Disclaimer: House, M.D. and all assorted characters belong to David Shore.

A/N: So AU, it's off all the charts. Set mid S2, post-Stacey. Everything I know about medicine/drugs I learned from Wikipedia, and you all know how reliable that is. More comments on my LJ (homepage link on my profile).

ECHOES OF A SONG HALF-SUNG

Princeton, New Jersey. November, 1997.

Two hundred yards. Just two hundred yards, and he'd be safe again – or as safe as he ever got, anyway. Hand off the package, complete his link in the chain, and be done.

"David?"

No. Dammit, Jamie, no. He turned, keeping the sudden panic off his face. But he couldn't find a smile, either. How did he find me? "What are you doing here?"

Deep brown eyes blinked in surprise, but there was happiness on that face too. Jamie kept walking in the direction David had been going, falling easily into step with him. "I was looking for you."

No way his younger brother had just stumbled across him, not now. Not without help. Help with enough strings to strangle Gulliver. Damn it, James!

"It's not safe here," David murmured, fiercely angry. His brother's eyes, so like his own, were flicking over the street in quick, practiced moves. Assessing. He's good, David realized with surprise. But then, why shouldn't he be? The three Wilson brothers, in any combination, could do anything when their minds were set to the task.

And they hadn't been the only ones to realize it.

"I know," James whispered back, and both brothers knew they weren't talking about the Princeton slums. "How far?"

They might still make it, they might. "Two hundred yards."

His brother's indrawn breath was near-silent. Only someone who'd grown up in the same house would hear the shock in it. Too far.

They could still make it; their clothes were unremarkable enough to blend into the sparse crowds of street-people if they had to. They could disappear, if the op went south. For now, they were safest continuing on, not drawing attention. Which would only work if they didn't look like they were hurrying.

"How's everyone?" David asked, keeping his voice pleasant, calm.

Jamie huffed a laugh. "Same old. Dad's sick of golfing, actually bent a few of his irons like boomerangs just to see how far they'd go when he threw them out onto the driving range. Mom's got a new recipe for gefilte fish she can't wait to try out on the cousins. Michael wants to know if you'll be home for Chanukah."

And what about you? David let a smirk and a questioning glance at the middle Wilson brother ask for him.

"I've finished my residency," Jamie admitted.

He's going to be a doctor. He'd be good at it. Of all three brothers, James was the gentlest – though he'd snarl, in his way, at anyone who came out and said it. "Then what are you doing in the Game?" David couldn't help but hiss.

His brother didn't even flinch. "We miss you," he said evenly. "We want you to come home."

"And you came to find me."

Jamie didn't bother answering; it wasn't a question.

"I can't," David sighed. Do I want to? There was a little piece of him that longed for the comfort of home, underneath the bigger part that was still caught up in the newness of intrigue. "You know why I can't." But I never wanted this life for you.

"I . . . can understand why you wouldn't want to," Jamie admitted, and there was the smallest hint of a mischievous twinkle in those brown eyes.

David's stomach twisted. I wasn't there. He hadn't been there, and his brother had come looking and gotten tangled in the Game. Couldn't blame the recruiters – David knew how good he himself was, and knew his brothers could match him easily if they wanted. All anyone had to do was dangle the bait. James and Michael would do anything, if someone could guarantee my safety. He knew it down to the bone; that was how the Game was played. Worst part was, James was enough like David to like it.

One hundred yards. Halfway there. The disc felt heavy in his pocket; but he knew that was just his mind, leaping with adrenaline.

"Listen to me, Jamie." He kept his voice quiet, but poured every ounce of soul he could gather into the words. This was important. "Go home. Be a doctor." While you still can. "Just – don't follow me. I'll come home when I'm ready." When I'm done here, when I can pull out without putting you and Michael, and Mom and Dad, in any more danger. "Please."

"Don't ask me to leave you behind, David," James whispered. "I can't -"

They heard it at the same time.

A motor, smooth and nearly soundless – too quiet for this neighborhood – was creeping up on them. David knew without looking that they'd been made, almost seventy-five yards from safety. We'll never make it.

"Here." David pressed the CD case into his brother's hand. Between one breath and the next it disappeared into James' coat pocket. "It's a cipher," he muttered, and the next word, the key, was only just loud enough to reach his brother's ears.

Steps, on the pavement behind them. There was probably surveillance on the rooftops lining both sides of the street, and if they were really, really unlucky, someone waiting to box them in up ahead.

They'll be coming after me. James wouldn't be anything more than a blip on the radar – or collateral damage too easily disposed of. Over my dead body. Likely enough, if he slipped up. But if they did this right, he could get the information clear, complete this stage of the mission. "Tell me this isn't your first time out," David muttered, speeding his pace just the slightest. Please, please let this be your first mission. The only thing that frightened him more, in this moment, than having to protect a brother who couldn't protect himself, was the thought of his younger brother having done this before. Without him.

James matched his pace with only the barest flicker of worry. "I've been around the block a time or two."

I find out who pulled you into the Game, and they're dead. What came out of his mouth, flavored with grim relief, was, "Great."

The sound of steps behind them had almost disappeared. David felt every muscle tense. Maybe thirty seconds. Probably less. "This is your last time around the block, Jamie."

"Are you trying to tell me what to do, David?" Tense lines around James' mouth pulled the half-smile out of shape.

That had never worked well. Change tack. They weren't going to make it anyway; David stopped in the middle of the filthy sidewalk, kicking aside a crumpled McDonald's bag with one shoe. He locked his gaze with brown eyes identical to his own. "No. I'm your brother, and I love you. I am begging you – get out."

It was a manipulation; they were both expert enough in maneuvering other people to their wishes to know exactly what was going on here. Just as they both knew that, couched in those terms, there was no way James could refuse. David read hurt in his brother's eyes, and resignation, and understanding. "Fine," James breathed. "But you will come home, David. Promise me."

The street was dead silent.

Ten seconds. Gotta get him clear.

"Dave." Jamie's face was pale, frightened. "Please."

"I -"

They ran out of time.

Later, casting his mind back, those few minutes are scattered flashes of memory. Pain exploded in his ribs, but all he could see were horrified brown eyes. David struck back, feeling flesh and bone give under the force of his frantic rage. Blood spotted through his brother's coat high on one arm even as the younger Wilson threw out a hand, reaching for him. There was a shadowy figure creeping up behind Jamie, just as David's world went black.

It was the last time he saw his brother.

Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. April, 2006.

Of all the places for life to go to hell, it would have to be the clinic.

"Hands up! Nobody move, or I-I'll shoot!"

Sonuva- Half out of an exam room, House pulled up short. People were on the ground or cowering in their chairs, covering their heads or their purses or their children, whichever was deemed most important in the span of a split-second. He could see nurses frozen behind the central circulation desk, the one token security guard lying on white linoleum beside a thick streak of red. Dead? Dying? Doesn't matter – can't do anything with that psycho waving a gun around –

House thumped forward a step, opening his mouth to –

"Hey."

The gunman jerked toward the voice, and House felt the blood chill in his veins. No.

"Look, just calm down, okay? What do you want?"

Wilson, you idiot!

The oncologist had been at the desk filling out paperwork, his shift ending just as House's ticked slowly towards half-done. He was closest to the gunman now; probably had the best view of wild eyes and spittle-flecked lips. Don't. He's so high he doesn't know what planet he's on, Wilson –

"I'll shoot! I'll do it!" The man was almost vibrating, semi-automatic wavering before it settled on the closest available body.

"Okay." Wilson's voice was calm, his entire body non-threatening, hands out and back to the desk and entirely too close to the gun. "What do you want? We'll get it for you. What do you need?"

It's not gonna work. Jerky movements, slurred words, wild behavior – all added up to some chemical upper mixed with whatever this guy took to get his high. Amphetamines. Cocaine. Methylphenidate. Which one didn't matter. Wilson was good, but the drug haze was too thick for even him to work his magic.

"Percocet," the man spat, shaggy hair that looked as if it had been hacked at with dull scissors flying in his face. "Need a p'scription. Ten mg. Write it."

Right, and he's just gonna walk over to the pharmacy and fill it? House's fingers clenched on his cane as the crazy gun-slinger advanced on the oncologist. Too close! "Hey!"

The man whirled, gun swinging through the air to focus on House and in that second, he knew he was dead. Dammit Wilson, better appreciate-

A white blur lunged across his field of vision. The weapon's barrel swung up even as a bullet crashed into the wall mere inches from House's head, the noise from the shot dropping him to his knees. His right thigh screamed protest, curling him over in agony until his forehead touched the floor.

A pained grunt pulled House's eyes up, in time to see wild fists striking the body beneath the white doctor's coat even as Wilson kicked out hard, shin snapping into the gunman's knee as the oncologist wrestled to keep the weapon pointed upwards. The man staggered, a cry bursting free, and with a wrenching twist Wilson yanked the gun away.

House stared, dumbfounded. Wilson delivered a brutal kick to the man's other knee, the sickening crunch of bone and cartilage putting the former gunman in a writhing heap on the floor. The gun had somehow reversed itself in the oncologists' hands, finding unerring aim on the blubbering piece of humanity that seconds ago had been about to kill someone. Me. Was going to kill me.

"Brenda, call security. Anne, check on him -" the brown-haired head tilted toward the downed guard, "- and Jan, check House. Get a trauma team here, now!"

What the hell – Wilson wasn't even breathing hard. Nurses scattered in all directions, even as the oncologist's voice rose over a sudden babble of voices, telling everyone to stay calm, everything was under control. House fumbled in one pocket for his Vicodin as a nurse crouched at his side.

"Dr. House? Are you all right?"

"No," he snarled, pain rearing up to sink claws deep into his thigh. Blue eyes never left the oncologist, whose attention refused to waver from the man screaming on the clinic's floor. "But I'm not shot."

Fingers grasped smooth plastic – he wrenched the lid free, spilling pills into his palm. Two hit his tongue, and House swallowed desperately. He couldn't think through the slashing agony, words and ideas chasing through his brain without any tangible connective thread. House could only huddle against linoleum as a trauma team rushed the – dead? dying? – security guard away; as more security forces pushed through milling bodies to clamp restraints on the shrieking junkie and take the gun from Wilson.

And then his friend was right there, familiar hands skimming over his body, brown eyes closing in relief. Checking for the bullet wound. "House? You okay?"

His brain stuttered, jump-starting to life. House blinked, a tiny part of his brain muttering, Cool. "What. The. Hell?"

"The great Greg House, at a loss for words," Wilson said wryly. White knuckles, tight mouth. C'mon, House, give me a number. "I may have to mark this day on my calendar."

House exploded. "You idiot!" One hand scrabbled for the cane, the other used as leverage as the diagnostician twisted to bring his legs out from under his body. "Who do you think you are? Double-oh seven?! Only a complete and utter moron jumps with a junkie with a gun! You – you -"

The nurse, Jan, sat back with a raised eyebrow; Wilson nodded. She popped to her feet and disappeared into the nearby crowd, clearly grateful for the escape. The oncologist quietly assessed his friend again, matching what he saw to an internal catalogue of the agony he'd seen on House's face at various points in the last six years. He's at a nine. Okay. Pain level incredibly high, but House's scale goes to eleven and he's taken a Vicodin. Get him somewhere quiet, elevate the leg, maybe a heat-pack, and we can keep from hitting the top of the scale today.

"- you – idiot!"

"Careful," Wilson fought the smile tugging at his lips. One arm around House's waist, the other free in case he needed to brace or catch his friend. "Wouldn't want to repeat yourself. People might think you're losing your touch."

"Better than losing my mind," House snapped back, arm wrapped around Wilson's neck and hand fisted in the collar of his white coat, the other gripping House's cane. Getting the diagnostician to his feet was a smoother process than any observer might assume; Wilson had been used as a human crutch countless times before. "Now everyone knows what I've suspected for years: you're insane."

"I was the closest person," Wilson pointed out, a touch of annoyance coloring the words. He could feel his temper rising, and took a deep breath to stave off the eruption. "I had to do something. Especially when someone decided to startle a junkie with a hair-trigger and a semi-automatic! He tried to shoot you, House!"

"Missed," was the glib response. House loosened his grip a little, but didn't let go; Wilson was absurdly grateful for the not-quite-necessary contact. The first step was slow, painstaking. "He had the shakes and I was fifteen feet away; no way was he going to make that shot. But he wouldn't have missed you; you were close enough to spit on! Might have to get you the rabies series, the way he was slobbering all over -"

"He wasn't going to shoot me, House."

Someone at the entrance to the hospital lobby saw them coming, and was kind enough to prop open the doors so they could make their careful way through. Get to House's office, then see to his leg. The dubious privacy offered by House's fishbowl of an office was the only place other than his apartment that Wilson had a prayer of persuading the diagnostician to let someone else check over the old injury.

His friend, however, wasn't done. Their multi-legged, leaning hobble down the hallway was fast enough that they'd probably beat out all other contenders in a sack-race, but the pace at which House was hurling out words put their physical speed to shame. "He was high, he was suffering from violent tremors, he had – as previously stated by an oncologist standing not a hundred miles from here – a hair trigger temper, and you were three feet away! He couldn't miss!"

Wilson rolled his eyes, leaning his friend carefully against the wall before reaching for the elevator call button. "Your talent for pissing off nearly everyone in a room in under five minutes is practically a guarantee that he would have gotten fed up and shot you before I was in any danger at all! Oh wait a minute, let me think – he did!"

"Didn't," House hopped into the elevator car when it arrived, hands clamping on the assistive rails. Wilson was right on his heels. At least he didn't stick out his tongue.

"Three inches from your left ear, House." Wilson would be seeing that near-miss in his sleep every night for a month. He hit the ground, and I thought he was dead. "Three inches." The elevator doors closed behind them with a quiet ding!

"Almost only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and broad-spectrum antibiotics."

Gravity pulled gently with the elevator's upward shift, and Wilson felt his jaw unhinge. Generic classical music filled the space between them as the oncologist struggled for words. "I don't know what's worse, the blatant disregard for your own safety or the dubious application of that adage to the field of medicine."

House talked right over him as the elevator leveled at the third floor, doors sliding smoothly open. Nothing new there. "Besides, he was more likely to get fed up with your sharing and caring routine before I had the chance to piss him off. You were going to get shot first."

"Hmm, let me see: shoot someone who's trying to accommodate you, or someone who's verbally poking you with a sharp stick? There's a tough decision." The oncologist held up both hands as if they were pans on a scale, wavering up and down as he weighed each option. It was lost on House, busy exiting the elevator. "It would have been you." Wilson rolled his eyes, following right at his friend's shoulder as the diagnostician limped down the hall. "What am I saying? It was you!"

"Only because I distracted him," House countered. He swung his office door open, leaving Wilson no choice but to grab it if he wanted to keep from being smacked in the face by a solid sheet of glass. Shocked by the abrupt conversational turn-around, he cut it close enough that his nose grazed the M of Dr. Gregory House, M.D. before his fingers locked on the door handle.

Finding his feet, the oncologist sputtered as he trailed House into his office. Glass swung soundlessly shut behind them. "That's my point!"

House had to reach a bit to slide closed the first set of blinds. "If I hadn't, smart money says he would have shot you first."

Wilson glared, hands propped on hips. "Right now, I want to shoot you."

"It's that whole soothing demeanor," House shrugged, settling into the armchair hidden in the most secluded corner of his office. Both hands wrapped around the damaged thigh, massaging carefully as he lifted his leg onto the footrest. "Clashes with 'crazy'."

"Whereas 'blatant aggravation' blends so well." Wilson threw up his hands, but went to pull the blinds on each of the other three walls to give them some sort of privacy.

"Tell you what. Fifty bucks if the next gunman who walks into the hospital tries to shoot you first." Intense blue eyes were locked on him, a smirk on House's lips even as his fingers dug into the flesh of his thigh.

Wilson's heart turned into a lump of ice; he laughed a little, covering his sudden unease. "The next gunman. Right." If that happens, I'll have bigger problems than losing a bet, House. But entirely without knowing it, the diagnostician had backed him into a corner with no way out but acquiescence. "Fine. You're on."

"Dr. Cuddy?"

Blue uniforms with black trim, gold buttons gleaming in the sunlight that filtered through her office blinds. The holsters just clinched it. Cops. I have cops in my office. Damn it, House, what the hell have you gotten into now?

Dredging up a serene smile from somewhere, Lisa put down her pen and folded her hands over the scattering of paperwork on her desk blotter. "Can I help you?"

The policeman stepped into her office, accompanied by a woman similarly uniformed. "I'm Officer Ralston, this is Officer Baines," his voice was deep and appealing. Tall, dark, and not bad looking, though all that took a back seat to the businesslike attitude she was presented with. "We are attempting to locate two of your staff, a Dr. House and a Dr. Wilson?"

Princeton-Plainsboro's very own partners in crime. I knew it. Validation was more exhausting than sweet, however. Lisa pushed to her feet, smoothing down her skirt and ignoring the disarray on her desk. "Regarding?" I'm going to have to call down to Levine, get him up here.

The officers exchanged a puzzled glance. "The – ah, incident, in the hospital clinic, this morning?" Baines offered. It wasn't even eleven.

He's finally done it. The patient didn't even bother to complain to the administration, they went straight to the police. "I'm sorry," she tried politely. Minimize, minimize. We're going to have to settle again. "I wasn't aware that there was a situation requiring police attention."

It was apparently the wrong thing to say; Ralston frowned darkly. "You – weren't aware – that a drug addict armed with a gun held up this hospital's clinic, not fifteen minutes ago?"

Good response time. Then their words sunk in, and Lisa felt her eyes widen. She braced herself against the edge of the desk, mind whirling. House wouldn't – then again, she'd seen some of the schemes he'd pulled in the past. "Officers, I can assure you that whatever else he may have done, Dr. House would never endanger anyone." Not with a gun at least. I hope.

The officers were wearing identical expressions of confusion at this point. "No," Baines stepped forward. While not as tall as her partner, it was clear even across the length of the office that she had almost a foot of height on Princeton-Plainsboro's diminutive head administrator. "The gunman's name is Kermit Whelan. He's currently in custody in the ER."

The ER? Lisa's brain latched onto that tidbit like a sailor clinging to driftwood in rough seas. There was a gunman in the clinic – how did I not hear about this -

Baines was still speaking. "- Dr. House and Dr. Wilson were the physicians attending the clinic this morning. According to witness accounts, Dr. Wilson subdued the gunman and Dr. House narrowly avoided being shot. We need to take their statements so that we can charge Whelan appropriately."

House was almost shot? And Wilson calmed the gunman? It was strange how easily she could believe it. Lisa shook her head abruptly, still processing as she rounded her desk. Call Levine, just in case. When the press finds out about this - "Was anyone hurt?"

Please, please don't let anyone have been –

"Yes."

Lisa's hands went cold. She could feel sweat gathering under her arms and on her palms. Adonai . . .

"The security guard on duty in the clinic was shot when Whelan first entered." Ralston flipped through his notepad briefly, searching for the name. "Brian Markey. He's being treated in the ER by a Dr. Chase, who was quite clear that we needed to find someone else to question at the time."

Not good. She couldn't remember the specifics of his file, but the majority of their security forces had been with the hospital for years, and lived locally with their families. Levine. Now. "Excuse me a moment," Lisa reached for the phone. "I need to call the hospital attorney."

Ralston looked up from his notes. "That's really not necessary -"

"If one of my employees was injured on hospital property, there are several legal matters this hospital needs to make certain are handled appropriately," Lisa countered, punching in Levine's extension. Anger burned in her veins, behind her eyes. "Especially should Mr. Markey or his family wish to press charges against Mr. Whelan."

A few words into the phone's receiver assured her that Levine would be in her office in under five minutes. She disconnected the line, and twisted far enough to make eye contact with each officer in turn. "You needed to speak with Dr. House?"

"And Dr. Wilson," Baines reminded her.

"Of course," Lisa turned back to the phone. "I know just where to find them."

She wasn't surprised in the slightest when the Head of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro answered the direct line to the Diagnostics Department. House had fallen badly, and wasn't going anywhere. At least he can't run away. She didn't envy the cops their task of wading through House's vitriol to get a statement. Lisa gave them clear directions to the Diagnostics Department, smiled as they left, and didn't doubt that they'd be back to complain. In an hour, if I'm lucky.

She was going to need more than that with Levine to define the repercussions of this event for the hospital. But first I need a clear picture of what actually happened. Which depended on the police report, which depended on her doctors' statements, which led right back to House again. And I need to find out why I didn't hear about this the minute it happened.

Lisa took a calming breath, letting the warm sunshine soak into her body for the minute or two of peace she had before the attorney knocked on her door.

It's going to be a long day.

"His name is Kermit?" Foreman could feel amusement rising fast, and tried to suppress it with a rich sip of coffee. Laughter didn't seem appropriate, especially with a member of the hospital support staff in the ICU fighting for his life, but still. "Really?" That's bizarre. And ironic.

"Really." House threw the gray-red tennis ball again, sending vibrations through the glass dividing wall the neurologist was propped against. "Child abuse takes many forms."

Thump.

The glass at his back shuddered.

Foreman glared halfheartedly at his boss, and predictably, was ignored.

'They're bullies, baby. Ignore them, and they'll go away.' His mother's advice hadn't ever really worked on House. But then, House wasn't really a bully. Just an egomaniac. Whatever. If Foreman had tried to ignore him, it would have just pushed him to work harder to get a response. In the interest of keeping the peace with all four of them stuck in House's office until the cops were done getting Wilson's statement, Foreman decided it was easier to be boring and predictable to maintain the status quo.

"Child abuse? The guy has a weird first name. So what?" Chase obviously hadn't caught the reference. A glance up showed that the Australian had abandoned his crossword for the moment, instead staring out at the three people arrayed around the Diagnostics conference room's glass table. Foreman didn't turn and look. They've been at it for almost half an hour. They've gotta be done soon.

"Ah, the wonders of American educational television. Cameron, google the Muppets. Let the wombat in on our little cultural secret. YouTube should clear it up for him right away, and give him a few clues why little Kermit Whelan never wanted to go play with the other kids during recess." House was almost cackling; he threw the tennis ball again.

Thump.

Foreman shook his head.

By virtue of being the only one wearing a skirt, Cameron had gotten the only other chair in the room. Situated behind House's desk, that meant she also got the computer and internet access. Not that she needs it when all she's doing is House's mail.

Chase was already up, stretching a little before heading over to the desk. Foreman watched, interested, as the two other fellows awkwardly juggled their personal space. Too obvious. Get a room.

He waited for House to say something, but the comment never came.

A knock on the door told him why; Dr. Wilson poked his head in. "M'finished. Your turn."

"That was quick," House observed.

Foreman shuffled his journals into a pile, grunting as he stood. Ugh, stiff. Half an hour on a cement floor thinly concealed by rough, unpadded carpet hadn't done him any favors.

"Not much to tell." The neurologist could practically hear the shrug. Foreman bent, gathering up his journals and notes, mind jumping ahead. A real chair. Finally.

"Oh, now you're just being modest," his boss simpered. Foreman glanced at House and immediately wished he hadn't. Okay. That expression's just disturbing.

Wilson was still leaning in the doorway, making it impossible for any of House's fellows to get past him and leave. His face was perfectly straight. "I'm surprised you even know what the word means."

Foreman smirked at that.

"What?" Cameron, distracted from sorting through bills and junk mail, was peering through her glasses at the two men. And Chase is still watching a clip from YouTube. Typical. "What happened?" she asked again.

"Mild-mannered oncologist by day, ass-kicking ninja by night." House was bouncing the tennis ball from hand to hand, but apparently had given up on chucking it at the wall for the moment. Probably because you can't obnoxiously interrupt a police interview if it's over.

Dr. Wilson snorted. "Right. Leaping tall buildings in a single bound. That's me. Must have left my cape at the dry-cleaner's today."

Foreman took in the pristine white coat, ironed shirt, tie, pressed slacks, and impeccable shoes. Uh-huh. He shifted his journals to the other arm, reaching for his coffee mug and scanning the floor to make sure he hadn't lost a pen or left any of his notes behind.

"Wilson kneecapped him," House whispered conspiratorially.

He did? Foreman felt his brows rise in interest. Dr. Wilson wasn't the sort of person you imagined as capable of purposefully inflicting physical harm on someone. "Huh." Well, the guy had a gun and was high, probably going to shoot someone. Someone innocent, he amended, with a look at his boss. "Good."

"Good?!" Cameron pushed out of the chair, stalking across the office. "If you destroyed his knee, he'll never walk again. He'll be crippled for life!"

"I know."

Foreman stared.

Dr. Wilson had straightened, and pinned Cameron with a hard stare that he'd never seen from the other man, even when fighting for his patients.

"He probably won't walk again, because I crushed his patella," Dr. Wilson said brutally. "The bone shards ground into the anterior crucate ligament and meniscus. If he gets a very skilled surgeon and works hard at PT, the leg might support his weight in six to eight months. The soft-tissue damage means he'll never bend that knee again without pain. And I'd do it again."

Cameron's face was deadly pale; Foreman could barely hear her whisper. "How can you say that?"

"Cameron." Dr. Wilson's eyes were impenetrable. I don't think I've ever met this man, Foreman realized. The oncologist's voice was low, but it was the only sound in the room. Even Chase's attention had been pulled from the computer screen.

"He had a gun, and his hands were shaking. Badly. I didn't want to die. And I didn't want House to die. Or any of the nurses. Or the woman with twin toddlers, or the two college students there with their friend, who was pregnant and flipping out. Or the senior citizen sitting in the back, or the middle-aged guy who was missing his lunch hour. This man endangered everyone there, for a prescription for Percocet."

Cameron was shaking her head. "First, do no harm," she responded, subdued but still fighting. That's Cameron all over. Trying to fight other people's battles for them, and never knowing when to quit. Foreman rolled his eyes. She's missing the point.

"I will preserve the purity of my life and my arts," Dr. Wilson quoted back.

"There must have been a better way," Cameron insisted stubbornly.

Dr. Wilson actually laughed at that. "When you think of one, let me know." Those dark eyes looked past them all, locking on the man still ensconced in the corner chair. "Meet you for lunch when you're done in here?"

Foreman looked back in time to catch House's nod.

"Good. You're paying." With that, the oncologist left.

"Wow," Chase whistled, stepping out from behind the desk. "I don't think I've ever seen Dr. Wilson that angry."

"He should be angry," Cameron retorted. Heels were silent on carpet as she strode to the door. "He was wrong."

God, she's blind. "No he wasn't," Foreman objected. "If the choice comes down to saving your life and those of your patients or hurting some whack-job who's trying to kill you, I say take the psycho out and don't look back."

"You would," she muttered.

What the- Anger overrode whatever restraint he'd been exercising up to this point. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Whelan is addicted to Percocet," Cameron felt she had to point out. And dodging the straight answer. What is her problem?

"Yeah, I caught that," Foreman snapped back. "It's not an excuse."

"He was desperate, and not thinking clearly. He's not responsible -"

"Oh, yes he is," House interrupted, irritation spilling from every syllable. The clatter of Vicodin pills in a prescription bottle resounded through the office. "He knew exactly what he was doing. Take it from someone who knows."

Cameron wasn't any good at hiding what she was feeling. Foreman could read betrayal in her green eyes, and huffed in exasperation. Schoolgirl crushes were really annoying to watch, especially when you were stuck in the same room with them.

And she's gone.

"Wait, Cameron -" And there goes Chase.

He wanted to be in the Diagnostics Department at Princeton-Plainsboro, he wanted to learn from the best. But sometimes it turned his life into a soap opera worthy of HBO's prime time. Unbelievable. Foreman eyed the door. If he switched his papers to the other arm and held the mug in that hand, he could open the door without spilling coffee all over himself and his notes. Probably.

"He's not angry," House murmured to himself, peering after the figure that had vanished down the hall.

Dr. Wilson is House's friend, so I guess he would know. Still. "Sure looked like anger to me," Foreman pointed out. Shifting his papers to the other arm did indeed result in a free hand, and he reached for the door.

"Yeah, well, you're wrong."

The neurologist sighed, fed up already. What's the point in arguing about this? Who cares? He held the door for the cops, shifting aside to let them into House's office. "If he's not pissed, then what is it?"

Blue eyes were still staring after Dr. Wilson, even though he'd long since disappeared from sight into his office. "I don't know."

A/N: Please note, as of June 6 I have edited this chapter and changed the names of the oldest and youngest Wilson brothers from Daniel and Peter to David and Michael, respectively. So now, the Wilson brothers are, oldest to youngest, David, James and Michael.