House MD
Rating: PG13
Characters/Pairings: House/Cameron
Word Count: 488
Spoilers: Small spoilers for Season 3
Summary: The vial of morphine sat untouched upon the table. The syringe rested beside it. His leg throbbed, and Vicodin just wasn't going to help this time.
Warnings: Dark, maybe mentions of self harm/suicide.. if you're looking for it.
Disclaimer: As ever, House will never belong to me.
Author's Notes: My first House fic.. so let me know what you think..
The vial of morphine sat untouched upon the table. The syringe rested beside it. His leg throbbed, and Vicodin just wasn't going to help this time.
Rubbing his thigh firmly, House reached hesitantly for the syringe. His hand shook.
Soft but firm knocking interrupted his thoughts. He ignored it.
"House?" He heard the muffled voice echoing in the hallway outside his apartment door. He closed his eyes and his breath hitched as a sharp stabbing sensation sliced through his body.
He heard the key turn in the lock as his fingers curled around the syringe.
I knew it was a mistake giving her a key.
He lost grip on the needle and it fell to the floor, rolling underneath the couch. The door swung open behind him, and she entered.
"House?" She repeated eyeing the items spread across his coffee table. Morphine. Empty Vicodin bottles. Razor. She fell to her knees beside him.
"You… you shouldn't be here." He groaned. Tears sprung to her eyes. Please, don't let him have done something stupid. She took in his bloodshot eyes; their bright blue seemed a dull grey.
"Have you taken anything?" She asked, reaching for the empty bottle.
"It was empty." He spat bitterly.
"How bad?"
"Just great. I feel like I could run a marathon." He paused, kneading his thigh harshly. "How'd you think, Cameron?" He replied viciously. Her hands slid over his on his thigh cautiously, massaging the muscle. His fists clenched, and she ached. She didn't want to see him in pain.
"Greg." She murmured, looking up at him. His eyes were closed.
"The… the syringe. It's under," he gasped, her hands recoiled as if burnt. He shook his head and continued, "under the couch." She shook her head.
"No, something else. Please, there must be something else."
"Cam-"
"Greg." She closed her eyes, for a second, and then bent forward, reaching underneath the couch for the stray syringe.
"Go."
"No. At least, let me… let me stay." He nodded and took the needle from her hands. He pulled the protective plastic cap off with his teeth, reached for the vial of clear liquid and filled the syringe. He tapped the cylinder and expressed a few droplets of the morphine. He placed the injection upon the table. Her fingers flittered over his before returning to her lap.
A tear rolled down her cheek as he slid the tourniquet over his arm and pulled it taut. She wished she could do something.
He picked up the syringe. The needle hovered over his skin.
The needle slid effortlessly into his flesh. The morphine coursed through his veins and the euphoria spread throughout his body anaesthetizing his pain. He dropped the empty syringe, and her hands slid into his.
And in those moments that followed the pain was erased, numbness enveloped his body, and the only thing he felt was the warm, tight grip of her hands within his.