This occurs after Half-Wit, assuming that House in fact did not go on in to join everyone at the end and instead decided to go on home as usual.

Disclaimer: This story was prompted by and written under the influence of both acute pain and Vicodin. I had surgery on my foot last week. It's been an unpleasant few days since, and one looks for distractions, which fortunately a hyperactive muse is almost always ready to provide. Once again, with fresh evidence, I'm amazed at the inaccuracy of that Taub-Foreman scene in Lockdown. That ain't it. Even in multiple pill doses, it turns the pain down, which still isn't close to off, but it isn't the new LSD. Does not affect my clarity of thought – I have actually worked the last few days (desk job) and have objective production evidence to compare on and off Vicodin. Very, very similar – except for having to take breaks to lie down with a book for a while, which was due to the pain. Per my surgeon, it makes "some" people drowsy and zoned out but far from all. Anyway, that's the background from which I've been thinking the last week about House and his relationship with his Vicodin and his pain, and also about this particular episode, which contains one of my favorite series moments (House and Patrick at the piano), one of my favorite Huddy scenes (at her house), and some of my "favorite" House/team interactions, favorite in that they emphasize how much they run on different tracks and assumptions at times but also how much they BOTH, House as well as team, do care about each other deep down.

So, enjoy, review if you wish, and send virtual chocolate. I already have Vicodin. :)

(H/C)

"Are you happy with your life?"

"What life?"

He lay sprawled haphazardly across the couch in his apartment, shirt rumpled, coat tossed casually to the side of the room and falling into the floor, his entire body language shouting a message at full volume to anyone who might be watching: "I don't care."

Unfortunately, nobody was watching.

Also, as he was fond of reminding the team, everybody lies. Even himself.

He did care, much as he tried not to, much as he didn't want to. The expressions of stunned disbelief on the faces of his team as they put the puzzle – most of it, anyway – together bit into his allegedly-nonexistent conscience. Even the sting of Cameron's "you faked cancer to get high?" hadn't wiped out the prickles of quickly buried guilt at what he'd put them through.

But it hadn't been intentional, damn it. He had never wanted the team to know. He'd bent over backwards to try to keep reminding them that he had never in so many words confirmed their assumption, tried to insert some doubt, while still trying not to outright deny the back story, which would result in his being expelled from the Mass General trial. He'd been trapped, hopelessly trapped, forced to choose between hurting people close to him or canceling one option that might finally relieve the pain that gnawed at his life.

No, there hadn't even been a choice. From the time they came to their erroneous conclusion, they would be hurt by the lie, or they would be hurt by the truth, and either way, they would blame him for it. No doubt they were out there right now talking about what a jerk he was, how he had put them through that, forgetting that he clearly had not intended to, that their involvement was accidental.

They were out there, together. He was home with his one unfailing companion, the pain.

The pain. He wished that for one minute, they could feel it, and they might understand. It was alive. It worked over his leg like an animal, and like an animal, it had its own entire language of attack, too familiar to him by this stage. Growls of differing emphasis, snarls, test snaps as it lined up the shot, and then the full-mouth bite, clamping down with bulldog jaws, taking his breath away, distilling all existence down to one remaining wish: That it would stop. Please, just for one day, just for one hour, that it would stop.

The little white pills that were his best friend toned down the volume, helped him to be functional, but it was never, never gone. And none of them truly understood what that felt like. None of them had to spend several minutes getting out of bed in the morning, praying to a God he didn't believe in that his leg would hold weight on the first attempt and not simply fold up with an angry snap of the animal and refuse to function. The Vicodin, as he'd said to Wilson, did not cloud his thoughts. Okay, maybe it helped tone down emotional pain as well as physical at times, but the process of cognition was just as sharp. His job, his mind, was all he had, an island surrounding by the sharks of the pain but as yet unbreached, the restless, circling sharks in the surrounding sea, not on the shore. That's why he had refused to take even stronger painkillers, why he only used morphine if needed on his days off. And he always was looking for options, doing more research. The ketamine. The spinal nerve.

The drug trial at Mass General.

None of them realized that he himself also longed to be free from the Vicodin, or rather free from the pain that necessitated the Vicodin. With the pain gone, he would be able to get off the pills, as he had been for those few glorious, tantalizing months after the ketamine.

You faked cancer to get high?

No, damn it, he faked cancer to try to get relief.

But none of them understood. None of them realized fully how the pain rocketed through his life.

What life?

He lurched up from the couch too quickly and hesitated while the animal snarled its complaint and took a few extra chews at his thigh. Then he limped to the piano, longing to take comfort in his one other friend.

Piano. Pain. Only one letter's difference. Even the piano still for him was an instrument of isolation, unlike with Patrick, who had shared his gift with the world. House closed his eyes as he played, letting the music dim the volume of the snarls of the animal, trying to forget that he was alone.

The team had been disbelieving. Wilson had been annoyingly analytical, had even laughed. The one scolding confrontation that hadn't come today stung him. Cuddy had not come by, not even to judge him along with the rest of them. Her silence spoke louder than words could that he had hurt her, too.

He hadn't meant to. Damn it, he had not meant to hurt them with this. He'd never wanted them to know.

"Call the Make-a-Wish Foundation," she had advised. But she also had said she was there if he needed her, and she alone had not tried to follow that up by deciding for herself what he needed. The team had decided he needed frantic further testing. Wilson had decided "you need to talk about this." Cuddy alone had left it up to him to fill in the blank. Her hug afterward had warmed him in a way that Cameron's sneak-attack kiss and Chase's hug had not. She alone had let him be playful in the moment, had let him try to forget if that was what he wished, even while she had still drawn a line.

"Call the Make-a-Wish Foundation."

His fingers came to a halt on the ebony and ivory keys, and he reached for his cell phone, dialing quickly.

"What is it, House?" The weariness and exasperation in her voice were no less than he deserved.

"I . . . " His voice trailed off. What on earth had he meant to say? I want you to understand that I never meant to hurt you. Yeah, she'd believe that. Just like Cameron, just like Wilson, just like the rest of them. Right. Yet that was his wish at the moment.

Wishes were useless. This was life, not a Disney movie.

"What life?" Patrick's unknowingly apt response echoed in his head.

Cuddy broke the silence. "Look, House, it has been a hell of a day, not even all because of you, so ask for whatever asinine procedure you want quickly so I can go on to bed." She heard his mental image irrepressibly kick in. "And stop imagining me going there."

He gave a silent sigh. "This isn't about work."

"Great. Why are you calling then? Are you drunk?"

"No," he replied. True.

"Going to fake HIV next? What's the next great scheme?"

His anger flared up, and he was glad of it. Anger was comfortable. Lashing out was familiar. He didn't know how to simply apologize, even though he wanted to, but striking at people, pushing them away by words, was well-known ground. "You just couldn't leave it alone, could you? Just had to stick your noses in where they didn't belong."

"I thought I was losing my best doctor, damn it."

The bitterness swept in again. It was all professional. The caring and concern in her voice when she had said she was there if he needed her was all professional. "So that's why you said you'd be there? Just want to keep the department going? Got to keep the donations rolling in, you know."

She sighed. "House, what is the point of this call, if there is one?"

He blinked, hearing her own evasion. A master in the art himself, he recognized it easily in another. She didn't want to answer that question? Maybe it wasn't all professional to her after all?

"House." Her voice was impatient, yet she hadn't hung up.

"I . . . didn't mean for you to know," he said finally. He just couldn't form the words I'm sorry.

She sighed again. "I know, actually. It was obvious that you weren't just trying to hurt us." Really? Not to Wilson, Cameron, Foreman, and Chase. "But House . . . why?"

He stared at the silent piano in front of him. She was honestly asking his motives. She was the first person who had asked why rather than assumed. "It hurts," he said simply.

"The pain is that bad?" He heard the guilt underlying her tone, no doubt remembering saline placebo injections. But maybe she had remembered on further thought that a placebo can still work temporarily even on real pain if you trust the one giving it. That episode had proved that he trusted her but not necessarily that the pain wasn't real.

"Sometimes," he replied.

She was silent for a moment. "If you're looking for alternative treatments, you don't have to hide it from me."

"I don't want everyone . . ." He trailed off.

"I know. But if you want me to know, I wouldn't tell everyone."

She had gone to Wilson with her half knowledge but only out of concern. Knowing the details of a secret, would she keep it? He understood somehow that she wasn't asking for knowledge as a lever or a tool. She was offering him simply an ally in the battle. A friend.

Wilson had said he had people all around who gave a damn. Maybe Wilson was at least partly right. House wasn't sure he wanted people all around, but one, one in particular, might make a difference as he fought the pain.

"House," she continued, breaking the silence. "If you need me, I'm here."

A fraction of the knot in his soul partially released. "I need you," he replied. He ran one hand across his thigh. The animal growled ominously but wasn't biting at the moment. "Good night, Cuddy."

He heard the smile in her voice. "Good night, House. And like I already told you, stop imagining what I'm wearing."

His lips quirked, unaccustomed to smiling, but the expression remained long after he had hit end.