TITLE: A Certain Dawn
AUTHOR: shutterbug_12
PAIRING: House/Wilson
RATING: R
SPOILERS: 3.01, 3.02
SUMMARY: With one hand, Wilson could count the number of times House had failed and, every time, House had failed fighting. Surrender was as familiar to House as it was to Alexander the Great, but as Wilson felt the strained pull of House's muscles beneath his hand, he wondered if the fight was worse than the failure.
DISCLAIMER: Sadly, I can claim no ownership to these characters.
NOTES: Many thanks to my beta reader starlingthefool. I welcome concrit and feedback.

Uphill Climb (1/14)
Pocketed Temptation (2/14)
An Unexpected Phone Call (3/14)
Technical Knockout (4/14)
Peace Offering (5/14)
Lunch Meeting (6/14)
Scavenger Hunt (7/14)
Resistance (8/14)
Espionage (9/14)
The Powerhouse (10/14)
Against the Wall (11/14)



On Three

As House moved through the corridors, trailing behind Cameron, his body cruised on autopilot. His fingers slid across his bottom lip, still kiss-swollen and wet with lingering moisture. Wet with Wilson, who’d tasted like a rich, caramel latte and a Granny Smith apple—familiar flavors, but experienced through an unexpected and startlingly new delivery device. One corner of House’s mouth curved to form a half-grin. Leave it to Wilson to blanket the unusual with comforting staples of the mundane.

When he entered the patient’s room, he nearly collided with Foreman, who stepped between him and Cameron. “You’re a little late,” Foreman snapped, crossing his arms.

Feeling suddenly self-aware, House dropped his hand from his lips. “Morning quickie. Couldn’t pass it up,” he said, waggling his eyebrows and adding a low, playful growl.

Foreman rolled his eyes and joined Chase, who failed to hide his amusement, at the head of the patient’s bed. Near the window, Cameron eyed House suspiciously. Eager to derail Cameron’s train of thought, House approached the patient, pulling the photograph from his back pocket. He stopped at the foot of the bed and tossed the photograph on to the patient’s lap.

“Your vacation spot?” House asked.

The patient, a young woman in her twenties, scratched at her arms, both limbs bearing raw patches of skin. A pair of brown eyes stared at him, confused.

House waited for her response, his fingers lazily returning to his lips. Wilson’s eyes, he’d noticed, held amber slivers, flecks of bronze that hugged his pupils, glowing like tiny, burning embers that had made House’s heart ignite in his chest.

House. When he’d heard that urgent, breathy waver in Wilson’s voice, the flames had dipped below his navel.

“House!”

He shook his head, blinking, and met Foreman’s skeptical glower. No amber, no bronze there.

Foreman gestured to the patient, and continued. “Is this medically relevant?”

“Ah, come on! Slide shows could be fun!” House grasped the plastic footboard and leaned forward, directing his attention to the patient. “That picture, did you take it while you were on vacation?”

“Yeah, in Germany.” Hesitation was evident in her voice. “I stayed with a family there for a couple weeks. This is their farm.”

House nodded. “Did you notice any animals acting a little strange while you were there?”

“I thought it was weird, but—”

“Any rye growing on this farm?”

“Yeah, lots of it.”

“And I’m guessing Old MacDietrich kept some for himself, fed his livestock, his family...” House let his voice trail off, milking the moment for dramatic effect. “And you.”

The patient nodded.

Cameron interjected, stepping closer to the bed. “Ergot poisoning?”

“Makes sense,” Chase said. “The alkaloids in the fungus constrict the blood vessels, which caused the gangrene in her foot. Ergotism can cause seizures, hallucinations, burning sensations, even loss of peripheral feeling altogether. And it affects livestock.”

House nodded. “Start the treatment.” He turned and lumbered toward the door, his hand dropping to ease a rising wave of pain in his thigh. Behind him, he heard feet shuffling and the rapid click-click of heels.

As he fled toward the elevators, Cameron coasted smoothly beside him, Foreman and Chase caught in her wake. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You seem distracted.” Her voice dripped with concern. “What was Wilson—”

“I’m fine, but our patient’s not going to be unless you treat her.” House lengthened his stride. Thirty feet away, the elevators loomed like a pair of cathedral doors, promising sanctuary and respite from the sudden inquisition.

Foreman scuttled into House’s peripheral vision. “And, all of a sudden, that takes three doctors?”

“Okay. Cameron, treat the patient. Chase, write up the patient discharge forms. And you, go home, get laid, and spare everyone your—”

Before House could deliver the punch line, his leg folded beneath him. His knee crashed against the floor; the jarring force drove the air from his lungs, killing an agonized cry in his throat. He fell forward, the sting in his palms barely registering as they slapped against the linoleum. Wheezing, he slid across the floor toward the wall, searching for stability. Sharp, fiery jolts coursed through his leg, up his spine, into his chest, his lungs. He rocked forward, his eyes squeezing shut and his hands clasping his thigh. His gasps receded when he managed to draw an unsteady half-breath, then a full breath. Two. Three. Lifting his head, he pressed his back against the wall, waiting for the burn to ease in his lungs. When he opened his eyes, he found three wide-eyed faces, concern painted over their features like loud, obnoxious graffiti.

“Why are you still here?” House asked, his voice raspy—an incidental reinforcement for his harsh tone.

Cameron stuttered, “We—you fell—we just wanted to make—”

“Go do your jobs.”

House made no effort to stand. He waited, watching them slowly turn and intermittently glance over their shoulders as they reluctantly retreated. When they disappeared from his sight, he steadied his left foot and pushed himself up the wall, sliding his back against the panels. He traced a path along the wall, his hand serving as a guide. His thigh protested each step, and he thought of the full bottle of Vicodin on the corner of his desk.

Standing before the elevators, his thumb punched the inlaid button harder than necessary, repeatedly jabbing at the arrow. His head dropped and his mouth sagged in a disgusted frown. Wilson had been right. He needed the pills, needed to dull the unrelenting, goddamn pain. He needed to stop pretending that he could force himself to recover, that he could overcome the ketamine’s failure and run, run, with the breeze on his face, chasing down the sun as if all of this was a nightmare that would break with the dawn.

When the elevator doors opened, he sighed and trudged inside, falling back into the corner.

He exited on the second floor, making a detour to Physiotherapy. Ducking past the flustered receptionist and a chain of personal therapy sessions, he stole into an equipment closet. He inhaled the smells of rubber and plastic, and pushed past shelves of exercise bands and balls, wobble boards and cuff weights. His hands found a worn, wooden curve and yanked it from its place near the wall, revealing the lackluster shaft of a C cane. He gripped the handle, staring at it for a moment before letting the rubber tip fall and bounce against the floor. He straightened his arm and felt the bunching of out-of-practice muscles. Closing his eyes, he sighed as he bent his knee and leaned his weight onto the cane, the tiny motion relieving the battery of knife-sharp stabs in his leg. Relieving the pain just enough to move from the closet, through the department, and into the corridor.

By the time he emerged from the elevator on the fourth floor, he’d maintained light footsteps, but had fallen back into the motion of his adopted, uneven stride. Inside his office, he fell into his desk chair, rolling the cane along his thighs. The orange vial rested on the corner of the desk, where Wilson had left it. For a few moments, he looked from the cane to the pills. His mind drifted to Wilson—‘the only fucking friend I have’—as he swiped the vial. With a fluid sweep, he popped the top, palmed a pill, and threw it to the back of his throat. As a bitter aftertaste settled over his tongue, he wished for the flavor of Granny Smith apples, entire orchards of them.

The residue still clung to his tongue when his telephone rang. Reading the glowing digital panel, House sighed heavily. He pressed the receiver to his ear, his head falling into his hand.

“Hi, Mom.” He sounded weary. She was bound to notice weary.

Predictably, his tone caused her to skip her usual pleasantries. “Greg, is everything all right? You sound tired.”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “I am.”

“Difficult week?”

He nodded, even though he knew she couldn’t see it. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t make it any easier on you.”

A small sigh preceded his reply. “No, it wasn’t—listen, Mom, I’m sorry I walked out. I was—”

“I understand, dear.” Her smile was apparent in her tone. She would have touched him, put a hand on his arm, if she had been standing next to him.

A few seconds of silence passed. House could hear water running, the clinks of glasses and dishes. He closed his eyes, pressing the palm of his hand into a socket. “Mom,” he started. “The pain’s back. Everything’s back.”

He heard her sigh heavily. “So you’re...”

His chest tightened, constricting his words. “Yeah, back on three feet again.”