Here's part one of a little intervention fic I'm cooking up. Post Bombshells. House is on pills, acting out. But no Dominika because. . . I'm sick of that Ukrainian ho. (Heh.)
Enjoy!

House entered Wilson's apartment, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

"I don't know how you got those front row tickets to the Monster Truck rally, buddy boy, but I seriously owe you. . ."

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Foreman.

"Dr. Killjoy's not coming with us, is he?" he groaned. "He'll ruin everything!"

Then narrowed his eyes. "You don't even like Monster Truck rallies," he said to Foreman.

"I'm not going to the Monster Truck rally," Foreman said.

House laughed.

"Wilson, we'll only be gone for four hours. You don't need to have Foreman water your plants."

"He's not watering my plants," Wilson said, looking nervous.

"Then what. . .?"

"He's here because I asked him to come," a voice said.

House looked up: Dr. Nolan emerged from the bedroom.

House looked genuinely stunned for a moment.

"What the hell is he doing here?" he said.

Now the three men—Wilson, Nolan, and Foreman—all stared back at him.

House exhaled in an resigned sort of way. "I'm not going to the Monster Truck Rally tonight, am I?" he said.

"No," Wilson said.

"Because this is some sort of intervention."

"Yes," Nolan said.

"See ya!" House said, heading to the door. Foreman grabbed him firmly by the arm before he could leave.

House stared at Foreman's hand on the arm of his leather jacket accusingly.

"I get it. So he's here as the muscle?"

"I'm worried about you, House," Foreman said.

"We all are," Wilson said.

House shook himself loose, gave a derisive chuckle.

"With all due respect, this is the lamest intervention I've ever seen. My doctor. My employee and my former best friend." He gave Wilson a little glare.

"And don't forget me," a woman's voice said.

Blythe House stepped out of the bedroom.

House's mouth dropped open.

"Are you all out of your minds?" House said. He'd gone from vaguely annoyed to completely furious.

Then, more gently, to Blythe:

"Mom! What are you doing here?"

"I came because I'm worried about your drug problem, Gregory."

"What drug problem? There's no drug problem. Just a prescription for pain medication. I've explained that to you thousands of times . . . "

Once again, he shot a lethal look at Wilson.

"Greg, I'm not naïve," Blythe said. "I've known about your vicodin abuse for years. I was so happy when you got help. And things seemed to be going so well for you. . ."

House folded his arms and shook his head. His face was turning several different shades of red. He looked like he was about to explode.

"This is bullshit and you all know it's bullshit."

"House, everyone's here because they care about you," Nolan said patiently.

"Stop with the touchy feely bullshit. You know that doesn't work with me."

"Your friends want you to be happy."

"If they wanted me to be happy, they would leave me the fu—" he caught himself, remembering his mother was there—"the hell alone!"

"Since your breakup with Cuddy, your vicodin use has been off the chart," Wilson said.

"Which is no one's business but my own."

"House, you're killing yourself," Foreman said.

"And again I say, if I want to kill myself, that's nobody's business but my own."

"Greg!" Blythe said, aghast.

House slumped his shoulders a bit.

"Mom, I'm sorry that you wasted your time. I assure you that I'm not killing myself. Yes, I'm going through a bit of a rough spell. What I need is Monster Truck rallies. Distractions. Fun. Not interventions from my highly misguided friends."

"House, why don't we all just sit down so we can discuss this together?" Nolan said.

"There's nothing to discuss. This intervention is officially over."

Again, he bolted for the door. Again, Foreman grabbed his arm.

"Foreman, let go of me," House hissed. "I'm serious."

Foreman gave Nolan an uncertain look.

"Your mother traveled 500 miles to be here for this," Nolan said.

"I'm sure Wilson will buy her dinner," House said, pulling away. "He's like the good son she never had."

"So that's it?" Wilson said. "You're not even going to hear us out?"

"There's nothing any of you could say to make me want to stay."

"What about me? Is there anything I can say?"

And Lisa Cuddy stepped out from the bedroom.

######

Eight hours earlier, Wilson stood in Cuddy's office, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the next.

"Something on your mind, Wilson?" she said, ironically.

"I'm worried about House," Wilson said.

"And this is different from any other day with the word 'day' in it how?" she said.

"As you know, he's back on vicodin."

Cuddy sighed.

"I know that," she said.

"It's gotten worse in the past few weeks. Yesterday, he practically drained an entire bottle of pills before lunch."

Cuddy closed her eyes tightly for a second, then opened them.

"I don't see what this has to do with me. . ." she said.

"We're staging an intervention tonight at my apartment . . ."

Cuddy gave a little snicker.

"Good luck with that," she said.

"And I'd like for you to be there."

Now her snicker turned into a full-blown laugh.

"I'm the last person on earth House would want there. I'm Public Enemy Number One in his mind. And if you want my advice, save yourself now. Don't do the intervention. It's just going to end in misery and tears—and I don't mean House's tears either."

"Blythe House is arriving by train in four hours," Wilson said.

That caught Cuddy off-guard.

"Whoa," Cuddy said. "Bringing out the big guns. House is going to be furious with you over that."

"A chance I'm willing to take," Wilson said.

"I still don't see why you would want me to attend."

"Because House listens to you. Sometimes it seems like you're the only one House listens to."

Cuddy shrugged.

"House listens to me when he wants something from me—namely sign-off on a procedure or sex. Since neither of those applies in this instance, I don't see how I. . ."

"House listens to you because he loves you," Wilson said.

Cuddy cast her eyes downward, but didn't reply.

"Don't you feel any responsibility for this at all?" Wilson said, testily.

Cuddy swallowed.

"Of course I do," she said softly.

"Then help us help House."

"If I thought I could help at all, I would. . ."

"I do think you can help."
"I might actually make things worse. House basically hates my guts right now."

Now it was Wilson's turn to snicker.

"Yes, of course, hate. That's exactly how he feels toward you," he said.

"Okay, he thinks he hates my guts," she conceded.

"Tell you what?" Wilson said. "Come to the intervention, but stay hidden in my room. If it seems like we're making no headway at all, you can reveal yourself. A final gambit, if you will."

"That'll just piss him off more," Cuddy said. Then she got a faraway look in her eyes as an idea seemed to take root.

"Unless. . ." she said, almost to herself.

"Unless what?"

Cuddy looked back up.

"Nevermind," she said. "I'll be there. Is 7 o clock good?"

"Perfect."
######

When House saw Cuddy he, very briefly, got flustered. Then he recovered and his face became a mask of scorn.

"This is your big finish?" he said to Wilson. "Lisa 'The Executioner' Cuddy? I'm supposed to collapse to the ground in a puddle of gratitude and remorse? Give me a break."

He limped purposefully toward the door.

"I'm outta here," he said. "Sorry mom."

"Greg!" Blythe said, starting after him.

"Blythe, let me," Cuddy said. And she followed House into the hallway.

When he saw her following, he began walking more quickly.

"Christ, leave me alone," he said, pressing the button for the elevator over and over again, rapidly. (In a less agitated state, House might mock someone for doing that.)

"House, come back in," Cuddy said, in a calm voice, as though she were talking someone off a ledge—which, in a way, she was.

"Am I fired if I don't?" he spat.

"Of course not!"

"Then fuck you. You're not my girlfriend anymore. You're not my anything any more."

"I'm your friend."

"Ha. Some friend," he said.

The elevator arrived and he stepped in.

"Wait!" Cuddy said. "Let me at least show you something."

She pulled out her iPhone.

"What? You topped your high score on Angry Birds?" he said. "Congratulations."

"Rachel has a message for you."

House looked at her, shocked. But he used his cane to jam the elevator door before it shut. He stepped out.

"What message?" he said, skeptically.

"Watch," she said.

She opened a video and hit play.

Rachel was sitting in her high chair, her legs dangling. She had a bowl of elbow macaroni in front of her.

"Okay," Cuddy's said, off camera. "What do you want to say to House?"

"Mama said. . ." Rachel looked up at her mother expectantly.

"Go ahead sweetie," Cuddy's voice encouraged.

"Mama said you're sick and that I can't see you until you get better," Rachel finished.

"That's good, Rach. Go on."

"So please get better soon cause I miss playing with you Howse."

"Tell him what you miss, baby."

Rachel looked down, suddenly a little self-conscious.

"l miss when you read my stories in the funny voices," she said, in almost a whisper. ". . . and play Monster Truck Barbie Demolition and make slime milkshakes with me."

"Good job!" Cuddy's voice said. "Anything else you want to say to him?"

Rachel's big blue eyes widened.

"I love you, Howse."

Cuddy shut the phone. She gave House a knowing look.

"Low blow, Cuddy," House said. But his voice was shaking.

'"Just come back inside," Cuddy said. "At least hear us out. Then you can call us all assholes and storm out, okay?"

House folded his arms, blinked hard.

"Fine," he said. "But I'm doing this for Rachel, not for you."

And he followed her back in.

######