A/N: Hello guys, hopefully another story about detox isn't too repetitive for you all! I just really wanted to write both and this is the order they came out of my head in. Thanks to JackslovesHilson for betaing (being a beta for?) this story! I hope you enjoy and please let me know if you like or dislike this story or any elements of it.

He was still in shock. It hadn't been real. The detox, Cuddy, Amber...none of it. After all he had lost, his grip on reality was the last thing he ever expected to go.

Wilson drove in silence while House took his last dose of Vicodin before arriving; possibly his very last. Wilson looked disapproving, but didn't say anything. Frankly, he was surprised his friend hadn't jumped from the car, or yelled that this was all a cruel joke. But he didn't. He sat catatonic in the passenger seat, looking out the window forlornly. Wilson reached over and put a hand on his arm.

"House. You're doing the right thing."

House didn't answer, just kept staring out the window and tapping his fingers on the armrest.

Wilson pulled up at the clinic. Mayfield Drug Rehabilitation and Behavioral Health. Wilson turned to House, who had been quiet the whole ride there. "You ready?"

"No," he said softly.

"Do you want me to come in with you?"

"Whatever."

Wilson helped him out of the car and handed him his cane out of the back seat. The man took it and started limping slowly to the entrance of the facility. Wilson followed, noting the unsteadiness in his gait and the shake of his left hand. He was nervous. Wilson tried to remember when he had seen House nervous-not the MCATs, not in surgery, and certainly never in during a case. He was calm, but there was always a storm of emotions brewing underneath the tough exterior. That storm was coming to the surface now.

Wilson got to the desk first. "I'm here to check in Gregory House. I'm his physician, Dr. James Wilson." They had agreed that Wilson would check House in under physician supervision because House said if he checked himself in he wouldn't be able to stop himself from leaving.

The woman at the desk smiled. "Alright, I'll have both of you fill out some paperwork, and then we can get you processed, Mr. House."

"Doctor," House snapped, glaring at the receptionist.

"I'm sorry; Dr. House. We'll do a physical and some blood tests and then get you set up in a room."

House sighed and sat heavily in a waiting room chair, filling out the paperwork soullessly. Usually, he'd make up a fake name or write in the wrong information, but he couldn't muster the energy today. He could feel Wilson looking over his shoulder to make sure he didn't do his usual paperwork ruse. He was actually slightly saddened when he saw that House had filled out the paperwork normally. He wanted to hold House's hand and tell him that it was OK, that he didn't have to do this. But he couldn't. Instead, he took House's clipboard and his own up to the desk and handed them to the receptionist, who called House back to one of the examination rooms.

"Do you want me to go?" Wilson asked. House nodded. He gave his friend's limp hand a final squeeze and left.