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House cursed as he opened the door, freezing air hitting his face in a flash. Winters were always hell on his leg, the cold air waking up the damaged nerves.
Taking a deep breath, House gripped his cane tightly in one hand and gripped the stairs railing in his other. The man cursed every step he took, pain shooting through his damaged thigh and clouding his mind.
Distracted by the pain and biting cold, the diagnostician failed to notice the patch of ice on the bottom few steps of the stairs leading to the sidewalk. House’s cane landed on the ice and dislodged his balance. Shocked, the man stumbled and tripped down the remainder of the stairs.
Suddenly, mind-numbing paint burst in through the arm holding his cane as he landed on the ground.
Dazed, the middle-aged man laid on his side for a few minutes, taking deep breaths to try to not hyperventilate. Finally, he managed to gather up enough courage to look at his damaged arm. He regretted it almost immediately, his face paling as he took in the sight.
A bone was sticking through his skin, blood pooling on the ground beneath him. House closed his eyes, swallowing down the bile that threatened to rise in his throat.
Another few minutes passed, and House managed to maneuver himself into a sitting position. Right. So, I can’t drive like this, and I’m sure as hell not calling an ambulance. It’s going to need surgery, but it’s fine. I can get it taken care of when I get to work.
Gritting his teeth, House stood up and - hunched over - began slowly climbing the stairs to his apartment again. He felt a steady trickle of blood flow from the wound. Finally, he opened the door to his apartment. Limping as fast as he could, the man went to his bedroom to try and find one of his rarely used belts.
After rummaging through his dresser one-handed for a few minutes, the paling man found one. Sighing in relief, he limped into his bathroom and tied a tourniquet roughly two inches above the wound where bone was sticking out, blood still flowing out of it.
Thoroughly lightheaded, the man sat on the edge of his tub, cradling his injured arm against himself. He felt water drip down his chin. Huh. When did I start crying?
Minutes passed by, until eventually half an hour had gone by. With his mind slightly cleared, House moved his right hand to his pocket, reaching inside for his pager.
With shaking hands and black dots dancing in his vision, he managed to send a 911 page to the only person he could bear seeing him in this state.
Wilson was already having a bad day when he received a page from House. Earlier that morning, one of his child patients had ended up passing away and his parents had gotten quite upset about it.
He was halfway through his paperwork about the patient when his pager beeped. Silently thankful for the distraction from the draining work, the oncologist pulled out his pager and turned his eyes onto the message, a frown appearing on his face.
Huh. A 911 page? From House ? This could be anything ranging from a hooker bringing a friend to House overdosing or in jail. No, House wouldn’t be allowed to have his pager in jail, and he would’ve been called earlier.
James had half a mind of putting his pager away and ignoring it entirely, but something in the back of his head wouldn’t leave it alone. You know, he is later than usual, and it’s pretty icy out. Maybe something happened, what if he tried riding his motorcycle in this weather?
Sighing, he stood up and grabbed his coat from the back of his chair, walking out of his office briskly.
“Hey, Brenda? I need to head out for about an hour, something came up. You have my number in case something happens.”
House was laying on the floor in his bathroom, a small pool of blood had flowed from his arm, despite the tourniquet he tied using his belt.
Black spots were spread throughout his vision, he was dancing on the edge of unconsciousness. Where the hell is Wilson? He drowsily thought. A sudden knock broke him out of his daze.
“House. House. I got a 911-page from you, are you alright?”
He smirked, sweat and tears dripping down his face. Finally.
Another few moments passed, House breathing deeply on the floor - focusing all of his energy on trying hard to not pass out - and Wilson knocked on the door again, much harder this time. “House! There’s blood on the floor out here! If you don’t open the door, I’m coming in.”
Another minute passed. Silence.
Cursing, Wilson grabbed his keys and opened the door, ready to yell at his friend. He froze as he saw the inside of the apartment, there was blood on the floor and furniture shoved to the side, creating a path to House’s bedroom.
“…Greg?”
“Here.”
Wilsons head snapped to the side as he heard the faint whisper from the bathroom. “House!”
The man barreled across the apartment, flinging the door open to find his friend. His mouth dropped open, his face paling as he gathered what the room looked like. “What the hell?”
“Oh hey… how nice of you to drop by.”
Wilson dropped to his knees, cradling House’s head. “What the hell happened ?”
“Ice… I uh…” The man swallowed, straining to keep his eyes open. “I tripped on the stairs, kinda hurt my arm.”
Wilson barked out a weak laugh. “Kinda? House, kinda ? You’re lucky you haven’t passed out yet! What the hell were you thinking, paging me and not calling an ambulance?”
“No way in hell am I paying for an ambulance when I could have you drive me to the ER for free.” House whispered.
Wilson grabbed House’s injured arm, causing the man to scream out in pain, more tears falling down his face. James gave House a sorry glance, before turning the arm around a bit, assessing the damage.
“Yeah, this needs the attention of paramedics and surgeons. Sorry, House. Looks like you’re getting that ambulance ride after all.”
“Damnit.”