Author's Note: Originally this was going to be a story about House cleaning or something (ha ha so punny, right?), but then I had the idea for THIS. I really wanted to do a horror-ish type story for House, but I didn't know what to do exactly. I wanted to try it since that genre is really out of my league. Anyway, I got the title from the play Macbeth.

To the readers of my other fanfic: don't worry, it will still get finished!

Disclaimer: I don't own House, Macbeth, or anything else copyrighted.

Rating: M to be safe, for violence and strong language.

There will be a lot less violence and swearing in the next chapter! The story might turn a little AU, but not much, don't worry.

House stumbled through the streets, heavily limping on his cane. He was definitely more than a little drunk. His leg hurt, but not as much because of the cloud of alcohol-induced haziness. That, really, had been the only reason for his outing to the bar - alone, he might add. House, supposedly, was just going for a stroll now to clear his head, but he had somehow ended up walking home. It wasn't far. He had taken a taxi here, but for some reason felt like walking home. It didn't seem later than 1 or 2 AM.

House was starting to make his way over a small bridge, running over a creek, when he heard someone call out.

"Hey, Gramps!"

This was followed by a couple noisy jeers and catcalls.

House sped up his pace, even though pain was breaking through his alcohol-barrier and attacking him every second step.

"Hey Gramps, you going to the nursing home?!"

More jeers.

House heard footsteps starting to close in behind him. He hunched his shoulders.

"Wait up, Gramps! I think I know ya! Hey that's right, I fucked your daughter last night!"

Laughter.

Even though he couldn't really think straight, House knew this situation was bad. Really bad.

"Hey Gramps! Wait up! I think I can give ya a ride to the nursing home!"

The footsteps came closer, breaking into a jog now. One of them, a guy with the ever-typical hoodie and baggy jeans, stepped in front of him, barring his way. Two or three others surrounded him.

"Eh? How about it?", said the one facing him. Their faces were obscured by the hoods of their sweaters. "I just need some cash." House could see a wide grin in the wan light of the streetlamps. The man rubbed his fingers together to mime his words. "How about it, eh?"

"No." Of all the times to be a stubborn ass.

"What did ya say, Gramps? Didn't catch that." There was a dangerous silence.

"No." Clearly his drunkenness had knocked common sense straight out the window.

House felt his cane being wrenched from his hand. Futilely, he grasped in the air for it before losing his balance on his bad leg and accidentally stumbling into one of the guys, or thugs, he should say.

"Oho! Gramps wants a fight, does he?!", cried one of them, as they pushed him back and forth painfully across their little circle.

House felt his cane clip him in the back of his knees and he collapsed unwillingly to the ground. "Shit!", he gasped, the pain surging and almost blinding him.

"Didn't your momma teach ya not to swear, Gramps? Or is that whore dead?" The speaker laughed, and the rest joined in.

"Fuck you", gasped House, still in pain, but now anger and pigheadedness took over.

There was another deadly silence.

He could dimly notice a knife being drawn from his peripheral vision. The blade glittered in the lamplight before slashing him in the chest.

Involuntarily crying out in pain, House put his hand to his chest, and saw that his fingers were soaked with blood. The shock of it, even as a doctor, made him retch, nearly missing the thugs' shoes.

Someone kicked him in the side, and he went down.

"So, Gramps, what do ya say about that money business, huh? Gonna give it to us or not?"

House couldn't reply. His eyes were tightly closed with the pain, all the horrible pain.

He felt himself get turned over and frisked. They took off his blazer, leaving him in a chilly white t-shirt, now stained with a growing poppy of red. His wallet was taken out of his back pocket. House could hear them muttering to themselves about the finds. He had a lot of credit cards and random other cards, but only a few coins in terms of cash. The bills had all gone to the booze.

He heard his phone being flipped open and examined. Someone muttered angrily, "This is a piece of shit!", and a few seconds later House heard a shallow plop in the water. Shit.

His pager was taken from him, too. House mourned the last remnants of his means of conversation, even if it was only one-way. He clutched his bad leg, wondering where his Vicodin was- oh, right, in his jacket pocket. Shit. He heard a rustle and a shaking sound that indicated it was being taken out. It was thrown in the creek too. House briefly wondered if it was possible for him to retrieve it. Probably not.

There was nothing, really, of much value. They weren't happy about it.

The one holding his cane hit him with it, catching his bad leg. House tried not to scream. His fingers were clenched into claws, digging into his palms. He could feel the dried blood on them. House heard a distinct cracking sound, and wondered if that was, somehow, one of his bones. The two pieces of his cane were tossed on his head. Oh.

He heard them grumbling angrily, and one of them called him a, "Fucking bastard". He felt a strong kick to his head, and he was knocked unconscious. The last thing he was aware of was that he was being dragged somewhere.