A/N: Based on my own recent Vicodin experiences. It doesn't work at all for me.
House fiddled with the childproof cap on the bottle in his hand. "Damn!" He slammed the pill container against his desk. The top popped off and small white oblongs poured over the piles of paper. "Damn!" House said, louder this time. He dry-swallowed a pill and unsteadily rose to his feet, wincing from the burst of white-hot pain radiating from his thigh.
Increasingly, House needed more and more Vicodin to get through the day. The drugs weren't working. He didn't know if the pain was getting worse or if he was addicted or if his body was resistant to the hydrocodone or what. He didn't care. All he needed was relief from the constant, the pain that clouded his mind.
Not ten minutes later, he popped another pill.