This is set in mid-season 7 before Bombshells. (The timing is pretty much oc7ober's wet dream. LOL.) I had been waiting that whole season for them to deal with the relapse issue. Then they did and they did it so… UGH. So, here's what I would have liked to have seen.

[H] [H] [H]

Ironically, the day had started out great. House had helped Cuddy out when she'd suddenly remembered late the previous night that Rachel's preschool was closed that day. She'd panicked over having a big meeting the next morning and House had agreed to babysit half the day. He'd stayed in his pajamas most of the morning dozing while Rachel pretended he was sick and took care of him with plastic toy medical instruments. When that got old, he made Rachel and himself pancakes with grotesque amounts of syrup. It had been an easy favor, really, but when Cuddy came home at lunch she was so appreciative that she'd let Rachel watch some television and led House to the bedroom, pushed him up against the door, and gone down on him so unexpectedly that he had his backpack slung on his shoulder the whole time.

He leaned against the door catching his breath while Cuddy fastened his pants back up. "Do you do that for all your emergency babysitters?"

Cuddy winked at him. "It's standard compensation."

He was still smiling when he got on his bike and sped off to the hospital. On the way, though, he was pulled over for speeding by a cop who – shockingly - found his personality less than amusing. Then he got to his office to find a woman waiting to serve him papers for a malpractice suit. These came often enough, but never ceased to leave him a little chagrined when, like in this case, charges were filed even though the patient had lived, with all his appendages still attached no less. He shook it off and focused on his case…

…eleven hours later, though, the nine-year-old boy had died, and House still didn't know why. The family wouldn't allow an immediate autopsy and he knew he was going to have to fight to get one. His team dispersed in a melancholy parade, and he sat at his desk, marveling at how a day could span such delight and horror.

It was reflex, to be honest. He had turned to check his email, but out of habit he'd pulled his desk drawer wide open, the way he had in the past to access a hidden stash. It was like an ex-smoker patting his pockets for his cigarettes or lighter. At the end of a long day, feeling beaten down, this was the modus operandi.

He saw the condom wrapper out of the corner of his eye, partially covered by some sticky notes. He'd gotten stealthier after the Tritter fiasco and he knew there was no condom in there. He really didn't even give it a lot of thought… It was like he'd turned on autopilot and his hands were fishing the two Vicodin out of the wrapper and dropping them on his tongue without his brain really kicking in. The word "relapse" didn't even surface in his mind until he felt the pills clear his esophagus and begin dissolving in his stomach.

By the time he was really thinking about what he'd done, the drug was smoothing the edges, detaching him enough that even his rational thoughts couldn't really comprehend what was so wrong about this. The familiar buzz was so… relieving… nostalgic. And since it had been a while, he didn't just feel numb, but a little high even… a little happy.

He knew it was bad, even if he couldn't feel guilt yet. He knew it was bad enough that he couldn't go to Cuddy's… not after losing a patient and risking an exhibition of any degree of happiness. She was smart; she'd know. So he went to stretch out in his chair and relax, enjoying this temporary respite since the water was under the bridge. He put on a record and closed his eyes.

His door swung open and he opened his eyes to see Wilson standing there, frowny-faced with his hands on his hips. "I saw Chase downstairs. I'm sorry about your patient."

House averted his eyes, his whole face. He didn't want to let on. "Yeah," was all he said.

"You wanna go drown your sorrows?" Wilson offered.

House wrinkled his face a little. "Nah. I'm gonna head home in a few minutes." Inappropriate as it was, trying to trick Wilson was funny to him. He had to fight back a smile. He was punchy with the high.

"You okay?" Wilson asked. House knew he had to get him out of there... or he had to get out of there. He stood and limped over to his backpack, forgetting his cane. When he turned back to head to the door, Wilson was scrutinizing him.

"Hey, are you okay?" Wilson asked again.

House shrugged. "I'm fine. It happens."

Too late. Wilson saw his pupils, his twitchy mouth. He saw his cane leaning against the chair before House thought to stealthily retrieve it.

"You're high."

House made a face like he was crazy and moved to push past him.

"House!"

House stopped and turned back to face him. "I didn't plan it."

"You're high?" Wilson asked now, incredulous despite his deduction.

"You know… yeah. Sue me. That seems to be the in thing to do right now." Wilson missed the reference and just held his arms out beckoning an explanation. House sighed and sat back down on the ottoman. "Shit. I didn't plan this. It was… spontaneous. Stupid."

"This is the first time?'

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"Yes! And you're really killing my buzz, if you must know."

"Where'd you get it?" Wilson asked.

"Desk drawer," House nodded his head toward the desk.

"Cuddy and I went through everything before you came back," Wilson lamented, scratching his head. "What did we miss?"

"Condom."

Wilson nodded. "Well, I should have known. Hookers bring their own, don't they?" House laughed at the joke. Wilson stared at him sternly. "Well, what are you gonna do?"

"Nothing, I'm fine. I'm gonna let this wear off and I'm back on the wagon. It's fine."

"You have to tell Cuddy."

"No I do not."

"House, a relapse is a big deal. She deserves to know."

"She deserves to not be worried about this when I know it's fine. I know I'm fine. I don't need to get her all worked up."

"You can't handle your addiction all by yourself," Wilson warned him.

"I'm not. I told you."

"I caught you."

"Same end result."

"Um, not so much with the whole trusting-he-knows-I-am-there-for-him-and-will-come-to-me-for-help idea."

House gave him a sneer. "You don't have anything pithier than that?"

"I was going to call it the friendship idea, but figured you'd need that spelled out a little more."

House smirked. He got up and gathered his stuff. "Well, 'good friend,' you wanna keep me company til this wears off? I'm much more chipper in this state. You might actually have fun."

Wilson smiled a little, shrugged. "What do you wanna do for three hours?"

"My leg feels good… Midnight bowling?"

[H] [H] [H]

Wilson and House were bowling and conversation had turned to rating the nurses on hotness. "You aren't even supposed to have an opinion," Wilson ribbed him.

"I can still judge," House said. "Cuddy's a thirty-year-aged aged scotch, but I can still rate the beers I like."

"Well… that's… classy?" Wilson replied. But he liked the conversation too much to argue. "I like Nicole in peds. She's hot and funny."

"Nicole… She the blonde with the big ta-tas?"

"No. Redhead. Average ta-tas."

"Oh, old 'ginger typical-ta-tas.' Yeah, she's cute. I hear from Don Gruber she's a natural redhead too," House winked at Wilson before rolling his ball down the alley.

"Don Gruber? How the hell does he know?"

"Um, well, I think he was referring to the color of her pubic hair, but I didn't ask."

Wilson shook his head in disgust. "I mean, he slept with her?"

"He didn't say. Just implied he saw her pubic hair."

"God! I get it! I'm asking you to analyze how the hell that could have happened."

"Well," House said, dropping onto a stool. "Redheads are often kinda slutty."

"That's a stereotype."

"Yeah, you're right. Sorta like Koreans giving good massages and drug addicts being liars. Bunch of bunk.

"Not all redheads are slutty."

"Not all Koreans give good massages. But most do. Stereotypes aren't necessarily wrong. They're just oversimplifications of the truth."

"So all those lying drug addicts are just misunderstood?" Wilson teased.

"Drug addicts are worried about protecting their habit, above all else. So if the truth threatens that, they are likely to lie. They don't lie just for the sake of it any more than anyone else lies."

"And redheads?"

"They must have a slutty gene linked to the recessive hair color."

"'A slutty gene.' That's so scientific, it's going over my head."

House snickered. "Speaking of Nicole in peds and head…"

Wilson groaned in disgust. "Hold that thought – or don't – while I bowl."

They continued their banter and bowling, enjoying themselves enough to forget the somewhat tragic reason for this impromptu outing. As time marched on, though, Wilson saw House begin to change as the Vicodin wore off. He grew agitated, moving a lot and getting more beer. He'd look around, like he was missing something. He'd press his fist into his thigh. Wilson saw him spin the tiny scoring pencil in his fingers the way he used to spin his Vicodin bottle.

When they finished their third game, House told him he had better get home and asked him to drive him to Cuddy's house. They pulled up in front of the house and House said, "Thanks, Wilson. I… Thanks."

"Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow."

House opened the door and stepped out.

"House?" Wilson called.

"Yeah?" He didn't stoop down, so Wilson was staring at his torso framed by the door.

"You know I'm here… with that whole… friendship thing. No matter what. Don't be an ass."

"Me? An ass?" House replied. "Don't believe the stereotypes about drug-addicted diagnosticians with chronic pain problems, Wilson."

Wilson chuckled. "Oh, okay. That's a load off."

House bent and looked at him. "The huge penis though… that part's true. We have huuuuge penises."

"G'night, House."

He watched him grin, slam the car door, and limp up Cuddy's walk.