Divertimento—by Barbara Barnett
Rating T for language and suggestiveness.
Summary: The last scene of the episode Distractions. A little introspective piece inside House's head.
Feedback always welcome
Victory was sometimes hollow. Sometimes sour. Like this one. His mood was Bartok. Strident, harsh, angry. His head said "no way." Even now, he could feel the occasional throb as the margins of the migraine still hovered behind his eyes. He had always known about the LSD and its more therapeutic uses. After all Lysergic acid had been originally developed as a migraine remedy. It was effective, if accompanied by less welcome side effects. Well, less welcome in some circumstances. No, definitely not Bartok. Not tonight.
The fire crackled in the hearth; the pungent aroma burned in his nostrils as it relaxed him with visions of bonfires and the autumnal leaf burnings of his youth. He regarded the burning embers, only briefly wishing the more interesting effects the LSD might be still within his mind's reach. To no avail. House's thoughts meander from Weber to What's-his-name, the kid with the burns. He hadn't a choice, had he? Waking the kid? No use second guessing. Everyone's eyes on him, accusing. Yeah, there he is, House the ass, the jerk, who doesn't give a crap about torturing a patient. What'd you expect? What would have been the result had he not done it? Yeah, there he is, House. So kind to not wake the burn victim. Too bad the kid had to die. Well, he did the best he could under the circumstances.
It was Gilmar and Brightman who taught him to not give a shit about what people thought of him. The only person that mattered was the patient. The only thing that mattered was to heal; to cure; to look under every rock, every corner of the box and then turn the box over, shake it and look some more. Weber was a prick. House hadn't needed to cheat—to look over Weber's shoulder at the answer. One fucking exam. In four years of med school; four years of undergrad and one of graduate school. Nine years of school and he cheated that one fucking time. Wasn't even really a cheat. He was just checking his answer. And Philip Weber, with eyes morbidly placed in the back of his head, saw. And that was the end of the prestige internship at Mayo. Michigan wasn't a bad second choice, especially not in Infectious Disease, but it wasn't the Mayo. And back then House gave a fuck about his reputation; about his credentials.
So now he'd gotten his revenge (not as sweet as he thought it might be). Weber Pain Clinic. Philadelphia PA. Raking in the big bucks. Living the Lexus life. So Weber had a new migraine remedy. Considering the prevalence of migraine in this country, House thought that it would have attracted big bucks and lots of publicity. An article in the New England Journal at least. So why, House wondered, would Weber research and publish his big breakthrough in an obscure Indian journal. In Hindi. There were plenty of Indian medical journals in English. Of course House couldn't read the Hindi. But how hard could it be to learn? Two weeks of all-nighters in the company of the Rosetta Stone "Learn Hindi in Six Months" and he had acquired a working knowledge of the language. Make that language number eight. After all, what else was there to do now that Stacy had exited his sphere. Again.
The statistics were just wrong. "With a P of less than .001…" Not freaking possible. No one drug is that foolproof. And that's what Weber was claiming. That the drug was nearly 100 percent efficacious. And House had tried it twice. Once on Coma Guy. And despite what Weber said, House believed the test to be valid; and once on himself. And House was pretty certain that he had not been spared a migraine. Thank you God for creating LSD.
It had been the second time he had tried the psychedelic. During his graduate school days, House shared a lab with a guy doing research on it. Making it. Most popular Chemistry grad student at Johns Hopkins. Ever. House thought the effects would have been long gone by his gig. Playing piano high was common amongst jazz pianists; playing stoned on acid was not. And not a good idea. It was the last gig he played with the pre-eminent jazz ensemble in Baltimore. He never wanted to use the stuff again. That is, until that Rasputin wouldn't let go of his brain. But at least House had been right about Von Evil. And that little ol' email from the eminent Dr. Gregory House pointing out a minimum of five flaws in Weber's statistical design. Yeah.
But the victory was short-lived and not as sweet as he might have thought considering the cost involved. But then again, he hadn't considered the Stacy factor. Migraine gone; von Evil dispatched, Stacy began to haunt the edges of his thoughts. Wilson had told him to get a better distraction. "Get a hooker." A hooker. Is this what it had come down to?
House stared into the fire, sipping his Jack Daniels. House talked a good game, but the truth was that he'd never really used a lady of the night before. Oh Stacy. The pain of her loss was acute; the wound too fresh. But she was gone. This time for good and, more or less, on his own terms. Not that made it hurt less. Maybe Bartok would be a good distraction after all. He just needed to find the phone number of the escort service and cancel. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Too late.