Lying in bed, listening to a steady, hard rain pounding against his window and gazing up at the ceiling, House drifted between sleep and wakefulness. He was jarred by the buzz of the alarm, and groped with long fingers toward the clock to silence the offender. He glanced at the digits – 9:19. How many times had he hit the snooze so far this morning? Five? Six? He couldn't remember. Can't put it off any longer, he thought. He'd been avoiding it long enough, and everyone else was probably already at work and waiting on him. He licked his morning-dry lips and girded himself for the ordeal he knew was coming. He flung the covers off with one quick motion and rolled onto his left side. As usual in the morning, his leg protested loudly, and he reached his right arm down to knead the quad and hamstring. Maybe hitting the snooze all those times hadn't been such a great idea. Sometimes it was better to just force himself out of bed early and down his pills before it got this bad.
Gingerly guiding his right leg off the bed with both hands, and quickly swinging the left to the wooden floor, the familiar combination of clenching muscles and misfiring nerves ramped up a notch, and he hesitated before finally settling his right foot on the floor. He slid forward a little and brought weary eyes up, looking toward the bedroom door and dreading the steps down the hallway to the bathroom. Then he looked out the window to the pouring rain. Perfect. The weather matched his mood, at least.
He pushed up with both arms and stood carefully with all his weight on the left leg. Eyeing the edge of the bed's footboard and planning to grab it for support, he took one tentative step forward with the right, and a stab of blinding pain shot through his thigh. He collapsed from the intensity of it and grabbed the footboard with both hands. Gasping and panting, he fell back to the bed and raised his right toes off the floor, pivoting back to a normal sitting position and trying to breathe through it. He looked up, toward the ceiling, and then back down, automatically beginning the well-practiced, second nature motion of hand on leg, his palm firmly pressing down while gliding from hip to knee and back up to hip, over and over. It wasn't helping much.
He considered bagging it for today and just calling in sick, but then imagined what the day would be like without the distraction of work. He'd have nothing to focus on but the pain, and the fact that Stacy was gone. Even if it was his decision this time, it still left him with an empty, heavy feeling. At least before, after the first time she left, he could hold out a little hope that she'd be back someday to give him a second chance, even if he wasn't sure he really wanted her back. Well, she'd been ready to give him a second chance this time, but he knew it wouldn't work – that her guilt over leaving Mark would poison any chance they had for happiness just like his anger had poisoned the relationship five years ago. And he loved her too much to put himself through losing her again. Deciding to send her away was the ultimate, if ironic, act of self-protection. So now, finally, it was really over for good.
No, he couldn't stay in this apartment all day, with only these thoughts and his throbbing leg to dwell on. Work would help. Work might give him a puzzle to occupy his mind. He glanced at the clock – 9:24. He started in on the massage again and willed himself to get moving.