Disclaimer: I don't own House, or anything relating to it. They're David Shore's. :P
A/N: Welllll. I changed my name. I used to be Housefanforever08. I might change it back…I'm not sure. I was just looking for a change. Also, if you're a repeat viewer of my page, you might think this story was done already….and it sort of was. It was a House/Cameron story before, of which I no longer ship. Anyhoodle. This is gonna be a House/Wilson hurt/comfort story which might turn into something more. It might be slightly OOC. I'm trying to bring House down to human level with this story, trying to show that he can feel stuff the same as everyone else can. If you don't like that, please, I beg of you, don't read it. I don't want to hear any whining about how horribly OOC it is and how House would never do that. If you do like it, please read and review. Thanks. :
HouseHouseHouse
It was just one of those Thursdays. It was the beginning of fall. The trees in Princeton, New Jersey were starting to shed their leaves and people were packing away their shorts and sandals and dragging out the jeans and sneakers.
People who hadn't had infarctions, that is. No, House was clad in jeans and sneakers every day of the year, no matter what the weather. It was just another thing about him, along with his personality, that would never change.
He sat at home watching TV, turning the razor blade over and over in his hands. They were shaking, his hands, and he didn't even notice what he was about to do with the thing in his hands. He'd never come to doing this kind of thing before. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He felt empty. His hands trembled harder.
He would never tell anyone, but he hated his life. Being a doctor was no longer enough for him. It used to be that waking up and heading off to the hospital every morning made up for the fact that he went home alone at night.
Sure, there was Wilson. Couldn't forget about him. But when it all came down to it, he was alone. He firmly believed that you looked out for yourself in this world. What Wilson had said that afternoon just proved that he was right.
Wilson came into his office, lab coat flying up behind him and his face a light shade of pink. "House!" He yelled, rattling the windows in his office.
"Whattttt?" He whined, breaking his gaze from the computer long enough to look at him and survey the situation and then look back. "I'm on level five!"
"Your game will wait!" He yelled, glaring at him. "I had a date tonight with Emma over in Geriatrics. Had being the operative word. Because someone just happened to take a trip over to her wing and give her a lab report saying that I was positive for syphilis, gonorrhea, and possible herpes. She said someone just happened to warn her. I wonder who that could've been!" He said. People in the hallway looked in, he was shouting so loudly.
House jabbed the escape button on the keyboard and exited out of his game. Then he turned to face Wilson. "She was totally wrong for you. She works in Geriatrics, for christ's sake. Did you really want to marry someone who was going to come home smelling like old people and death every night?" He chuckled a little bit.
"House, I wasn't going to marry her! I was going on a date! God, every time I try to go on a date you manage to screw it up somehow. I wish you could just…want me to be happy for once." He said in a defeated voice. He ran a hand through his hair and just stared at him. "Just because you're a miserable asshole doesn't mean that you have to drag me down to your level and ruin my life." And Wilson turned on his expensive shoes and walked out of House's office.
Something in him snapped when Wilson said the last part. "Just because you're a miserable asshole doesn't mean that you have to drag me down to your level and ruin my life." He was a life ruiner. He was slowly killing Wilson.
And all he'd been doing was trying to help him…Emma was a psycho. And ugly. His eyes were starting to hurt from staring at the razor blade in his hands. Not to mention the several nicks he'd received from it.
He pressed it to his wrist. He closed his eyes and moved it quickly. A slash mark appeared before his very eyes, red and bubbling over. It stung, but it didn't sting as much as hearing Wilson tell him he was ruining his life. Or everyone else who was constantly saying that he was a miserable son of a bitch.
He muttered over and over "Useless piece of shit." The razor was dragged back and forth and eventually it was dropped to the ground, a result of his hands shaking so bad. He looked at his arm, not fully believing that he'd done that to himself. That someone hadn't taken a beer bottle and beat him with it or something.
His wrist to the crook of his elbow was covered over in the deep cuts. Some were dried, some still damp, but all were there. He closed his eyes, unable to look at it anymore. It scared him, shocked him to the point that he felt nauseous. He got up and limped as quickly as he could to the bathroom, leaned over the toilet and puked. He hadn't eaten all day so there wasn't much in his stomach, but he felt better after.
He went back to his bedroom and threw on a hoodie, yanking down the sleeves so he couldn't see. He crawled into bed and yanked the light switch off. He was still shaking. It was hurting now. It hadn't before, but now it was. His arm ached with the fresh sting. But at the same time…he hadn't felt as alive or good as he had when he'd been doing it. It scared him, because on the one hand it hurt…and the other it felt good.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up." He kept telling himself, slamming his eyes shut in the dark. He tried to shut out what he'd done. They locked people up in the psych ward for this kind of stuff. Hurting yourself was crazy stuff…wasn't it?
Part of him thought that it was crazy, and then the other part of him was looking at it from a normal House point of view: it didn't matter. It wasn't a big deal. It was something that happened, as normal as taking too many vicodin. And as he lay there in the dark, he rationalized it, telling himself that it was ok to do it, and he fell asleep.
HouseHouseHouse
He realized at 7:30 AM that he'd forgotten to close his blinds. The sun was blinding him and giving him a massive headache. "Fuck." He muttered, standing up and closing the blinds and crawling back into bed.
After a few minutes, he opened his eyes again and shoved up the sleeve of his hoodie, staring down at his arm. He wasn't appalled by it anymore. It was there and he remembered doing it, but it didn't bother him. He ran a thumb gently over the deepest one, near his wrist and saw that it was dangerously close to a vein.
He shrugged and got in the shower, gently scrubbing his arm so that the dried blood was gone. Once he was out he started to throw on a t-shirt, then remembered his arm.
There was no doubt in his mind that one of his new ducklings, or Wilson would notice, so he threw on a long sleeve shirt and buttoned it up. Better not to even give anyone a chance to notice. He got on his bike and rode to work. He was a different person entering the same world he'd lived in for 10 years, but no one was to know that.