No Exit

Author: Barbara Barnett

Summary: House makes a decision in an hour of despair. House admits himself into rehab

Spoilers—through MLC (speculation for the future, but no spoilers)

Chapter 1

Christmas came and went and House sat on his sofa, still and sombre. The deal, the one he had fought so hard against taking. The deal, that in its final hours, had become a way out of the hell in which he found himself dwelling, had been revoked. Leaving House with no options.

He contemplated the past 72 hours: the pain, the humiliation of first Cuddy, then Cameron seeing him like that; stealing the Oxy and simply not caring anymore about anything. Just please let the pain stop. Let it not hurt anymore.

Summer had ended with something House had not felt in a very long time: hope. He flashed on the memory of burn he felt back then—was it only three months ago?--in his arms and legs, even his feet, as he pushed to finish that eighth mile. It had been so long since he had felt the lightness of flying through a park unaided by anything but the power of his two legs. One month, then two. He had silently thanked Moriarty (or whoever the hell he was) for shooting him and pushing him toward the radical Ketamine treatment. Had thanked him every day for the clarity he felt, his brain free of the opiates he sometimes struggled to fight through.

But then the vision changed. He was still running, but on a treadmill. The silence of the PPTH physio lab made the thump-thump of his running shoes echo through the dark. Wilson had challenged him. Wilson always thought he knew best, and usually House didn't mind, until recently. Wilson didn't want to believe that the ketamine was failing, when House knew that it was. The searing, ripping pain in House's right quad was not a sore muscle. He knew that pain—was intimately familiar with it—like a playground bully come back to taunt him, tell him he'll never be normal. Never again. Do not pass go; do not collect $200.00.

The ketamine had been his last chance. His only chance. And now, with no more to look forward to than years of pain and the fog of opiates…what was left for him? How long did he have, House had wondered then, before his liver was trashed beyond repair? Five years? Six? Less if he was less careful on his bike; less caring about the amount of his alcohol consumption.

House shivered, feeling like shit, unwilling or unable to arise from his roost to start up the fireplace. He realized that he was shivering despite not having removed his coat. His little jaunt with the Oxy had only slightly forestalled the Vicodin withdrawal symptoms. Cuddy had given him two vicodin when she had dropped him back at his apartment, telling him in her seductively sympathetic voice that she was sorry about the deal falling through, but that he had only himself to blame. "Then why give me the Vicodin?" He tried for defiant, with only minimal success.

"No one thinks that you don't need pain relief. But House, the way you've been…stealing Wilson's pad? A dead man's oxy?" House looked away, unable to find an adequate come back line. "You don't think you need help?"

"I'm…" No, he reckoned. He wasn't "fine." Not by a long shot.

"I'm thinking of doing it anyway, deal or not." Cuddy arched an eyebrow at the non-sequitor. For a moment she was unsure of what House meant. He wouldn't look at her, but his voice was grave. A fleeting moment's panic ensued, making her regret agreeing to simply drop him off and not come in. Stay with him.

"House, I think I should…you shouldn't be…" Realizing, House smiled weakly, knowing he'd evoked Cuddy's panic response.

"Rehab. I think maybe I…"

"Are you sure? Will you even take it seriously?"

"I don't know." It was as honest as he could be. "Why, it's what you and Wilson crave, isn't it?"

"Yeah, since when have you sought our approval? On anything."

"I'm not. Let's just leave it at that. Thanks, Cuddy. For the lift."

House tried picturing himself there, in the PPTH rehab facility. One of the lost souls: a vague, blank apparition of a human being with empty eyes floating aimlessly in the halls—and that would be after he detoxed. After a week of pure hell.

"Did you want to die?" Rebecca what's-her-name's words came suddenly back into his head.

"I'd hoped I was dying." He had answered her. It was true then. It had been true a year ago, when he had thought he'd lost his grip on reality in the aftermath of the placebo; and again in the spring, when the pain again spiraled out of control and morphine seemed like his only answer. And in September, with the return of the pain after Ketamine had given him hope for the first time in many years. And how many other times, when the pain was so bad he would do anything to be put out his misery. When oblivion was the only answer until he could regain some modicum of control over it. He'd hoped he was dying last night and cursed his gag reflex for saving his life. Death wasn't a suitable answer. Dignity was out. He spent the last of he meager resource when Wilson found him in his own vomit, barely aware of his surroundings.

So it was life. He'd tried everything else. Maybe rehab wouldn't be the nightmare he feared. It certainly couldn't be worse than the last 48 hours had been. Yeah, and who was he kidding.

"I'm checking myself into rehab." House didn't wait to catch the look of shock on the faces of the three fellows. He turned towards the elevators and disappeared from their view.

House had chosen the in-patient facility at PPTH because he didn't trust himself. He knew he could detox on his own. Had done it before. Twice. Three times if you counted this past week. Which he didn't. And the detoxing on Ketamine didn't really count either, since the drug did all the hard work while he was in a coma. No, House knew that in the midst of detox, he could "want to die." And the next time he probably wouldn't botch the job.

And, at least if his staff needed him, he could come in on a consult. The down side of being at PPTH was, well, that he was at PPTH. He was far from anonymous, at least amongst the staff.

"Dr. House?" House peered up from his handheld game. At least it was someone he didn't recognize. "If you wouldn't mind coming with me…"

House glanced longingly at the doorway, thinking that now would be a good time to leave and return to the safety of his office. "Just joking," he wanted to say. "Wanted to check out the nurses up here on four. Been there, done that, leaving now." The words wouldn't form. He rose in silence and followed the woman into her office.

"I'm Dr. Harrington. Catherine. There are a lot of forms to fill out. Dr. Cuddy did the pre-registration and sent up your medical files. But still…a lot of paperwork." She sounded vaguely apologetic, but he knew this game. A shell of self-deprecation might get him to lower his guard. To "talk." He had nothing to say. At least she wasn't smiling that inane way that psyche people tended to. Point to her.

"I know you're a doctor, and you understand a great deal about what's going to happen the next few days at least. I won't insult you by minimizing it. They will probably be some of the worst days of your life, but not as bad as yesterday…"

"Please no platitudes. I…"

"It's not. I know what your yesterday was like." She opened a file. House took it in, sighing. Cuddy was thorough. And quick.

"Does this mean I get a babysitter? Gonna take my privacy away too?"

"No babysitter. Dr. Cuddy also explained the circumstances. She doesn't think you're suicidal. I trust her assessment, provisionally, anyway. I'm going to be your therapist during your time here…and beyond, if it works out. As far as I'm concerned, you're here voluntarily, and my job is to give you all the help and support you need…"

"Platitudes…"

"…Including trying to find a pain management plan that works for you. I'm not going to lie to you and say you'll be off opiates…clean and sober, as the saying goes. It may be that you can't be off narcotics. Dr. Cuddy notes that you've tried other pain relief from the common to the experimental. Radical, even. Nothing else has given you relief. This isn't going to be easy. Physically or emotionally. As you know, the addiction is complicated by your valid and legitimate need for pain relief. We will find something that works. Now about those forms…"

Waivers, insurance forms and other paperwork took up the better part of the morning. With each form signed, House wanted less and less to be there. Locked up. Locked away. He knew what to expect: a week to detox. OD'ing on the oxy meant that he'd have to relive a lot of what he'd gone through three days earlier. But at least there'd be meds to relieve some of the withdrawal symptoms. The pain was another matter.

"We need to evaluate your pain, figure out what might work once you're detoxed. There are some new drugs on the market that might be more effective without the massive quantities of hydrocodone in your blood stream. We also need to do a liver panel. You had a lot of tests after your shooting and during your recovery from the Ketamine procedure, but with the Oxy OD, we need to make sure your liver is stable. Are you in pain now?" House had said barely two words to the doctor, choosing instead to observe her warily, figure out what made her tick. What lay beneath the calm and calming professional mask.

"I'm always in pain," he growled.

"Can you give me a pain-scale number, or do I need to guess?"

"Eight. It's been…"

"I know how long it's been. I know a lot more about you than you think I know. I know that a lot of the stuff we do here won't work for you. You're not a 'get in touch with my feelings' sort of guy. I get that. Meditation isn't your style. Neither is visualization. But I hear you're a terrific musician, so maybe we'll go there. You have a better defensive line than the Chicago Bears, I haven't met a defensive lineman yet I couldn't get around, so…"

"You know you should really need work on your metaphors."

"We'll put you on Subutex. It should help with both the pain and the withdrawal symptoms. It's not perfect, but you won't be cowering in a corner shivering, sweating and puking your brains out for the next four days, at any rate. But I need to get the liver studies going first. Later you'll meet an anesthesiologist who specializes in pain management. I promise that it's no one you know. I borrowed him from another hospital. I want to ensure your privacy and grant you as much dignity in this as possible, Dr. House." Catherine extended her hand and stood. The audience was over.

She'd given him no openings, no opportunities for backing out, for pissing her off. House stood with difficulty, stiff and sore. His leg felt on fire. He took the proffered hand, without looking her in the eye.

"Anlee will see you to your room so you can get settled. The lounge is down the hall. Pay phone on the wall right next to it. You'll have a hospital phone in your room. You know how to use that, I take it." She smiled. For a moment he wished he could return it, but there was nothing in him, no space, no cell within his body that felt able to. If misery was his steady state, as Wilson always assumed, this was surely a new level in Hell. He felt dead inside, and hoped he was dying.

End chapter 1