Chapter 12
Liar, Liar

"I'm Charles."

"Never seen you before."

"My wife is… Hanna. You found her in the rubble."

House stiffens. Somewhere in his mind, it registers that his heart is beating faster. He doesn't quite know if this is anxiety, or concern. Or whether it's both. Or whether, in this situation, they are one and the same. Charles doesn't seem to notice this; his head is bowed and he's staring at his hands.

"I would like to say thank you," Charles' voice wavers dangerously, "for going down there to help save her."

House stares at the hunched figure on the man in front of him. Charles does not look like someone who recently got his wife back from the brink of death.

It suddenly occurs to House that perhaps, Charles is here to express his grievances and disappointment. Maybe Charles thinks that he should have fought harder for Hanna's leg, instead of giving in so easily, and crippling her for life.

He mutely waits for Charles to continue.

"It took me so long to come because… I blamed you. If you didn't amputate… things could have been different. If you waited… Maybe they would have been able to get her out anyway.

It is the same thought – same doubt – that House knows will haunt him for perhaps the rest of his life.

"But I realized that you did that because it was the only way to get her out. And because you got her out… I got to see her again, talk to her again, even if it was only for a few minutes."

At this point, House's face, which had been a carefully constructed front of nonchalance, morphs. All the blood drains out of his face, and his mouth falls open slightly.

"What –" House croaks. His throat seems to be closing up, and he has to struggle to calm himself down. "What do you mean?"

Charles sucks in a deep breath, and raises his head. To House's growing horror, he is crying.

"Hanna might have died of a fat embolism from the amputation you did, Dr House. I blamed you, for a while. Why couldn't we wait to clear the rubble? But I spoke to the firefighters, and they explained it all to me. So I forgive you. You did your best to save my wife. In fact, thank you. Thank you for risking her life, doing what needed to be done, and for giving me the chance to see her for one last time."

The apartment door is ajar.

He pushes open the door, and treads carefully through the darkness that enshrouds the entire apartment. He walks towards the dim light at the end of the hallway.

He inches himself around the wheelchair, and sits down on the edge of the bathtub. Quietly, he waits.

"You came," House breathes, "in the middle of the night."

Nolan checks his watch. "3.13 in the morning, to be exact."

"I reached your voicemail."

"Unfortunately, you called me while I was in the toilet."

"Thought you wouldn't come."

"You did walk out of our last therapy session. And ignored my calls for three weeks," Nolan agreed mildly. "But I did promise you that you could call me whenever you needed to, 24/7, when we first started out."

House finally raises his head to look at his therapist. "Are you gonna snatch them out of my hand?"

Nolan doesn't allow himself to glance at the amber bottles cradled in House's palm. Instead, he locks his eyes on House's. "No."

House exhales with a shaky half-laugh before looking back down at his hand.

"You have been clean for a year," Nolan says calmly, quietly, "85% of drug addicts would have relapsed by now."

"I…" House inhales sharply, and then closes his shaking hand around the Vicodin. "Just take them."

This, Nolan knows, is the most crucial moment. "Do you want to give them to me?"

House tightens his trembling fist around the Vicodin. "Just take them from me."

"I'm not going to forcibly take them from you," Nolan says slowly. "It is your choice, Greg, whether you want to give them to me."

"Just take them!" House roars, slamming his left hand down on the armrest of his wheelchair. His right fist is still closed tight around the Vicodin, and he has to resist the urge to hold it close to his chest..

Nolan doesn't flinch at the outburst. Instead, he slowly extends his hand, his palm facing upwards, to wait expectantly. "Then make your choice, and give them to me."

House can't bring himself to pry his fingers from the amber bottles. He can almost taste the relief that would come with the white pills. He stares, mesmerized, as his hands move to pop open the cap, and shake out a pill.

Nolan remains perfectly calm. "It is your choice. Do you want to take the pills?"

House swallows. "I want it to stop."

"Want what to stop?"

"This… feeling."

"And the Vicodin will stop this feeling?"

House's logical mind knows the answer. "It will make me feel better," he murmurs faintly.

"We established together last summer that the Vicodin numbs you."

"Changed my mind."

"I doubt it." Nolan pauses, observing his patient. House is trembling, practically vibrating in his chair, and swallowing, compulsively, over and over again, as though trying to prevent himself from throwing up. "Something that upset you greatly has happened. You have a choice – do you want to take the Vicodin to numb yourself, or do you want to talk about it, and work through it?"

"Don't know... I don't know."

"You called me. And you didn't take the pills even though you have been here for nearly an hour. I think that's saying something."

House tears his eyes away from his clenched fist, and finally looks at Nolan. There is deep-seated uncertainty and even torment in there. Whatever happened, Nolan knows, must have been struck House deeply.

"So," Nolan leans in, and waits. "What is your choice?"

House stares at Nolan's empty palm before shifting his gaze back to his own. His heart is pounding and his blood is rushing through his veins, making him feel faint and light-headed.

"I…" he swallows, hard, again. "I..."

"It's okay," Nolan says in an undertone. "It's okay. Take your time."

House stares at the amber vials in his hand, unable to tear himself away from the lure of numbing himself.

But then he thinks of what he'd gone through – the horrible, bone-wrenching fear that he was losing his mind – the one thing he could always rely on – the hallucinations, Amber taunting him, the detox, the helplessness, being trapped within Mayfield with the empty feelings of loss and hopelessness…

Very slowly, he pries his fingers from around the amber bottles. They are stiff from his iron grip, and they twitch and tremble against his will, making the bottles rattle enticingly. Hyper-aware of Nolan's gaze on him, he picks up the single white pill he shook out, and very deliberately puts it back into one of the two amber bottles. Then he caps the open bottle, and it closes with a click.

With trembling hands, he reaches out, and resisting the urge to not do so, he hesitantly drops the bottles into Nolan's outstretched palm.

Nolan slips the pills into his pocket, a look of pride flashing in his eyes.

House clenches both his fists, and exhales heavily. He deflates into his wheelchair, yet somehow still remaining a mass of tension, eyes downcast on his casted left leg.

"Are there any more pills we should clear out?" Nolan asks, deliberately using the word we. It had been one of their sessions last summer – they'd made a daytrip out of Mayfield to clear out all the Vicodin in House's apartment. He wasn't surprised to find out that House had kept some for just in case. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised. House was a man skeptical of both his capacity for strength and his deserving of happiness.

House answers faintly, "No. Just these two."

Nolan turns to look at the shattered mirror on the ground. None of the sharp pieces near House. He hadn't intended to cut himself, then.

"Sorry," House mumbles breathlessly, wrapping his arms awkwardly around himself. "Sorry."

Nolan eyes his most challenging patient to date. It had taken weeks for him to get through to him, initially, in Mayfield. But when he had gotten through, he found that Greg House was a vulnerable man. He was well-aware that the man that sat in front of him week after week, for almost one whole year now, was totally different from the persona he projected day in and day out outside the sheltered, safe environment that was Mayfield.

Nolan knows he's one of the few people to ever see Gregory House cry, or apologize profusely. It seems impossible coming from a man like House, but therapy sessions force people to confront problems. And House had been through several extremely traumatic experiences, some just recently, some dating back to his childhood.

"It's okay," he says firmly but gently. "Deep breaths."

House shudders, his inhales and exhales erratic and unsteady. "Can't… Sorry…" he gasps, and then repeats. "Sorry."

"There is nothing to apologize for." In fact, Nolan thinks House doesn't even know what he is apologizing for. Then Nolan adds, "I'm going to touch you now, alright?"

He places his hand reassuringly on House's shoulder, and waits for him to calm down.

"James."

"Darryl?" Wilson sounds frantic, just as Nolan had expected. "Anything wro – no, wait. Is House with you?"

Nolan looks in the rear view mirror, eyes drawn to the hospital bracelet that House had been too distracted to remove as he holds the steering wheel steady. "He called me," he confirms. "He's with me now."

Wilson sighs audibly with relief. "Where are you? Is he okay?"

"We're on the way to PPTH." Nolan phrases his words carefully as he peers in his rearview mirror at the sleeping figure in his backseat. He'd given House half a dose of Ativan. "He's asleep."

Wilson starts to speak, but Nolan cuts him off.

"I am not sure what transpired, James. Or how he ended up with the injuries. But I do know that he was extremely upset. I had half a mind to bring him home with me because he asked me not to bring him back to the hospital, but he is in no condition to be discharged."

"What… did he say?" Wilson says weakly.

"I think it's better if we talk in person."

"Darryl…"

"I'll be in PPTH in ten minutes."

"I think it's better if you don't come in for the moment," Nolan says as he steps out of House's room, closing the sliding door behind him.

Wilson notes in dismay that House is back on the nasal cannula. Nolan follows his gaze and adds, "Just a precaution." He'd perused House's chart earlier, and was quite simply amazed that House had managed to make his own way out of the hospital and back to his apartment.

"How is he?" Cuddy interrupts breathlessly as she strides up the hallway, Rachel in her arms. She had remained in the hospital – which had been in lockdown after House's disappearance – while Wilson and Chase had driven out separately to search for House.

Nolan turns and looks at Cuddy. She looks far too concerned and anxious about House for someone who has gotten engaged, and has continually rebuffed him. "Perhaps we should talk somewhere more private?"

They end up in Wilson's office, by virtue of its proximity.

Nolan takes the Vicodin out from his pocket, and sets it on the table in front of him.

Wilson and Cuddy stare.

"I am only telling you this because you are his closest friends." Nolan leans back onto the couch, by no means relaxing. "He was very – no, extremely – close, but he made the right decision in the end."

Wilson relaxes marginally, dropping his head into his hands, while Cuddy sits ramrod straight, still on edge.

"Greg was in Mayfield for almost four months. He was reluctant to cooperate at first, but he soon came around. Since then, he's been working hard. And you and I both know that it is not easy for a man as private as he is."

Cuddy opens her mouth as if to protest, stopping herself when Nolan raises a hand to stop her. But she cannot resist saying, "He stopped going for sessions with you."

Nolan nods his head once, curtly. "He did."

"Why?"

"You know I cannot share that with you. You two, on the other hand, can share with me how exactly he ended up with his left leg in a cast, a broken back, broken ribs and very nearly taking Vicodin for the first time in a whole year."

Wilson and Cuddy flush red and shrink into themselves.

"I am waiting for an answer," Nolan states calmly, leaning back into the armchair. "Because he refused to tell me anything."

"You know the crane collapse downtown two weeks ago? He was caught in the secondary collapse," Wilson offers hesitantly, "He was with a woman, in the rubble."

Nolan interrupts with a rather incredulous look on his face. "He was involved in the rescue work?" He doesn't wait for a response before continuing, "Let me get this straight. You let your crippled doctor who suffers from debilitating chronic pain, do rescue work."

"She only wanted him," Cuddy justifies lamely.

They have to admit, it sounds ridiculous now.

"And…?"

"He had to amputate her leg to get her out," Cuddy cringes involuntarily as she recalls what had happened that night. "To save her life."

"Ah," Nolan remarks. He's beginning to get an idea of what happened. But he doubts that's all.

"After she was rescued…" Cuddy thinks back to the words she'd uttered to House, and the sense of regret that had ached in her very bones, "the secondary collapse occurred."

"He was trapped under for about two and a half hours," Wilson adds. He considers telling Nolan about what had transpired while he was in the rubble with House, but doesn't feel comfortable sharing what had been such a private moment between him and House.

So that's all they offer Nolan, both reluctant to reveal anything else to this outsider.

"That's all?" Nolan frowns. "Because that was two weeks ago. There must have been something else that drove him to escape from the hospital, and to the Vicodin. And so adamantly refuse to come back."

"He's an addict," Cuddy says softly. "He was being weaned off the painkillers."

Wilson obviously agrees with her, for he nods slightly.

At this, Nolan leans forward, and says very sharply, "He did not do this just because he was craving narcotics. Like I told you, he made the right choice in not taking the vicodin. Something happened."

Wilson and Cuddy are slightly taken aback by Nolan's strong assertion. With a surge of guilt, they realize they probably had jumped to conclusions to soon, always assuming the worst of House.

They hesitantly shake their head. House technically had been fine for the past two weeks. And nothing out of the ordinary had happened yesterday. Things had been rather strained, yes, but it had been for the past week and a half. So they honestly don't know what had gone wrong yesterday.

"Alright," Nolan says slowly. He has his suspicions, but he can't do anything for now with House asleep and the two doctors in front of him quite obviously uncomfortable with divulging anything further. "I'll talk to Greg when he wakes up."

Wilson and Cuddy nod dumbly, not quite knowing what to feel about having Nolan's intervention. Part of them wants to keep it just amongst the three of them, another part wants Nolan to help figure out how to make things better.

Nolan stands up, and walks towards the door. Stopping at the doorway, he looks back.

"Look," he says, "Greg has worked hard over the past year. And sometimes, I think you don't give him enough credit for it. It isn't just about the Vicodin." Nolan pauses, then adds, "There was a reason we decided that he shouldn't come back to work here after he was released from Mayfield. You may not realize it, but this environment? All the things that have happened within the walls of this building; being around people who have been doubting him and viewing him as a public nuisance and as someone who requires saving from himself, a lost cause – or misanthropic bastard – for the past decade? It's toxic. It's not helping his progress. So I am going to make one thing clear – I am his therapist. I am on his side. I'll always be on his side. My goal is to help him. Not you, nor the hospital, nor the most desperate of patients."

And with that, Nolan walks out of Wilson's office.

A slight movement on the bed alerts Nolan to the fact that House is waking up.

Nolan sets down his journal and shifts his chair closer to House's bed. He interlocks his fingers, resting his hands on his lap, and waits expectantly.

House opens his eyes, catches sight of Nolan, and immediately closes his eyes, feigning sleep. Too bad Nolan's eyes are fixed on his face.

"That's childish," Nolan says matter-of-factly. "I do know you're awake."

House keeps mum. He wants to roll over to face the wall, but thanks to the back brace, he's stuck on his back.

"I have time, actually. I took the day off today."

"…"

"You missed breakfast. Are you hungry?"

"…"

"I'll ask the nurses for some breakfast. Or do you prefer I get food from the cafeteria? A reuben? Pancakes?"

"…"

"I'll get you the lovely, lumpy oatmeal that they're serving up to the patients today then."

House finally opens his eyes. "Not hungry."

"Okay." Nolan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "So would you like to tell me what happened?"

"You tell me what they told you."

"James and Dr Cuddy?" Nolan knows House hates having people conspire behind his back to strategise to save him from himself, or to decide what to do for him. It reminds him far too much of the infarction. "I asked them what happened. And they told me about you being trapped after the secondary crane collapse."

House keeps his face expressionless. "That's that, then."

"That's all that happened?"

"Yes."

"That does not explain why you ended up in your bathroom, a shattered mirror around you, and two bottles of Vicodin in your hand."

"I'm an addict. I wanted drugs," House says flatly, his voice devoid of any emotion.

"No," Nolan says firmly. "Don't give me that crap."

"Isn't that what addicts do? Seek oblivion in the drugs? That's what I wanted. I'm just stating the facts."

"What happened to make you want the Vicodin?"

"…"

"Even when you found out Dr Cuddy was engaged, even when you moved out of the loft, you weren't tempted to go back to the vicodin… or were you?"

House keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling, but he acquiesces. "No…" he says, "I wasn't."

"So what happened this time?"

House is silent for a long, long while. "It's of no use…" he finally says.

"What's of no use?"

"This. This… trying to get better, trying to do the right thing… It's of no use. Whatever I do… It's never enough."

"What made you come to that conclusion?"

"…"

"Does this have anything to do with the woman you were in the rubble with?"

"…"

"It does, then."

"…"

"I can tell from your adamant refusal to talk about it that it meant something to you, you know." Nolan waits, but doesn't receive the spectacular eye-roll he usually would have been graced with by now. He immediately places himself on high-alert.

"…"

"I can wait."

"…"

"…"

"She didn't want to cut off her leg."

"You… persuaded her to?"

"I shouldn't have."

"Why not?"

"Should have stuck to my guns… Shouldn't have changed my mind."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but from what I understand, it was necessary in order to extract her from the rubble, and thus, to save her life."

"I shouldn't have…" House murmurs. He lets out a shuddering sigh and turns his head away from Nolan. "I shouldn't have cut off the leg."

"You did everything you could. I know it struck you particularly because you were once in the same position. But it was the last resort – "

"She's dead!" House finally shouts, slamming his fist down on the hospital bed. It feels useless and ineffectual, so he swipes his arm across the table by his bedside, sending the jug of water, cups and random things crashing onto the floor. "I did everything right, and she died anyway! What's the point?"

Nolan jumps up from his seat as the noise and House's strained voice echoes around the room an eye on the monitors that show too clearly House's distress. Wilson and Cuddy did not mention that the patient had died. Needless to say, it adds a whole new dimension to the issue.

"Greg..." Nolan approached House slowly, carefully, painfully aware of all the landmines that surround this issue, and how unreceptive House is towards the common platitudes one would offer to someone in his situation. "It wasn't – "

"I manipulated her. I manipulated her into doing something she didn't want at all. And now.. now she's dead!"

"Greg… Calm down… It's not your fault." Nolan says calmly as he leans in, and at the same time, surreptitiously looks around for backup – the call button, sedatives, anything. Just making sure he was prepared. "You did what was necessary to save her. You did your – "

"House!" A sharp voice – Dr Cuddy, Nolan realizes – sounds from the doorway. Nolan whips around to find Cuddy and Wilson at the door.

"I could hear you from down the hallway!" Cuddy snaps as she strides in. "This is a hospital, and there are other patients who require rest!"

She doesn't mean for it to sound so harsh, but it just comes out that way. She's short on sleep, thanks to having been awoken in the middle of the night; she's facing the prospect of copious amounts of paperwork, thanks to the lockdown and the upcoming benefits; and it's basically been a stressful two weeks trying to fix things with House, run the hospital and cope with the fact that she no longer has a boyfriend who can help look after Rachel when she's busy at the hospital.

And when House's raised voice came floating down the hallway, she didn't hear the despair or the distress. All she heard was a raised voice disrupting the peace of her hospital. And confronting the source of the disruption head-on – sadly usually House – was an automatic reaction for her.

House is stunned momentarily, his mouth falling open slightly. But his face soon twists with an ugly sort of fury, and his eyes harden and turn cold as something inside of him snaps.

Wilson see this. "Cuddy…" he says in a warning tone. "We should leave Darryl to talk to House…"

Nolan steps in between them. "Dr Cuddy," he says firmly. "James. Let me talk to him – "

House struggles to sit upright, his entire body thrumming with tension and anger that he doesn't bother trying to conceal. He opens and closes his mouth several times, struggling with what exactly he wants to say – or not say – but he finally settles with a simple two words.

"I quit."

The whole room falls silent. Nolan turns around slowly to regard his recalcitrant patient while Cuddy and Wilson's jaws drop.

Cuddy regains her composure the quickest. "Don't be ridiculous," she dismisses, totally missing the undercurrent of defeat in House's strained statement. "You can't quit."

Shit, Wilson immediately. Shit shit shit. "House…" he says tentatively, stepping forward as he extends a hand to signal stop to Cuddy. "Don't rush into – "

Nolan watches as the defeat that had permeated every inch of House flares into anger and resentment.

House's voice takes on a low and dangerous quality that even Wilson has hardly heard in his twenty years of friendship with House. "Yes I can."

Cuddy begins to realize that she has grossly underestimated the situation. She had initially thought House was pulling one of his stunts again, running out of the hospital. She was worried sick, but as the night progressed, it had faded to a disappointment and fatigue of his childish antics. Then came the knowledge that he'd nearly taken Vicodin. That made her think that he was really just an addict. But this House in front of her – furious, but with a potent torment written all over his face – is a House that she has not seen since he woke up to find his mobility and life as it was gone, along with his thigh muscle.

"I have had a standing offer from the WHO for the past twelve years. I turn down offers from other hospitals every single year - "

It is true. Wilson has seen them, and has even entertained over-zealous administrators trying to poach House by first poaching over his best friend. Cameron, who had sorted through House's mail, had once remarked to Wilson that she couldn't quite believe how House could turn down some of the offers.

" – and you tell me I can't quit?"

Cuddy staggers a step backwards, the force of House's seething fury a tidal wave that engulfs her. "House…" she murmurs. "I didn't mean it that way – "

"You know what?" House shoots back, eyes blazing with a cold fury. "Fuck you."

Cuddy's face turns ashen.

"Who the hell goes up to the guy they supposedly love and say I wish I didn't love you? Or I just need to know if we can work, like they're some sort of disease that you have to learn to cope with, or just barely tolerate? Or like they're a person you would rather not be associated with? What kind of fucking love is that?""

Cuddy realizes with an unpleasant jolt that House is right. Her words had been extremely careless and thoughtless. It had sounded exactly like what House said it to be – that she was so much better than him, and that to commit to a relationship with him was something she didn't want in her life at all?

"House – "

"Fuck off. Just fuck off and don't claim you love me. That's just shit."

"House…" Wilson tries again as he stretches out a hand. He's seen House angry before, and has dealt with all the black moods and rage and depression that House endured in the months after the infarction, but this… this is a cold, seething fury that he has never seen before. "Just… calm down and we'll work things out…"

Nolan steps in between them all, and lays a hand on House's shoulder. "Greg. That's enough. Calm down, it's okay…" But House only pushes him aside, and unleashes his fury at Wilson.

"I'm not some sort of convenient friend you can put aside when you fall in love with someone. I'm… I'm not," House repeats, as though trying to convince himself. "You made me give up the safety deposit to my apartment, and even bought the organ for me. I wasn't… wrong in thinking that staying in the loft would be permanent."

House pants, unraveling. The fury is slowly seeping away, and despair, pure despair is taking its place.

He's alone, with Cuddy and Wilson all moving on. Alone.

Just him and his bum leg. Alone.

"When Sam left you, you were a sniveling wreck. So forgive me for warning you about getting into a relationship with her. I cut – " House stops, gasping slightly for breath. "I cut my head open to save Am – Amber. And I went crazy not only because of the vicodin, but also because I couldn't get over it."

Someone interjects. "House…" Almost pleadingly.

But House can't seem to stop.

"Whoopee. House is a social responsibility, we must save him from himself. His shoulder hurts? It definitely isn't because he has been using a cane for the past decade! Oh, his leg is hurting? Must be psychosomatic! Oh, don't tell him that the answer was Addison's Disease, it'll make him all cocky and fucked up because he was lucky. Well, you guys rely a lot on my luck for two people who seem to think I rely solely on luck."

"Greg…" Nolan says soothingly. He gestures urgently, mouthing back off, to Wilson and Cuddy to back off, but they take no notice, instead standing rooted to the spot. They are shell-shocked as they watch House literally disintegrate in front of them. He's always so in control and they have never seen his feelings whirlwind out of control before. Not even after the bus crash; not even after the deep brain stimulation, when he'd been struggling with aphasia and the prospect that his mind would not recover; not even when he was hallucinating.

"I just want to gnaw my leg off, or saw through it with a blunt fucking butter knife. Yeah, fuck nerve damage, right? It totally doesn't hurt. House is somewhat happy without vicodin? That's just wrong. Make him do a urine test. He's definitely… definitely using again. Why am I not surprised? I'm sure he's just - just seeking drugs; he doesn't care about staying clean, he just wants the high. He's a… he's a hopeless addict."

"A hopeless addict who's alone. The consolation prize. Always the consolation prize." House seems to curl in on himself, panting from the exertion of his rant. "Oh god," he seems to deflate, and an odd whine gurgles in his throat. "Oh god. I emotionally manipulated her into cutting off the leg. I told her she would end up alone like me."

Cuddy can taste bile in his throat, a growing sense of horror crawling up from her stomach.

"Now she's dead. She's dead, and her husband forgives me. He forgives me. Do you know what that means?" House stares up at the ceiling, not able to look at them anymore. He's not sure he can even look at himself in the mirror and tell himself he's a good doctor anymore. "It means that I did the wrong thing. I emotionally manipulated her. I lost my objectivity, because all I could think of was how you two were moving on and I was alone and it's all because of the fucking leg. And now, she's dead."

Cuddy somehow finds it in herself to step forward. "House…" her voice cracks and trembles and shivers. "We couldn't have foreseen the outcome of the field amputation… A fat embolism is -"

"You lied," House moans. "You both lied to me. You told me she was alive."

"You had your own injuries to contend – "

"YOU LIED!" House all but screamed. "She's dead!"

All he could feel was this sense of despair and loss. He was always objective. Always the objective doctor. And now, because he'd allowed himself to get close to a patient, allowed himself to want the best for her, allowed his own personal life to influence his decision… He killed her.

Cuddy takes a step back at the sheer force of House's lashing out, her hand on her mouth. Nolan brushes past her – she hadn't even realised he had left the room – and behind him is Chase. They glance at the monitors and the numbers are not good for someone recovering from life-threatening injuries. Still-healing lungs are heaving from the exertion of shouting. His heart-rate is trending on tachycardia. He's at risk of injuring himself further.

Wilson and Cuddy have never seen this, but House is in a full-out panic attack. Nolan's seen it before, back in Mayfield. Several times, in fact. Not only when House was detoxing, but also during their therapy sessions, when they'd talked about everything. Ice-baths. John House. Infarction. Shooting. Bus crash. Amber. Kutner. Hallucinations. The prospect of losing his mind.

House spots the sedative in Chase's shaking hands, and he strikes out blindly, trying to escape. He turns to Nolan. "Get me out," House whispers as he struggles against the effects of the sedative. "Get me out of here… I quit."

Nolan pauses, then says simply, "Okay, I will."

His eyes droop, but he blinks rapidly, hard, trying to stay awake, his limbs slowly slackening, his grips on Chase's and Nolan's wrists slowly loosening. And as he finally falls over the edge into unconsciousness where nothing hurts, the tears start to flow.

A/N: Okay. Okay okay I am so so so sorry. Real life is really just strangling me right now. A nice, long chapter here, I struggled very much with it. Now that the shit has really hit the fan and we've hit rock-bottom, the only way is up. But it's not going to be easy. When is it ever easy with these characters? I hope it's clear that they are all at fault in some way or another for this whole situation.