No strings attached
A/N – I quoted the song "How can you mend a broken heart" by the Bee Gees. As I saw Out of the Chute over and over again, that song kept coming to mind. I took the story and added a twist. I collect guitars. I own and play a Lyle guitar, and they are nice instruments. I've even gotten a few things at the auction in Ludwig's Corner, PA.
"I can think of younger days when living for my life was everything a man could want to do. I could never see tomorrow, but I was never told about the sorrow."
First Stacy, then Lydia, and now Cuddy. After Lydia, he thought he knew how to mend a broken heart. But then that happened while he was in Mayfield, and he had the safety of Mayfield to fall back on. Working through grief is easier when you live with a whole bunch of people who are at various stages of learning how to do exactly the same thing.
When you're never told about the sorrow, you have no idea how to face and deal with it. The easiest thing to do, when you don't know how to deal with sorrow, is find the easy way out – anything for a good shot of endorphins to dull the pain. Dangerous risk taking, cutting yourself, narcotics included. They all work a few times but eventually they no longer have the desired effect, and you have to move on to something stronger.
He felt like such a failure on so many levels.
He should have learned, from his parents, how to deal with grief. That's something parents teach their children. Every time you deal with the set backs life always dishes out, you become stronger. Certainly adolescence is full of life's lessons. Break ups are common. Some of them are very traumatic. Parents help you deal with grief and move on.
He thought he learned how to deal with grief in Mayfield.
So why was it so much more difficult this time?
Coming into that relationship, Cuddy had as much baggage as House did; maybe more. It was more difficult this time because she said she didn't expect him to change. He knew she did. Actions mean more than words. Cuddy's words were empty. The difference was that Lydia only knew what she saw. Obviously he had some baggage or he wouldn't have been a patient at Mayfield, but she accepted that and loved him anyway.
All along with Cuddy, telling him she didn't want him to change when in reality she obviously did, he felt like he was in a car stuck at a railroad crossing with broken crossing gates, waiting for a 100 car freight train barreling down the tracks. He'd been waiting at that intersection for seven long months. The only thing was, his car was stuck on the tracks. He couldn't move out of the way. In real life, he felt like his heart was on those tracks and all she did was annihilate it. She wanted him to change. She didn't have the unconditional love for him that she told him she did. She loved him, and he loved her, but he wasn't good enough for her. Then she brushed his cheek with her hand, whispered "I thought I could do it" and told him goodbye. Nothing made sense in his life anymore. Of course his leg hurt more now. That's all he had to dwell on. Even his patients weren't enough to keep him distracted from all the hurt his bitch of an ex-girlfriend caused him.
"And how can you mend a broken heart? How can you stop the rain from falling down?"
So he checked into a hotel for some five star pampering, with the intention of ending it all when the money, the thrills, and the Vicodin were gone. He wasn't stupid. He knew that all the wild kinky sex, shooting the bow and arrow, the incessant drinking, the non-stop Vicodin were ways to dull pain that he should have learned to deal with by now. All of these things were like an umbrella. Some people claim they don't need an umbrella to hide from pain. Some people use faith or family as an umbrella to shield them from pain or help them deal with it. Good coping skills are a great umbrella. House's umbrella of booze, wild sex, thrill-seeking behavior and Vicodin was flimsy and had quickly broken.
At the last minute as he stood perilously on the outdoor balcony railing, about to jump, he looked down. He could have aimed for the patio around the pool, thereby ensuring his immediate death beyond the shadow of a doubt. Or he could aim for the water. To all the bar patrons, it would look like he was just doing a massive cannonball. If he aimed his body right, he would hit the middle part of the pool where the water was just shallow enough that he would break his neck on the bottom of the pool and die instantly.
He didn't give a damn what his mother, Cuddy or his team would do without him. Wilson was another question. He loved Wilson and he knew that Wilson loved him. But he was fucked up beyond repair. He didn't want Wilson's last memory of him to be as a big bloody pile of crap on the pool patio. No, it would be much easier if it looked like a cannonball gone wrong.
Carnell had no idea what his favorite customer was now up to. Having procured untold numbers of hookers, a bow and arrow set, many bottles of booze and illicit Vicodin for House over the few days he'd been in the room, the last thing House asked Carnell to do for him was to go antiquing. House had sent him on a special mission, to find a 1973 Lyle guitar. They were made in Japan and only one music store in the entire United States had ever been authorized to distribute them. The music store was in Washington State. Lyle guitars are favored among classical guitarists and some folk musicians, and are difficult to find since they stopped manufacturing them sometime in the 70's. True, Carnell had many other customers under his watch. Carnell quickly began to like helping House because of the money, but it wasn't long before Carnell saw a wounded, hurt man under all those crazy escapades. This was a man who needed help, wasn't getting it, and Carnell wanted to help him.
After the last hooker arrived, House dismissed Carnell with a thousand dollar bill and asked him to go find a Lyle guitar.
"They're hard to find. There's no hurry. Just take this, and look through the estate sales and auctions. They show up at estate sales from time to time. . I don't care if it's missing strings or what condition the strings are in. If you find one, buy it for me." Those were House's only instructions.
That was on a Friday. House had solved his last case, over and above Cuddy's objections to the technique he used to solve it. But even that wasn't enough to help him get back on track. All that did was tie up one last loose end.
House had no intention of surviving the jump. He'd sent Carnell out to find a guitar that Carnell could keep for himself in House's memory. It was a gift from House to Carnell to remember him by.
Friday afternoon while House was downing the last of his Vicodin, Carnell had already gotten off work. He'd found a Friday night estate sale in Ludwig's Corners, Pennsylvania that advertised several nice classical guitars in the sale. It was about a two hour drive from Princeton. Carnell called the auction house and confirmed that one of the guitars was a Lyle.
Carnell debated about whether or not he should call House about the sale. House hadn't yet checked out of the hotel. At the last minute, before leaving for the sale, Carnell called the room. He didn't have House's cell phone number.
The room phone rang four times and went to voice mail. House sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his painful leg, too depressed and in too much physical and psychic pain to care about anything besides jumping off the balcony. He looked blankly at the blinking red light on the hotel room phone, and then looked back out to the balcony. He thought about his patient, the bull rider that he'd just saved with a typically very unorthodox procedure. The bull rider said he lived for those eight seconds riding the bull. House looked at the distance from his balcony to the pool below, and figured it would take about eight seconds to hit whatever he was going to hit. Eight seconds of joy, freedom while flying through the air, and then his misery would be over with. For good.
"House, it's Carnell. I found the guitar you're looking for. It's in Ludwig's Corner, Pennsylvania. I'm here now and the bidding is about to start. I think the guitar's going to sell early. I looked it over pretty good. It doesn't have any strings but it's in good shape otherwise. I don't know what time you're checking out, but if you get this message, call me." Carnell left a message along with his cell phone number in House's hotel voice mail box.
Two hours later, House was soaking wet and back in his hotel room with Wilson. Even the jump had been a failure. He missed the middle part of the pool and ended up in the deep end, basically just doing a massive cannonball. The bar patrons jumped in after him, and one even handed him a beer, thinking it was all a big prank.
He had no idea how he got out of the pool. All he knew was, his next memory was sitting on the side of his bed, soaking wet, two hours later, with Wilson sitting on the bed next to him.
The message light on his hotel phone was not blinking anymore. House wondered why he even noticed that.
When House stormed away from Wilson and out of the bar earlier, Wilson let him have a little lee way and then secretly followed him back up to the hotel room. Wilson knocked on the door, and there was no answer.
"House! We need to talk about this!" Wilson banged on the door.
"House!" Wilson banged louder.
"House!" Wilson banged as hard as he could with both fists. No answer.
Wilson started dialing 911. He hit the first 1 on his phone's keypad when a call came in from Carnell.
"You probably don't know who I am. I'm Carnell, the guy who's been waiting on your friend. He gave us your phone number as emergency contact when he checked in. Listen, I'm worried about him. Is he ok? I've been calling his room over and over again."
"Yeah, I remember you. He's not Ok. I called the front desk and they're running up with a key. I'm calling 911 now." Wilson hung up, dialed 911, reported a possible suicide attempt, gave the relevant information and clicked the phone shut.
Breathlessly, the hotel manager arrived with a key and both men barged into House's room just in time to see House step off of the balcony rail.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Wilson screamed, running helplessly to the now-empty balcony.
From six stories up, he saw his best friend hit the water with a force that surely no one could survive intact.
To his horror, he saw other bar patrons jump in alongside House, obviously thinking this was some kind of party gag. For about two seconds, Wilson scanned the water looking for House to resurface, and yet fully expecting him not to.
The hotel pool had no lifeguard on duty.
Several hotel staffers saw him jump and ran to the pool, but lost sight of him when all the other bar patrons jumped in. The scene was chaotic. The bartender, who thought he knew where House landed in the pool, dove in after him. When the bartender came up for air, there was House, trying to tread water in the deep end but unable to because of his bad leg. It didn't help that he was drunk, too. House kept listing to one side, flailing with one hand trying to slap away anyone who tried to help, and drinking a beer with the other hand.
"Come on bud, let's get out of the water," the bartender said.
"Nnnhhh; lemme 'lone" slurred House. He had dumped some of the beer in the water and was quickly going underwater.
The bartender wrapped his arm around House's waist and hauled him to the side of the pool, lifeguard-style. "Come on, let me help you," he said while towing House to safety.
"Lemme 'lone, I shaid!" House yelled, lazily and ineffectually trying to slap the bartender enough to shake him loose. "Lemme die. Wanna drown. Lemme 'lone."
"Not on my watch," said the bartender as he arrived at the pool's edge towing House. A panting Wilson appeared after having run down six flights of stairs, followed closely by the hotel manager. From another direction the police and paramedics arrived. The police and hotel security cleared all of the bar patrons out of the pool while the paramedics helped House out of the water.
"Lemme alone! Get away!" House screamed drunkenly at the paramedics, the police, Wilson, and anyone else who tried to help.
His body had taken a terrible beating from the impact with the water. He was clearly very drunk, so it was difficult to assess him for a head injury because his responses were clouded and slowed by liquor, but since he kept insisting on being left alone, eventually the only choice the paramedics had legally was to do just that. Other than the fact that he would be very bruised, he had no other obvious external signs of injury. House refused to be assessed by the paramedics, refused to answer any of their questions, and refused to go to the hospital to be checked out.
Since he had asked the bartender to let him drown, legally his action was declared a suicide attempt. He could have been taken to the hospital involuntarily, and kept under a 72 hour psych hold for suicide precautions, but Wilson decided to take matters into his own hands. Whether or not this was a wise decision was something Wilson would debate for a long time to come. Wilson told the police and paramedics to let him take House home.
After the scene calmed down a little bit, the hotel manager got a wheel chair for House and Wilson helped him up into the chair. House was too drunk, too depressed and in too much pain to care about needing a wheel chair.
Wilson, the hotel manager, and hotel security helped House back up to the room. "Sir, are you sure you're Ok with this situation? Do you need any help?" the hotel manager asked Wilson.
"I'm never sure about anything with him but I'll call if we need help. You can go. Thanks," Wilson replied.
After the other men left, Wilson turned his attention to House. As angry and worried as he was, he could easily have lashed out screaming at his best friend. But if he had started screaming, he wouldn't really have known what to say anyway. Anything that came out of his mouth at this point would likely have made the situation worse, so he just went over silently to House's side and helped him get out of the wheel chair to sit on the side of the bed.
All the booze, Vicodin, and pool water in his stomach quickly made a return appearance as he vomited all over Wilson. Wilson stood up to go get some towels, but House's body wouldn't stay upright. With a resigned look, Wilson went back to his friend's side to help him lie down in the bed, wet clothes and vomit and all. He turned House on his left side, facing Wilson, so he wouldn't choke on the vomit.
"Wilson, I'm not worth it," House mumbled.
"Yes you are," Wilson said, gently rubbing his hand on House's back. What he wanted to add, but didn't, was But the bitch isn't.
"Go to sleep. We'll deal with this when you wake up."
Wilson didn't leave his post, in the chair next to House, for four straight hours. Eventually he gave in to the need to clean himself up and try to get the vomit out of his clothes, but he did so at House's bedside; leaving him only once for a few minutes to get more clean towels out of the bathroom.
At about nine pm, a soft knock was heard at the door, followed by the clunking sound of a large object being left outside the door. An envelope had been shoved under the door. A few minutes later, a text message appeared on Wilson's phone.
"Is he ok? Carnell."
Wilson softly padded over to the door and picked up the envelope. He cracked the door open. A guitar case had been propped up against the wall outside the hotel room. The envelope contained $1800 and a note.
"I been a bell hop for twenty years; ten years at this hotel. I've never met anyone as nice as you. It don't have nothing to do with the money. I would have done it all for you for free. Nobody ever treated me as nice as you. You didn't have to give me all them tips. I just didn't have the heart to give 'em back to you right then and there 'cause it might have been an insult. Gotta treat a guy with respect, you know. I had to find some kinda nice way to return all that money. You looked like you needed a friend. It ain't cool when whores are the only people who care about someone. I know what it's like to know that the only way you think you can get attention is to buy it. I done that with whores and dope dealers plenty of times. This is all the money you gave me in tips plus the $1000 you gave me to buy the guitar. The guitar and the money are for you. If you wanted to buy the guitar for me, thanks, but I bought it for you. I hope you like it. I'll come up and see you if you want, but don't shove no money in my hands. It ain't necessary. Carnell."
Wow.
Wilson was so disappointed in Cuddy. Actually, truth be told, at the moment he hated her. The hatred would fade with time but the disappointment would take longer. But House obviously thought he loved her, so Wilson would never call her a bitch or say how much he hated her in front of House. Wilson would try never to speak badly about her out loud, whether or not House was there. It wouldn't be right. But it would be true to Wilson's feelings.
Ok, so she said she was House's problem. Wait, didn't she expect House to change? If she thought she was the problem, then why didn't she think SHE could change? Yeah, Wilson loved him too, and longed for the day when House would admit he felt the same way. Right now House's head was still up Cuddy's ass, and as much as Wilson hated Cuddy for carving out and stomping like a wild bull on his best friend's heart, he would respect that House at least for a time did love her and wanted to make a life with her and her daughter. House's attempts to prove his love may have been misguided, but at least he tried.
Re-reading Carnell's letter, Wilson realized that a man who'd known House for all of five days had just done something that Cuddy probably hadn't done in all the years she'd known House. He did something nice for House just because he could. He saw the desperation in the crazy things House did, thought House needed a friend, and did what he thought was right. If Carnell had been any less of a man, he never would have come back after House faked the act of killing one of the hookers in front of him – no matter how much money House waved in front of him. Obviously Carnell saw the desperation in a guy who would fake a hooker's death with a bow and arrow just to get a cheap thrill.
Wilson gave more thought to his feelings for House. Had they ever done nice things for each other just because they could? This guy just spent a large chunk of his own money on a guitar for a guy he'd met five days ago, and not only that but gave back the $800 House had tipped him over the last five days and the $1000 House gave him to buy the guitar, which he could easily have absconded with.
How can you mend a broken heart? Maybe the better question might be, How can you avoid breaking someone's heart?
Give your love with no strings attached.