End to a hunger strike.
When two orderlies and two nurses came for Simon with his jacket and mask, and a guard behind them, nightstick in hand, he knew what was coming. Hadn't he been threatened with it already? They were going to shove a tube down his throat, forcefeed him whatever Doctor House wanted to infect him with, claim it was for his own health and safety. What could he do but fight?
But that second nurse had a needle, and before he could reach the door or get his teeth into the big orderly, it was in his neck, whatever it carried burning cold under his skin, and it robbed him of everything, the world going gray and distant as he sagged, then collapsed. He dimly felt them put him onto a gurney, strap him down, then the dizzying, far-off feeling of motion. Ceiling panels, doors, the brilliance of the elevator. Voices, cool air, the sharp scent that means doctors. And then a mask, soft rubber. And nothing.
But that second nurse had a needle, and before he could reach the door or get his teeth into the big orderly, it was in his neck, whatever it carried burning cold under his skin, and it robbed him of everything, the world going gray and distant as he sagged, then collapsed. He dimly felt them put him onto a gurney, strap him down, then the dizzying, far-off feeling of motion. Ceiling panels, doors, the brilliance of the elevator. Voices, cool air, the sharp scent that means doctors. And then a mask, soft rubber. And nothing.