Where Do We Go From Here?
Chapter 1
You never know what you have until it's gone.
Greg House had never truly appreciated the veracity of that old clichéd statement until this very moment. As the front door of the Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital closed behind him and he took one last look at possibly one of the only true friends he had ever acquired, House realized just how much he would miss Wilson. He would miss his friend, his job, his apartment, his instruments, and his freedom. The gray skies that hung above seemed to mimic his somber mood, and House had never wished harder for one last ray of sunshine: one last glimmer of hope in what had turned into a miserable life. He had never wanted so much to just walk around and smell the roses…to stop and appreciate the beauty of life without all his self-loathing.
But the door closed anyway, closing him off to everything that he had ever cared about. He constantly complained about his job, but the truth was that medicine was what kept House going. The mystery and intellectual challenge stimulated his complex mind. He needed his job to wake up every morning.
And Wilson. As much as House teased and annoyed him, Wilson was like a brother. He was there, all the time, through thick and thin. Wilson loved House in a way that House had never been truly sure he could be loved. The abuse of his childhood had changed his personality permanently, so that he automatically assumed the worst in people. He always assumed the worst in his patients, after all. His mantra was that everybody lied and nobody was to be trusted. But he trusted Wilson. House trusted James Wilson with his life. And that was why he had agreed, without argument, that he needed help. Between his Vicodin addiction and the hallucinations, House barely knew which way was up anymore. He didn't trust his own judgment, and he couldn't trust his own thoughts.
Which led him to think of the person that he would miss the most. Just the memory of Cuddy, caressing his face as he realized that he had taken a break from reality, brought him close to tears. Just a few hours earlier, House had been nearly ecstatic at the thought that maybe he could convince Cuddy to turn their relationship into something more. He was willing to do whatever he had to in order to secure a place in her heart. Hell, he had even suggested moving in with her! Realizing that he had imagined their entire night of passionate lovemaking was the most painful moment in his life. He could barely bring himself to look at her after he realized that none of it had happened. She'd offered to ride with them to Mayfield but House insisted that she go to the wedding instead. He didn't want her to see him when he was admitted as a psychiatric patient. His pride and his heart wouldn't allow it. He'd already made a big enough fool of himself in front of the woman he loved.
"Dr. House," a soft yet confident voice said behind him. House turned and saw a short, attractive, 40-something Black woman wearing a lab coat. Her nametag read 'Dr. Lambert,' and he assumed that she had been assigned the unfortunate task of trying to fix his messed up brain. House wanted to make some borderline racist wisecrack, asking the doctor if she had been hired to meet the hospital's affirmative action policy. He wanted to feel like his normal self, saying the most socially inappropriate things possible. But his heart wasn't in it. For once in his life, House recognized that he desperately needed someone else's help. He was, after all, seeing dead people. So he just nodded his head and he almost smiled thinking of how proud Wilson would be that he hadn't called the doctor 'Harriet Tubman.'
"I'm Dr. Lambert," she said, extending her hand. "I spoke with James on the phone. Would you follow me please?"
The assistants that had let House into the door released his arms and he hobbled behind Harriet. The two of them walked into a spacious, comfortable office with a few diplomas on the wall: one from Harvard, one from Princeton, and one from Yale. House decided that Harriet was probably up to her eyeballs in debt, but at least she was no dummy. She closed the door and pointed to a chair.
"Please sit."
He did was he was told, another rarity in his life. Harriet sat behind her desk and placed her hands on top of it. She gave House a smile that could probably best be described as sympathetic, and his stomach gurgled. He didn't like sympathy or pity or anything resembling the two. But again, he kept his mouth shut. Harriet had every right to pity him because he was losing his mind. And that made him want to die. The one thing that he had always been able to depend on had finally shut down. Without his sharp mind and his sharp wit, he was nobody.
"I want to begin by assuring you that your privacy here is of the utmost importance. We keep the names of all our patients under lock and key. So don't worry about anybody finding out you're here."
House shifted and nodded. He supposed that was one thing he wouldn't have to worry about. Going crazy was bad enough. Having everyone know about it was even worse.
"Our staff is highly-trained, very discreet, and remarkably patient. Normally I would go on to tell you a bit about myself. But James tells me that you're not really the get-to-know-you type, so unless you object, I'll get right to the point."
"Please," he said, grateful that Harriet didn't seem like the type to waste his time.
"Here at Mayfield, we handle every kind of psychological problem you could imagine." Harriet pulled out a notepad and a pen and looked at House with a smile. "So how about you tell me why you're here?"
House licked his dry lips and sighed. He didn't want to relive the embarrassment of his Cuddy hallucination. He tapped his cane and stared at the top of it while he spoke. "A Vicodin addiction," he said in that low, slow tone that he used when he didn't want to admit something. "And hallucinations."
Harriet nodded and scribbled down what he said. "How long have you been abusing Vicodin?"
"Since an infarction that killed the muscle in my leg." He really tried not to sound bitter about it, but he couldn't help it. His life had been irrevocably changed since that time. "Thirteen years ago."
She slightly raised an eyebrow as she jotted down what he said. "So the drug problem has been going on for thirteen years?" House nodded and Harriet seemed impressed that he was still alive and mostly functioning. "How many times a day do you take the Vicodin?"
House shifted again and tapped his cane a few times on the ground. "I don't know," he said honestly. "Whenever I feel pain."
Harriet didn't push the issue, but she made a note about his answer. "What about the hallucinations? How long have they been going on?"
"A few weeks," he said lowly.
"Do you hear voices? See people?"
"The second one," House said, suddenly wondering if he would ever be normal again. At least, normal by his standards. "People that used to work for me. They're both dead now."
She nodded and wrote as he spoke. "Do you feel guilty about their deaths? Responsible in any way?"
"Yes," he said in almost a whisper.
"How long have they been dead?"
"One of them died a few weeks ago. The other died around this time last year."
"Why do you think you're just now hallucinating them?"
"I'm hoping it's a by-product of too much Vicodin," he said in a low grumble.
"Why is that?"
"It's easily fixed," House shrugged. "I quit the pills and she goes away."
"She?"
"Amber…the main hallucination."
Harriet nodded. "Well I guess we probably won't be able to eliminate Vicodin as the cause until you've gotten off of it. We'll have to detox you, of course. Have you tried that before?" House nodded. "The good thing about a hospital is that you can't sneak any pills here. Once you detox, that's it. No more Vicodin."
House felt a strange combination of sensations as she spoke. He was both excited and apprehensive about getting off Vicodin. He had depended on it for so long that he wasn't sure how he would live without it. But he also knew that he had to let it go. The pills may have reduced his pain, but they were also ruining his life: a life that he hadn't even appreciated until he realized that he may lose it.
"I can't make you any promises," Harriet continued. "There could be other explanations for the hallucinations. Are you depressed?"
"No," he said a little too quickly, staring at her like she had asked him the most ridiculous question in the world. Harriet stopped writing and smiled softly.
"Dr. House, I can only help you if you tell me the truth. The medicine I prescribe will depend directly on the answers you give me. Unlike your field of medicine, where you can see the problem, I can only diagnose based off of what you tell me. You've made the huge step of coming here to get rid of this problem, so don't start off on the wrong foot by lying to me. You've got nothing to be ashamed of." She took a breath and locked eyes with him. "So I'll ask again. Are you depressed?"
House looked down at the wooden floors and thought for a long minute. He hated being weak and he hated for other people to see his weaknesses. Being depressed was just so pathetic to him. Despite his complaints, he knew that he had a pretty good life. People with serious health problems and those who lived out on the streets had real reasons to be sad. He was just a loser.
"Yes," he whispered, still not looking at her.
"Okay," she said, her voice obviously happy that he had admitted his problem to her. "Severe depression could be a cause of hallucinations. I think between that and the drug abuse, we've got some good leads on how to proceed. Is there anything else that you want to tell me?"
House's mind immediately went to his father. The way that his dad had treated him as a child had scarred him for life. House had honestly thought he'd been depressed his whole life because of John House. He knew that he should divulge the information about his childhood abuse to Dr. Lambert, but now wasn't the time. It also wasn't the time to divulge information about his deep brain stimulation or the night of fantastic sex that he had convinced himself was real. He was exhausted and he didn't want to talk anymore.
"Some other time," he said, letting her know that there was more. Harriet nodded like she understood and she pulled out a manila folder.
"I want to explain to you how this will work," Harriet said. "You have checked in voluntarily, but under state law, you have to stay for at least a month. After that, we will do an evaluation and see if you're okay to leave under your own free will. If you aren't a danger to yourself or to anyone else, you'll probably be able to leave. If you want to continue outpatient therapy, then I'll be more than willing to set that up. Does that sound okay to you?"
None of it sounded okay to House. A month in the loony bin would surely feel like an eternity. And he certainly didn't want to do outpatient therapy for a mental condition. But he supposed that all of it was worth it if it meant he could reclaim his sanity.
"Yeah," he said lowly.
"You said that you've tried detox before, right?" House nodded. "Cold turkey or methadone?"
"Both."
Harriet obviously concluded that neither method had worked, and she nodded. "Well, we'll try something different. And we'll get you on a non-narcotic for the pain in your leg."
House nodded and suddenly, the gravity of his situation hit him like a ton of bricks. He was in for a long, hard battle with his inner demons. He wouldn't have the support of his friends: support that he needed, even if he acted like he didn't.
"Can I have visitors?" he asked quietly, almost unable to recognize his own soft, broken voice.
"After a week," she nodded. "We want you to get used to the environment and set a routine for you. It'll help you differentiate between what's real and what isn't." House nodded again. "I take it that while you're a patient here, you'll want to put James in charge of your medical decisions."
"Yes."
Harriet wrote that down. "And should I write him down as your emergency contact person as well?"
"Yes."
"And what if he can't be reached? Do you want a second person listed?"
House shifted in his seat and tapped his cane a few times. "Lisa Cuddy. C-u-d-d-y."
Harriet nodded and wrote that down too. "So if Lisa Cuddy inquires about your progress or your course of treatment, do I have your permission to tell her?"
House nodded quietly.
"Anybody else?"
He didn't hesitate as he shook his head. There was nobody else in the entire world that he trusted the way he trusted Wilson and Cuddy. Even if he didn't agree with their decisions, he knew that they would always look out for his best interests.
After a few more questions, Harriet told House that she wanted him to rest because they were going to start the detox immediately. She walked him up to his room, which looked surprisingly comfortable. House had expected a cot-like bed surrounded by white walls. While the bed was narrow and long and probably not all that comfortable, the room was painted in warm earth tones that didn't make him feel like he was at a mental institution. He was sure that the days would be long and hard while he was there, but not having to stare at stark white walls would help a little bit.
"So this is your home for the next month," Harriet said, placing a soft hand on his back. He looked at her and she gave him a reassuring smile. "You may hate me while you're here, but you'll owe me your sanity when it's all said and done."
"Great. Maybe I'll take you to a rap concert to thank you," House said, wanting to annoy her at least once. Harriet smiled and shook her head.
"I'll check in on you later. Ted will be with you for now," she said, pointing to a rather muscular assistant.
"Good luck," she said as she walked down the hall. House sat on the edge of his bed and looked around.
"I'm going to need it."
…
Cuddy had always had an undefined relationship with House. Starting in college and extending into their adult work lives, the two of them operated under unnamed terms. They flirted, argued, yelled, and everything in between. To an outsider looking in, it probably appeared that the two couldn't stand each other. But that was the furthest thing from the truth. Even though House tried his hardest to get on her very last nerves, Cuddy knew that hatred was never his motivation. They shared an unspoken affection and friendship that nobody but the two of them, and perhaps Wilson, understood.
She had thought that their strange friendship might be coming to an end when House barged into her office and made those disparaging remarks about her daughter. Cuddy was so upset and hurt that he would talk to her like that and she resolved to not let him make her upset again. She had avoided him the entire next day but House seemed even more persistent than usual. He broke every bit of patience she had, though, when he announced to the entire hospital that they had slept together. Cuddy was so furious and hurt that he would do such a thing that she had fired him on the spot.
It wasn't until he came into her office later that she realized that something was wrong. When Cuddy saw that look on his face, when he realized why she was so upset with him, her heart broke. House looked confused and lost, and those were two adjectives that could never be used to describe Gregory House. She could still vividly see the look on his face when he confessed to her that he was not okay. For House to admit such a thing was serious. Cuddy never could have guessed how serious until he admitted to her that he had been hallucinating. The three of them sat in Wilson's office for over an hour with barely a word spoken between them. Wilson tentatively suggested that House check himself into Mayfield, and when House agreed, Cuddy felt like her world had been turned upside down.
And ever since then, Cuddy had been in a fog. She wanted to accompany him to Mayfield, but House said no. He claimed that it was because people would suspicious if all three of them missed Cameron's and Chase's wedding, but Cuddy knew better. She knew that he didn't want her to see him like that, and she respected it. But all through the wedding, she couldn't think of anything but him. She put on a smile for everyone and lied about Wilson's and House's whereabouts, saying that some medical emergency had come up with a patient and Wilson needed House's advice. People bought it, but Cuddy knew that it wouldn't be long before House's absence raised more serious questions.
So House was at Mayfield, and he had been there for a few hours. Cuddy was parked outside of his apartment building, staring at the green door that led to the inside of the complex. She couldn't stop wondering how he was. Was he scared? Was he lonely? Was he hallucinating? She knew that he wasn't gone forever and that he wasn't dead, but Cuddy still felt like he had taken a part of her with him into that hospital. As often as she complained about him, her biggest fear was that he would leave the hospital a different person. She didn't want him to lose the qualities that made him so House. Being House was what made him special. It was what he clung to, and Cuddy didn't want him to lose that.
A slight knock on the window caused Cuddy to jump and she turned to see a sad-looking Wilson standing outside her car door. She spotted his car across the street, and she wondered how long he had been there. She wondered how long she had been there, staring at the door and missing House. She rolled down the window and they exchanged sad looks.
"How was it?" she asked quietly. Wilson noted the sleeping baby in the backseat and he responded in the same quiet tone.
"Okay, I guess," he shrugged. "I didn't really get to say goodbye or anything."
"Yeah," Cuddy said sadly. Wilson could tell that she was on the verge of tears so he spoke quickly.
"He won't be gone forever, you know," he said, offering his characteristic optimism. "At least a month, but if he's better after that, he'll be back."
"I know," she sighed. She nodded to herself and then took a deep breath. "Are you ready?"
"Yeah."
"Would you get her playpen out of the trunk?"
Wilson nodded and opened the car trunk to pull out the folded up playpen, while Cuddy scooped up the sleeping Rachel. She patted her daughter's back, gingerly walking to the green door and waiting for Wilson with the key. They let themselves into House's apartment and Wilson set up the playpen for Rachel to sleep in. Cuddy put her baby in there and then stood up and looked around with a sigh. The apartment reeked of House, from the piano to the stacks of medical books to the simple smell of it. It made her miss him again.
"How much Vicodin do you think is in here?" Wilson asked.
"A shit load," Cuddy said dryly, and that cracked a smile on both their faces. Wilson disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two garbage bags and he handed her one.
"Every nook and cranny is a possible hiding place. Check everywhere."
Cuddy nodded and she started in the living room while Wilson worked the kitchen. They had agreed to completely clear out House's apartment of any pills so that when he returned, he would have a fresh start.
And for the next three hours, the two of them turned the apartment upside down looking for pills. By the time they finished, each of their bags was halfway full. Cuddy gave Wilson a look and shook her head.
"How did we let it get this bad?" she asked, feeling responsible for House's obvious drug problem. Wilson sighed and tied off his bag before sitting on the couch. He patted the cushion next to him, and Cuddy sat down with him.
"I often wonder the same thing," he admitted. "It's so hard to judge pain, though. You and I don't know what he's going through. How can we tell him that he's taking too much?"
"Some of that pain is in his head," Cuddy said, recalling the time she had given him saline instead of morphine, and he hadn't known the difference. She should have insisted then that he get off the Vicodin. But her guilt made her keep quiet.
"He's detoxing right now," Wilson said. "Simone Lambert is the doctor there. She said she started him on detox as soon as he walked into the door. He's going to be in hell."
"Can we visit?"
"After a week," he nodded. "Do you want to go together?"
Cuddy smiled and nodded. They fell quiet again and Cuddy found herself replaying some of the moments of the previous day. She should have known something was wrong based on House's actions and words. Some of the stuff he'd said just plain didn't make sense. She remembered his comment about moving in together, and for some reason, that was sticking out prominently in her mind. She recalled how confused he'd been in her office, when House realized that she was upset over something he had said, not something he had done.
She'd kind of been wondering what exactly it was that he thought she was mad about, and why he had uttered the comment about moving in together.
"Did you know he was hallucinating?" Cuddy asked, ending the silence. Wilson sighed and nodded.
"He told me the other day. He had me sit in on some of the differentials because he kept hearing Amber's voice and he was getting confused."
Cuddy nodded slowly and then looked at Rachel was she slept. "What was he hallucinating about yesterday?"
When Wilson didn't answer, she turned to look at him and she saw the sheepish expression he wore. She raised an eyebrow. She kind of had an idea, but she needed confirmation.
"Wilson."
"I'm not sure he would want you to know."
"Well considering some of the context clues, I think I have an idea. But I'd like to know for sure before I even let myself think along those lines."
Wilson had that silly smile on his face and he sighed loudly. He thought about it for a minute but then shook his head. "He'd hate me if I told you."
Cuddy bit her lip and nodded slowly. "Well your unwillingness to tell me just confirms what I already thought."
As she picked up the waking Rachel and soothed the little girl's back, Wilson became very worried. House really would have killed him if he thought that Wilson had told his secret. Admitting to Cuddy that he had fantasized about sleeping with her and being her boyfriend would humiliate him, and Wilson was sure that House didn't need that added stress.
"You won't say anything to him, will you?" he asked.
Cuddy motioned at the playpen and Wilson folded it for her. "You know I won't."
They walked out to her car and Wilson put the playpen in the trunk. He tossed the bags of Vicodin into his car and Cuddy started up her car and rolled down the window. "I'll see you at work."
Wilson nodded and as she drove off, Cuddy let her mind wonder to Wilson's refusal to tell her about House's hallucination. She was already pretty sure what it was: considering the way House had acted, his statement that they should move into together, and his announcement to the entire hospital that they had slept together. Clearly, House really did think that they had slept together. And Cuddy wasn't sure what to make of that. She knew that House had a thing for her, physically at least. His emotions, however, were a completely different subject. He was so guarded and unwilling to let her in, even though they both knew that he cared.
Still, the fact that he had suggested they move in together after their imaginary night together was telling. House wasn't the type of guy to ask for commitment after a one-night-stand. Even if they'd only had sex in his mind, he was willing to make something of it. The possibility that he didn't just want her for her body made her grip the wheel a little tighter. She would have been lying if she said that she didn't want a relationship with House. But Cuddy knew that now wasn't the time. He had to get better first. And if he still wanted something serious when he left Mayfield, then she would be ready.