He wanted to kill himself as he limped down the hall. Hell, wanted to kill Kutner too, for forcing escape upon him. He allowed a dark glare to befall a couple of passing nurses, safe in the knowledge that they’d just think it was scary old House. Nobody would ever know he wanted to kill that child’s parents the most.

A case. Not a medical case, that would be too complex for Kutner to understand. A social services case, a child beaten within an inch of her life for no reason other than to have the misfortune to have bastards as parents.

He’d never wanted his own children, he was too intelligent to make such mistakes, but nothing would ever overcome the feeling which sunk into him every time he saw a child so mistreated. He’d thought once that going to medical school would deliver him from feeling like this, then his first experience of clinical had been a child abused, the attending explaining how you were never to touch the children beyond medically as he taught House the usual procedure. What a load of bullshit, he had thought, a hug is the most important thing in the world to that child. He’d crept back to the room while his attending was sipping bourbon behind a closed shower curtain and held the kid until social services finally decided to show up. That’s when he knew it would never stop – and also when he knew it could never happen again.

Over time he’d gotten worse at sticking to the rules, but became so wary of contact himself he couldn’t comfort the kids no matter how much he may have wanted to. He remembered his last dealing with Social, at the time angered by Cameron’s interference. The kid was fine. That’s not what they were fucking for.

He found himself standing as punishment, placing weight upon both legs a bit too long while he used the cane to push open the office door. He didn’t want this, not any of this, but there was nowhere else to go. Nowhere to hide – and he couldn’t exactly run.

He knew his body shook as he stepped into the room, knew his mind was almost unable to calculate how long the distance between the door and the couch seemed. For once in his life he wanted other people to know it was because of the pain. House didn’t have emotions, emotions were for the complex and the vulnerable – the weak. He refused to assess the fact that he was the most complex and vulnerable of all.

There were so many things he never wanted anyone to know. Seeing that child reminded him just why he didn’t meet patients, apart from the boredom thing.

He’d stood there scared to enter for her own sake. He wanted to run and grasp that child to his chest, hold that child in his arms simply because nobody else ever would. He was so scared that anybody would ever discover that. He didn’t need anyone, least of all Cameron, discovering his ‘soft’ side. In reality his soft side was about as real as his compassionate side. What he felt for that child...

It wasn’t pity, it would never be pity. Pity was a wasted emotion, it had no place in any type of world. It served no one, did nothing. He didn’t care what the kid had gone through, pity was an emotion he would never bring himself to possess.

Sadness. Not for the child, of course – for the situation. He didn’t feel that either. He could feel sad about some things, and even some things happening to other people. This wasn’t something to be sad about though. Sad didn’t seem strong enough, neither in word or emotion. Sadness was nothing, sadness was about as helpful as pity.

He wasn’t sure he could even name the emotion he felt when he looked at that child, but he could explain one thing. He felt kinsmanship. What had happened to that child had happened for no reason, and there was no point feeling about that as nothing could be done now. He watched hollowly as a nurse, with the help of Kutner, examined her, noting down bruises and signs of sexual abuse.

He’d casually lent on the wall, placing his weight into his shoulder so he could bounce his cane to avoid thinking about why Kutner had to find him. He could have fetched any senior doctor. It was worse for the kid that he’d brought House – as if anyone would believe him in court. Twice.

It hadn’t worked, so he’d picked up his cane and played it like a guitar, concentrating on hearing the notes ring in his head to ignore the situation. He didn’t need to be in the room, he didn’t need to watch, he didn’t need the triggers to remind him why he deserves everything he’s fucking got.

He’d started humming. She turned her head to look at him, splayed open upon the hospital bed with two strangers triple her age between her thighs, and somewhere in the distance he’d heard the unmistakable sound of a child giggling.   

It broke him. He’d fled.

He so wanted to run. He wished more than anything his damn office would be, just for once, the perfect place to hide. He hated that he had to hide with Wilson while hiding from him. He loved his leg – deep down he knew how much he loved the pain. His leg was the perfect excuse to almost anything, and the perfect punishment to a man who knew nothing else as a boy.

He made his way to the couch, swinging his legs to rest next to him in a casual way which almost killed him. A pill somehow found its way down his throat as his stomach twisted, his head falling back with closed eyes as he enforced the day’s second fantasy in an attempt to block out memories fighting to the surface.

What did he care that Wilson was sitting before him waiting for him to speak? Fuck it, he needed this, he didn’t care how much Wilson would take if he knew. A hand flew to his leg, both serving to hold his thigh and provide a ghost touch to his crotch from the light grace of his wrist. He flexed his fingers in an attempt to tease himself, begging himself inside. He needed this, he needed to get away. Fuck the vicodin, fuck the pain, fuck everything he deserves. He needs this. He needs this.

“House?”