Withdrawal

"Addiction is the hallmark of every infatuation-based love story. It all begins when the object of your adoration bestows upon you a heady, hallucinogenic dose of something you never even dared to admit that you wanted -- an emotional speedball, perhaps, of thunderous love and roiling excitement. Soon you start craving that intense attention, with the hungry obsession of any junkie. When the drug is withheld, you promptly turn sick, crazy and depleted (not to mention resentful of the dealer who encouraged this addiction in the first place but who now refuses to pony up the good stuff anymore -- despite the fact that you know he has it hidden somewhere, goddamn it, because he used to give it to you for free). Next stage finds you skinny and shaking in a corner, certain only that you would sell your soul or rob your neighbors just to have that thing one more time. Meanwhile, the object of your adoration has now become repulsed by you. He looks at you like you're someone he's never met before, much less someone he once loved with high passion. The irony is, you can hardly blame him. I mean, check yourself out. You're a pathetic mess, unrecognizable even to your own eyes. So that's it. You have now reached infatuation's final destination -- the complete and merciless devaluation of self."

Elizabeth Gilbert, "Eat Pray Love," pp. 20-21.

James Wilson took one last look at his desk to make sure that everything was in order before he left for the evening. He wasn't quite sure when he had developed that ritual, but develop it he had. First he'd pack up his briefcase, then check his desk, then grab his jacket, and or trench coat, and then re-check the desk. If he had been pressed to say why, he probably would have reasoned that it brought a little bit of sanity and order into his life.

House had gone who knew where, and Wilson was left to his own devices. Now that there was no one to go home to; home was a hotel. It was easier. He could rent week to week and things were neat, orderly, and best of all, didn't need maintenance.

As he unlocked the door and strode over to the bed, he felt that invisible darkness start to descend. He hadn't noticed it during the day. It more seemed to come when nobody was around and nobody could see. He cleared his throat, rubbing away the ache that he started to feel, and grabbed some aspirin.

There was some bug that was going around, that is all that this is, he reasoned to himself. And if it's not? came the nagging response. Then I'll just adjust the meds accordingly. Speaking of which, he was due a refill. James took out his script pad and wrote out the script, cleanly and efficiently.

It still amazed him that so far he had actually managed to slip one past House, although he knew that it probably was more a matter of how long it'd be able to keep it that way. House had figured out about the antidepressants. The ironic thing is that House just automatically assumed that Wilson was being Wilson- responsible and open and doing the "right" thing and the ethical thing. Wilson would never write his own scripts. He'd admit his failings like an adult and do the mature thing. After all, wasn't that precisely what he always lectured House on?

Wilson threw himself onto the bed and laughed a harsh, cynical laugh that quickly turned into coughing. He grabbed a glass of water.

Why did everything look gray? Wasn't that part of the reason for taking the damn drugs? It was that and the increasingly unavoidable feeling that he wasn't as needed as he thought. But it isn't like I ask to be needed. Having everyone need you all the time is exhausting. James rationalized to himself. He knew that House's retort would have had to do with being addicted to being needed.

Sure, he thought, it's just like House to try to place me on his level. House was always trying to make people doing things for good, noble, selfless reasons out to be the worst sort of hucksters, full of shady, ulterior motives.

Besides, Wilson thought cynically, as he got undressed, House shouldn't give a damn about why I like to help people. It isn't as if he hasn't been on the receiving end.

But why can't you tell House? If everything is so normal and kosher, and under control, then why can't you just admit it? Wilson closed his eyes against the thought. Even remembering the look that House gave him when he figured out about the medication was too much to think about. He rubbed his eyes and temples in slow circles, with his long fingers, both hands held over his face.

He wanted to curl up and tune out the world, but for some reason sleep didn't seem to come. His mind kept flashing images and questions at him, and if he tried to turn from the troubling ones, it substituted lists and minutia.

He tossed himself about on the bed- trying to relax, trying to force himself to sleep. Suddenly he raised an elbow up, and laying on the bed in a position most closely approaching "Upward Dog", but with one arm in the air- he sneezed twice. "Heh..reiTchuh… reitShuh."

He flopped ungracefully back unto the bed. Would it be too much to hope for that he was actually getting this virus? Guilt for even thinking such a thing immediately rushed over him like a wave. You can handle this, stop being lazy and undisciplined. However… came another thought, if you can't sleep, you might as well just stay up and watch something to divert yourself. No sense in just tossing and turning and looking at the same damn paintings. Wilson chose not to examine the rationale for said thought, but simply flipped the television to an old Hitchcock movie, and snuggled himself under a blanket on the couch.

The brilliant glare of the morning sun shining through the blinds greeted Wilson the next day. It was so ridiculously incongruous with his life that he would have laughed, but for the intense pounding inside in head, that was making thinking, let alone laughing, next to impossible. Out came the aspirin and the Prozac, then he swallowed both painfully with a large glass of water. He carefully blew his nose with the tissues sitting at the sink, and then realized that his nose itched unbearably. Between the kink in his neck, the knots in his shoulders, his head, his throat, and just life in general- it really shouldn't have been that big of a deal. However, Wilson knew that if he did end up sneezing that it would be more than once, they would be harsh, and that they would exacerbate the aches, pains, and irritations all the more. He scrubbed furiously at his nose, and lightly bit his tongue, and it did back down a bit.

He felt like crap- it hurt to move, it hurt to think, but still this inner drive wondered if he should go in anyway. Eventually this would go away, and… Wilson sighed, knowing that the next thought had been you never know if someone is going to need you. He rolled his eyes at his ashen, unshaven, reflection in the mirror, dark circles rimming his dull brown, slightly red eyes.

The worst part of the whole mess with Tritter had been feeling so useless. Watching as everyone bent over backward to try to cater to House, but somehow it felt like none of the sacrifices that he made received any validation whatsoever. Cuddy was more worried about losing House than the fact that her head of oncology had gotten his license to prescribe taken away. Cameron who was so concerned for proprieties when it came to writing his script, somehow also seemed to think that letting House realize that he had an addiction was selfish. Somehow, after the whole mess was done Wilson wanted it to have had meaning, and it had slowly dawned on him that it hadn't.

The first antidepressant script (Wellbutrin) had started after his third wife left him for another man. Wilson was surprised that House hadn't picked up on the weight gain, irritability, and insomnia. But then again- House had been dealing with other dilemmas far more interesting. After the Cuddy fiasco, and a few other things, he realized that things weren't working, and that he needed to be honest with himself that any potential sexual dysfunction that might occur, wasn't going to be given the chance. The smooth talking, charming James had (at least in the mind of said oncologist) completely lost the ability to charm. That was when he had decided to switch to Prozac- unfortunately Wilson hadn't thought about the yawning that might occur. But come on- how often did that happen? It wasn't rare- but certainly not a regular side effect.

"Heh… eiShuh… rreiTchuh… ReiTChuh… Chmpt.. Ugh…god" The tickles had caught up with him and unfortunately it was as he had feared. He groaned at how sore his back, head, and neck felt. His phone rang, and he wrestled with the idea of ignoring it. That's why you have caller ID. He checked it, and it wasn't House. He wondered at the hint of disappointment that he felt. It was Cuddy, and he did something that he never thought that he would have done. He totally ignored it. He just stood there frozen with the phone in his hand, and his mind drew a blank. He wasn't sure how he felt- other than maybe surreal. He almost felt like he was out of his body, watching himself holding the phone, wondering what he would do. What could he say? What was she going to say? How would he respond? Did she need him? Did the hospital need him? Did House need him? Was he going to come in today? If he wasn't, how was he going to get coverage?

A thud stopped the flow of questions without answers. Wilson realized that he had banged his head against the wall. Not hard enough to bruise, just hard enough to startle him and reset his brain. It surprised, and scared him a bit at how overwhelming he had made the task of picking up the phone. This has to stop. Be an adult; just make one simple decision at a time. If you're overtired and you aren't feeling well, take the morning off, take some Nyquil and rest and you'll be able to pull yourself together by this afternoon.

James decided to prioritize. First, the Nyquil, as that would take a little bit. Next, the phone. He would call Cuddy's main number- less chance of her answering. Whether or not she did answer, he decided that he was going to stick as closely to the script in his mind as he could. The medicine went down smoothly enough, now hopefully the same could be said for the call.

The phone rang and rang, but just as the answering machine kicked in and James had felt relief rush down him like a refreshing summer shower, he heard her answer in a semi-breathless tone. "Hello?"

He cleared his throat, "Cuddy?"

"J-James? What happened? Were you out? Where were you? What's going on?" The rapid-fire questions pounded in his head. He started to feel the questions rising up to drown him like a wave. But he pressed down the feeling, and calmly, if a bit woodenly took the questions one at a time.

"I'm sorry Cuddy. I just didn't make it to the phone on time. I'm a little under the weather; would it be a bother if I took the morning off?" He was inwardly impressed at the precision of the control that he had exercised. Contained, but with just enough reality to feel genuinely honest. That was a skill that he had been developing for years.

Cuddy fell for it completely; she could hear the gravelly tone in his voice and the tinge of congestion and weariness. Any thoughts that she had about Wilson covering things up went directly, as he had intended, toward his physical state.

Wilson excused himself, put the phone down for a moment and coughed harshly into a fist. "I'm sorry," he murmured with his best boyishly embarrassed charm laid out.

"Don't apologize," she said quickly. "You sound like you could use some rest. Take the whole day, all right. Take care."

As Wilson ended the call and hung up the phone, he realized that he had mixed feelings about the results of that phone call. On one hand, he did feel like death warmed over. And just not in the mood to be around people. On the other hand- it seemed to him that Cuddy was a little too quick in letting him take time off. His thoughts automatically drifted to House and what the response would have been had he been thought to be as needed and valuable as House was.

Thankfully, the Nyquil started to kick in, blurred the sour, dark thoughts, and pushed them to the recesses of his brain. Sleep had come and taken him under her wing.

When he woke up, everything still ached but in a vaguer, less pressing way, almost a step removed. He realized that he was hungry and restless. He wanted to be doing something useful, and not living inside his head, but somehow even the thought of running into anyone that he knew, especially with the chance for conversation was just too much.

He sighed and ran a hand down his face. The he took a shower, thinking that somehow the water might also comfort and refresh his lagging spirit as well as his body. He breathed in the steam, and let it work on his congestion, and he rubbed at his dully aching muscles. The water managed to work enough magic on him that he felt refreshed enough to plan to go into the hospital and take care of some paperwork. He purposely blocked out any little nagging inner voice that questioned his motives about going in.

Wilson shaved, definitely slower than usual in order to be sure that it was done as cleanly as normal. Then he went through the rest of his "preening" rituals. He wasn't really sure why he was doing it, since he fully had no intention of seeing anyone. But somehow he felt that his appearance still mattered and that coming in slovenly would be admitting something that he didn't want to admit. Plus he took comfort in the familiar rhythm of those mundane tasks. Somehow they relaxed him and seemed to prepare him. It's like a knight putting on armor, with the advantage of it being lighter and easier to wear. He downed some Dayquil and packed a couple of things that he needed to bring in.

Wilson chuckled at the thought that he could have used a magical map to try to figure out a plan of how to get into his office without running into anyone. Thankfully by taking an alternate route, most of which involved stairs, he somehow managed to miraculously avoid everyone.

He locked the door, mainly against any House intrusions, seeing as how everyone else knocked, and if he didn't answer, they actually went away. With his specialty, Wilson had the luxury an office without glass walls. Wilson knew that with the types of conversations that came with oncology it was necessary. However, the less than rationale part of his mind secretly took some pride in the fact that it was a privilege that his best friend did not have, which meant that on some level he had earned a higher level of trust. Even if House did meet with patients or families more than what he did, Cuddy would never trust House not to do something to set them off. Even with the glass windows there had been a shooting and House had managed to thoroughly piss off a cop.

It was slow going and he had to stop and rub his eyes when the letters of the chart began to swim in front of him. He turned up the thermostat when he started shivering, and tried to refocus his brain which, despite the medicine still felt muddled and sluggish. He kept pressing on through the exhaustion, because as much as he didn't feel like doing it, and as pointless as part of him thought that it was, somehow being in his office and doing something was the only thing that stopped the endless rounds of internal questioning.

He had wondered when it would come, and it finally did, the jiggle and pull on the doorknob. Then, a worrying silence. Oh god, don't tell me that Foreman taught him how to pick locks. But then finally there was the sound of retreating footsteps, and Wilson put his head in his hands. He waited almost in anticipation of House coming around the other way- the divided rooftop balcony. But there was nothing. Wilson sighed, made himself a cup of tea to try to soothe his sore throat and his stomach which had started to feel tumultuous. The mug felt warm and calming in his hands, and he slowly lifted it to his lips, and gently sipped at it. The tendrils of steam teased at pinkened nostrils and with trembling hands Wilson put down the mug in favor of his handkerchief and sneezed three wet and miserable sneezes into its depths. He gently blew his nose, and started back to work. At one point he looked up and that one minute action started a ripple effect.

Seeing through the blinds the older man limping over the divide filled Wilson with mixed emotions. How could someone (this specific someone in particular) needing him simultaneously break him down and build him up? He felt as if he were a child rushing across the beach into the ocean at high tide. It was an exciting, fearful, dangerously exhilarating trip and even though he knew that it would end badly, he still made the trip.

He lowered his eyes and pretended to be studiously looking over his file, even though he wasn't even aware of whose file he had. He was frantically trying to set his mind to order, to prepare for nonchalance. I pulled this off on Cuddy, but that was like playing Little League. With House, I have to switch to playing for the Majors. God, now I'm using sports analogies.

House started right in on the puzzle of the week, while Wilson played at reluctant compliance. They fell right into step, as always. There was a familiar rhythm that was coursing through the dialogue. There was something that Wilson clung to in the fact that House chose him. As far as he knew the last person that House had chosen was Stacy. And he outlasted Stacy. Not only was he chosen for companionship, but what almost was more of a prize, he was chosen for bouncing ideas off of. The "ducklings", as House on occasion referred to his fellows, were there more due to Cuddy's insistence. Granted, he did work them and Wilson admitted that the three, once they figured out how to work both together and on their own, made a good team for House. But if House wanted to test out an idea on someone - he seemed to somehow find a way to get to Wilson. Generally it was cancer related, which made obvious sense- but it wasn't always cancer; sometimes it was dealing with a patient, or trying to figure out a personal mystery involving Cuddy or the underlings.

Abruptly House stopped the conversation mid-stream and peered at Wilson with a puzzled, questioning gaze. "Is it as easy to be a nimrod as you make it out to be or do you have a special gift?"

"What? I didn't think the idea was half…" Wilson started, trying to ignore the intention.

"Not the idea you moron, the fact that you've obviously got the plague and you are still dragging your martyred little ass in here."

Wilson discreetly coughed into his fist. If he just made out that he was hiding the flu, then things would be alright. Just throw out the puzzle that you want him to see.

Wilson gave an exasperated sigh. "House, I'm fine. Let's just finish this up." He wasn't sure if he was pushing things with the bluffing. He knew that if he insisted too much House would likely call him on it.

House waved a hand dismissively. "Nope. I have a handle on that. What I don't know is why you'd try to hand me a puzzle that is infinitely easier and boring than clinic duty. But since I'm in a generous mood I'll give you this little party trick." Wilson felt House's cool, calculating blue eyes give him the once over. "Pasty, a little flushed- fever. You're squinting- headache. Pink chapped nostrils- sneezing and congestion. Slightly gravelly voice- sore throat, partly from hacking up a lung. Not smelling toxic- so either you haven't gotten to the vomiting, or you've been through that and scrubbed up really well. So are you going to tell me why you came in?"

During House's recitation, Wilson flushed a deeper crimson, and distractedly ran his fingers through his hair as he studied his shoes. "Ok, you win." he tried, throwing his hands up in the air, hoping against hope to end the inquisition. "I feel like crap. I'm not quite sure why you care though. My wallet and my script pad are still around." Once the words were out, he instantly regretted having uttered them. God, how pathetically passive-aggressive. That was not the way to wriggle out of Housian analysis. Rather, that was a sure way to end up with a spotlight on your soul. He turned his body away and started packing things up. Maybe if he concentrated hard enough he could still weasel out if it.

"Running back home?" the older man spat out, emphasizing the word home.

Wilson cringed involuntarily, but managed to reply, "Well… my good friend the medical wonder of the world, just diagnosed me with the plague. Disneyland was my first choice, but barring that…" he shrugged

House put on a wounded expression, "Ouch… the razor wit of James Wilson. Certain to be classified as a lethal weapon. If only anyone could figure it out."

Relief rushed through Wilson, although he made certain to keep his jaw clenched, arms crossed, and expression pissy. He was starting to distract House, and if only he could keep up the distraction, he could make it back home in peace. Crap! There was that word again. The darkness started to sink down on him like a thick, wet, smothering, woolen blanket. Why did the thought of going back to the hotel and of House leaving him alone fill him with such a gnawing void?

A wave of nausea swept over him and he clutched the counter and slowed his breathing, trying not to vomit.

House peered at him thoughtfully, and then, to Wilson's astonishment shrugged, "All right, I'll just go and talk the rest of this through with Cuddy."

"What?" The question was thrown out with much more force and vehemence than Wilson had wanted. He cleared his throat and tried to regain his composure. "I told you that I'd help you finish things up." He tried for an air of nonchalance, which was ruined the moment that he found that neither panic nor the nausea could be pushed down any longer. He fell to his knees, clutching the wastebasket, emptying himself until he was left shaking and dry heaving, sweat dotting his pale face.

House shook his head, "I'm going to Cuddy or failing that my minions. Go home."

What Wilson did next, was something that he never thought that he would do. He found himself looking up at House. Still wanting House to need him. Still wanting House to ask him to pull himself up and give him the answers. Instead, House just looked, almost through him; gently closed the door and walked off.

Shakily he drew himself up to his feet and before he could go… Go where? To chase after House? He caught his reflection in a mirror. Sweat dotting his forehead, hair matted and tousled, eyes dull and sunk in- yet strangely still burning with a half-delirious fire. Tiny red spots dotted his eyes and cheekbones- blood vessels that had burst through his recent exertions. His nose had begun to run, and he noticed a small trace of vomit at the corner of a tight, pinched mouth. He raised a hand to begin the process of turning back into James Wilson, when he noticed that his hand was trembling.

The image in the mirror disturbed him. He pressed his hands against his head trying to block out another image, the image of his best friend lying on the floor of his apartment after overdosing on stolen pills. Was he any different?

"Mene, Mene..." what was the writing on the wall? "You have been weighed in the balance and have been found wanting" That was it exactly. He had been weighed, measured, and judged in the balance of those cool blue eyes; and he had been found lacking. Best bet was to head back to the hotel and detox as best he could.