Title: Visitation
Pairing: House/Wilson friendship, possible pre-slash if you're looking for it. House/Cuddy friendship. Chase/Cameron. Foreman/Thirteen.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for seasons 4 & 5, more specifically for the season 5 finale.
Summary: While House is in the hospital, he's visited by those who know him. The first part focuses solely on House and each chapter after that focuses on him and another specific character(s) from the show. The emphasis is on House & Wilson in particular.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never was, never will be. If I did own House, those college loans would finally get paid off.
A/N: Compared to the one-shots I've posted so far, this fic is a bit different from my normal style of writing. If aspects of the fic seem disjointed or if the flow seems choppy, it's meant to be that way; a sort of stream of consciousness. Everything is from House's point of view and though it's not just his thoughts, the story is meant to have this pace to it and for House to fluctuate in personality. The whole story will be this way.
I came up with this idea right after the season finale. I don't envision House's hospital stay going smoothly nor do I believe he's going to act like he's in shock the entire time, as he did at the end of the finale. This is how I see House handling his mental breakdown and how those around him will handle it. Please leave comments; I'd like to know your opinions.
Part One - House
For the first few weeks, no one came. But that was more because they weren't allowed to visit, not because they didn't want to.
At least that's how House justified it in his own head. Then again, his mind was betraying him at the moment, so in all actuality, anything was possible. The time since he had entered Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital moved in both slow motion and fast forward. Most of what had happened so far was a colorless blur, filled with doctors and nurses and pills and Amber and Kutner.
The most vivid time was those several hours after House first arrived at the hospital, when the door closed behind him and he could no longer see Wilson. Certain scenes flashed before him in still frame, the ones that said "the life you knew before no longer exists."
His doctor (Connor) and the orderlies (he couldn't be bothered to remember their names) leading him to the check-in desk, asking for him to fill out a form and sign his name.
Listing off his symptoms in a monotone voice while the doctor made marks on a clipboard, with a "hmm" here and an "ahh" there. (Fuck you.)
Being led to his room down a whitewashed hallway, where everything, including himself, was checked over thoroughly. Something about trust issues and checking for "illegal substances." Go on, check, he hadn't taken a Vicodin in over six hours. Or was it more?
Being told that he was allowed no visitors until after the first month. The first month was the most important or something like that. Needed to make sure he was on the path to "getting himself clean."
House remembered lying down on the cot-like bed, staring at the ceiling with the crack running through it and listening to Amber hum and Kutner shuffle around, touching everything.
Bed, check; chair, check; ugly wallpaper, check.
They wouldn't go away. They watched while he experienced everything.
"Opioid addiction" is what the doctors here called it, the reason why he was slowly losing his mind.
Well no shit, House could have told them that the minute he walked in the door. It had been the only option left. It was also the option he thought he'd fixed.
"You need to detox from the Vicodin, during which time I'm going to prescribe Methadone to overcome the withdrawal," Doctor Connor droned during their first meeting. "After that, I'm going to prescribe a much stricter regiment for Methadone, which will replace the Vicodin as your primary pain medication. Hopefully, with these measures, certain side effects will disappear."
Wonderful. Another controlling narcotic drug. He hated doctors.
"If the psychosis continues, I'll consider prescribing you Thorazine, an anti-psychotic."
If the psychosis continues. God, House hoped that was a hallucination.
"Since you had a severe head injury last year, we're going to have to monitor closely the use of that drug if it becomes necessary."
Head injury equals the bus ride from hell. Also known as, the night that caused Amber's death and when Wilson began to hate him. Also known as, the most likely point of origin of his mind's descent into madness.
If that was madness, this was hell.
The Methadone was successful in blocking a lot of the normal full-blown withdrawal symptoms; shaking, sweating, chills, involuntary tears, the need to puke every few minutes. Still, he found himself craving Vicodin and the relief it would give to his leg. Though he knew Methadone was just as effective in blocking the pain, he still felt like he was in agony at times. He knew it was all in his head though; that's what made it worse.
Pain, lots of it, would hit him at inopportune times. The withdrawal from alcohol wasn't helping either. House found himself shaking involuntarily and clutching his head, all while curled up in tight ball on top of the covers of his bed.
Amber sat by his head. "Do you think this will make us go away?"
"There's more you have to come to terms with before we leave." Kutner, sounding oh so practical.
"Fuck. Off." He couldn't get much more to pass his lips. "Detox will make you go away."
"You thought detox would make us go away," Amber corrected. "But that was all made up in your delusion. This is fact."
House didn't respond. Instead he shut his eyes and cursed under his breath.
The blur of detox was only interrupted when the doctor would come into his room and check on him, or when the orderly brought more of his pills.
It lasted a week altogether.
The combination of two different types of detox plus the addition of his body adjusting to a new type of pain medication meant House felt like he was living in a fog. When that fog finally lifted and he was able to focus on something else, all the while ignoring the continued presences of Amber and Kutner, it felt like a year had gone by.
Reality was the clock on the wall ticking past the number two.
House could finally notice the nondescript room he was currently occupying, with its off white ceiling, wallpapered walls, and the plain brown furniture. There was only one window, not surprisingly sealed shut with no way to unlock it.
"This place sucks," Kutner said, the most amount of emotion filling his voice since he'd appeared.
House couldn't agree more since it was actually him thinking that comment in the first place.
He hated it here. He had to be here; he wanted to be here. He knew it was necessary, but he still hated it. He'd never been one meant for rehab and he knew, like Amber knew; he'd eventually find some way to get out. But not yet, even though he wanted to break out through the walls like Edmond Dantes in The Count of Monte Cristo.
Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital was colored in grays and whites, dreary at one moment and blinding in the next. The staff felt devoid of any type of humor and seemed just as lifeless as the building they resided in. The outside world seemed to no longer exist and the place felt like a prison. He wished they would give him his cane back because he'd love to whack an orderly over the head, which was precisely why his cane was gone. Apparently some incident had happened years ago…
House really hated.
It felt like The Twilight Zone and any moment House expected the theme song to start blaring from the speakers that dotted the hallways and rooms.
For the first couple of days, besides wallowing in detox, he'd been numb. He was still in shock and trying to come to terms with everything that had happened. The idea that he was in a psychiatric hospital hadn't really sunk in and even at the times he had acknowledged it, the thought had been accompanied with knowing he had to be here.
Amber and Kutner shadowing him constantly kind of hit that fact home.
House now knew what having imaginary friends were like. Too bad they talked back.
But once that disconnected feeling washed away, House found he was increasingly irritated and bad tempered. Giving up his control and asking for help from complete strangers went against everything House was used to about himself. And he was still wrestling with that in his mind, along with every other problem going on in his mind.
He had to find some way to pass the time so he tried to find some semblance of humor in everything he saw. Feeling like he had been dropped into a badly written drama movie helped with that. Or maybe One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Comparing his life to a classic movie wasn't quite as depressing.
He just didn't want a Jack Nicholson pulled on him.
And he really needed to stop comparing his life to the movies and television.
He needed to get through this somehow though. And being an annoying pain in the ass seemed the best way.
Besides, it made the staff hate him. Maybe that would get them to push his treatment faster. Sorry, addiction therapy and counseling.
"As part of your treatment, I'm having you attend both one-on-one and group sessions with one of our psychiatrists, Doctor Gina Ryant. Since you have a drug and alcohol addiction, your counseling sessions will include both of these."
The trouble was, being a jerk meant his therapist was trying harder than ever to get him to admit his issues and, ugh, change him. Like he already didn't know something had to change, something had to give.
Preferably the people in his head leaving.
Kutner never said much, he mainly sat and cast sorrowful dark eyes at House. Interesting; while he was alive he never seemed to be able to shut up.
Guess suicide was a bit of a buzz kill.
House wished he would speak though. Anything was better than Amber's constant chatter. At least Kutner had been funny.
Amber would sit near him and talk and talk and talk. She'd swing her blonde her and stare at him with her ice blue eyes, smirking and laughing.
I'm real. I'm real. I'm real.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
It was an endless cycle. House wanted off.
The doctor had said the hallucinations wouldn't just vanish though; "these things take time." That was one phrase House didn't want to here. Detox was bad enough as it was, he at least could get the perk of his delusions leaving with all the Vicodin.
He hadn't taken a Vicodin since he had realized his mind was working against him. That moment in Cuddy's office, that was the moment he knew he needed help. That was when the Vicodin became his enemy; a greater curse than a blessing.
The Methadone worked just fine. He could walk (limp), he could function; he was fine. His therapist called it "the adjustment phase." He hated psychiatrists.
His most recent session, a one-on-one that consisted of him sitting on a comfortable deep maroon colored couch while his therapist sat across from him in a matching armchair, only cemented his loathing.
"You've been here a full month now, which means you're allowed visitors," Doctor Ryant said, tapping her pen on the top of her clipboard.
"Astute observation," House commented dryly, flexing his fingers on the couch cushions. "Come up with that all on your own?"
She only smiled at him in that annoying way of hers. So far, none of his comments had even made her flinch; guess he had to give her some amount of grudging admiration for having a spine.
"I'm only meaning to point out that people who care about you will now be stopping by to see how you are. A vital part of your treatment is being able to communicate effectively with your support system. Any issues need to be worked out with them specifically; I can only take you so far."
"If you can only take me so far, what's the point of these sessions?" House asked. "I think I'll just go now…"
House stood up as quickly as his bad leg allowed him and grabbed his cane from where it was leaning against the side table.
"Greg," she said when he reached the door, "you came here for a reason."
"I know," he admitted quietly. "I'm not checking out."
Doctor Ryant paused before she asked her final question, the one still ringing in House's ears hours later.
"Who is it you want to see the most?"
Now he was back in his room, one of the orderlies having led him back, making sure to retrieve his cane from him once again. They only allowed him to have it to get from one place to another.
"Do you honestly think anyone is going to come visit you? They think you're craaazy." Amber sing-songed the last word.
"They'll come," he whispered. "Wilson promised."
Amber laughed and Kutner smiled sadly.
"Your faith in him is astonishing," she said. "After everything, you still think he cares that much? Maybe you're nothing but a burden to him."
"To everyone," Kutner interjected.
House shut his eyes and wrapped his arms around his torso, hunching over on the bed. Block out their faces, the walls closing in on him. Block out his mind.
No, he couldn't block that out.
They were right. No one cared.
He was alone. It was exactly what he deserved.
End Part One.