("Author" Note: Okay, to any of you who have been reading "Hush", I'm sorry. I will update soon, I promise. Seriously, I'm working on it.)
I ordered the drinks with a twinge of shame. House was my best friend; I shouldn't be testing him like this. I should trust the man. But, Pavlov had said otherwise. I know that I can't trust House…As much as I want to. For God's sake, the man slipped amphetamines into my coffee. For God's sake, the man tried to kill himself by thrusting a knife into an electrical socket. For God's sake, the man was Gregory House.
And, well, Gregory House has an issue with pain. The question is: is this problem bad enough for him to turn to heroin, of all things?
He sat back down across from me and resumed the hasty consumption of his bacon cheeseburger. I avoided any small talk. There was something wrong with my friend, and, as much as I'd love to believe that he was just happy, for once…I simply couldn't. House doesn't ask for bagels; He takes them.
The waiter arrived with our drinks. After my explaining them lamely away as celebratory beverages, House began to object. Honestly, truthfully, I don't remember what I said, or what he said. I do remember the wave of relief that overtook me as he swallowed the alcoholic drink. For once, I thought that he was turning his life around –legally.
"Good night." He smiled slyly, and was gone. I really had no choice but to follow him after paying. While he'd always had the annoying habit of suddenly leaving me at tables with checks, this departure had seemed…urgent, forced. And it wasn't the kind of sudden exit that occurs so often when he's on a case, when he gets that onelook in his eyes and wanders off without saying a word. No, this time was different. House was, for lack of a better word, ditching me. And he had even said "Good night." This behavior was scarily un-House-like. Like I said, there was no choice but to follow him. So follow him I did.
Rounding the corner outside the restaurant, I saw him. Bent over a trash can, moving his hand around in his mouth. He vomited twice before looking up.
"Idiot!" I yelled. We began to argue. He denied the heroin. I told him that the purging of his digestive system disqualified his argument, albeit less eloquent. And then he dropped the bomb.
"I'm on Methadone!"
I stood, flabbergasted. As is my manner, I cannot recall what it was that I said then, either. I do recall House's cane being thrown in the dumpster, remarking that his pain was gone. He got in his car and left.
I unlocked my car and climbed in. House's pain…gone?