I was just watching a biography about Hugh Laurie, and something struck me. They were talking about Laurie's clinical depression, and its major symptom (apart from extreme lack of confidence, which lacks in House) which is boredom. They said that even though his life was going a 100kmph over the limit, instead of thinking, 'Wow, this is brilliant', or 'Wow, I should slow down', he thought, 'Well, this is boring'. Doesn't that remind us of House?
So here's a fic about clinical depression. I'll try to keep it as in character as I can, and as short and sweet as possible, but no 100 percent guarantees, okay?
Enjoy!
Wilson sighed. He had Thor's own headache. Cuddy had hired some really famous psychologist to head their Psych Department, and had told them to welcome her. Apparently her former employers had been so eager to rid themselves of her, that they had completely forgotten to mention that she had the personality of a four year old on a sugar high.
"Isn't this place just so wonderful?! I absolutely love all the people here! They're sooooo sweet! No one's sent me the wrong way, and everyone's just so efficient and professional and wonderful!"
She was nice to look at, he gave her that much, but she never shut up! It was making him crazy. He'd just had to tell two, not one, but two families that their kids were terminal. He didn't need this right now. He was waiting for the moment when her never ending drone became background noise.
"Oh my! Isn't Dr. Cuddy sooooo pretty? She's like the prettiest doctor I've ever seen, no offense, but you're very manly and handsome. I like manly and handsome guys, don't you? Oh wait, you don't. You're a man! Hahahahahaha!"
She was sitting with him, and suddenly her noise was stopped by the screech of a chair being dragged in a way to maximize annoying sound effects. House. He could have kissed the man, but he wouldn't for the simple fact that House would leave, and he'd be left alone with the noise box, again.
All the other doctors had heard the rumours and were sitting far, far, away. In the morgue, he had heard, to avoid this one. It just struck him that his life was probably very sad, 'cuz now he was stuck with two of the most unwanted doctors in the universe. But he didn't mind House. Not anymore, anyway.
He had grown up with three brothers and it was some weird coincidence that none of the other doctors who had to work with House had had siblings. So when House insulted him, it bounced right off. He was pretty used to it, and was surprised when the others complimented his patience and good-heartedness.
"Oh my! You must the famous Dr. House! Or I should say, infamous! Hahahahahaha! I would looooooove to get your autograph! I mean, I have a whole lot of girlfriends who've heard just so much about you! We can't get over your amazing work! They'll be soooooooo jealous that I have your autograph, and they don't! Do you mind signing it in lipstick on this here napkin?"
House looked at her, and Wilson had to restrain hysterical giggles. Man, this lady was making him crazy. He couldn't wait to see what House did. Holy shit! He was taking the napkin and the lipstick! The Universe was going to self destruct!
In some distant, detached part of his mind he wondered what he was doing, and thinking. He was pretty sure he needed help, but wasn't planning on going to the Psych ward for help. Not even if someone paid him.
She had taken back the napkin and was smiling so widely that he was pretty sure he would go blind if he looked up. He had put his head on the table and was hoping to die, soon, if they didn't mind. Suddenly the bright light vanished. He was so surprised that he looked up. She wasn't smiling any more.
He read the up-side-down scrawl.
Shut up.
Insincerely,
House.
He suppressed a snigger.
House had happily stolen his burger and was ignoring what soon became known as the Patented Glare'O'Death. He didn't even mind. She'd finally shut up. He heaved a sigh of relief as she pushed her chair back and got up, attempting to look down sternly at House. It didn't work, as House was now busy, stealing his fries. She walked away, and some kids from a table nearby applauded quietly, snickering.
He mouthed a silent thank you, and attempted to regain what was left of his burger. House slapped his fingers away, reminding him he owed him his life.
He had to admit, he did.
So they got up, and Wilson didn't even mind going hungry. He was just happy for the blessed silence. He would later tell all the other doctors about Houses' heroic behaviour, and House would suffer a minor publicity rise. Before he snapped at them and made them leave, but that was nothing new. Not really.
Later that night, it was pretty dark. His damn desk lamp had flickered, and then died. He was just about to get up and get another one when his door swung open, and there in front of him, stood his nightmare.
The Psych head in hair curlers and a gown.
He coughed, hyperventilated, hated his life briefly, and then asked, "Yes?"
She smiled girlishly, twittering, then sat down. He tried his level best to ignore what House would have happily embraced, and looked her in the eyes. "How can I help you?"
"Well, you're Houses' friend, right?"
Oh shit. This was about House. He could have rolled his eyes. Why did he always get implicated? Didn't they have anyone else to go to?
"Yeah, what about it?" he couldn't help but say it in a challenging tone.
"Oh, now, don't get flustered. It's just that, after today's incident, I realised that he was displaying some very classic symptoms."
He was all ears, now.
"Well, I ran through all his files, from childhood, and yes, I have that privilege as a psychiatrist, and have come to the conclusion that he was abused as a child."
Wilsons jaw dropped. He stumbled, "What?" he couldn't believe it.
"Yes. He was always coming in with broken arms and legs, boot shaped marks on his chest and what-not. He had been admitted seventeen times by the time he was twelve. And then he ran away, and it decreased. But I'm sure you know, even as an oncologist yourself, that childhood abuse generally leads to clinical depression. He also has all the symptoms mentioned. How many times has he refused a case because it was, quote, boring? How many incidences have there been of drug abuse, and insomnia? Insomnia I know. He's been reported many, many times. I just came to you to ask your opinion."
He sat there, stunned, in the darkness of his office. Even now, the depression thing was not the biggest fear on his mind. He was just terrified that she would tell someone. Like Cameron, or Cuddy. He supposed that he'd always known it.
"Well, I can see that you're unaware. Is there anyone I can contact?"
"No, no," he croaked. "I'm unaware, but I'm the closest thing to family he's got. If your value your life, don't call his family. Just, are you sure? Because House pretends inhumanity very well. He knows exactly what he's doing. For all you know, you've fallen into his trap. But now that you've said it out, it's like I've always kind of known."
She nodded knowingly. "The closest ones always do. But they can never place their finger on it." Suddenly he knew why Cuddy had hired this woman. She was sharp.
"Listen, what ever you do, don't confront him," he warned her, "and for the love of god, don't tell Cameron. She's the kind-hearted one, who can't keep her mouth shut. House doesn't need this."
"Why do you always call him House?" she asked, giving no indication that she had heard his warning.
He sighed. "Because to House, names are soft flesh. They're easy to hurt. You can always tell what mood he's in, through how he addresses you. When he calls me 'Jimmy' he's just trying to be annoying, cuz he knows I don't like it. 'James' is when he's serious. 'Wilson' is pretty much everything else. He wouldn't respond if you call him Greg. He only responds to me if I call him Greg, very rarely, when he lets his guard down. It's not often. I think only his mother called him Greg. And he values that. And his father called him Boy, but only called him Greg when he was mocking him. That much I know."
She nodded. "Okay. I understand. But you will confront him." It wasn't a question. He nodded. She whispered Good Night, and left.
He sat there in the dark, in silence, wondering how he could have been so blind.
Well? Can you believe it, I wrote the whole thing, minus the last sentence, and it's been sitting here for god knows how long, and I finally opened it up and wrote the last sentence. And I still can't publish it—not yet. Dumb hostel has no internet connection…
Anyway, review!
Love,
Lady Merlin