It had been so long since he'd done this. Sure, he'd had a go at it once or twice when he was sleeping on the couch at Wilson's old place, but that was more for Wilson's discomfort than anything else. It isn't like it had been fulfilling, either.
Once they'd moved to the loft, he'd tried watching porn for nights on end. Wilson found it disconcerting, which never failed to make House happy. But the porn itself hadn't done anything for him.
When he'd been throwing down enough Vicodin to knock out an elephant he could still get it up. Well, usually, anyways.
Ibuprofen wasn't exactly in the same league, so there is no reason why he shouldn't have had at least one orgasm since getting out of Mayfield.
Internet porn, magazines, even his favourite old porn that he kept a VCR on hand to watch were failing him. He could manage to get it up, but satisfaction eluded him.
His place didn't feel like home. The colours were all wrong. And while Alvie's presence was a welcome distraction following the most painful rejection of his life, he was rather annoying.
The silence left in Alvie's wake was too loud.
Upon leaving Nolan's office for the last time, House had made his way back to Princeton only to wish he'd gone anywhere else. He'd found a bar he couldn't remember ever going to before, drank himself to obnoxious, got kicked out, and slept it off in his car.
The next night he hired a hooker to watch a 10-part Discovery Channel special with him.
Wilson's place hadn't felt exactly like home, but he belonged there more than Sam.