Spoilers: Seasons 1-5 just to be safe, especially the finale of Season 5.

Disclaimer: It all belongs to David Shore and Fox. Am borrowing. I own made up character and fictional plot.

Author's Note: This was an idea I came up with after going through old scrapbooks I used to keep. They were composition notebooks I kept for each year of high school that I put pictures, song lyrics, guitar tabs, stories, fan fictions, and more in. I thought, What if House did the same thing since he would be so lonely in the institution? Only thing is, I couldn't post the pictures of his friends and acquaintances that he will be drawing as well as writing about.

Extended Summary: It only took him a week to go crazy (no pun intended) from boredom. After the first session with his psychologist, it is recommended that House find something constructive to keep him busy with. He keeps a notebook of drawings, quotes, diary entries, letters to people, escape plans, and clippings from newspapers and magazines. He also develops a new found fondness for stickers. Anything in italics is what House puts in his notebook.

A familiar masculine scrawl dominated the top quarter portion of the first page in the green spiral notebook. It is, afterall, what Idiot Shrink told him to do. He tried to block as much of the stupid session he could out of his memory. He focused on his writing.

Entry 1: It's Monday, May 18th, 2009 and those idiots won't give me any Vicodin. I've vomited five times in the past two days. I can't even make a sum to how many times I've puked since I've been here. I know that my spleen tried to come out along with the mess a few times. You think that would scare the morons into letting me have something stronger than aspirin or Tylenol. I think I've lost weight from barely eating, and purging constantly. I'm not sure if I have or not, though. I want to go home to my guitars and piano and scotch and pills. The idiots are trying to make me go to group therapy. I told them no; they can't make me without my consent.

Greg House looked at what he had written down so far in cerulean blue crayon—they wouldn't give him a pen or pencil of any kind. He pled for markers. They, as he referred to the institution's staff, said if he wanted markers or any other colorful writing utensil, he would have to join arts and crafts hour with the other patients and socialize. Until he changed his mind, he would be stuck with the twenty-four crayons.

He was sitting in his room. It was smaller than his bedroom back home and was complete with a bed, table, and barred window. The walls were bathed in the cliché white, sterile paint. He was dressed in the cliché loony gown (as he called it) complete with slippers. He was on his bed, back against the wall, feet dangling over the side.

He reread his journal entry. The handwriting was similar to that of what he'd scribble on the whiteboard in his office back at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. The last sentence of his entry burned in his head,

'They can't make me without my consent.'

How many times had he done something against the will of all of his patients' consents?

A scary thought entered his rattled mind and he recorded it in red-orange crayon.

What if they make me consent? What if they do all kinds of things to me without my permission?

He was no longer in House's World. He no longer had PPTH and Cuddy as a safety net. He was no longer in charge or a bully. He was weak, and he was weak minded. He didn't call the shots. He was a victim. He was in distress and so far as he knew, no one would be coming to his rescue anytime soon.

Thinking about the institution and burly orderlies who watched over him was beginning to scare him, so he flipped to a new and random page. He put the cerulean and red-orange crayons back in the box and took a green one out and began to write a letter to Wilson. Only it was more of what he would say to his only friend if they were talking.

Thanks for coming in and visiting me. It only took you a week. I would have been discharged before you decided to show.

He wrote how he thought Wilson would respond as well.

Wilson: I've been busy. I've been helping out with your team more than usual.

Me: What, they aren't competent enough to do things themselves? Why couldn't they figure out sooner that I wouldn't always be there to hold their hands?

Wilson: [He gives that exasperated sigh that annoys the crap out of me and pinched the bridge of his nose] Foreman's doing the best he can to be a good leader. They're all still shaken up about Kutner's death

Me: Oh, my God! That happened a month ago! They should be more worried about me!

Wilson: Everybody is worried about you.

Me:…Even Cuddy?

Wilson: [It took him almost a year to respond] Yes.

Me: Well, what's she been saying? I'm sure you two keep up with your weekly pow-wows.

Wilson: She said…

House stopped writing. He didn't know what to write about Cuddy. He couldn't imagine anything he wanted to hear that Cuddy has said about him. It couldn't be anything good. Nothing could be good ever again.

Especially after he realized that everything he had with Cuddy had been a hallucination.

{Author's Note: Thanks for reading! I don't know if it was hard to follow or not. Reviews are profoundly appreciated and would be spectacular! :D}