1.

"Mr House, James Wilson is asking for you on the phone. Do you want to take the call?" the secretary's voice chimed out from House's personal phone in his room in Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital.

House flinched, hesitating, then finally:

"Yes."

There was a click and then Wilson's voice:

"Heyyy..."

"Hey." House answered.

"How you feeling?"

"As good as a nervous breakdown gets" House wondered if he hadn't made a mistake in taking the call, it was going to be difficult.

"Yeah I can imagine."A rather awkward silence ensued. It had now been almost three weeks since House had walked in the mental institution, and it was the first time they spoke since that dreadful day.

"I've been keeping track of how you're doing through your doctor and he didn't feel like you were ready to talk to anyone yet. I know the first two weeks were hell. "

The doctor had indeed told Wilson that the first two weeks were mainly about weaning House off Vicodin. And of course that had been a painful and ugly process.

"I guess the fact that he's letting me talk to you means you're better now."Wilson paused, hoping House would take up from there and open up.

"It has been bad" House admitted, before pausing again. "But yeah I guess I'm better now. Certainly better than when I walked in here."

He shuddered as he remembered it all, the escalation from tormenting hallucinations to vivid delusions, the feeling of powerlessness when he realised what was going on and the ensuing utter terror. Not to mention the long hours of breaking free from the Vicodin. Fever, nausea, vertigos, nightmares: he had experienced it all, withering in his bed in both physical and mental pain. At some point when his brain was on fire it had felt like that's all he was, a ball of white-hot pain. He had been virtually unconscious of himself for 14 days, only conscious of those who visited him in his nightmares in the shape of spiteful ghosts. For some reason his parents were very present in these nightmares.

But then he had gotten better, his body getting used to running without the opiates. In the beginning he had felt like his mind was completely numb. He tried so hard not to think about it all. The docs had wanted to give him drugs to help with that but he had categorically refused, feeling that it would only mean it would be harder to face the truth when it would eventually had to be faced. And so he had spent two days in a vegetative state, just staring blankly out of his window, taking the time to allow his brain to take it all slowly in. The nurses and doctors had done their best to keep out of his way, knowing that what he needed right now was to lull his brain into a very much needed sleep.

But not using his intellect was the very thing Gregory House wasn't good at. It had already been three days since he had ventured out of the two-day comatose state, and it had been three long days. He mainly kept to himself in his room, brooding. He'd think about his life, what he'd done with it and what was left of it. He'd think about what defined him as a person. He'd wonder what had gone so wrong that he had ended up here. In the afternoon he'd have long talks with his shrink and as much as he hated to admit it, it actually gave him new outlooks on things and helped him dwell deeper into the source of his ailing. Somehow this second phase after the rehab was just as hard, suddenly he could no longer ignore issues which he had spent his entire lifetime deflecting about. At times when he wanted to stop thinking he forced his mind to go blank by reciting prime numbers. It was the only way he could fall asleep.

So although he had instinctively flinched at being brought back to the world –the real, outside world– by Wilson, he welcomed the distraction and felt grateful to hear his best friend's voice again.

"No more delusions?" asked Wilson.

"Don't think so. The very thing about a delusion is you don't know it's one. How do I know I'm actually here, talking to you on the phone, and not passed out from too much scotch on my couch? How can I tell what's real from what's not?" There was another silence, but it was less awkward as House could tell that Wilson was listening and getting his point, not treating him as if he were a nutcase like his doctors and nurses kind of did –although they tried not to. To know that someone could understand the thoughts that were tormenting him, that he was not utterly alone, was such a relief!

"At times I feel like I'm in the Matrix or something, that in the end all of this is just a creation of my mind" House continued.

"Maybe it is, said Wilson. Maybe we all are nothing more but mere sources of energy for some evil aliens."

He had said this last bit in an "impending doom" voice which had him and House share a short, quiet laugh.

Wilson continued: "It doesn't matter ultimately though does it? All that matters is that what your mind is creating isn't making you completely miserable. Might as well enjoy yourself. Cause that's all you've got"

There was a pause during which they considered this rather chilling thought. And yet ultimately it was very true.

"But I don't believe it's all an illusion though, Wilson picked up again. They are times when you wake up in the morning and the light's just right, or when you feel the sun on your face, or when there's a specially good song on the radio...you just feel so... alive. It can't all be a lie."

"And yet maybe it is. The great big existential lie. " House paused, switching his mood. "But yeah as you said, it doesn't matter in the end. Just got to enjoy yourself." Another reflective pause ensued."Missed your unrelenting optimism though." House said in a typical House voice.

Wilson smiled. "I missed you too." There wasn't anyone else he could have this sort of talk with. He really missed his best friend.

At this moment House realised something wasn't quite right. He hadn't heard anything and Wilson hadn't mentioned it, but House could just feel it. Cuddy was in the room with Wilson, anxious to know how he was doing too.

And so House asked Wilson to put Cuddy on the phone.

For a second Wilson was dumbfounded. How had he known? But it wasn't the first time House pulled something like that, and he was glad he could still do it. House was still House and that was a good thing."Sure" he said in a chirpy voice, handing the phone to Cuddy who was standing just a few feet away.