Final Nail
By Barbara Barnett
Little introspective piece on House's night in jail. Review and rec (if you like it)
Four walls. Well, technically two walls and a lot of hurricane fencing. No wonder House felt like a zoo animal on display. Come one, come all. Watch the cripple drag his leg, growing less cooperative by the moment, to the other side of the cage. Then back again, simply because there was nothing else to do.
The pain gnawed, and the lack of shoes (fuck them for taking them away, along with his watch, cane, shirt, jacket) made his leg even more unstable. For the moment, the pain was all he could concentrate on; the humiliation and exposure a close second.
Gregory House was a private man. For all his bombast; for all his talk, House's real self was about as cloistered as a monk. It was no one's business what his motivations were; what his feelings were; what his life was really like. It was a life that was as closely guarded as Fort Knox. And it was all about to become undone. He was exposed: all his inner turmoil; all his pain. It didn't really matter if he was convicted of anything at this point. His life was pretty much destroyed. The final nail in a coffin being completed now for several months, since being shot in his office.
House made another circuit in the cell. Finally exhausted, he leaned his back against the far wall and slumped downward, settling on the hard concrete. Getting up again would not be a welcome activity. Tritter had deserved it, in House's mind. Who the fuck kicks a cane away? The guy had come in and House examined him. A glance at the guy's chart told House he was a police detective. Great. Maybe he should ask him if they'd captured the shooter yet. Maybe if guys like Tritter spent more time on homicide and less trying to get their rocks off, they would be sitting in a free clinic waiting two hours to be told to lay off the friction. House could only imagine why Tritter found himself in the PPTH free-clinic. A bit embarrassing, thinking you have an STD. Explain that to your HR officer. Here was better. Anonymous. House could go for a little anonymous right now.
House had thought the guy would have been relieved to know that it was only irritation and not an STD. House had seen enough to know, without any intrusion on the guy's privates that unequivocally not an STD. Done. Over. Time for another useless patient. Then, mercifully, back on track with the real case. Then the idiot had to start channeling Wilson. Why did every second person in the hospital feel the need to psychoanalyze him. You're angry, you're lonely. Fine. House took it and gave it back. Nothing personal, just get the hell out of my personal space.
What he hadn't bargained for was Tritter kicking his cane. Who the hell did that? It wasn't like when Wilson sawed his cane. That was welcome payback. Meant that Wilson was feeling something again and was finally out of his insufferable wallowing. But this. What kind of person would… Clearly Tritter's sort of person. House pinched the bridge of his nose, desperately wanting to sleep, but not able to quite bring himself to lie on the cold floor. He was already stiff and sore from walking without support and it would be hard enough to get up from a sitting position on his own steam. Lying down was out of the question.
Fine. Maybe Cuddy was right. He should have apologized for the rectal thermometer. But to be honest, the guy had it coming, right? He could have removed it himself any time. The little of payback would be just between them. But no, he had to go to Cuddy. House was not big on apologies undeserved. It just wasn't honest to be insincere. What good did it do? Nothing. Would Tritter apologize to him about the cane? Doubt it. So there. Yeah. So, instead, he's sitting in a cage, arrested for possession. Fuck.
How long had it been? An hour? Six? House had lost track of time sitting in the semi-dark of the cell. They needed to let him go soon. There was nothing to hold him on. He had been speeding. So what. He had been speeding. A ticket. He'd had enough of those to know that they couldn't hold him on that. He needed to speed. That bike was his only connection to feeling normal; to feeling not clumsy and slow. Riding was the only time he approached feeling free of the cane; free of the pills. It came to him suddenly that during the time when the ketamine treatment had worked, he'd ridden less, preferring the quiet speed of his legs and feet to the roar of the bike; the smell of the morning to the smell of exhaust. But now…
Possession. Could he be charged on it? Technically yes. He didn't have a valid prescription for the Vicodin. Everyone from Cuddy to Cameron knew he was taking it again. Hell, Wilson had even offered it up. Did that count? He hadn't wanted to go back on it. Hadn't wanted to talk about it. To anyone. He hadn't gone to Cuddy; hadn't gone to Wilson, because along with a prescription would come the platitudes of "well, at least we tried it." Or maybe the ever popular "maybe a booster would work," or "let's try a different pain management regimen." Been there. Done that. No thank you.
Wilson would back him up. And then lecture him as if he were a teenager caught with a lid of grass in his dresser drawer. Been there; done that, too. He could call Cuddy. Cuddy with her sad eyes, looking at him mournfully. Maybe it wouldn't come down to that. They couldn't charge him on anything. This was as clear a wrongful search and arrest as he could think of. Possession. Of what? Vicodin? What he needed to even begin to approach normal? What he needed to even begin to think clearly? What he needed to do his job? To take away his pain?
Tritter rounded the corner, startling House. He stood unsteadily, using the walls to make his way to the front of the cell. The worry in his eyes, the shame, the humiliation wiped instantly away, refusing to give Tritter the satisfaction. "Arraign me or let me go."
"Glad to." No hint of anything but sweetness. That smile. Smug and victorious.
"My cane. And shoes."
"Unh-uh. Shoes, yes. Forget the cane. Can be used as a weapon, you know. Might be able to scrounge up a wheel chair. Or a walker."
"Go to Hell."
"Your choice, Dr. House. Your choice." This was not going to go well. House could feel it. Feel it in every aching muscle in his body.