The boundary between consciousness and sleep is mysterious; there's not a clean break, no before and after. Instead, the two intermingle, slide together messily, entrench themselves in one another. You never know where one ends and the other begins. Drowsiness is obvious; it soaks through a person like water through a towel, saps energy, forcefully drags you away from awareness. Lucidity. But it feels good, so good to give into the foggy haze that slips around you (fits like a glove), pushes you away from reality. Kidnaps you for a few hours. Before you know it your thoughts move autonomously; they shake themselves away from your control and spin stories. Your mind moves fast and you're in places you've never been before, seeing beauty or pain, feeling things deeper than you could in reality (deeper than life lets you feel).
Sleep is only thought about when the images supplied by a swirling mind are particularly interesting; the only other reason to dwell on hours of vegetation is if said state is unreachable. When thoughts come too fast, when muscles can't relax (when even the opiates of medication can't shut your body down), sleep is chased after. But she's a coy mistress; she'll smile at your desperate attempts while leaving you awake, painfully aware, twisting at your sheets. It's only when you give up that she opens her arms, embraces you, pulls you away from your vision of reality, into the bliss of diluted senses and enhanced emotions.
House can't sleep.
He can't let go, can't relax. And so he lies in bed with the spins, due to the extra Vicodin that slid down his throat so easily. The drug pours through him but doesn't take him where he needs to be; leaves him somnolent but unfortunately awake. He rubs his eyes, changes positions and feels the cool sheets pull over his warm body. It sends an unexpected rush of nostalgia though him; his mother's cool hands on his body when he was sick, bringing down his fever. She always had cold hands. House thinks of this, thinks of his mother for a moment, then pushes the thought away (don't dwell on things unchangeable. On things that were wrong from the beginning.) He rolls over onto his back, closes his eyes and concentrates on his breathing. Deep breathe in. Hold. Out. But the sound of his breathing echoes in the room, comes back to him, sounds ragged. Gasps of a dying man. So he goes back to breathing normally. Why is sleep so elusive? His cases for the week have been closed; he's not in pain. There's no reason for his restlessness, and yet it stirs in him, coiled. Ready to spring; it's a nervous energy that needs an outlet. An outlet that House doesn't want to provide.
But if he wants to sleep anytime soon, he will.
Eventually, his need for sleep wins out. It begins in his mind; he imagines fingers tracing his jaw, moving toward his lips. He opens his mouth, allows access and a solitary digit slides inside. He takes it, slides his tongue over it and then it's removed. Moved lower. Traces down his body, digging nails in along the way. Heat floods his body, moves down toward his hips and he feels himself begin to harden. His hand goes to his mouth; he licks it quickly, then moves it lower. And then it's not his hand; it's the hand of a lover, a brunette with a sheepish smile (with sarcasm that almost matches his). It begins to feel good, this friction, and he gasps silently, sucks in air that coats a dry mouth. He's going fast now, and in his mind his length has been taken in his lover's mouth; a tongue caresses his head, moves along his shaft in deft circles. His breathing comes faster still and he swallows, detaches his tongue from the roof of his mouth, where it had been glued. He's gone a few moments later, blind and deaf in a sea of crashing pleasure. It moves through his body, makes him write as he rides the sensation to an end. His heart begins to slow down and he's inside his body again. He grimaces at the wetness on his hand and reaches blindly out for the tissues that sit (mostly) unused on his dresser. When his stomach and hands are clean, he thinks a moment about getting up to throw the offending tissue away in the bathroom but thinks better of it, shrugs, and tosses the already-stiffening paper behind the headboard.
When his head hits the pillow again, he knows he'll be asleep soon. He smiles into the pillow and lets his thoughts go, falling away into the vast abyss of dreams, but not before an arm moves lazily around his waist, breath hits his ear.
"Next time, just wake me up."