Sunday Morning Coming Down
He woke early, after a restless night on the couch and lgroped for the bottle of pills he knew he'd left on the coffee table. His hand staked across the flat surface, and he groaned, remembering that the pills, and his Morphine, were now on the kitchen table. He flung his arm back over his eyes and sighed.
It took him a while to decide to move. He needed his pills and he needed to relieve his bladder. He glanced toward the rumpled bed, not surprised to find that it was empty. He felt his gut bottom out, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He went through his morning ritual, pills and piss and stretching out his leg. Dressed in Khaki's and a button down over a Pink Floyd T-Shirt, he switched to a more plain looking cane and headed into the clinic.
He half expected, and half hoped Wilson would already be there, but he knew it was a long shot. He let himself in, eyes scanning, looking for James, even though it was dark. Even though he knew Wilson wasn't there. With a weary sigh, he slipped into professional mode, or as professional as he could be, and set to work for the day.
He sat down at his desk,a nd flipped his satellite radio on. Johnny Cash's voice filled the room, and House leaned back, listening to the song.
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing,
And it echoed through the canyon
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
[OOC: "Sunday Morning Coming Down" lyrics by Kris Kristofferson]
It took him a while to decide to move. He needed his pills and he needed to relieve his bladder. He glanced toward the rumpled bed, not surprised to find that it was empty. He felt his gut bottom out, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He went through his morning ritual, pills and piss and stretching out his leg. Dressed in Khaki's and a button down over a Pink Floyd T-Shirt, he switched to a more plain looking cane and headed into the clinic.
He half expected, and half hoped Wilson would already be there, but he knew it was a long shot. He let himself in, eyes scanning, looking for James, even though it was dark. Even though he knew Wilson wasn't there. With a weary sigh, he slipped into professional mode, or as professional as he could be, and set to work for the day.
He sat down at his desk,a nd flipped his satellite radio on. Johnny Cash's voice filled the room, and House leaned back, listening to the song.
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing,
And it echoed through the canyon
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
[OOC: "Sunday Morning Coming Down" lyrics by Kris Kristofferson]