Title: Music and Morphine (1/2)
Chapter: One - Hurt
Author: Sid the Punk
Summary: House is in major pain so he takes some painkillers then plays some music.
Characters: House/Wilson (one-sided)
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Drug use.
Spoilers: Nothing I can think of.
Disclaimer: I don't own House, MD, Johnny Cash or the song Hurt. How sad…
A/N: Yo-yo! Impulse!fic, just started to listen to Johnny Cash's Hurt and I was like "FIC!" and wrote this up. Hope you enjoy. Now it has been proof read thank you to bukabe16.

The day went by in flashes of pain, the pills didn't do much more then the pacing did for him and the pain started to take its toil. For once in his life he didn't want to climb the steps to the small metal box. He really didn't, but he didn't want to be in pain either. He tried to sleep the white hotness away but every time he was almost there the flashes of pain came back to life. He couldn't take it if he wasn't hunched over or leaning on something. The reason for putting off getting the hard stuff was that he didn't need it. He wanted it, God, so very much. He wanted it. But he didn't want to need it. He couldn't need it. If he needed it then Wilson would be right…right? No, wait what?! He tried to think this over as he slid down the hall wall. If he needed it for the pain, the real pain that was there in his leg and not his head, then yes, he could take it. He got back up and limped heavily over to the steps that led to the sweet aid of drugs. Once there, he took down the small metal combination box and dropped to the floor on one leg, he shuffled over to his couch and rolled the numbers from 00000 to 22869 to unlock. House pulled out the small vial of medication and the needle.

He poked a hole with the needle through his skin, and then pushed in the drugs. Taking little time to work, it's wonderful magic made the pain in his leg go away. No more flashes of pain or ragged breath as he tried to walk. He sat there for a few minutes breathing easy and deeply. When he opened his eyes he dragged his gaze to the guitar on the wall. He limped over to it and pulled it down. The acoustic one from when he was in the 8th grade. Taking to guitar he laid down on the couch looking at the ceiling and started to play the first song on his mind.

A minor, C, D,
A minor, C, D,
A minor

"I hurt myself today," He sang along as the chords progressed. "To see if I still feel." As he sang each word he did as the song told. After he had sung and played the first verse he continued with the chorus, strumming a little bit harder then necessary.

"What have I become? My sweetest friend," He thought of Wilson. Snapping at him today, being more of a jerk then normal, he had said some pretty mean stuff, even by his standards. "Everyone I know goes away in the end," At the end of the day Wilson hadn't even come looking for him. "And you could have it all, My empire of dirt, I will let you down, I will make you hurt." After that first chorus he felt more like Johnny Cash's best friend then Wilson's.

A minor, C, D,
A minor, C, D,
A minor,

"I wear this crown of thorns, upon my liar's chair," He played the same progression as before. C, D, A minor, just like the first verse. "Full of broken thoughts, I cannot repair." He thought through the songs lyrics as he played them. Once, his broken thoughts had been all about Stacy after his infarction, but know they were all about Wilson. Not to confuse this with guilt, nothing of that sort, maybe a little sorrow but nothing more then wishing he were more then best friends with his only friend. "Beneath the stains of time, the feelings disappear." His way with Wilson had become just the same as before he had fallen for him, after listening to the song many times before he started to understand the lyrics in new ways. "You are someone else, I am still right here." He knew the last lyrical line spoke for its self and he hit that last G of the second verse even harder then before.

"What have I become? My sweetest friend," Wilson overwhelmed his thoughts again. Hitting C, F, C, G harder and harder with each passing word. "Everyone I know goes away in the end." There was a knock at his door, but he didn't notice. "And you could have it all," He would give Wilson anything to come back. "My empire of dirt," Wilson gave his job for him once and he would do the same, now that he thought about it. "I will let you down," But then again, maybe he wouldn't. "I will make you hurt." That's all he ever did to Wilson. The sound of a key turning in the lock didn't warrant any notice from him nor did the person who walked in. He was lost in the music.

"If I could start again," He wouldn't know what to do with himself. "A million miles away," C and F were hit almost to hard for the strings to handle. He knew he couldn't stand to be that far away from his only friend, even if it hurt being just his friend at the same time. "I would keep myself, I would find a way." He finished off the last note with a soft strum that didn't fit with all the anger that seemed to be put into the rest of the song.

Wilson walked into his line of view as he put his head back on the armrest of the couch. He let his hand lightly grip the guitars neck, the other hand still holding the pick remained on the strings. He knew there were tears in his eyes and running down his face. Wilson's expression was worried as he walked over to the limp form on the couch, even more so after seeing the familiar vial of medicine and the needle on the coffee table. Wilson took a seat on the side of the couch, though there was barely enough space.

"How much?" Wilson requested from him; maybe he thought it was for the kicks, not the real reason, namely pain.

"Enough," He told his friend, carefully putting down the guitar.

"Enough for what?" The panic splashed color in Wilson's voice, colors he didn't want to hear.
"To take away the pain…" He shrugged.

"Not to kill you?" He shook his head, confirming it wasn't suicide. "God…you scared me." Wilson looked down at the floor. "You seemed upset today."

"My leg hurt," Wilson gave him a questioning look. "More then normal." He admitted.

"I'm sorry," This time it was his turn to look confused. "I didn't believe you when you told me it hurt that badly, or maybe I thought it was in your head."

"I played you a song…" He told Wilson, before he knew what he was doing.

"What?" Wilson looked over to the guitar.

"Johnny Cash," He closed his eyes. "Hurt by Johnny Cash," he clarified for Wilson, who still looked confused. "I'm sorry I hurt you James…" He noticed he wasn't really being himself, or maybe he was being himself but without the armor that was up every hour of every day of every year. He was a jerk, no doubt about that, armor or no armor, but he was cable of being human without that armor up.

"…What…?" Wilson tilted his head to the side. "About what you said today? Don't worry, you've said worse-"

"Doesn't matter if I've done worse things." He rolled a little onto his left side to see Wilson better. "I'm sorry I hurt you all the time." He reached a hand out for Wilson's. "I'm sorry about most of the things I've done to you." He knew he wasn't sorry for everything; he was trying to make that clear. Wilson seemed to understand something he himself didn't, since Wilson gave him a small smile.

"Its okay," Wilson patted him on the arm. "Let me get you something to drink." Wilson stood and went into the kitchen. He heard the water running and soon Wilson was back. "Here, drink some of this." He handed him the water.

"Thank you," He drank most of the glass, Wilson sat the half full cup on the coffee table.

"You're welcome." Wilson started to stand up, but House grabbed his wrist.

"I think I'm in love with you, James," He said boldly, trying to sit up. Wilson's eyes widened. "More then a best friend should and way more then I ever loved Stacy." Wilson swallowed and broke free of his soft grip. "James?" He fell back onto the armrest, just like he had before Wilson walked in.

"I'll see you later House," Wilson told him with his back turned and headed for the door as quickly as he could.

He lay on the couch; a few stray tears fell from his eyes before he picked up the same vial of Morphine and the same needle, ready to kill it all away. He rubbed roughly at his eyes to make the tears stop falling, but they didn't. Eventually, he dropped the vial and the needle and, later, blamed the crying on his pain.