A White Horse Named Vicodin

By Jackyblu

Part Four

House sat on the edge of his bed rubbing his thigh. It was feeling better. Now it only felt like knives were piercing the muscle. That was an improvement.

He thought he could take the ibuprofen now. In about an hour he would feel a little better. Just an hour or so worth of waiting to get some relief.

He could do that. He could sit on the couch with the heating pad and watch TV. He might even have another beer. How bad could that be?

House rubbed his leg trying to sooth the pain within. Why were some days worse than others? He understood that damp days were worse than dry ones. That cold affected it more than heat. He was a doctor after all. It wasn't rocket science; something he found boring. A is to B with equal thrust. D goes to E and is inserted in F. How dull except for lift off. Now that was cool.

He let his mind roam freely. He needed a distraction. What could he concentrate on for an hour once he took the ibuprofen?

He could play the organ. He could watch a movie. He could annoy Wilson. That sounded promising.

Or he could take a single white caplet and be feeling much better in fifteen minutes.

House rubbed harder trying to work the remaining muscle.

Salvation was waiting for him in the top dresser drawer, the same salvation that plunged him into hell. It had also lifted him out of the pit. Which was his preference, hell or damnation? They both had something he didn't need. Pain.

Why does it always come down to that choice for me? Why is it always the devil I know?

Just like every time before this when House wanted Vicodin so badly his mind took him to a room with a heavy locked door and a bed with straps to hold his wrist and ankles. The thought made his stomach turn over. It scared him. He never wanted to go back through that death again.

House closed his eyes. The fear was good. The fear kept him sober.

Not sober enough.

To avoid his pain he had been drinking more than usual. To deal with his rejection by Cuddy he drank a bit more than that. To deal with his unhappiness he drank a bit more still. Add all those bits together and it was a bottle a night. At what point did those bottles grow and multiply? At what point did he stop deluding himself by not counting the beers with the meals he barely ate? The drinks he sneaked in his office after he finished for the night when no one was around?

How many times did he wake up and not be where he was supposed to be and not to remember where he was?

Too many nights were the answer. Even if only one, it was too many.

But it wasn't just one.

He had passed out at his desk in his office one night. He didn't open his eyes until the sickening red gold of morning came intruding through the blinds. He was both startled and alarmed. He couldn't let anyone catch him. What of the cleaning crew? Had anyone seen him snoring, a heavy vapor of alcohol surrounding his sedated form?

That worried House. Would the janitor that found him report it to his supervisor? Would the news travel around the hospital until it reached Cuddy's ears?

House rubbed his hands over his unshaven face. His eyes were blurry and the stink was on his breath.

He had to get out. He had to get home. If he timed it right he could miss Wilson. He could salvage this. He could save his ass.

House has limped to the parking lot and deeply sucked in the morning air. It was cold that morning. His leg protested but his head was gratefully clearing. He wanted to ride home without his helmet the wind in his face but now wasn't the tome to get stopped by the cops. He had had one run in with a cop and that was enough for him to know they were better left alone. After that encounter he was also very selective as to where his thermometer went. Not that he'd been scared. Well not exactly.

House had made it home without incident and felt better after a careful ride. Wilson's car was still parked on the street. House stayed out of sight around the corner until Wilson had driven away. He had let himself in and gone to Wilson's bathroom to use the tub and think.

What he thought was that Wilson knew. He hadn't been home and the most recent case was solved. He knew House hadn't come home. He knew House had nowhere else to go.

Wilson approached him carefully that afternoon. He didn't accuse. He didn't condemn. He simply asked, 'Are you okay?'

House sat on the bed and rubbed his leg. This wasn't the distraction he was looking for. Remembering that night and the look in Wilson's eyes of what, disappointment, concern, understanding, was not going to make him feel better. How could it? How could anything but the drugs? God his leg hurt.

House got off the bed and limped to the dresser. He opened the drawer.

This isn't what I want. I can't do this again.

He closed the drawer. House picked up a bottle from the top of his dresser. He had these bottles all over the loft. He didn't want to limp too far to find relief. Wilson had made sure they were available to him.

House opened the bottle and dry swallowed two ibuprofen. He let out a small ironic laugh. As a nephrologist he knew it was bad for the kidneys. Where as high doses of acetaminophen was bad for the liver. He knew all this. Hell even people with no medical degree knew prolonged use of such drugs were bad. Alcohol wasn't the answer either. It was bad for the liver and not too good for the brain.

If the pain doesn't kill me the remedies will. Not a fair trade.

House was filled with bitter thoughts.

His leg wasn't his fault. He hadn't been in an accident or injured due to his own mistake. He had an infarction. He placed the blame squarely with a God he didn't believe in. It wasn't logical but there it was a place to vent his anger and pain. It was God's fault. Not his.

He also didn't ask for the operation that took place as he slept. He was so blindsided when he found part of his thigh missing he didn't know where to place his anger. First he was too dazed by the morphine. When the pain came in overwhelming waves he could focus on nothing else. He had so believed he would get through the worst of it if he slept. He had just needed time. That was all, just time for everything to wash through his system. How could he have been so wrong?

When he was coherent he discovered the truth. He was missing part of his leg.

House tried to place the blame again with God but this wasn't his doing. This had been done by someone he loved. House tried, he really tried to blame Cuddy. That was a shock. How could someone he was drawn to in his past reach out and hurt him so badly in his future? In his drug numb state he even tried to think of her punishing him for sleeping with her and never contacting her again. God if he had only known!

But ultimately he let go of that thought. The person who had betrayed him was sitting by his bed every possible moment. She was holding his hand. She smoothed his hair. She stroked his cheek. She cried. She told him she was sorry and had only wanted him to live.

He ignored her. He fired irrational anger at her. He couldn't be consoled.

House closed his eyes and sighed. This had all happened long ago. Maybe a lifetime ago, he was never sure.

This isn't helping. Every time my leg gets really bad I go back there. I have to let it go.

House thought of calling Dr. Nolan. Maybe if he could talk to someone he would feel better. Maybe someone could talk him off the ledge he was on. On one side was pain and if he leaned too far the other way he would fall into chasm that was drug dependency.

"House? You okay in there?"

Wilson.

House shook his head. All this time there was someone he could talk to, someone who had been there all along, his best friend, the one person who had come down this road with him.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"You need anything?"

House smiled a little. His leg hurt too much to allow him any more.

"Is the heating pad still on?"

"It turns itself off after a while. I'll turn it back on for you. You need help?"

There was the nature of James Wilson. So eager to help and always there to care.

"I can manage."

I think.

House heard Wilson leave his door. He took a deep breath and picked up his cane. Maybe he would get through this episode. For no particular reason he glanced at the clock. It felt like he had been in his room for hours but it had been only thirty minutes. Pain does funny things to time. When you're waiting for it to lessen or for the next time you can take another dose of whatever is needed it drags on for millennia. It was the nature of the beast.

He limped to the door of the bedroom. The thigh was cramping again.

"Wilson!" House yelled.

Wilson rushed back to the bedroom in a panic. If House was calling for him things had to be bad.

He didn't ask questions he simply put his arm around House and helped him to the couch. It was needed. House could barley support himself. Wilson eased him down onto it and placed the heating pad on the painful area. He hurried to the kitchen and returned with a large pot just in case House was sick again. House let his head drop back on the back of the couch. He closed his eyes. His breathing ragged.

"Do you need ibuprofen?" Wilson asked anxiously.

House shook his head. "Just had two." Perspiration covered his upper lip and forehead.

Wilson nodded. He was oddly relieved. Since he had removed the morphine kit from House's apartment House had never once asked where it was. That was hopeful. House really was battling his demons.

The heat was helping relax the muscle. House exhaled a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

Thank God!

It was a testament to House's strength that he was amused at the thought.

What idiot blames and denies a supreme being and then beseeches Him to stop his pain and then thanks Him if it happens? Now that's hypocritical!

Wilson watched as House's breathing became easier. This was the worst time to be his friend. There was nothing he could do but watch when House was in this level of pain. Well actually there was one thing.

"Do you want me to take you to the hospital? We can put you to sleep. You don't need to keep going through this."

House raised his head and looked at Wilson. It was a tempting offer. But if he were honest with Wilson he had never been able to think of it as an option ever since he had awakened in the hospital years ago. He knew it was irrational. Most fears were. But the idea made his knees weak.

Not that I'm standing.

He shook his head. He would have to be trying to bite the limb off before he would allow himself to be put out like that again. How stupid.

"It feels a little better."

Wilson looked at him with sad understanding.

"It wouldn't be like last time. I swear. I would never let anything be done that you weren't fully aware of."

House shook his head again.

"No."

"Okay. It's your choice," Wilson said softly.

House nodded. It was his choice and for now he couldn't even entertain it.

The muscle relaxed completely. House opened his eyes wide as if a room full of people had surprised him yelling 'Happy Birthday'. He flexed his foot waiting for the cramping to begin again. He didn't want to chance bending his knee. Why tempt fate? When nothing happened he smiled wide and exhaled a laugh.

"It's gone," he told Wilson with delight.

Wilson's smile surpassed House's in size. "You did it. You got through it without drugs or alcohol."

House couldn't stop chuckling. He had come so close. He had nearly tossed everything away to stop his agony. But he hadn't. He had been stronger this time. He had come though the gates of hell instead of signing up for a condo there.

"You think you could eat?" Wilson asked still smiling.

"You still have some pancakes?"

"Yes."

"I think I could manage a few," House answered. "Don't want them to go to waste."

"As if food around you ever does," Wilson said sarcastically.

"Well someone has to eat your lousy cooking."

Wilson stood up. "You didn't think my chicken cocovan was so bad last night."

House shrugged. "You did use wine," he accused.

"For some strange reason we were out of cognac," Wilson countered.

House shrugged again. "We were out of bourbon."

"Wonder why?" Wilson commented going to the kitchen.

This was good. The verbal sparring with House was a sign he was in less pain.

House watched him go. He was overwhelmed with gratefulness that his leg had stopped cramping. The pain he felt in it now was familiar. It was within the scope of his being. He could deal with this. He wished with all his heart he didn't have to. But that wouldn't change his circumstance. It was part of him. It was his day to day existence. The pain was his and it belonged to him alone. That sucked.

He thought again of the package in his dresser drawer. He hadn't used it this time.

What about the next? Would he be this strong again? What if it happened tonight or tomorrow?

It was a thought that nearly froze his heart.

I can't. I can't do this again. I can't.

It wasn't just that the pain would come back. It would, sometime. It was a question of when. This time it had taken nearly everything from him. It wasn't as bad as when he was in Mayfield but it was damn close. No it wasn't. Nothing was as bad as those first days in Mayfield. Nothing!

House closed his eyes. The opiates were in his dresser.

Wilson warmed the pancakes in the microwave. He got out the syrup and a fork.

Wilson wasn't stupid. He knew House had purchased drugs. He was hoping House wouldn't succumb to their lure. He hoped House was strong enough. It was a lot to ask when he didn't have the first clue what it was like to suffer debilitating pain. Who could understand it but someone who suffered in a like manner? He saw suffering in his patients. He saw people who preferred drugs or death. It was hard on the families. It was harder the closer you got to the person in pain. Wilson was close but never enough to get his hands dirty.

That wasn't strictly true. He had written House scrips for Vicodin. He had done so knowing House took too many. He had lied to Tritter about it. He justified it by saying that House saved lives. That was true. It was sad that the only life House couldn't salvage was his own. Wilson had stood by and watched on a daily basis. How cruel was that?

House had gone down the rabbit hole alone and clawed his way back out the same way. Alone.

What kind of bastard am I? Wilson thought. How do you let a friend slip the needle in his arm at his own execution? How do you keep him from throwing himself off a cliff?

"You care," Wilson answered himself. "No matter what."

He picked up the plate of food and returned to the living room. He handed it to House.

"Want a napkin?" Wilson asked.

House quirked an eyebrow at him his head tilted to one side.

"You're right. That was a silly question," Wilson conceded. "After all you have the back of your hand for that."

House dug into the pancakes. They were good and he enjoyed them all the more without pain and drugs interfering.

"They're good aren't they? I added a little pineapple juice."

House just nodded and continued to eat.

Wilson gathered himself for what was to come next. He wasn't a friend otherwise.

"You bought drugs."

It wasn't a question. A question didn't have to be asked. It was a simple statement. If House denied it then there was another problem to deal with. If he admitted it then that gave Wilson permission to go further. This was the line drawn in the sand. Go across it or let him deal alone with the rising tide.

House didn't look up. He didn't need to. He could see Wilson trying to keep the worry off his face. He did a fair job of it except in his eyes. Wilson never quite managed that.

"Yes."

Wilson shifted his stance.

"Heroin?"

"No. I didn't buy the white horse," House said quietly.

"Then you got a white pony. How much Vicodin do you have?"

House took another bite keeping his eyes lowered.

"Enough to last a month or a lifetime that lasts two days."

Wilson squeezed his eyes shut. God how bad had this time been if suicide was even remotely on his mind.

"You're stronger than that."

House looked up.

"Evidently because I'm still here eating these lousy pancakes. Pineapple juice? Seriously?"

Wilson didn't smile.

"So now what happens?" He ventured.

House sighed. "Now you flush two hundred dollars down the toilet."

"You sure?" Wilson asked. He then wanted to tear his tongue out by the roots. What the hell made him ask that?

"Yeah. I'm sure." House answered firmly. "I don't want to ride this horse. He's bucked me off too many times."

"Where?" Wilson asked.

"My underwear drawer," House answered.

"Clever. No one would come ten feet near it."

"Well no one you've ever been introduced to."

Wilson walked to House's bedroom and removed a small package from the dresser drawer.

House was finishing his pancakes when he heard the toilet in his bathroom flush.

He closed his eyes.

"Well that's one of my stash gone," he whispered.

In a secret place in another building there was one more left.