June 1st

Much later, he'll remember bits and pieces of the time before whatever happened—well, happened. They tend to come back at odd moments, those fragments: standing on the sidewalk while a cab pulls up; an impatient glance at his watch as he gets settled in with his backpack and cane; the sense of relief that he's done with consults for a week or two, so he and Gardener can enjoy the early June weather at the cottage next weekend; a bit of inconsequential chit-chat with the cabbie in basic Farsi. And then . . . nothing. There's a big blank space where memories should be.

But right now, whenever, whatever now is, there are flashes, something like consciousness, that come in odd, jolting pulses. It's as if he's at war with himself and everything around him, an endless battle for a return to normalcy, and no one wants him to win. He tries to hang onto those flashes but they elude him until at last he relents, forced to give in to the void.

When he rises out of the darkness once more, he hears familiar sounds-a steady beep and various clicks, soft, mechanized sighs. Hospital, he thinks in a groggy sort of way. The knowledge frightens him. The noises are a sign something bad has happened and he is in trouble, maybe big trouble. He struggles to find some information to tell him what's going on, but he can't open his eyes and now he's exhausted. Against his will, he slips back into the shadows.

After a long time—or it could be only moments, he can't be sure-he drifts up toward voices around and above him, and recognizes the ritual of taking vital stats, such as it is nowadays . . . but someone has their fingers on his wrist. A small part of him approves. There's an art to the interpretation of a physical pulse—smooth and steady, thready and weak, bounding, erratic . . . it's about more than just the numbers.

"Doctor House—if you're awake, move your hand if you understand me." He tries, and feels a thermal-weave cotton blanket under his fingertips. "Good—that's good. Just relax." The voice is low, a little rough, but quiet and calm in an unforced way that offers an odd reassurance. "You're doing okay. Pulse and BP are in normal ranges, sat's at 96."

This information should relax him; instead, he feels frustration. What the hell is going on? He tries to ask and his breath catches in his chest, makes him cough. A fiery rush of pain slams into his sternum and spreads to his right side, a solid eight on his personal pain scale. Panic makes him fight to escape in a primal reaction, but he's held down. The hands are gentle, but he can't move. He tries to open his eyes and manages with the left one, but the right is swollen or bruised shut. Light splinters into his vision and he winces.

"Trust me, you're in a safe place. You have some cracked ribs and a bruised sternum. If you move around right now you'll hurt like hell." The low voice is soothing, but he struggles against the sense of relief on offer.

"What . . . happened?" The words are like sharp gravel and broken glass in his throat. After a moment a cup rim presses gently against his bottom lip. It hurts; somehow he's gotten hit in the mouth. He's momentarily diverted by the thought that someone's beaten him up. Must have been a big bastard. But his attention is captured by ice chips as they melt on his tongue. After that it's a bit easier to swallow, at least.

"Your cab was t-boned outside JFK. You got bounced around the interior pretty hard, but we've dealt with the major difficulties." He feels a slight tug on his arm—an IV, and probably something being injected into the access port. "That's all you get for now. Rest is the best healer, Doctor House."

"Don't," he tries to say, but it's too late.

The next chunk of time is taken up with his attempts to come to full consciousness. Each try is unsuccessful; he ends up exhausted. The owner of the low, quiet voice is there most of the time when he surfaces. He gets what amount to bulletin updates: "Vitals are all in the normal range." "Slight problem with an irregular heartbeat, but it's settled down." "You're making progress. Let us do the heavy lifting a little longer."

During one period, after another small mouthful of ice chips, he manages to croak "Wils'n." He has no idea how much time has passed, but the news must have gone out by now. If Wilson knows, Gardener knows too. The fact that neither has appeared at his bedside makes him anxious, though he knows in an intellectual way that if he's in an ICU it's likely visitors haven't been allowed in yet. That tells him whatever's wrong is really wrong—and that scares him. He needs to know, dammit.

"Doctor Wilson is here. As soon as you're able to handle visitors he'll see you."

"Now." He forces the word out of his dry throat, and coughs. The pain isn't quite as bad this time around, but his anxiety rises anyway.

"When you're ready, Doctor House." The darkness takes over before he can fight back.

"Hey."

The sound pulls him out of a light doze. He knows that voice, and tries to open his good eye as he turns his head.

"Just lie still. It's me—Wilson."

He longs to say something like "no shit", but it's beyond him. Relief floods through his mind, a ridiculous reaction, but he can't help it.

"I'm glad to see you too." There's a smile in Wilson's words, and something else, some emotion that might be sadness, but isn't. Greg feels a frisson of real fear now. Something is terribly wrong and no one wants to tell him. "Dana's here, but they won't let her come in with me. It might be a little while before you see her." There is a pause. "I have to go. House . . . I'll be back."

The slide into darkness is familiar by now, but despite his anxiety he doesn't mind quite so much. Wilson is here to keep watch. Gardener won't be far behind.

When he wakes again, someone holds his hand. He knows that touch well—slender fingers, small palm.

"Greg." Dana's voice falls inside him like soft rain. All the terror he's stuffed down rises up, then subsides a bit. She is here, and that's all that matters. He frowns a little; so many questions and he can't ask them, he's not strong enough . . .

"Give it time, love." Her clasp tightens just a little. "I'll come whenever they let me. I've got a suite of rooms down the street."

She tells the truth; she always does. It occurs to him in a distant sort of way that the disruption to her work must be nearly total. He feels concern at this knowledge, but already his little store of energy is drained. If only he could see her . . . He drifts into sleep with the touch of her hand the last thing he knows.