Foreman sighed, watching House play with his oversized tennis ball, looking unhappily at the red and gray fuzz.

He was sitting in his old chair in the differential room, wondering what was wrong. They didn't have a patient at present, not one the kids had brought to them yet, anyway, but House still looked like he was thinking about something.

Foreman jumped up, as House suddenly tensed, dropping the tennis ball and leaning forward, clutching his thigh.

"House?"

Foreman put his hands on the older doctor's shoulders, pushing him back so he could see House's face.

"House?" he asked again, trying to get House to answer him.

"Kyaaah..." it wasn't a reply, it was a just a groan, but it told Foreman something anyway. It told him that House wasn't with it enough to keep himself from groaning.

"House, give me a number, ok? How bad?"

"Eight." he ground out.

Foreman sighed, realizing that House's eight–close to the worse pain he had ever felt–had to be higher than most people's.

House gasped, trembling harder, turning whiter than he had been after getting shot.

Pain, yeah, House could fake that if he was getting really desperate for drugs, but be even he couldn't pale on cue.

Foreman lifted House off the chair– he was about to fall out anyway– and lowered him to the floor, where he curled into a ball, still clutching at his thigh, white knuckled.

Foreman then pushed open the door to the balcony, hopped over the low barrier, and entered Wilson's office. He wasn't there—not that he was speaking to House anyway.

Foreman turned around, back over the divider, into House's office.

Whatever was happening, it was serious, and Foreman would have to deal with it himself.

He dug in House's desk drawers, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, syringe, nothing, morphine.

House had gone past clenching now, he was halfway passed out, unable to move. He didn't even react when Foreman tied the tourniquet around his arm, injecting the morphine, his arm flopping back down when Foreman released it.

Foreman realized House was barely breathing, so out of it in pain that he apparently thought it wasn't worth the risk that it would cause his leg to move.

Foreman dragged House upright, holding him up with one arm and rubbing his back with the other, trying to get him to breathe.

He gasped, finally taking in several ragged breaths, still completely limp.

It took twelve more minutes for House's breathing to steady into solid existence, but he still didn't move.

"House?" asked Foreman, still rubbing despite House's semi-regular breathing.

"Nnnhhnnn..." the noise was so faint Foreman almost missed it. As it was, he actually wished he hadn't heard it. Because if it hadn't come out, he might have been able to believe that House was unconscious.

Ten minutes later, House still hadn't moved, and Foreman realized that the morphine hadn't been enough, House was still in unbearable pain.

"Hang on." he said, shifting House so he could pull his phone out of his pocket.

"Cuddy? Yeah, something's really wrong with House, with his leg. Really wrong. Yeah. No. Seriously. No, I mean really wrong. Look, do you think I would care if it wasn't real? *Thank* you."

"House, hang on. Cuddy's coming."

House made a tiny, tiny sound, that could barely even be called a whimper.

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Ten minutes later, Cuddy finally arrived, looking slightly doubtful. She stopped, paling rapidly as she realized how bad the situation was.

"House?"

He didn't respond.

Cuddy knelt down, placing her hand on the side of his face, noticing the tiny tremors running through his otherwise limp body.

Foreman lifted House into the wheelchair Cuddy had brought, trying to not care when House's breath caught, and he reverted to the tiny, ragged inhales that he had been using earlier.

"Sorry." said Cuddy, looking at Foreman.

"Not me that's hurting."

Cuddy nodded.

Halfway to the bed Cuddy had set up, House started trembling harder, sliding out of the chair and onto the floor.

Cuddy knelt down, rolling him over. She swallowed when she saw his expression.

Foreman lifted him back into the chair, wincing internally at the violent tremors.

They finally made it to the room, and Foreman lifted House onto the bed, ignoring the sharp gasps as House's leg was moved.

"House, do you know what's going wrong?" asked Cuddy calmly, leaning over him.

"Nnnhhn."

Cuddy sighed.

"Can you go find Wilson?"

Foreman nodded, leaving. It was uncomfortable to see, how much pain House was in.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He finally found the oncologist in the clinic, examining some girl's rash.

Foreman quietly asked for a consult, then turned, stopping only a few feet away from the door.

Wilson paled when Foreman told him, looking horrified.

"Where?"

"Upstairs. Cuddy's with him."

Wilson nodded, then paused.

He shook his head.

"No."

Foreman stared at him.

The younger doctor's pager went off.

He looked down at it, then back up. Wilson was gone.

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When Foreman got there, House was in even worse shape than before, his eyes were rolled up, and he barely breathing again.

Cuddy had placed several pillows under his leg, but they didn't seem to have had an effect.

She looked at Foreman, then past him, then back at his face.

"Where's Wilson? Could you not find him?"

"He wouldn't come."

Cuddy stared at him.

"What did you give him?" asked Foreman, noting the empty syringe on the table next to the bed.

Cuddy looked up, eyes desperate.

"Twelve more CC's. Nothing's helping."

Foreman nodded, walking forward, resting his hand on his boss/employee's warm, damp and trembling shoulder.

"House?"

House didn't hear him; he was beyond noticing anyone talking to him.

Cuddy glanced up at Foreman.

"Can you get someone in here? An anesthesiologist?"

He nodded.

Cuddy sat on the edge of the bed, gently placing her hand on House's chest, letting him know she was there.

House grasped Cuddy's arm weakly with a trembling hand, his grip barely noticeable.

Cuddy softly rubbed House's shoulder, trying to provide even a tiny bit of relief.

she looked up as the anesthesiologist came in, hoping something would help.

The guy took one look at House, and turned to Cuddy.

"We gotta put him out, that much pain is going to cause too much stress."

House muttered something weak and rasping, but she understood.

"What about an epidural?"

The guy shrugged.

"Well, yeah, that would work. It's just better if his mind gets a break as well as his body."

Cuddy shook her head.

"That's what he wants, though I don't know why."

The guy nodded, and left to get the medication.

Cuddy looked back down at House, concern filling her eyes.

House was so pale, was in so much pain, Foreman wondered if he could take being conscious, but knew better than to argue.

The anesthesiologist returned after what seemed like hours, and Foreman and Cuddy helped turn House onto his side, curling him for the spinal injection.

Almost immediately House's trembling began to diminish, and he went fully limp again.

Everyone except Cuddy left, giving House as much privacy as possible.

House's hand, still on Cuddy's arm, slid down, grasping her hand lightly.

she gave it a brief squeeze, watching House slowly relax, pain being replaced by exhaustion.

Cuddy watched House's breathing steady, his eyelids closing halfway.

She didn't want to disturb House right then, but she needed to know what had caused this.

"House?" she asked softly, reaching to pull the blanket at the end of the bed over the exhausted doctor.

"Uh-huh." mumbled House, half asleep already.

"What happened?"

"'s been... gettin' wr'se." House replied, his words slurring out of tiredness.

Cuddy nodded. She had noticed that. But it hadn't been anywhere near this bad....

"'n... I... uh.... tripp'd..... 'n.........."

Cuddy sighed as House fell asleep, giving her sleeping employee a quick squeeze around the shoulders, and tucking the blanket comfortably around the older doctor.

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House dreamed of his gameboy, and shooting lollipops with a chemo ray the size of mars, of his patient, who had a large porcupine stuck in her left lung, which was why it was collapsing twice an hour, of a large wrestler squashing a tiny doll wearing a police uniform in a large vat of tomatoes, of Wilson in the bathroom and the village people and a marine and ice and a tub and dirt and mud and pain broken bones and blood and screaming and tears and begging and thrashing and cold and shivering and rocks and trees and bruises and the bus and amber and freezing and the tub in the backyard and protective hypothermia and opened his eyes to find Cuddy and Foreman holding him down and telling him it was alright and looking upset.

He lay there for a moment, as Cuddy looked at him with relief, and Foreman just looked at him, then shut his eyes as the pain hit him full-force, thought that he must have knocked the IV out, heard himself screaming, felt tears running down his face unchecked, felt someone, Cuddy or Foreman, he didn't know, grip his arm, as another wrapped their arms around him from the side, holding him still as the waves of pain crashed over him, as his hand grasped at their shirt desperately, as he held on, still screaming, the one anchor keeping him from getting lost in the pain.

He heard someone yelling, felt himself being rolled onto his side, the person holding him only shifting their grip, his hand still clenching their shirt.

He knew something poked his back, but it was so insignificant compared to the pain in his leg that he barely felt it.

He felt something push through the skin in the same place, and this time he noticed it, a deep, stabbing pain, but didn't fight it, because the person holding him was telling him to hold still, that it was ok, that it would take away the larger pain, that they had him, he was ok, everything was going to be ok.

He felt an odd sensation in his lower abdomen, then the pain cut off, his leg stopped hurting, he could barely tell it was still there. He felt nothing other than numb pressure bellow his waist.

He didn't move for a long time, just laid there, panting, catching his breath, reveling in the release from the pain.

He finally opened his eyes, to find a very close view of Cuddy's breasts. He wished he weren't so tired.

He felt someone still futzing with his back, but didn't care.

He heard Cuddy's voice telling him not to move, that it was ok, but he shouldn't move.

He nodded, then frowned, unsure if that had counted as moving.

He heard her laugh a little, felt her hand gently smoothing his hair, all sticking up from his thrashing earlier.

He heard Foreman's voice thanking someone, then footsteps, the door, more footsteps, then felt a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

He felt himself drifting off again, but this time he did not dream.

He awoke to a strange sensation of his pants being pulled down, but only half feeling it, his lower body mostly numb.

He opened his eyes, noticing a second sensation, of something stroking his hair.

He blinked, as he saw Cuddy there again, still in the same clothes, but sitting at a different, much less revealing angle.

He realized his hand was still holding the shoulder of her shirt, and loosened it, making her look down at his face.

He saw her smile briefly at him, and tried to return the gesture, but was pretty sure he had only managed a small twitch of one corner of his mouth.

He saw her smile again, then look away.

He opened his mouth, mumbling something soft and a little slurred with tiredness. "Wha's goin' on?"

She looked back down, giving him a third quick grin.

"We gave you an epidural. You pooped your pants."

House groaned, rolling his eyes.

Cuddy smiled for real, still stroking his hair.

"It better?"

He nodded, twisting a little to try and see the catheter going into his back, but stopped, as Cuddy's hand pulled his shoulder back towards her.

"Don't twist, you might budge the catheter."

He sighed, as someone he couldn't see–though he hoped it was a guy–pulled his boxers off, wiping between his legs like he was a child.

"This is humiliating." he commented, as he heard the person mention that he had peed as well.

Cuddy laughed quietly, shaking her head.

"Yeah, well, it's better than if we just let you lie here in your own excrement." said the voice.

House groaned. It was Foreman.

"What happened to the patient?"

"Her lung collapsed."

House frowned.

"Check her for parasites."

"We did a fecal smear while you were out. Negative."

"Check her lung for parasites. Or did you get digestive tract and respiratory system confused?"

Foreman sighed, rolled his eyes for Cuddy's benefit, and dangled a urine catheter in front of House's eyes.

House snatched it away.

"No chance in hell!"

"You've got a complete pain block from your belly button down, House. I could break your leg and you wouldn't care."

House glared at him, holding the catheter close to his chest, completely oblivious to the fact he looked like a child holding their teddy-bear.

He raised his eyebrows, however, as he realized that Cuddy was still running her hand through his hair.

She stopped.

Foreman said nothing about the exchange, just held up a pair of scrub pants, apparently trying to guess if they would fit.

"How tall are you?" he asked finally, giving up trying to estimate from House's curled up position.

"Six three."

Foreman snorted, and set the scrubs down, leaving the room for a different set.

House smirked.

"Is there a reason I'm getting actual pants instead of a stupid hospital robe?"

Cuddy shrugged.

"You hate hospital robes."

"True. Though the fact you never let me have scrubs before..."

"This time you're unlikely to run away."

House snorted.

Cuddy watched him for a moment, then sighed.

"What was that?" she asked softly.

House looked away.

"Don't tell Wilson."

"I think he might have noticed. Foreman went to get him, he wouldn't come." said Cuddy dryly.

"No, I mean don't tell him what it was. Promise you won't tell, no matter what it is. Promise that if you tell you forfeit the right to nag me about clinic duty and showing up on time."

Cuddy sighed.

"That's stupid."

House glared fiercely, surprising her.

"Then promise that if you tell you won't ever try and get pregnant again."

Cuddy blinked. He was really serious?

"House, that doesn't make sense..."

"Promise!" he demanded, lifting his head as far as he could off the pillow, ignoring how heavy it seemed.

Cuddy frowned. He seemed really upset.

"I promise." she said quietly.

House dropped his head back down, sighed, breathing a little heavily, then lifted it again, struggling to sit up even a little bit.

"It's been... getting... worse."

Cuddy blinked, unsure of what he meant. Did he really mean...?

"That much worse?"

"The breakthrough... pain. All of... it, but... espec... i... all... y... th...a... t." he seemed to be struggling to talk.

Cuddy swallowed, nodding, as he forced himself to keep glaring at her, though obviously fading and very desperate.

"Ok, House. Ok, shhh. I won't tell, it's ok."

He nodded tiredly, letting himself drop back, eyes half closed by the time he hit the pillow.

"Shhh, it's ok. It's ok." she continued, as he drifted off again, exhaustion at the day's events getting the better of him.

Foreman came back in, blinking as he saw that House was asleep.

"He's tired." she said, unnecessarily, but Foreman nodded anyway.

"It's been getting worse, hasn't it?" he asked, folding the scrubs in a pile next to House's chest and covering him with the sheets.

Cuddy frowned.

"He told you that?" she asked.

Foreman raised his eyebrows.

"Like that'd happen. No, it just seemed like it."

Cuddy thought for a moment.

"Yeah, it has. That's what he said. He also made me promise that I wouldn't tell Wilson."

Foreman nodded.

"Stupid but typical. Doesn't want Wilson to talk to him out of guilt."

Cuddy paused for a long moment, then started laughing, quiet, but slightly hysterical.

"You're right." she said, as Foreman looked at her questioningly, and a little unnerved, "You're very right."