House M.D. Fic: A Loyal Companion
Title: A Loyal Companion
Author:
sheenianni
Fandom: House, M.D.
Characters/Pairings: Gregory House
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,200
Summary: Some House introspection.
Content Notice: Thoughts about drug abuse, suicide, prostitution; some bad language
A/N: It was write House’s depression or wallow in my own. I picked writing.
___________________________________
You were always an ass; sarcastic and egoistic. That, at least, is not the result of the pain.
There are good days and bad days. Lately there’s been a lot more bad than good. In the end, the good days just become more torture - the brief reprieve comes at the cost of crashing hard, the pain hitting you like a truck when previously you’ve almost grown used to it.
You swallow pill after pill even though they have only the barest effect. It doesn’t get worse with them, though, so you take three and six and eight pills a day, knowing all too well you’re destroying your liver, and maybe that will kill you if the pain in your leg doesn’t. You’re not sure you would mind that, actually.
You think about killing yourself a couple times a month. You know exactly how you’d do it too - you’re a doctor; there are ways that are essentially painless. There’d be no will and no goodbye letter - you’re a selfish ass, let them deal with it themselves. No more pain. No more nothing. Some days, it’s like a siren’s call and then you do crazy things to get the thought out of your head because it’s just so tempting. Death, the ultimate answer. The final solution.
You think it’s a coward’s way out. Worse, you’d know that you failed, and your ego doesn’t (yet) allow you to take that ultimate step. If you kill yourself you’ll never be able to fix the problem, and what if there is an answer?
You can’t tell anyone about this, of course. You know damn too well that they’d scream “suicidal” and “depression”, and if you tell they might not let you work at the hospital anymore. They’d make you go to therapy or give you antidepressants, and none of that would do a thing about the pain in your leg; even now they treat you like you’re damaged goods. Besides, being a doctor is one of the very few precious things that still helps - it doesn’t stop the pain but it often distracts you so that you can almost not feel it. Distractions are all you have these days.
The first year or two after the operation, you were actually hopeful. You thought that surely there was a medical solution; it was just a matter of finding it. You exercised like they told you. You took pills, shots, whatever they proposed; you underwent scans and procedures, you tried five different specialists and a couple experimental treatments. And then when conventional medicine failed you, you tried unconventional - Chinese medicine, hypnotists, crystals and acupuncture and energy readers and faith healers, and they all smiled and acted very seriously and none of it did shit to help.
You did make debts that took over three years to pay off, so those “treatments” had some effect at least. You’re still bitterly ashamed that you allowed desperation to drive you that low - and worse, you’re angry because surely at least one damn thing should have worked. Where are the myths and lies and placebo effects when you need them to work for you?!
They all call you a genius, best diagnostician in the country if not the world - and then they seem to think that also means being the best at fixing people. You wonder how they can all be so willfully blind; how ignorant, cynical or just plain idiotic they must be to ignore the elephant in the room. You’re no genius; you can’t even heal yourself. You’re a fucking failure, that’s what you are.
Nowadays, instead of paying faith healers, you hire prostitutes. They’re cheaper, better at distracting you and they don’t pretend to have any answers besides knowing how to fuck or suck your dick. They’re better-looking, too.
Once or twice, you tried to prescribe prostitutes to your incurable patients. None of them took it well. Shame about that, but then again, some people just can’t appreciate quality services. It’s their lives anyway - you’re just a diagnostician, you’re not there to fix them.
You’d never admit it aloud, but it feels good to cure someone. You hate that it’s not enough. You could cure cancer world-wide and it wouldn’t matter; the pain would still be there. The reprieve would last a few hours, and then you’d need more pills and a new case anyway. You know; you’ve gone through this way too many times already.
And so you search for answers and distractions. You’re mean and cruel and cynical and you mess with people as much as you dare. People are a great distraction - it’s like shaking a box of ants to see what happens, only far more intriguing. You still diagnose the patients in the meantime and you usually stop just before your actions get you arrested or fired or completely ruin whatever few relationships you have left. Contrary to popular belief, you do have some self-restraint.
(Except when the pain gets unbearable and you’d do anything to make it stop.)
One thing you’d never admit - sometimes you wish you let them take your leg. Phantom pains, prosthetics, being even more of a cripple, could it really be worse than this constant pain? Except admitting that would mean that you were wrong. That there is no miraculous solution just behind the corner; that there never was. That all your pain and suffering was all for nothing.
You’d rather keep suffering than take that risk.
The pain takes and takes and takes. Whatever things you have left, you hold onto them possessively, aggressively.
There are a few blissful days when you try the Methadone and the pain disappears. You almost cry in relief until you realize you screwed up the case. That’s when you’re petrified by fear - you can survive with the pain if you have your brain, and you might give up your brain if you knew for sure you’d stay pain-free, but what if the Methadone stops working eventually like the Vicodin did? To be in pain and not be a doctor… you can’t give up that one safety net. You’ll rather keep going on as you have until now.
You play the piano and torture Wilson and hire three prostitutes at once. It doesn’t make you feel any better.
You’re bitter and self-centered and selfish and you hurt people right and left. You still diagnose, and somehow that’s enough for them to tolerate you. Some people even like you, though it’s a mystery why - if Wilson was sane he would have given up on you years ago. If you were a better friend you’d tell him to run like hell and stay the fuck away.
And yet… as rare as they are, there are good days. There are small victories, moments of bliss, the random hours of pure joy and laugher and companionship. Moments when you drive your motorbike or watch monster trucks or make a particularly clever deduction or have a moment with Wilson. It’s then that life feels good, that you remember how it was all before.
Moments like that make you feverish for an answer, make you take stupid risks and make you even more vicious to everybody when they end.
The pain is your constant companion.
Author:
sheenianni
Fandom: House, M.D.
Characters/Pairings: Gregory House
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,200
Summary: Some House introspection.
Content Notice: Thoughts about drug abuse, suicide, prostitution; some bad language
A/N: It was write House’s depression or wallow in my own. I picked writing.
___________________________________
You were always an ass; sarcastic and egoistic. That, at least, is not the result of the pain.
There are good days and bad days. Lately there’s been a lot more bad than good. In the end, the good days just become more torture - the brief reprieve comes at the cost of crashing hard, the pain hitting you like a truck when previously you’ve almost grown used to it.
You swallow pill after pill even though they have only the barest effect. It doesn’t get worse with them, though, so you take three and six and eight pills a day, knowing all too well you’re destroying your liver, and maybe that will kill you if the pain in your leg doesn’t. You’re not sure you would mind that, actually.
You think about killing yourself a couple times a month. You know exactly how you’d do it too - you’re a doctor; there are ways that are essentially painless. There’d be no will and no goodbye letter - you’re a selfish ass, let them deal with it themselves. No more pain. No more nothing. Some days, it’s like a siren’s call and then you do crazy things to get the thought out of your head because it’s just so tempting. Death, the ultimate answer. The final solution.
You think it’s a coward’s way out. Worse, you’d know that you failed, and your ego doesn’t (yet) allow you to take that ultimate step. If you kill yourself you’ll never be able to fix the problem, and what if there is an answer?
You can’t tell anyone about this, of course. You know damn too well that they’d scream “suicidal” and “depression”, and if you tell they might not let you work at the hospital anymore. They’d make you go to therapy or give you antidepressants, and none of that would do a thing about the pain in your leg; even now they treat you like you’re damaged goods. Besides, being a doctor is one of the very few precious things that still helps - it doesn’t stop the pain but it often distracts you so that you can almost not feel it. Distractions are all you have these days.
The first year or two after the operation, you were actually hopeful. You thought that surely there was a medical solution; it was just a matter of finding it. You exercised like they told you. You took pills, shots, whatever they proposed; you underwent scans and procedures, you tried five different specialists and a couple experimental treatments. And then when conventional medicine failed you, you tried unconventional - Chinese medicine, hypnotists, crystals and acupuncture and energy readers and faith healers, and they all smiled and acted very seriously and none of it did shit to help.
You did make debts that took over three years to pay off, so those “treatments” had some effect at least. You’re still bitterly ashamed that you allowed desperation to drive you that low - and worse, you’re angry because surely at least one damn thing should have worked. Where are the myths and lies and placebo effects when you need them to work for you?!
They all call you a genius, best diagnostician in the country if not the world - and then they seem to think that also means being the best at fixing people. You wonder how they can all be so willfully blind; how ignorant, cynical or just plain idiotic they must be to ignore the elephant in the room. You’re no genius; you can’t even heal yourself. You’re a fucking failure, that’s what you are.
Nowadays, instead of paying faith healers, you hire prostitutes. They’re cheaper, better at distracting you and they don’t pretend to have any answers besides knowing how to fuck or suck your dick. They’re better-looking, too.
Once or twice, you tried to prescribe prostitutes to your incurable patients. None of them took it well. Shame about that, but then again, some people just can’t appreciate quality services. It’s their lives anyway - you’re just a diagnostician, you’re not there to fix them.
You’d never admit it aloud, but it feels good to cure someone. You hate that it’s not enough. You could cure cancer world-wide and it wouldn’t matter; the pain would still be there. The reprieve would last a few hours, and then you’d need more pills and a new case anyway. You know; you’ve gone through this way too many times already.
And so you search for answers and distractions. You’re mean and cruel and cynical and you mess with people as much as you dare. People are a great distraction - it’s like shaking a box of ants to see what happens, only far more intriguing. You still diagnose the patients in the meantime and you usually stop just before your actions get you arrested or fired or completely ruin whatever few relationships you have left. Contrary to popular belief, you do have some self-restraint.
(Except when the pain gets unbearable and you’d do anything to make it stop.)
One thing you’d never admit - sometimes you wish you let them take your leg. Phantom pains, prosthetics, being even more of a cripple, could it really be worse than this constant pain? Except admitting that would mean that you were wrong. That there is no miraculous solution just behind the corner; that there never was. That all your pain and suffering was all for nothing.
You’d rather keep suffering than take that risk.
The pain takes and takes and takes. Whatever things you have left, you hold onto them possessively, aggressively.
There are a few blissful days when you try the Methadone and the pain disappears. You almost cry in relief until you realize you screwed up the case. That’s when you’re petrified by fear - you can survive with the pain if you have your brain, and you might give up your brain if you knew for sure you’d stay pain-free, but what if the Methadone stops working eventually like the Vicodin did? To be in pain and not be a doctor… you can’t give up that one safety net. You’ll rather keep going on as you have until now.
You play the piano and torture Wilson and hire three prostitutes at once. It doesn’t make you feel any better.
You’re bitter and self-centered and selfish and you hurt people right and left. You still diagnose, and somehow that’s enough for them to tolerate you. Some people even like you, though it’s a mystery why - if Wilson was sane he would have given up on you years ago. If you were a better friend you’d tell him to run like hell and stay the fuck away.
And yet… as rare as they are, there are good days. There are small victories, moments of bliss, the random hours of pure joy and laugher and companionship. Moments when you drive your motorbike or watch monster trucks or make a particularly clever deduction or have a moment with Wilson. It’s then that life feels good, that you remember how it was all before.
Moments like that make you feverish for an answer, make you take stupid risks and make you even more vicious to everybody when they end.
The pain is your constant companion.