Hello and thank you for clicking on this story. I wrote this because (mock sobbing voice) It's the only way I can cope!Ha-ha okay, no. The Season 5 finale hit me hard- both my inner Huddy and my imagination. Fanfiction is the only way I'm going to survive this four-month House-drought, and I'm pretty sure there's a lot of other peeps who agree, so I figured... why not share some of the crap I've written up!


It was day twelve at Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital, where he, Gregory House, was currently residing. Yep. It had taken him a while to get used to it, but he had come to terms with his insanity. If he was going to be locked up in a room all by himself for long periods of time, he could at least count of Amber and Kutner to keep him company. Or at least amused.

Lord knew that there was nothing to do in his room. No television, no wifi, he wasn't even allowed his PSP. There wasn't even anything to look at. The walls were white, crisp, clean eggshell white. The floors were slightly yellowed white tile, and there was a single, solitary table-- a round one, of course. No need for sharp edges here. It was black. And a stool, drilled into place about a foot from the table. And then of course, there was the mattress- the white mattress with white sheets and white pillows.

Nothing.

House sucked in a breath and stared at the hallucinations from his spot on the mattress. They were animatedly playing cards on the floor, Kutner sitting cross-legged, hunched over the deck in his hand and making sure that Amber, who was lying on her stomach, kicking her legs up rhythmically, wasn't cheating.

This leg, that leg, go fish. This leg, that leg, I did not have a card up my sleeve! This leg, that leg, pause.

"You wanna play?" Kutner asked. The hallucinations looked at him earnestly, as if they were not really dead, as if House weren't really in a loony bin, and as if they'd ever play cards together.

Amber cocked her head, and mocked, "No, he's still to busy moping about Cuddy."

Kutner drew a card from the stack in-between them and arranged it into his hand accordingly, shaking his head slightly. "I would too. She's hot."

"You don't really think that. You're just a figment of his whacked-out mind. Only House likes Cuddy. But you know, she did have a great rack."

House sighed bitterly.

"A rack I never really saw."

"What do you expect, House? Can you honestly say you believed it would be that easy to get into her pants? A little Detoxing, some heart-to-heart conversations and a 'thank you'?" Amber's tone was teasing. It was supposed to be a joke, but no one, dead or alive, manifested any signs of humor.

"I should have known it was too good to be true."

The hallucinations were about to reply when the door opened. It was steel, shiny. He had spent most of day two staring at it. An attractive nurse came in, with a tray of who knows what for lunch.

"Mr. House, you wanted chocolate milk, right?"

House sighed, and did not bother to get up when the girl set the food down on the table. She looked about twenty-five, maybe thirty. Dark red hair- probably dyed. It was thick and straight and reminded him of those Chinese dolls with perfect, glossy locks.

"Sure." She sat the lunch tray down on the table and began revealing his food, taking the top off of the container, setting out his milk, an apple, a chicken sandwich (no pickles), and a little container of something along the lines of mashed potatoes.

"I have a better idea," House remarked, eyeing her backside and not at all surprised it was nothing compared to another he used to gaze after, "I was thinking, you, me, a straightjacket…"

His heart wasn't into it. She laughed politely.

"Oh you! I'm sure you say that to every lady. You're such a womanizer." He noted the small smile on her lips. Apparently when you're an attractive nurse at a psyche ward, most compliments are either attempted rape or perverts thinking out loud all the nasty things they'd like to do.

Or maybe, he thought sourly, maybe it wasn't real at all. Maybe she wasn't smiling, and maybe she wasn't even there at all. Maybehe was still at his apartment, OD-ing on hydroquinone. It was likely. Hell, anything was likely. He didn't even know if he was a doctor anymore, which is why he hadn't bothered to correct the faculty as they all addressed him as "Mr. House".

Soon she was gone and he sat, staring at the food. He took a deep breath in. He could smell the probably leftover chicken, and decided to accept the lunch as a reality, but felt no immediate urge to eat it. Instead he stared, longingly, at it. It was real. It had to be.

It was the only thing he had right then.

Thanks for reading! There will be more to come, I promise you. Um, reviews are nice. Critique is also nice.