It's Christmas Eve, and House may be dying.
House didn't mean to take the entire bottle. His intelligence, his common sense had been short-circuited by the all-consuming pain that exponentially decreased his ability to function normally (what was normal anymore?) as the days passed by. The two months reprieve was not a blessing anymore; life had thumbed its nose as House. For the first time in five years, his pain had been taken away. He had been a full man again—a complete person, someone who had ceased to exist after Stacy left. But now the pain was back, and the man that could run eight miles to work disappeared with its return.
The fact that House's intentions were not to overdose is neither here nor there; he had swallowed every last OxyContin that had been obtained with a simple, sweeping forged signature. It was mechanical, almost; the pills went down smoothly, and before he knew it, his fingers grasped at the bottom of the empty bottle.
The decision, it seems, was made for him. If the painkiller turned into poison, clotted his blood inside him, he wasn't adverse to death. It wasn't that he wanted to die; he just wasn't afraid to do so. He wouldn't feel pain, and he couldn't inflict any on others again.
Yes. He knew he hurt everyone around him. His selfishness and pride let others sacrifice themselves without giving anything back; without acknowledging how much it took to be his friend—until he gave them a scrap, something small but meaningful. Like an ember that gave off the slightest bit of heat, these small tokens were enough to keep his colleagues from abandoning him completely.
The truth is, he did feel bad. Sometimes. He knew, as he set events in motion, that their patterns of occurrence would ensure pain and anger in those around him, but he was almost unable to stop once he began. Showing remorse would only be admitting that he was wrong.
He didn't admit he was wrong.
But today, as Wilson entered his office, he felt a twinge that could only be identified as regret. The man who spoke to him was not irate; he was barely angry. This was a defeated man; a man who looked at him with regret, with shame. Regret for misplacing trust so many times; shame for still caring, still trying to protect House, even as he tried to destroy himself and everyone around him. Wilson tried to reason with him, tried to make him compromise with Tritter, the cop who had started all this trouble.
House didn't compromise.
In this situation, like so many others, House's way was the highway. He would not give in to Tritter, even if his friends had to suffer for his pride. House realized that, if he were in fact dying, his and the others problems would be solved. His death was the key in resolving the situation.
The drug hit his bloodstream. The room became foggy around the edges and his muscles took on a liquid elasticity. His blood ran through him, spreading a poison that wanted his consciousness; wanted to put him into a sleep that he would not wake up from. He lay on his leather couch, moistened skin sticking to the cushions slightly, and felt his mind slip away. He let it, not fighting the contradictory restless relaxation that plunged him into sleep.
In his dream, Wilson was sitting at his desk, reading a patient's file. The phone rings. Wilson either ignores it, or doesn't notice it until the fourth shrill chime. He picks up the phone.
"Hello?" Wilson frowns; there's no immediate answer on the other side.
"Hello?" He waits a beat, giving the anonymous presence on the line the benefit of the doubt, but when no voice crackles through the line, replaces the phone in its cradle.
The phone rings again.
"Hello?"
"Wilson?" A voice whispers. House can somehow hear this low tone, and is confused. The voice is so familiar…..how does he know it?
"Yes?" Wilson is frustrated. He has work to do.
"Wilson, I think I'm dead." That voice! God, why is it so disturbing? A voice like someone's just been woken up—barely used, low and gravelly.
"Who is this?" Wilson's reply is irritated, if not slightly curious. He wants to know who would come up with this interesting a prank.
"It's me. House. Greg."
House pauses at this. He must admit, once identified, the voice does sound strangely identical to his.
"How'd you die, then, Greg?" Wilson's voice is thick, low.
Are his eyes tearing? Why is he crying?
"I—I don't know. I'm alone here. I can't find my way out. Please, please help me." House's twin voice is panicked; he is begging.
"Gregory House died two years of an overdose. I waited with his head in my lap. I watched him die five minutes before the ambulances arrived. Whoever you are, whatever you're doing, I suggest you fuck off."
"No, Wilson, please—he—" The voice, which is now laden with tears, is cut off as the phone is replaced for the second time in as many minutes.
The real House, the physical man who sits in the chair across from his best friend, is dumbfounded.
Am I dead?
Luckily, House rolls over in his drug-induced sleep and falls to the floor. The sharp drop and sudden landing sends his stomach to his throat, and white, milky remnants of the alcohol mixed with Oxy spills on the floor, trailing down his face and drying there, cold and sticky.
House can't really move. His eyes don't want to focus, so he shuts them, watching the spots behind his eyelids. His breathing is quick, slightly shallow, but he knows he'll live. Even in this state of disorientation, House knows his vitals will return to normal. He will see tomorrow's dawn, whether he wants to or not.
A knock sounds at the door. It's polite first, which means James waits on the other side, waiting for House to greet him. Another knock. This knock is longer, a little wore worried. James is the only man House knows who can express a vast array of emotions by pounding on a door. A moment of silence follows James' 'worried' knock before House hears the metallic sound of a key sliding into a chamber. The pins align, granting Wilson access to the apartment. Wilson squints in the dark, his hand clumsily fumbling for a light switch. Once it's found, a single word emanates from Wilson's mouth, and the mere tone of it expresses more than the word itself.
"Fuck!" The word jumps into the space between the two men and communicates fear, disgust, and sadness. Wilson's voice, like his eyes, are multifaceted.
Wilson has obviously seen House; and what a sight to see. The older man is stretched out on the floor near his couch. His head lays near a pool of vomit, some of which has stuck to his chin. A bottle lays next to House's prone form, and Wilson picks it up. His name is on it as the prescribing physician. It's not Vicodin.
Disgust is now the main emotion on Wilson's face; it's clearly displayed as he lets the orange bottle fall from his long fingers onto House's chest. He turns away to leave, and makes it to the outside door of House's building before he stops. His bare hands are on the freezing metal and the door is half open. The cold winter air pours in and his breath leaves him in visible clouds.
Just go. The intelligent part of his mind tells him; He'll just take you with him. But Wilson's intelligence cannot outweigh his emotions. The door clicks, metal on metal, and the black-jacketed back of Wilson can be seen through the glass door, walking back into the building.
The warmth of the apartment greets him, as House cannot. Wilson walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water. He walks to the bathroom and places it on the sink, then goes to retrieve House. He knows the man won't be able to walk, so he prepares himself to carry or drag his friend.
The hands that weakly clasp his are warm, which relieves Wilson. He pulls House with all his might, and makes it to the bathroom, albeit breathless. He sits House up and makes him drink the water, then turns away as House retches into the toilet.
"You really fucked up, House." Wilson has his back toward House still, and his voice is barely above a whisper.
House can't answer but groans slightly. Wilson turns and kneels, checking the older man's pupils and pulse. He doesn't see it coming; House's hand has somehow found its way to his cheek, and makes its way from under his eye to his chin. Long, skilled fingers trace Wilson's lips.
"Constant." House whispers, his voice lucid.