One-shot fic, my only non-anime fic.
In the impending silence the blood slid down his pale skin, contrasting delightfully, its red against his white; somehow the image chased all discomfort away and enclosed only numb desire in its embrace.
He knew it was wrong, knew it was frowned upon by society, but he didn't care—it was the only reward in his bizarrely cold life. The only pleasure in his miserable life lived day by day surrounded by people who never understood him, who would never be able to understand him.
It was also the only comfort for the constant ache he felt in his leg, the pain from his muscles that had been killed by a blood clot then surgically removed when he was in a coma. Crippling him, and giving him more reason to be miserable, more reason to become addicted to something other than the intricacies of diagnostic medicine.
That's where the vicodin came in; numbing his pain and helping him concentrate on solving the cases he got. He needed the pill to get him through the day, he was addicted to it, but didn't have a drug problem—the drug helped him work, it didn't disrupt his profession.
And outside of work, he didn't have much of a life—just chilling at his apartment, chatting with Wilson, and keeping up on his video games. But the latter two he did often enough at the hospital, so there wasn't anything left to really do except watch TV or fill-in crosswords.
And cutting.
He stared at the blood on his arm, noticing how it all had dried and clotted the red gashes on his forearm. He knew where the most dangerous spots to cut were, and how deep was too deep so he never worried about bleeding too much. Plus he knew how to prevent infection, so he didn't have to worry about that.
It was just him and the blood that crossed his mind during these moments, stifling his pain and keeping him stoically cynical more than the vicodin. It was something he only did at his apartment, the only place he could never have some bimbo with a medical degree walk in on him while the blade sliced his skin.
Of course, he didn't normally cut his forearms, it'd be too easy for someone to glimpse accidentally; Mostly he cut on his upper arm, the blood running down his skin. And always he had to be shirtless when he cut there, otherwise his clothes would get bloodstained, and then someone with half a brain could figure it out.
Not that many people in the hospital had half a brain, or at least a brain that grasped simple notions.
He saw that stupidity everyday, no—it wasn't stupidity, it was fear, fear to try anything outside the box, anything not in the book. Every doctor worried more about making mistakes than for putting it all on the line to save a patient.
Every doctor save him.
But he didn't do it out of the kindness of his heart; he did it mostly for his pleasure in solving cases, solving the mysteries for the mysteries sakes.
He was the Sherlock Holmes of the medical profession. His last name House was even similar to the fiction character's last name—Holmes, or homes as it was pronounced, was plural for home that was the same as house. That's just the peculiarities of his name, his personality and habits were better.
He analyzed data in mind constantly, needing cases to stimulate his brain lest he grew bored. He fiddled around with a rubber ball every time he needed to think—it helped him concentrate more, almost like a self-hypnosis that allowed the truth to dawn upon him. Of course Holmes played the violin when he needed to think, not with any balls. And he too used drugs.
And he never sought popularity for his work.
Sighing, he picked up the razor on the floor, wiping off the drops of blood that managed to cling to the blade. Then he stood and picked up his cane, walking to the bathroom to wash off the blood.
It stung when he rubbed his forearm to remove the very stubborn marks, and when he was done he saw he'd started bleeding again, very little but enough to stain the bandage he put on. His arm stung as though from paper-cuts, and he could smell the metallic scent of his blood as he sauntered to the kitchen to fix some coffee, glad that Wilson had moved out, though he missed the delicious food the oncologist made.
Now all he had to eat was what he made himself, something he never put much energy into. Thus he merely made a sandwich out of cold-cuts and poured a cup of coffee before heading for the couch.
A/N: End of chapter, don't think I'll write anymore since I never really wrote a fanfic about a TV show before and I don't know where to take this. Anyway, please review.