A/N This is my first posted fan fiction, so constructive criticism is heartily welcomed. (Flames are not.) This story was inspired by and takes place after DIY Sheep's The Contract and TrooperCam's Lifeline, so if you haven't read those first, please do! Many thanks to DIY Sheep for her beta, and for TrooperCam's encouragement, too.

Standard disclaimer: I don't own House or any of the rest of it and I'm not making a dime off this, so please don't sue. I'm just taking them out for a frolic.

Exigencies

prologue

Foreman slammed the file down on the table with all his pent-up frustration.

"This girl is as good as dead if we don't figure this out in 24 hours."

Chase sat hunched in his chair, exhaustion etching his features. "We're no closer to a diagnosis now than we were when she was admitted. Evans has been calling every diagnostician he knows and we've run test after test."

"Where is he, anyway?"

"Evans and Devi Rajghatta are with the patient. Running some more useless tests, I imagine. Devi's already ruled out any cardiac issues."

"I hate this," Foreman growled. He glanced at the white board. "None of those symptoms add up."

"Not for us." Chase sat back with a sigh, the tip of his pen stuck in his mouth as he also eyed the mute white board. "You know, if House were here, he'd have it figured out by now."

Foreman nodded, only half listening, then suddenly looked up and met Chase's gaze. "Yeah. You're right. We need House."

Chase's jaw slowly unhinged. "What? You're dreaming."

Foreman's direct stare said otherwise.

"Foreman, it isn't possible. After what he's been through --"

"All we need is his brain and his mouth, Chase. This girl is going to die. House can take a look at the symptoms, the history and the test results and give us his opinion. We can do the rest."

"But Dr. Evans --"

"-- doesn't ever need to know. No one needs to know but us." Foreman started gathering up the case files. "We take this stuff --" He stopped abruptly, and the confident gleam in his eye faded. "Shit. We don't even know where House lives now."

Chase tapped the pen against his upper lip, thinking. "Wilson does."

"Sure, like he'll tell us. How many times have we asked him about House? How he's doing, if we can see him? He says House doesn't want to see anybody."

"So we don't ask him." A sly smile curved Chase's lips. "We follow him instead."

Foreman's face brightened with a slow grin. "C'mon, let's get all this stuff together. We'll take my car."

---------

It was after 6 p.m. when James Wilson locked up his office and trudged out to the parking garage.

Chase and Foreman were already in Foreman's SUV, staking out the Wilson's Volvo.

"How do we know he'll be going to House?"

Chase looked at his colleague. "Wilson's his only friend. You know he checks on him every day. Hell, he probably lives there."

Watching Wilson climb into his car, Foreman sighed. "He hasn't been the same since all this. Starting with their big argument. Then ..." He avoided saying Cameron's name. "Then when House went to prison, it was like Wilson was just ..."

"A zombie," Chase furnished. "Once the truth came out he seemed to come alive again."

Foreman snorted. "Yeah, I guess. But he closed his practice to take care of House after the trial." Three months ago Wilson had returned to his practice at Princeton-Plainsborough, looking better but still strained, and politely but firmly close-mouthed about House himself. "He won't tell us much of anything. Just says House is recuperating. That he's better."

Chase buckled his seat belt as Foreman pulled out of the parking lot, keeping a distance from the Volvo. "I never could believe House did that to Cameron." His words were tentative, hesitant to bring up the painful memory of their lost colleague. "I didn't understand why he wouldn't defend himself in court, why he let himself be convicted and sent to prison."

"We know now."

"Yeah." After a moment, he added, "As much of an ass as House was, though, Evans just can't fill his shoes."

"Evans is competent. Just not inspired. Or inspiring." Foreman chuckled and shook his head. "Never thought of House as 'inspiring' before. Usually I just wanted to punch him."

"Me too. But he didn't deserve the misery Thompson put him through. No one deserved that."

The two physicians fell silent for a few minutes, each pursuing his own thoughts as they waited out a red light. Wilson's Volvo idled two cars in front of them.

After a while, Foreman murmured, "I heard a rumor ..."

Chase kept his eyes on the traffic. "Yeah. So did I."

Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, Foreman sighed. "Can't help but think about it sometimes. We barely know what went on, but I've got a good imagination. House was going through hell. Couldn't tell anyone. Couldn't get help or hide or run away. Something like that would make anyone lose it. A person can only take so much."

Neither man had ventured to discuss this topic before.

Chase spoke quietly. "So you think it's true? House ... lost his mind?"

"All I know is, a man lives through what he did, PTSD is gonna be the least of his problems."

Chase was surprised at how much the thought hurt him. "So ... we do all this, follow Wilson to find House, and he's just ... vacant? Crazy?" He blew out a breath through clenched teeth. "I don't want to see House like that."

"Me either. But he must be okay now. Wilson came back to work, started his practice again. He wouldn't have done that if House still needed him."

"Unless he found a home for him. Or a caregiver."

"We've got to try, Chase, or Emily's dead by this time tomorrow."

---------------------

They followed Wilson to a small cluster of townhouses in a nice neighborhood, taking note of which door he went to as the oncologist let himself in with a key.

Foreman parked his vehicle a couple of houses down. "Sure hope this isn't Wilson's girlfriend's place."

"There must be a name on a mailbox or something."

"If it's House, there won't be. He's basically hiding from the press."

Gathering the case files, Chase shook his head. "Wilson's gonna be pissed."

"Don't care," Foreman stated flatly as he got out. "All I want to do is save our patient's life." He moved purposefully toward the door Wilson had used, and Chase scudded along in his wake, dreading what they might find.

At the door, Foreman looked at his colleague for a second, then raised his fist to knock.

---------------

The expression on Wilson's face when he opened the door was priceless.

"Dr. Wilson? We need to talk to House," Foreman said firmly.

Wilson gaped at them, then threw a quick look over his shoulder before stepping outside and shutting the door behind him.

"What the hell are you two doing here? How did you know --"

"We followed you from the hospital." Foreman interrupted, unapologetic. "We have a patient who's going to die, and we can't diagnose her without House."

Wilson waved a hand. "Evans can handle it. He's good. Go back to your office."

Foreman scowled. "He's stumped, and so are we. She'll be lucky if she has another day to live."

Chase took a step forward. "Dr. Wilson, the patient is 8 years old."

That silenced the protests on the tip of Wilson's tongue for a moment. He stared at them, then his thick eyebrows lowered over narrowed eyes. In a bare whisper, he said, "Listen up. House is not the same as he was. Keep your voices quiet. So help me, if you upset him, I'm throwing you out on your asses."

They followed him into the foyer where he motioned them to stay. Wilson went down a short hall and turned to his left. They could hear him speaking softly over the drone of a TV.

"House? It's Foreman and Chase. They ... they followed me here. Got a patient ­-- a child -- they can't diagnose, and they want your help."

"They can handle it." It was indeed House's voice, but hoarse and very quiet.

"Foreman said the kid has maybe a day to live."

Chase strained to hear House's response, but if there was one, it was too soft to carry. He heard the sound of the television being turned off, and then Wilson was standing in the hall, beckoning them. His expression was thunderous with unspoken warnings.

The doctors walked into a comfortably sized living room, its hardwood floors and sparse furnishings giving it an open feel. Chase's eyes were drawn to the couch in the middle of the room. Reclined against a stack of pillows, a blanket thrown over him, was ... House?

He blinked, unaware he was staring. It was House -- the piercing blue eyes were what Chase recognized. House's face had always been narrow and gaunt, but now he looked fragile, like someone who was terminally ill. His face carried scars, and lines of pain cut deeper than before.

Foreman recovered his poise first. "Dr. House. It's ... good to see you again. We wouldn't bother you if it wasn't urgent."

It was obvious that House was uncomfortable having his fellows see him as he'd become, thin and weakened. He could hardly meet their eyes, so instead he looked at Wilson.

"Wilson, sit down." Like he was calling off a growling dog.

The sharp eyes took a quick sweep of the other two. "What are you guys doing here? Why are you still in New Jersey?"

Foreman was finding it hard to look at his former boss without staring. He hoped his face didn't show the shocked dismay he felt. "I ... we're still at Princeton-Plainsborough. We're attendings under Dr. Evans."

House's expression gave nothing away. "I haven't practiced medicine for three years. What do you two want from me?"

"Dr. House, we've done everything we could think of. We can't figure out why she's dying and Evans is stumped too. We're here to try to save her life. Just look at her file, tell us what we've missed." Foreman slowly extended the folder toward House.

He eyed it speculatively, then took his arm out from under the blanket and reached for it.

The fingers of his hand were crooked and scarred, and when the cuff of his shirtsleeve fell back, it revealed thick bands of scar tissue circling his wrist.

Rope burns, Chase thought, unable to keep from staring. Scars on top of scars, where House had been tied by the wrists and fought his bindings, over and over through the years. Despite all the things that he'd heard, it was seeing those marks that suddenly made it all real. Chase quickly lowered himself onto a nearby chair, clearing his throat to relieve the tightness there.

He felt House's eyes flick over him, and he made sure his expression was composed before looking up again.

Foreman's own face was schooled to show nothing, but Wilson was eyeing them closely, determined that they not upset his convalescing friend.

"House, you don't have to do this." He got a sharp glance.

"I can still read a file." House angled the pages toward the light, turning slightly. The collar of his shirt gapped a little, enough to show a jagged white line across his prominent adam's apple.

Foreman glanced away. There was the explanation for the hoarseness: damage to the vocal cords. When House had taken the file Foreman had seen the crooked fingers, knew they'd been broken more than once and poorly reset. The scars on his wrist had been obvious, too.

Wilson's stare was a sharp reminder that the names on that infamous contract had included those of House's diagnostic team, and Allison Cameron had been killed to make a point that Thompson was serious. House had submitted to unremitting torture to keep everyone else on that list safe.

House had survived it, if only because Thompson's revenge had been cut short by a bullet. But survive he had, and what was left to him was a catastrophically damaged body. How could there not be damage to his psyche?

Careful to keep his thoughts off his face, Foreman traded an enigmatic look with Chase before moving to sit on an ottoman.

There was silence except for House turning pages as he scanned lab results, history, treatment notes and medicines prescribed.

After long minutes he closed the file, his gaze far away. "Did you X-ray her liver?" he rasped.

Chase looked at him. "She was X-rayed after the crash, chest and abdomen, to check for trauma. Her liver was slightly enlarged."

House nodded. "The car crash hid her real symptoms. Bruising, nosebleeds, bone pain ... do a blood test for Gaucher disease, then start her on enzyme replacement therapy."

His eyes alight with hope, Foreman reached for the file in House's hands.

The sudden movement made House jerk back instinctively, and everyone in the room froze.

House cleared his throat. Eyes downcast, he held out the file. Wilson took it and handed it to Foreman, the look on his face telling them clearly it was time to leave.

Moving much more carefully, Foreman stood up, as did Chase.

"Dr. House ... thank you. Sorry we barged in --"

Embarrassed by his reaction, House just gestured them to go.

----------------

The two fellows were silent for the first part of the ride back. After 20 minutes, Foreman finally said, "I never thought of Gaucher."

"He could be wrong. But the injuries from the car accident would mask most of the symptoms."

Neither man wanted to be the first to broach the topic of House's condition. It was Chase who finally muttered, "Well, he did seem as sane as ever. Whatever that means for him."

Foreman sighed. "I respect the man for what he's been through. More for why he went through it. Just surviving says everything. He's got nothing he needs to prove."

-----------------------

Emily's blood test for Gaucher was positive, and she began responding to the enzyme therapy. Explaining the diagnosis to Evans and Cuddy the following morning was not as easy. Neither Chase or Foreman wanted to take credit for the breakthrough, so they had to admit they'd gone to House.

Cuddy had looked up quickly at that, as Evans had nodded to himself. "Of course. Gaucher. It was right in front of us the whole time." He raised his eyes to meet Cuddy's gaze. "This hospital lost a tremendous asset when it lost Dr. House."

She smiled. "Dr. Evans, not even House always got it right. This time he had the answer. It's certainly no reflection on you or your department."

---------------------

"It must have been good, seeing and working with Dr. House again," Devi said to them over drinks. The bar and grill was called The Recovery Room, catering as it did to the hospital crowd from PPTH. Dr. Devyani Rajghatta was a cardiologist from the West Coast, new to her fellowship in the Princeton-Plainsborough diagnostics department.

Chase looked at Foreman and fiddled with his glass.

Finally Foreman sighed. "No. It was ... awkward. He's changed. A lot."

"He's ill," Chase said, a little defensively.

"Ill? The man's a train wreck." At Chase's scowl, Foreman raised a hand to forestall any protest. "I know, it's hardly his fault. And I assume he's recovering from corrective surgeries. I saw a bruised place on the back of his hand, like he'd had a recent IV port there. Explains why he looked so ... unwell." Foreman shook his head. "I have to admit, I didn't see that diagnosis coming, though."

"He was right. As usual." Chase took a swallow of his beer.

"Yeah. He's still a diagnostic genius. But Chase, you were there too. Do you think he'll ever recover enough to practice again?"

"No way to know. If he does, I'd work for him again."

Rajghatta looked at Foreman, questioning.

Off her look, he shrugged. "Of course I would. But I don't see it happening. If there was ever an argument for PTSD, it's House. Who could be totally sane after going through what he did?"

Devi studied her two colleagues. Their mood was subdued, and in the looks they exchanged was a hint of sadness and guilt.

"So ... you saw him, right? Talked to him? He's getting better?"

Foreman's dark eyes were focused on the contents of his glass. Chase glanced at her, then quickly away.

"Guys? What's got you so spooked?"

Chase cleared his throat. "He's ... recovering."

"He's never gonna recover," Foreman growled, taking a gulp of his scotch.

Chase started to protest, but Foreman just looked at him. "You saw the same thing I did. The marks on his face. His hands. Those were just what we could see. That's not something you just get over."

Chase winced. "He looked like a bloody POW. D'ja see the scars on his wrists?" At Devi's uncomprehending frown, Chase took a slug of his own drink. "Rope burns. Lacerations from chains and handcuffs, too. Just ... layered on top of each other."

Foreman's voice was soft. "We knew he was tortured."

"One thing to hear about it. Another to see the blatant evidence." After a moment he added, "House would never accept sympathy, back when we worked for him. He'd rather be made fun of or hated than have people feel sorry for him. No wonder he's a regular hermit these days."