House of Justice

By the time the swarm of media arrives to hassle, House is safely seated on the wood bench of the court waiting room, small band of supporters lined up around him in a privacy-protecting semi circle.

"I've heard Sullivan paid a visit to judge Andrews yesterday afternoon, on down-sizing the charges." Stacy tries to keep everyone's spirits up with continuous bits of positive info.

"What kind of judge is Andrews?" Wilson is interested.

"Old school" She explains. "Stern and tit-for tat."

"Meaning…?" Cuddy urges an elaboration.

"He sentences property destruction with volunteer work equaling the value lost, and assaults with prison equaling the victim's recovery time."

"So if they find me guilty on drug abuse, every patient I've lost can be presented as negligent homicide." House takes the facts to their logical end. "Does he give capital punishment for murder?" He asks in genuine concern.

"This state hasn't seen one in decades." Wilson is quick to reassure everyone.

"Because last one got off on temporary insanity." House counters. "Based on my diagnosis."

"Than I'll have you declared certified." Cuddy pulls rank.

"Would you? Ha?" He makes a puppy-eyed plea, causing everyone to chuckle nervously.

Out of the corner of his eye House spots his parents, Blythe walking over with a soft smile and John content to keep his distance.

"Good morning doctors." Blythe joins in.

"Morning Mrs House." Replies the small choir, while House remains silent, feeling guilty for placing her in his situation.

"You look good, Greg." She offers gently.

"Feel like road kill." He averts his eyes as her own become pained.

Stacy glances at the clock. "Let's go in."

House comes to his feet slowly, the motion telling of his dull ache, and heads for the door with a ring of moral backup. John joins his wife silently; uneasy glances exchanged between father and son.

Greg stops at the door to medicate before the proceedings so as not to induce pity or indignation from any stranger present, timing perfect as Tritter comes over as well, a cold "Doctor." offered.

"Detective." Greg glares back, pointedly swallowing a couple of pills in front of the prosecution.

"Who's that?" John asks anyone and no one in particular.

Packing the meds, Greg bitterly mutters "The son you never had." and enters, striding down the isle with confidence and calm. No way in hell is he going to play drama for the gathered audience, ogling voyeurs with too much time on their hands and a weird choice of entertainment.

"Best behavior." Stacy reminds as they take the front row seats, Lisa and Jimmy just behind the low fence, his folk a few rows behind, a compromise between her need to be close and his desire to stay at canes length.

A courtroom of people rises on arrival of the judge, squatty with stern features and thinning gray hair.

"People vs Gregory House" Sullivan begins proceedings, prompting a stifled snort from House.

"One cop makes a people." He whispers, head down, Stacy quick to jab him on the ribs.

"…on account of substance abuse, patient endangerment and refusing to comply with a court decision." The DA concludes a heavily curtailed list of accusations.

"How do you plea?" Andrews squints at House.

"Not guilty."

Curt nod later the judge takes a pair of reading glasses to study a document at hand. "This being your second charge for the same offenses, I'm skipping preliminary and scheduling a jury trial starting tomorrow, same time. Bail is set to one thousand dollars, with the understanding you will remain within the limits of this jurisdiction at all times, and available to the officers of this court."

"We understand, your honor." Stacy steps in for House.

"Mrs. Sullivan…" The judge looks over his glasses. "No more last moment changes." He warns. "Court is adjourned." The mallet bangs, Andrews rising to leave and everyone else flowing suit.

House and company wait for the spectators to pour out before leaving themselves.

On Greg's approach, Blythe comments the start of trial. "I thought there'd be more."

"Scare tactic." House begins. "They were hoping I'd chicken at the thought of unending trial, tarnished reputation, loss of privacy, lawyer expense and what not. They were hoping I'd come running for a deal – couple of years minimum security prison."

"But you called their bluff." Wilson follows.

"So what's next?" Cuddy is curious.

"She grills me." Greg thumbs at Stacy, who rolls her eyes in response.

"You're the best one to rationalize your own actions, and if I call you to testify Sullivan gets to question you afterwards, when the annoyance and pain start coming back." She gives him a sharp look, like a teacher to a slow child. "Best to get your testimony out of the way fast." She doesn't need to elaborate on why, not to these people.

"C'mon. Let's get out of here." Greg waves them onward, but slows to a halt only steps later, gulping at the sight of a sea of cameras and microphones, waiting like ambush predators.

It is then that John takes charge, roles of commander and fighter second nature to the veteran marine.

"Anyone drove here?" He demands rather than asks.

"I… did." Wilson replies, wondering what John has in mind.

"Where's your car?"

"Parking lot a block north."

"Keys." House Senior holds out a hand. "Please." He adds gruffly.

"Blythe, take the rear fire exit." He jerks his head down a corridor. "Park the car as close as you can, get out of the car, ring me and wait on the passenger side."

Taking the keys dangling between them, she heads out slowly so as not to attract attention.

"You won't mind public transport?" He adds to Wilson like an afterthought, certain it is assumed.

"You can come with me." Cuddy interjects.

"That's done then." John answers for the oncologist. "Now the breach. I go first." The man thumbs at his chest, than points at Greg. "Stay close, eyes front, ignore the noise." You ladies -" He gathers Lisa and Stacy in a sweeping glance. "- flank him, chest to the vultures." Thumbs point outward. "Wilson, hold the rear, if they push you on Greg and he falls, I'll have your hide."

With the speed and clarity of a broken in cadet Jimmy spits out a 'Yessir.'

Just as impatience settles in, the first tones of a patriotic song blare from John's pocket. On cue he takes the corridor back, quartet falling in position behind him to form a diamond formation. "Ready?"

Greg takes a calming breath. "Slow and steady." He finishes the rhyming give and take, so common once upon a time. In a split second he wonders what happened between learning to drive the tricycle and school that turned trust to fear.

But the musing ends abruptly as doors swing open wide, releasing a flood of noise as the reporters rush in from the corner, the sea of people inching toward them like a sweeping tide. Moving in step with the older man, nose an inch from his nape, Greg actively shuts out the ever closer commotion.

In what feels like an eternity later, and at the same time only a moment, John takes on the role of vale, opening the drivers seat for Greg. The last Greg can hear before the door slams shut is reporters pestering his friends, and Stacy's defiant 'No comments!'

A thick, heavy silence fills the Volvo sedan as Greg drives off, father shotgun and mother in the back. Finally, as he pulls into the underground garage of Princeton-Plainsboro, he loosens the grip on the steering wheel.

"Do you think I'm an addict?" The question is painful and courageous to utter, abrupt and shocking as much as it is long awaited.

John pouts his thin-line mouth, mind torn between the alternatives. "No."

Eyes on the rear view mirror, Greg sees Blythe's expression and finds it useless. She doesn't know if it is true, because she doesn't know what John thinks, because he doesn't know what to think. At least he hasn't already decided on 'faliure'.

"It's a start." His statement is an unsatisfying conclusion to the clipped conversation.

…

Bleeps from the play station fill the clinic room as House kills time, cane and coat at his side on the exam table.

A knock forwards of someone's entry, and he looks up to see a young blonde.

"Wrong door." She utters on recognition and leaves hastily.

Indifferent, he returns to the game.

…

A tall, Hispanic bailiff brings the bible to House.

"That's not the most appropriate thing for me to swear on." He states, eyes on emblazoned letters.

"What would be?" Inquires the judge.

"I could do it the roman way." He looks up innocently.

Andrews passes a hand down his face, Stacy winces, Sullivan blinks bewildered while a room full of people murmurs curious and confused.

"Find something more appropriate." The judge gives House a pointed look.

On reflex, as always when in deep thought, House's eyes fall to the cane handle, but this time a pair of snake eyes look back up, and he gets that odd, distant look of epiphany. Slowly, he grasps the cane with one hand, the other raised. "I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth."

Sullivan approaches the bench, forearm on the barrier separating them as if this is a casual conversation, unnerving him with the intrusion in his personal space.

"Dr House, have you ever attacked a colleague."

"I have kept one from interfering with a medical examination." He recalls the elevator incident with Froman to evade admitting a punch.

"Have you punched Dr Robert chase." She persists.

"My medication was withheld." House growls back.

"Yes or no, Dr House."

"Yes." He spits, and continues to do so for the next dozen questions, as Sullivan keeps omitting context to build her case.

Yes he stole pills form a dead man, what's so reviling about that? Would it be better if he took it from the living one that could use them? Yes he walked into an OR and coughed at everything in sight, he saved two lives in doing so. Yes he broke every rule in the book, but following rules is what kept his patients from getting diagnosed and treated. Zebras can't be treated like horses.

Answers come out unfeeling, like he's talking about anyone but himself. House is only half aware that she is thanking him for the testimony with a heavy side dish of vindication.

Stacy steps out with a folder, turning the pages studiously. "Dr House, when have you started taking pain medication and for what reason? In layman's terms, please."

"A clot resulted in muscle death. The web of neurons innervating my thigh got stuck in a feed back loop while sending pain signals, which is why it persists long after the dead tissue was removed."

"Is there a cure?"

"None presently. Pain killers are the only available treatment."

"How effective is your regiment?" Stacy moves into dangerous territory.

House's eyes become cold steel. "It allows me autonomy."

Does it eliminate pain?" She pushes.

"It makes it manageable." He persists in avoiding admission.

"Why not take a larger dose?"

"It would interfere with my reasoning skills, making me unfit to do my job properly and place patients at risk."

"How do you know you have not crossed the line already?"

"In the last ten years I have only lost five patients to an untimely or incorrect diagnosis."

"Out of how many?"

"One case a week, one or two persons per case, fifty weeks a year, ten years… Five hundred patients minimum."

"That is more people than I can name." She makes a not so subtle hint to the audience. "Have you considered alternatives to Vicodin?"

"Yes." His voice is adamant.

"When?"

"When I started building a tolerance to the drug."

"What alternatives have you tried and what was their effect?"

"Induced coma yielded total but temporary pain relief. I was refused from one chronic pain study because it was limited to terminal cancer patients." He glances meaningfully at Wilson and Lisa, who's expressions instantly turn to regret and guilt. "I had forgone nerve transplant because it would lead to lifelong immunity problems, and am currently trying a new medication plan based on neurotransmitter depletion."

"During the temporary success, did you take any drugs?"

"No."

"And you haven't returned to pain meds because you missed the high or craved the drug?"

"My body detoxed during the coma, as for psychological dependency… Even with opiates I was never neutral, let alone high."

"I see." She states vaguely, as if it was enough to bury the subject. "What are your specialties, Dr House?"

"I am certified in infectious diseases and nephrology, and hold an honorary specialty in pathology."

"How many articles do you publish a year, in comparison to the average."

"One per major case, meaning several dozen, meaning up to ten times more." Conveniently he avoids noting Cameron wrote most of those.

"Are you asked to review papers, take consults, give speeches or lectures?"

"Hundreds daily."

"I assume you have to decline a vast majority."

House nods. "All but the consults."

"So you could live from fame alone but you chose to treat people anyway."

"Yes."

"What kind of consults?"

"Patients presenting inexplicable symptoms."

"In other words seriously ill people few other doctors could diagnose."

"Putting it mildly."

"Fifty a year?" Stacy sounds incredulous, hammering the point home.

"Give or take a few." House plays the modest role.

"Dr House, do you know the detective working on your case, and if so how come?"

"The detective was my patient in the free clinic." House keeps his eyes off Tritter, omission of name securing the man's identity.

"What did he come to you for?"

"He suspected an infection."

"How long did it take you to diagnose?"

"Five seconds." House states with pride.

"Would you explain how you managed that?"

"Upon seeing the suspected locale I noticed it was not infected but merely irritated. I advised moisturizing." House gives the child-friendly version of the events.

"Did he take your advice?"

"The detective questioned my competency and demanded I take a sample." House notices the prosecution side relax visibly at the omission of the cane-kicking incident.

"Did you oblige?"

"I took the sample and gave him a thermometer before leaving to check on lab works for the current consult. I forgot to return to the clinic." This time the prosecution seeds with repressed frustration, unable to protest on this omission on the fact the defense had them in a silent blackmail.

"Later that day you were stopped for speeding, correct?"

"Yes."

"Who stopped you?"

"The patient."

"A narcotic detective making traffic-related arrests. After forgoing a visit to his physician for a trip to the free clinic?"

"I was surprised as you are."

"The arrest report says there were unprescribed drugs on your person. Where did you get them?"

"At the hospital pharmacy."

"I submit the pharmacy log as evidence." Stacy takes out a copy of the document, parading it before the jury.

"And the ones found in your apartment?"

"During the course of investigation my medication regimen was suddenly and severely restricted without a medical reason, and there were signs it would be removed altogether. Pain, and fear of more pain, can make one act unreasonably." He admits the mistake.

Stacy takes on a thoughtful posture, arms crossed and index on chin. "Why have you punched Dr Chase?"

Nervous, House starts twirling the cane between open palms. "He persisted in stating my diagnosis of the current patient was wrong."

"Was it?"

House makes a deep, regretful sigh. "Yes."

"Was this before or after your medication was withheld?"

"During." He corrects.

"So the only time you were a threat to patients and colleagues, you were off the pills?"

His head goes back up, back tall and proud. "That's correct."

Stacy and he share an eyes-only smile. "No further questions."

"Court is in recess." The judge declares lunch break.

Limping from the bench, House glares at Stacy. "You lied."

"When?" She demands, incredulous, as they walk to the audience section.

"You promised not to play the pity card." He opens the low doors for her. "But you set the questioning up so that I'd be soul-spilling about withdrawal just when the meds start wearing off, sending subliminal pity-me signals to the jury - tone, posture and stuff." His scowl melts to an approving grin. "You devil you."

…

Cane raps against linoleum as House stands in the staircase, shirt and slacks replaced by tee and jeans, as he listens to the janitor moving in the gym after the last of the patients have left. Finally the squeal of tires tells of the man's departure, elevator doors opening and shutting before House turns the corner into the empty hall.

Inside, he leans the cane at a bar running the length of the walkway and makes a tenacious step, hand on thigh for feedback. Slowly he lifts the good foot from the ground so his body weight shifts gradually to the injured one, a shy smile stretching his lips as the toes peel off, gone in the next moment as he goes down. Hands clutched at the bars save him from a busied face.

A loud breath later he pushes himself up again, this time using the bar for support.

Over and over he crosses the short path, each pass requiring less weight to be shifted to the arm, for shorter and shorter a time. Each step with the bad leg slower and more alike the healthy one's, until, beaded in sweat hours later, he stands at the end of the walkway, a foot away from an exercise bench. The short distance is tempting and he again finds the courage for an unaided step.

Hands slip away from the bars, resting at his sides, as the bad leg moves ahead like a cautious scout, rectus femoris complaining of having to do the normal moves. Finding sure footing he leans forward lifts the good leg all the way, teeth sunk into the lower lip short of drawing blood. Incredulity trumps agony as he makes a full, healthy stride for the first time in almost a year.

Good leg makes touchdown and he makes no pretense at health any more, just lumping at the firm rubber seat. With a huge grin on his face he rubs the burning muscle vigorously, like a parent praising his kid after pulling off a difficult and scary task.

Looking up he sees something to wipe the smile away. In the dark of hallway and outdoors the glass wall and windows act as twin mirrors facing one another, providing him with a faint yet unwanted glance at his back, deformed to a hunch from the constant limping.

But that tiny step, despite pain and difficulty of execution, had a profound change. It was an improvement however small, and it brought a truckload of hope.

So despite tiredness, House turns over on the bench, toes hooked at the edge, and with fingers entwined at the nape, lifts his back clear off its surface.

"One…"

…

The week long trial has taken its toll on House, and he sits at the defendant's table looking pretty run down, waiting for the room to fill. He expects a crowd, anxious for the last few testimonies and final statements. Stacy's words from the time of making battle plans are vague in his mind, something about a parade of grateful patients, and he scoffs at the thought of being presented like Patch Addams.

House is oblivious to the initial proceedings, rising and sitting at the correct time only for Stacy's prods, while doing a slew of diagnoses in his mind, the simple referrals he'd usually not spare a glance for.

Than the highlight of defense begins, best saved for last and boy has the audience got lucky, free tickets to a live show no one expected.

Of course it begins low key, with young talents and small time celebrities like the rich guy a history of hippie and leprosy, oft read and rarely seen scandal journalist or photographer.

Than things move to bigger fish like the musical and athletic comebacks ranging from the little followed cycling to a press time bonanza the scale of baseball.

Finally, Stacy pummels the opposition with a one-two that is world famous charity doctor and none other than former president candidate.

Yet even here, after every positive review, some more forced than others, the prosecution is quick to point out every wild guess, aggressive confrontation and protocol bypassing. And everything Stacy did with House's testimony, Sullivan returns in kind, only on a far larger scale.

As the jury withdraws for a night of counsel, House has a sinking feeling in his gut.

…

Summer dusk comes late to Princeton, leaving the hospital in dull hues of blue. Cuddy descends the stairs, picking up on faint notes, vibrant and repetitive. Curious, she follows it to the psyche ward, finding Greg play pianino in the lounge. Without warning he jumps to energetic drum-like chords, feet stomping in place of percussions.

"Out here in the fields I work for my meals, I put my back into my living.
I don't need to fight to prove I'm right, I don't need to be forgiven."

The low ticking of stilettos pulls him from the musical trance, blue meeting blue. A small eternity is suspended in the space of a second, their locked eyes turning saucer like. House turns back to the keys, starting a slower, gentler melody.

More easily than horns of Jericho, quiet tones bring down the concrete bulwarks of House, depths of Greg's soul flowing out in a stream. Lisa is unable refuse the rare invitation in his private side, taking a seat next to him on the small player's bench.

At the first chorus the song dawns on her, surprised he'd listen, let alone know how to play it. In the next instant she realizes that nothing could be closer to 'their song' than this, precisely because there is and is no 'them'.

As the finale comes and goes, Greg jumps back to the riveting melody he started with.

"Sally take my hand, we'll travel south 'corss land
Put out the fire and don't look past my shoulder."

He sings the meaningful lyrics with an unwavering eye-to-eye she doesn't break.

"Greg…" Lisa pleads exasperated, but her choice of name makes it know she will in time consent.

"One for goodbye." The song trails off.

"You don't know-"

"Regrets are worse than mistakes." He cuts her off, than changes his tone to promising. "Third time's the charm."

The shot at motherhood is tempting, but… "Or an issue." She counters with the punch-line of a different proverb, reminding it could also be a third failure. "What if it doesn't take hold, or doesn't keep."

Greg shrugs. "Than adopt."

She rubs thoughtfully at her brow, torn between hope and fear. "Why you?"

"Why not?" His return is valid.

Lisa shakes her head. "I can't imagine why you'd want to."

"I'm an arrogant ass who thinks the world would be incomplete without a mine-me. Or I'm a half decent person who'd like to return a favor."

"And if everything goes well?" She faces her true issue. "If you're acquitted and I sustain the pregnancy."

"I'm not promising anything." The answer is characteristic in its blunt, inconsiderate honesty.

"I don't know if I could raise it around you and not-"

"You don't want me involved." He's self-deprecating again. "Trust me."

"So what do I tell it?"

"The truth." He replies without a moment's thought.

She is somewhat surprised at that. "Either way?"

"Either way."

Tomes worth of unspoken understanding passes between them in a split second eternity, Lisa astride his lap before either of them know it.

…

"All rise." Calls the bailiff, while Judge Andrews climbs to his place of authority.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a conclusion?" The old man inquires.

A middle aged brunette stands up. "We have, your honor."

"What say you?"

"On the charges of substance abuse and patient endangerment we find the defendant not guilty."

Relief spills from the defendant's side in a tidal wave of sighs, all knowing the rest is easy.

"On the charges not complying with a court decision we find the defendant guilty."

Stacy and House exchange surprised, fearful looks.

"The court thanks you for your service." Andrews dismisses her and turns to House. "I hereby sentence you to voluntary work, in the duration of the rehab program, to be served in the at the community clinic in the capacity of physician."

House blinks in slow motion, strangled chuckles from the people nearest barely registering in his dumbstruck state.

The gavel strikes. "Court adjourned!"

Chairs moved, feet shuffling and conversations murmured add up to the white noise of a room being emptied. Commotion pulls House from confusion and he springs into action. The hair is tussled to chaos, jacket shrugged off, shirt pulled from slacks, its sleeves rolled up and buttons undone. Underneath, a tee reads 'Will diagnose 4 drugs', bold statement flying in the face of the loosing prosecution.

"Ricky's bar in five." He turns to the amused crowd and places his shades. "Beer's on Wilson."

THE END

John Hopkins blue jays never made it to the '71 finale. Congrats to the real winners.
Testify', from the Latin testes, 'nads, because the Romans swore on their manhood.

Next

PHYSICIAN HEAL THYSELF

Critical Care

House's brain begins shutting down for no reason.
Are ducklings willing and able to help?
Do Cuddy and Wilson know what treatment he'd prefer?