WARNING: this contains spoilers for Half Wit. So I'm a bit scattered lately. I've been starting pieces up left and right, without bothering to finish them, and you guys have to carry the brunt of that. So I apologize for that, but after the scene where Wilson and House talk about his plan to have drugs injected directly into his brain and Wilson suggests that House try something else for his depression.

"Dear friend, what's the time?
Is this really the borderline?
Does it really mean so much to you?
Are you afraid, or is it true?" Paul McCartney

"I know you have a policy on this sort of thing, but could you at least, consider talking to me the next time you get an idea as using major brain surgery as a means to get high?" He may have agreed to let me come over and eat pizza with him, but he doesn't respond. I know he heard me, because House looked up just long enough to listen to what I had to say. Then he went back to picking the little bubbles of burnt, hardened cheese off of the slice of pizza in front of him.

I know he heard me and yet he doesn't say a word, not one. He just sits there, in complete silence, eating his pizza and attempting to ignore me. Then after three all but unbearable hours, when I'm about to get up and leave, he looks at me, and smiles. However, he stops when he sees that, as is almost always the case, I am not even slightly amused.

"Oh come on, Jimmy—this isn't even close to the worst thing I've ever one. It's not even the worst thing I've done this year." Then he picks up one of the discarded cheese bubbles and flicks it at me. I can't believe that after all this time, House still finds ways to shock and horrify me. You'd think that by now either I would have gotten used to him or he might mellow out a little, but I think he's actually gotten worse.

I'm not mad him—alright, I am pissed, but I'll be over that in a day or two. The most difficult part out of all of this is not the fighting or the way he doesn't even seem to care whether or not he hurts me—pushes me away. If all he did was piss me off by doing some little annoying thing like stealing my food and refusing to do the dishes, I could deal with all those things and more.

I'd like to think I wouldn't even get mad anymore and that eventually, when he realized he wasn't getting to me at all, House would give up and act like a normal person, but I'm pretty anal retentive and overly sensitive. So I know that no matter how small the offenses might be, I'd still get angry from time to time, and we'd still fight, but for now, the small things hardly even register.

The worst part out of all of this is how he doesn't seem to care, not about me, not about his job, not even about his own safety, health, and well being. How am I supposed to try and help someone who doesn't want it? What can I do for somebody who doesn't give a shit? "If it makes you feel any better," he says after another long, uncomfortable silence, "I never meant for anybody to find out." Then he gives me that look, the 'please don't completely hate my guts,' look.

"Of course that doesn't make me feel better. The fact that you were going to have BRAIN SURGERY, without telling me is—it's huge! And you don't even—what the—what do you want me to say?"

"Tell me you understand. It's not a big deal. You forgive me, and you want to just forget this whole thing. Or don't say anything at all. Go back to your hotel and ignore me, like you always do when you're pissed off." Unfortunately, I'm all too familiar with the many moods of House. This is the passive aggressive, semi-depressed, and pissed off House. Somehow he manages to experience three or four moods at once, which I suppose makes up for all the times when he has no emotional at all.

"Are you kicking me out?" I ask, wanting desperately to hear him say no, but of course I don't get a response. This is a test. If I leave without saying a word, I fail, but if I stay, continue to lecture and fight him, I also fail. Frankly, I'm not sure there is a way for me to pass his tests. I could always give in, pretend none of this matters, or that I don't care, act like I'm not worried. Only, I don't think I can do that.

I'm so scared. None of us thought he was this bad. Nobody saw it coming, and I can't help but wonder if we should have. The last time I ignored his dangerous, drug seeking behavior, House almost went to prison. I damn near lost him once already—more than once even, but only once this year—I'm not sure I could go through all of that again.

"Whatever. I don't care. Stay here. Go Home. It doesn't make any difference to me." Then he pulls himself up, stumbles into the den, flips on the TV, and turns the volume up loud enough to make the walls rattle. After I throw out the garbage and wash the dishes, I stand in the doorway, watching him watch TV. "If you plan on staying, can you at least make yourself useful and get me a beer?" he calls out when about half an hour has gone by.

I don't say anything, not right away. For the most part I'm still trying to figure out what to do. Life doesn't exactly come with instructions, but you do know how to handle most situations. However, what you're supposed to do when your best friend pretends to have brain cancer so that he can get drugs injected directly into his brain…well that's not exactly common sense.

"First I need you to promise me you're never going to do anything like that ever again." The words come to me suddenly, leaping out of my mouth before I'm even sure what I'm saying, but I think it's good. I mean, it doesn't sound horrible, and if you ask me, there's no way I'm expecting too much with this request.

"I doubt I could pull it off a second time. Plus, really, how many chances am I going to have to get drugs injected directly into the pleasure center of my brain," House informs me, muting the television and chuckling to himself a little.

"That's not even close to a promise," I say, but bring him a beer all the same. When I sit on his sofa, House doesn't say anything. He does look at me though. "Please. Don't I have enough to worry about without adding you trying to have brain surgery done unnecessarily?"

"Probably, but that's not entirely my fault. What? It's not. You worry about your patients, care about them. Hell you even slept with one of them. Even I haven't crossed that line," he exclaims. "Oh for crying out loud. Do you have any idea how annoying you are?"

"Yes. I think I do, but I'm pretty sure we're at the very least even on that particular front. And you still haven't given me an answer by the way." He's listening to me right now, really listening, which is rare for him and I know I ought to take advantage of the situation. I should lecture him about how much Vicodin he takes, or the drinking or the motorcycle, or all of it, but I don't wanna risk losing everything we've worked so hard for. House looks at me for a minute, studying me, dissecting me, making up his mind, deciding what to say.

This should be easy. All he has to say is yes, or okay. I don't expect to hear the words, I promise, even though it would be nice. "Just say something, please. Anything you want, even if the answer is—even if you won't promise anything. I need to know."

"Welcome to my world. Don't look at me like that. Okay. Okay—I won't do that again. I won't even try. Look, you gotta understand something. I'm in pain all the time, and if I can actually get in the right position, with the right number of pills, I get maybe two hours a day completely free of that pain. I'm just trying to find a way to increase that amount of time."

If only that were true. I wish everything could be simple and that all he wanted was to get rid of his pain. I guess it's true what he says; everybody lies. I just wish I knew how to help him, but I never seem to have the answer. I never seem to have any when it comes to House.