Friday Night January 2011 Challenge

The challenge: We all know that January usually marks new beginnings, but in this case House has to end something to move forward. Of course you can end his relationship with Cuddy so he can move forward with a new o/c...or you can end something else in his life...maybe something we never knew about...so that he can move forward.

What does he end? What is he beginning?

FOR THE LOVE OF BOURBON

It was morning. I had to be. Why else would he be waking up? Wait. That meant he had slept. An anomaly since the last time he gotten this deeply asleep…

Last night must have been one hell of a bender. Greg was having trouble recalling the details. There was a bottle of something: Maker's Mark, Jack Daniels, something in the midrange price. He remembered standing in front of the shelf at the bottle shop leaning heavily on his cane. Yes, that was the reason for the bender: the heavy leaning.

The leg pain had been increasing for several days. He chalked it up to the unusual cold spell brought to the Northeast by an Alberta Clipper. No matter how many anti-inflammatories he popped, there was no relief. He tried heat packs, hot baths, massages - and even some of the more dodgy homeopathic remedies his friends and colleagues offered. Yet nothing eased the cramping and deep ache that plagued him as if he had never quit Vicodin.

He supposed the holiday season and his bah humbug mood added to the misery. Gloom and Doom, his two constant and ominous companions, weighed on him - the angel and devil on his shoulders. Gloom was the 'cheery' one, always reminding him to be happy he still had his leg, for better or for worse. Doom reminded him daily that it was never going to get better. But it was Howie, the monkey on his back, that steered him into the liquor store.

If he couldn't physically escape the pain, he could drink himself into a comfortably numb stupor. It would, however, take a lot more than he intended to buy. He had been pickling his liver for many years. His buddies: Jim, Johnny, Jack, Mark, the Glens - they were members of the Club, regents of the Crown, Seven-fold. His casket would be lined in Black Velvet. By all rights he should be buried in Kentucky.

Tonight he'd have to take one of these friends home, make love to him in a glass and take him to bed. He didn't have the wherewithal to be picky. He was hurting.

Who'd he pick? Damned if he could remember. Gloom, or was it Doom, suggested sucking a little JD from his titty shot glass. He wanted to make love to his drink, not foreplay. More than likely it was Maker's Mark. A long time, good friend.

He should feel hung over. Especially since he tried to kill all feeling with it. Probably damn near drank the whole bottle. How long had he slept to not wake up with a hangover?

Gloom whispered in his right ear. "Just sleep, House. Give it a little time, and you feel better."

"But I feel good now," he mumbled, his eyes too heavy to keep open for any length of time.

"Wake up," Doom shouted in his left ear. "Time to get with reality."

"The reality is I don't get enough sleep." Greg decided to rest with his eyes closed. If sleep came again, so be it.

Howie climbed into the bed with him and snuggled up. "Feeling nice and relaxed?"

"Mm hmm."

"So what did we drink?"

"Maker's Mark…I think. I remember wishing I could find a bottle of black wax. Better yet gold. I was carrying it to the counter. Then something distracted me."

"Was she sexy?"

"Distracted the cashier, too."

The scene replayed in his head. The bottle was cradled in his left arm while he struggled toward the counter to make his purchase. The bell over the door jingled as one person exited and two people came in. Greg didn't pay too much attention. He was trying not to slip on the wet floor.

Him and everyone else in the place.

There was a noise. A sharp pop like the cork coming out of bottle of champagne, then a bottle fell to the ground and exploded. All Greg could think was, 'That's a waste of good liquor.'

He continued to the counter, eyes diverted by the various liquor sets left over from Christmas sales. He didn't need any new shot glasses or shaker sets, but he had to admit the prices were good. As he approach the end of the aisle, a second 'pop' and 'crash' startled him. He slid on the wet floor, his leg giving out from under him.

The bottle of Maker's Mark, the cane and his body all seemed to hit the ground at the same time.

That was the last thing he remembered.

"Funny, now that I think about it, I don't think it was a woman," he told Howie.

"Nope. You're right."

"I remember falling."

"Yep, we all fell."

"But I don't remember getting up."

"Yeah, 'bout that..."

"Don't listen to him," Gloom whispered.

"Gotta hear it sometime." Doom shot Gloom a nasty glare.

"I must have gotten up, got another bottle and went home."

"That was the plan," Howie nodded.

"You're sorta home," Doom snorted.

"Enough! Let him rest. He's going to need his strength when he wakes up," Gloom scolded. The angel sang a lullaby in his ear.

Greg drifted off to sleep again.

[H]

When he woke up again, it was against his will. Something was forcing his heart to beat stronger, his blood pressure to rise. He was fully cognizant of his wakefulness, except for opening his eyes.

"Keep them closed," Gloom whispered. "Wilson has a surprise for you."

"What, another lecture on getting drunk and passing out?"

"Huh?" Wilson sniffed back his silent tears.

"You going to give me another lecture about getting drunk and passing out?" Something was off, why was Wilson in his bedroom? Had he mentioned the pain and Wilson came to make sure he hadn't done something stupid?

"No lectures, House. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Yep, Wilson the boy scout and eternal do-gooder. He could give a Mountie a run for his money.

"I'm fine Wilson. Still a little drunk by the feel of things. No hangover, though." Oddly enough, Greg was smiling while saying this.

"Can you open your eyes, House." Wilson looked to Cuddy for some kind of assurance that this was normal. His friend was responding to verbal stimuli but not the physical.

"It's bright. I can already sense it. If I don't have a hangover now, the light's gonna make my pupils contract and, wham, instant headache."

"We'll close the blinds."

Greg heard them drawing the slats shut. Wait. He only had one window in his bedroom.

He opened his eyes slowly. It was daylight. The room was dim, but not lit by overhead lights, only the sun's rays filtering through the blinds. Everything was blurry. There were a few blobs of color, which he assumed was Wilson. And possibly Cuddy. He did mention Cuddy's name, didn't he?

He blinked a few times and his vision became clearer. He looked to his right shoulder. No Gloom. To his left. No Doom. Hell, Howie wasn't even cuddled in the bed next to him.

Wilson watched him look around, disoriented.

Before House knew it, someone was trying to laser off his corneas. He swatted the light away, meeting slight resistance. Something was stuck to his hand. He looked at it curiously.

"Probably the aftereffects of the anesthesia."

He assumed it was Cuddy's voice. He laughed. "Anesthetized by bourbon."

Wilson exchanged another serious look with his colleague. He turned back to his friend. "Do you know your name?"

"Greg House. And I'm shit-faced, still." He touched his face with his hands as if it were a new experience; either that or he believed he had shit on his face.

"Do you know where you are?"

"In bed."

"In bed where?"

"Should be my apartment. Doesn't look like my apartment. Ooh, wait, you found me and dragged me back to the condo." House looked around. "Doesn't look like the condo either."

Wilson looked up at Cuddy, who nodded. "You're in the hospital."

"Alcohol poisoning," House laughed. "It figures."

Wilson was dumbfounded. House certainly wasn't responding the way he should for his condition. There was no head injury. There should be no impairment. No memory loss.

The door opened, and all eyes turned to the big black blob that House saw. He couldn't make out facial expressions yet. Just blobs that were beginning to take some shape.

"How you feeling, Greg?"

He knew that voice. Darryl Nolan. Jeesh, couldn't a guy have a few drinks without getting his shrink involved?

"What's this, an intervention," Greg joked nervously.

"You've had a tremendous shock to your body. Sometimes the mind can't deal with it. It blocks things out it doesn't want to acknowledge."

That could mean a lot of things to a guy like House. When things got really bad, really, really bad, his mind went to safe places. Like delusions and hallucinations that kept him safe. He couldn't say so much for the people that suffered through them with him.

Had he been in so much pain he found a few pills to add to his whiskey bender? Was that why they were so worried? He slipped?

He slipped.

Then why didn't his leg hurt? His leg always hurt. Yes, even when he was shit-faced. And especially after he took a spill like the one he had at the liquor store. He should be hurting like a son-of-a-bitch.

He tried to focus his eyes on his body. Damn the all white blankets of the hospital bed and their white walls and white lab coats. It was like a fucking snow storm in here!

His arms reached out, needing to feel his leg, needing to knead the scar tissue through to the emptiness of missing muscle and tortured nerve endings.

Wilson grabbed his hands, restraining them at his sides. "Don't. Not yet."

His friend was close. His face came in to clear view. House realized he was weeping.

Eyes wide open and pleading, he waited for James to tell him what he didn't know. What Nolan said he knew but his mind didn't want to admit. Nausea threatened to wrack his body with upheavals.

"Probably from the anesthesia."

"Damn it, woman, can't you say anything else!" He looked away from the people in the room, to anywhere his vision wasn't distracted and his thoughts could form without intervention. He couldn't feel his leg. Why?

His mind started working through all the probable reasons associated with side effects of anesthesia. Damn it, he was beginning to hate that word!

Wait! You only get anesthesia with injuries, usually for a procedure, mostly for surgery. "What happened!"

Wilson looked from Cuddy to Nolan. They both nodded. "You were shot."

"Again?" Yes, he had been shot before. Twice, at close range. Once in the abdomen, once in the neck. And he hallucinated after that, too.

"Three days ago. In a liquor store."

House just nodded, as if Wilson was telling him a story about someone else he knew. "Three days ago?"

"We induced a coma after the surgery. To keep you out of pain. We stopped the coma, but you didn't wake up. You've been unresponsive until today."

"You're coma worked. I'm not in pain anymore." His brain continued to work feverishly for a self-diagnosis. Had they tried Ketamine again? "I don't have any pain in my leg. Like the last time."

Wilson stepped back from House's smile. Perhaps House really didn't know what had happened in the liquor store. Then again, maybe he did, and his brain refused to accept it. He couldn't be the one to tell him the truth. He wanted to blurt it out, but Nolan thought that Greg should experience it for himself.

"Greg," Nolan waited for House to look at him to make sure he had his full attention. "I want you to watch what I'm going to do."

House nodded.

Nolan took hold of the blankets at House's chest, slowly pulling them down to the bottom of the bed. Little by little his body was revealed. At his waist he got a sickening feeling.

He had been shot. Not in the upper body or torso. He still had sensation in his left leg. Apparently the bullet hit him in the right leg. Must have torn through altering the sensation he had. With a lot of physiotherapy, maybe a brace, he'd limp again. Maybe the pain would be gone forever. Or come back only slightly. He could get through this.

Greg House had hope. And his biggest belief was 'hope is for sissies'. He was wrong. 'Hope was for idiots.'

The bandages started at his hip and went down five or six inches before ending in a mound. His eyes widened, his breathing became labored. No, his brain did not want to believe what he was seeing. It couldn't be.

The world was spinning as he turned his head to face Cuddy. "No. No! NO!"

Gloom popped up on his right shoulder. "Amazing advances have been made. Kids with prosthetic legs are running the hundred meter dash in twelve seconds."

"I liked my leg. I've had it for as long as I can remember."

Doom popped up on his right shoulder. "Look on the bright side. You don't need the damn cane any more. And now the leg can't get worse."

"This isn't happening," Greg shook his head in defiance.

"It's happened. You'll deal with it. We'll all help you." Nolan's voice was steady and strong.

House was amazed that he could hear their voices through a cacophony of sound that reverberated off the walls. He looked around for Howie. Hell, if Doom and Gloom were still around, he'd need that monkey on his back to even the score.

He was there, just off to the side. A syringe in his hand, heading for the IV line. It all stopped. The screams, the tears, the hysteria.

But how long would they have to keep him sedated before he'd wake up and have to deal with it all over again?