Physician, Heal Thyself, Chapter 2
Physician, Heal Thyself, Chapter 2
Summary: Post-Words and Deeds, House takes recent events to heart and takes action.
Timeline: Post-Words and Deeds
Rating: PG-ish at the moment
Pairing: House/Cuddyish, but other characters play supporting roles
Disclaimor: Still not mine. Feedback is always welcome.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
The judge had modified her words. Held back what she first intended to say.
That Cuddy had lied for him. That he was a drug addict and a thief who belonged in jail. That he had stolen drugs from a dead man. Embroiled Wilson in his troubles, and then blamed the oncologist for them. Hit Chase.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.”
Cuddy’s words traded off with the judge’s in his head.
The restrained anger. The resignation. The frustration.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.”
Like a CD player stuck on repeat, as he lay on the barely-there mattress on the metal springs, his leg aching rhythmically despite the Vicodin that Wilson had unknowingly smuggled in via Voldemort, he heard the words again and again and again.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.”
They were more annoying than Cameron being nice, or Foreman being his boss. Or Chase just being Chase.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.”
The contraband Vicodin wore off too soon and the words got louder as the pain in his leg began to shoot in time with the words emblazoned in his audio memory.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.”
The pain in his leg and the voices in his head. Could be poetry.
Or worse.
Truth.
***
When his 24 hours were up, he half-expected an armed guard to escort him back to his voluntary rehab. Instead, alone at the door to the county jail, expected to fend for himself, limping and tortured like something out of a Bronte novel, he called a cab.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.”
The voices in his head were reminders as he waited.
He was alone. He had driven them all off.
They were better off.
***
His tour de Casa House took only a few minutes. After all, the cab was waiting, and his house de House was not so much a home these days.
He stuffed some clothes and reading material his backpack, grabbed the last of his secret stash of pain meds, dumped some food for Steve, and hobbled outthe door.
He knew where he had been. Knew where he was going. Or maybe not.
At least he would no longer be making them all worse off.
***
Courtesy of weather and an unexpected stop in Denver, it was almost a day later by the time he made it to Seattle.
The effect of his last few Vicodin had disappeared long before the plane hit the turbulence over the Rockies. The handful of Advil combined with the mini bottles of Vodka did little to dull the pain.
He drifted in some sort of half-awake haze of pain and not-strong-enough narcotics.
The voices continued to trade off with the pain.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.”
***
Bolingbrook Center. The sign was simple and green and white.
“All hope abandon ye who enter here” is what it should have said.
Dante’s Divine Comedy. Or perhaps House’s Divine Tragedy.
Perhaps, “You make everyone around you worse off for being there”? That’d look good on a sign.
“Are you getting out, buddy?” the cab driver said.
“I’m not your buddy,” House growled, even as he shuffled himself out of the cab. “I’m not anyone’s buddy.”
Each step sent shooting pains through his leg, and he leaned harder on his cane than ever before. His crutch and his pain. He felt like he’d had another chunk of muscle removed.
It’d be even worse inside.
But at least he’d get something for the physical pain.
***
“Liz.”
House growled at the redheaded woman who greeted him in the lobby.
“If it isn’t Dr. Gregory House?” she replied, her tone even. “I’ve been waiting for you for years.
House didn’t want to play poker with Liz Samuels. She had been a few years ahead of him at med school, and even back then she could hold her own in head-to-head action. Her face showed not a trace of surprise; maybe, lack of reaction was something one learned in head-shrinking school.
They had never been friends, but he knew she was the best at what she did. When he had researched pain alternatives, he had sometimes run his eclectic ideas past her. She had told him to come to Bolingbrook for years to find a better solution than poisoning himself with Vicodin. He ignored her and kept running his eccentric plans by her. She was the first one he had told about the Ketamine, and she had helped him research it.
He had never told Cuddy or Wilson or anyone about his experimentation with other forms of pain medication or his correspondence with a pain guru/shrink.
He needed Cuddy and Wilson too much to leave them for Bolingbrook. Not that he would admit it, even with hot pokers running through his leg. He needed them to believe that he was whole - well, as whole as a man with a hole in his leg could be.
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.” Cuddy’s words condemned him.
Now they would be better off without him.
***
“So you didn’t tell anyone where you were going? Don’t you think your friends are worried about you?”
“They’re better off without me,” House growled. They said so themselves.
Ironically, at the rehab they gave something for the pain. Morphine. Even better than Vicodin. Just a temporary solution while they figured out a real plan, Liz had warned him. He had fallen asleep in the hall three seconds after the relief had hit and it was 12 hours later before he awoke to Liz demanding he deal with practicalities.
The pain was at bay, temporarily, but the voices were back.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.”
“House.” Liz’s voice drew him back to the physical world, away from the voices. “What about your job?”
“You call them,” he insisted petulantly. “Call Cuddy and tell her where I am and to send the godforsaken paperwork she adores. I warn you that she won’t believe you. Or maybe it’s that she won’t believe me. Anyway, remind her to feed my rat. Or to get Wilson to do it.”
“Don’t you want to talk to her? Or anyone else before we start this in earnest?”
“No,” he could still hear the echoes in his head. “I just make everything worse”
Summary: Post-Words and Deeds, House takes recent events to heart and takes action.
Timeline: Post-Words and Deeds
Rating: PG-ish at the moment
Pairing: House/Cuddyish, but other characters play supporting roles
Disclaimor: Still not mine. Feedback is always welcome.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
The judge had modified her words. Held back what she first intended to say.
That Cuddy had lied for him. That he was a drug addict and a thief who belonged in jail. That he had stolen drugs from a dead man. Embroiled Wilson in his troubles, and then blamed the oncologist for them. Hit Chase.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.”
Cuddy’s words traded off with the judge’s in his head.
The restrained anger. The resignation. The frustration.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.”
Like a CD player stuck on repeat, as he lay on the barely-there mattress on the metal springs, his leg aching rhythmically despite the Vicodin that Wilson had unknowingly smuggled in via Voldemort, he heard the words again and again and again.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.”
They were more annoying than Cameron being nice, or Foreman being his boss. Or Chase just being Chase.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.”
The contraband Vicodin wore off too soon and the words got louder as the pain in his leg began to shoot in time with the words emblazoned in his audio memory.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.”
The pain in his leg and the voices in his head. Could be poetry.
Or worse.
Truth.
***
When his 24 hours were up, he half-expected an armed guard to escort him back to his voluntary rehab. Instead, alone at the door to the county jail, expected to fend for himself, limping and tortured like something out of a Bronte novel, he called a cab.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.”
The voices in his head were reminders as he waited.
He was alone. He had driven them all off.
They were better off.
***
His tour de Casa House took only a few minutes. After all, the cab was waiting, and his house de House was not so much a home these days.
He stuffed some clothes and reading material his backpack, grabbed the last of his secret stash of pain meds, dumped some food for Steve, and hobbled outthe door.
He knew where he had been. Knew where he was going. Or maybe not.
At least he would no longer be making them all worse off.
***
Courtesy of weather and an unexpected stop in Denver, it was almost a day later by the time he made it to Seattle.
The effect of his last few Vicodin had disappeared long before the plane hit the turbulence over the Rockies. The handful of Advil combined with the mini bottles of Vodka did little to dull the pain.
He drifted in some sort of half-awake haze of pain and not-strong-enough narcotics.
The voices continued to trade off with the pain.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.”
***
Bolingbrook Center. The sign was simple and green and white.
“All hope abandon ye who enter here” is what it should have said.
Dante’s Divine Comedy. Or perhaps House’s Divine Tragedy.
Perhaps, “You make everyone around you worse off for being there”? That’d look good on a sign.
“Are you getting out, buddy?” the cab driver said.
“I’m not your buddy,” House growled, even as he shuffled himself out of the cab. “I’m not anyone’s buddy.”
Each step sent shooting pains through his leg, and he leaned harder on his cane than ever before. His crutch and his pain. He felt like he’d had another chunk of muscle removed.
It’d be even worse inside.
But at least he’d get something for the physical pain.
***
“Liz.”
House growled at the redheaded woman who greeted him in the lobby.
“If it isn’t Dr. Gregory House?” she replied, her tone even. “I’ve been waiting for you for years.
House didn’t want to play poker with Liz Samuels. She had been a few years ahead of him at med school, and even back then she could hold her own in head-to-head action. Her face showed not a trace of surprise; maybe, lack of reaction was something one learned in head-shrinking school.
They had never been friends, but he knew she was the best at what she did. When he had researched pain alternatives, he had sometimes run his eclectic ideas past her. She had told him to come to Bolingbrook for years to find a better solution than poisoning himself with Vicodin. He ignored her and kept running his eccentric plans by her. She was the first one he had told about the Ketamine, and she had helped him research it.
He had never told Cuddy or Wilson or anyone about his experimentation with other forms of pain medication or his correspondence with a pain guru/shrink.
He needed Cuddy and Wilson too much to leave them for Bolingbrook. Not that he would admit it, even with hot pokers running through his leg. He needed them to believe that he was whole - well, as whole as a man with a hole in his leg could be.
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.” Cuddy’s words condemned him.
Now they would be better off without him.
***
“So you didn’t tell anyone where you were going? Don’t you think your friends are worried about you?”
“They’re better off without me,” House growled. They said so themselves.
Ironically, at the rehab they gave something for the pain. Morphine. Even better than Vicodin. Just a temporary solution while they figured out a real plan, Liz had warned him. He had fallen asleep in the hall three seconds after the relief had hit and it was 12 hours later before he awoke to Liz demanding he deal with practicalities.
The pain was at bay, temporarily, but the voices were back.
“My suspicion is you have better friends than you deserve.”
“You make everyone around you worse off for being there.”
“House.” Liz’s voice drew him back to the physical world, away from the voices. “What about your job?”
“You call them,” he insisted petulantly. “Call Cuddy and tell her where I am and to send the godforsaken paperwork she adores. I warn you that she won’t believe you. Or maybe it’s that she won’t believe me. Anyway, remind her to feed my rat. Or to get Wilson to do it.”
“Don’t you want to talk to her? Or anyone else before we start this in earnest?”
“No,” he could still hear the echoes in his head. “I just make everything worse”