket distractedly.

"When's the last time you've seen him?" he asked as he dialled House's number for the fifth time that morning.

"Last night, about nine forty-five. Cuddy gave us a new patient but he died before we even got the differential. So we went home."

"He never came home," Wilson said, biting his lip as House's cell went to voicemail again. "I never heard him come in, and when I woke up he was wasn't there. I assumed he just spent the night here, but when Cuddy said your patient died...at first I thought maybe he did come home and left early and I just didn't hear him, but now..." He put his phone away and looked at Foreman, the distress in his eyes evident. "Foreman, what if something's happened to him?"

Foreman studied him. "You mean like an accident, or...?"

"I don't know," Wilson said, his voice small. "If Cuddy asks, tell her I'm taking the rest of the day."

"Where are you going?" Foreman asked as Wilson turned around.

"First I'm going to call other hospitals in the area and see if anyone's been brought in with House's description. Then I'll check his old apartment even though I know he doesn't have a lease there anymore, I'll double-check the condo...I don't know, Foreman," he said, shrugging. "He's not answering his phone. I don't know where he could be. I don't know. But please, you'll tell me if you hear from him?"

"Of course," Foreman said, nodding. "And when you find him, let me know too, okay?"

Wilson nodded and went back to his office.

[]

It was cold. And it was starting to get darker.

House woke up and immediately wished he hadn't. The pain in his leg—his normal pain plus five other pains he couldn't even identify at the moment because it hurt so unbearably much...

He turned onto his side so he wouldn't choke on the vomit he knew was coming. He tasted blood. That was never good. Moaning in pain because he was too weak to scream, House rested his head against the grass and mud in the ground. He just wanted it to be over. He didn't even care anymore if he was found or not. Wilson had found a way to make it through Amber's death, he could make it through House's...House didn't want to die, but he knew no one would find him anytime soon, and he didn't want this anymore...the pain was just...too much...

For the first time since the accident, House wished he hadn't worn the helmet because then he might have died on impact.

[]

"Lisa, I'm scared," Wilson said.

She could tell that from looking at him but decided not to comment. His hair was a mess and he was in his shirtsleeves, his tie loosened. Cuddy sighed. "He hasn't called at all? No one's seen him or spoken to him?"

"No," Wilson said, shaking his head, near tears. "I talked to his old landlord, our neighbours that were home, I've called ten different hospitals and Nolan and Mayfield...Lisa, I'm seriously worried. What if..." he stepped closer to her and lowered his voice. "...what if he's doing drugs again? What if something finally got to him and he couldn't take it anymore and he went out to score some painkillers?"

"You really think he would do that?" she asked, getting up.

"No...I mean...God, I hope not, but...I haven't spoken to him in a day, no one's seen him..."

"I understand, you're worried," Cuddy said, her tone soothing. "Here," she said, scribbling a phone number onto a post-it. "This is Lucas's number. If anyone can find House, he can. I'm going to head out now; give me a call when you hear something, all right?"

Wilson nodded, looking at the number. Cuddy put a sympathetic hand on his arm.

"It's all right," she said. "House will be fine. It's entirely possible he just went to a bar after work and lost his phone. Call Lucas, then go home and relax. He'll turn up."

Lost for words, Wilson simply nodded again. He followed Cuddy out of her office and sat down on a plastic chair in the clinic to dial Lucas's number.

Cuddy gave a strained smile to her staff as she left the hospital. It wasn't like House to disappear like this. Avoid all contact within the hospital, sure, but he never just took off without telling anyone where he was going. And he wouldn't avoid calls from Cuddy, his team, and Wilson. She hoped Wilson would remember to call her once House had been found. She still cared about him and was worried.

However, as she started to drive home she let her thoughts drift away from House and toward Rachel. Tonight was a bath night, and she'd probably need to clip her nails again...what if Rachel ever disappeared? No, she couldn't think about that. It was completely different. Rachel was hardly more than a baby, House was a full grown man. Rachel was at home, safe, and fine, and House would be fine...what was that?

Cuddy usually left the hospital late enough that she wasn't caught in the afternoon traffic, but the babysitter couldn't stay as late today and Cuddy thought she deserved an early evening anyway. The cars on this section of the highway were moving slowly enough that she noticed the rounded stick of wood lying on the shoulder of the road.

It couldn't be, she thought, shaking her head. She'd been thinking about House, so she thought...but as she neared the unidentified object everyone else just zoomed past, her doubt got the better of her and she pulled over. Yes, she thought, stepping up to it. It was the top half of a cane, the bottom part had been snapped off somehow...but of course, that didn't necessarily mean...

Cuddy looked around, stepping from the gravel road shoulder onto the grass, where she peered down into the ditch and gasped. Pulling her phone out of her purse, she speed-dialled the hospital to call for an ambulance.

As soon as they confirmed her location she hurried down into the ditch where she could see the head of her diagnostic department sprawled on the ground beneath his motorcycle. To her relief, she could see his chest rising and falling as he breathed, and she knelt down beside him.

"House," she whispered, taking his head in her hands.

He moaned at her voice and touch, and she repeated his name. Slowly he opened his eyes, and she wiped a tear from hers.

"House," she said again, smiling. "I'm here, it's going to be okay."

"Wilson," House said, looking at her. "Where's Wilson...?" and his eyes closed again as Cuddy heard the blare of sirens.