Messiah
by Wordsmith14
Disclaimer: I'm David Shore! I own House! I have an Emmy! Yay. . .oops, there goes the fake mustache.
Ummm, I don't own House.
Author's note: Warning, I haven't been able to keep up with the show lately, so this fic doesn't really have a time-frame or any reference to what's going on.
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Thank you. Thank you so much.
He snorts at the memory. God, the woman even had tears spilling out of her eyes.
My boy, my dear, sweet boy. He would have died without you.
Wow. Just wow. So that was the reason why she had looked for him of all people when Junior's liver had a boo-boo. . .
I have to admit, I was about to go to another doctor.
Gosh, golly, gee! What a surprise, he thinks, popping a pill, letting it glide down his throat.
The procedure you were suggesting – I just couldn't imagine how something like that could work. I mean, I'm not a doctor or anything –
The lady could not have made it any more obvious. . .
But, but – you came through in the end.
He has an appalling urge to laugh. He can feel it bubbling in the pit of his stomach. Ha ha ha.
You're a savior.
That is the clincher, the punch-line. He chokes out a chuckle and reaches for the bottle, which basks in the proverbial beam of light from the heavens.
He ignores the fact that the holy beam comes from his sixties-era reading lamp and dips his finger in the bottle, seeking pills better than any treasure of Edward Teach.
Nothing. He groans and casts his eyes around the living room littered with ravaged Chinese take-out boxes. It's an empty gesture, though: there are no more pills here, and he knows it.
He can already feel the ghostly pain, taste it on his tongue. It'll come back soon, and he'll be weaponless, a Lancelot without a sword.
A knight without a sword. He reflects on this thought and guffaws. He's laughing an awful lot tonight; it seems appropriate.
You're a savior.
His chuckles become roars of laughter; he's bending over, slapping his knee. His eyes start to water. He remembers church on a Sunday, and the minister pounding out sermons of Jesus Christ sacrificing his life for a soul that even the devil wouldn't want.
You're a savior.
He isn't Jesus. He didn't lose even a milligram of blood for the brat, much less let nails be hammered through tendon and muscle for the entire world, like the choirs sing.
You're a savior.
He's a cripple, and some even call him an addict. He's the former, but he's sure he's not the latter. He's in pain, and he badly wants science's form of salvation to rescue him.
You're a savior.
He shuts his eyes and leans back into his chair, thigh already pulsing. Some savior, he thinks. How can he be a savior when he can't even save himself?
Fin.