House was in prison. He finally ended up at the bottom of the pill bottle and boy it had not been pretty. Wilson "hmph" was the cause of it all, he snitched. House backtracks, smacking his head on the silver luminescent bars that held his very soul imprisoned, he couldn't blame his lover, James had done what he could, house himself had brought this on, making his coworkers, lover, and best friends watch him get progressively worse, as the addiction reared it's ugly head.

He still could not believe it had ended here though, despite that bastard detective being thrown off the force for corruption, House's jail sentence still stood, so said her honor, Judge Bitch in a half. He had watched as his life was slowly taken away from him, from his iron control. The Judge had said good behavior and volunteering in the prison hospital might help the parole board to commute his sentence. Now he only had to wait out the five to ten other years he received for being his aggressive, pill popping self, and maybe he could live again one day. "The dreams have to stop," he mutters to himself quietly, not good to disturb the roomie, who has been up late whoring himself out to the general population. Not something, anyone wanted from House, lately it seemed even his own lover was put off by him. No one but Cuddy had visited after the first month or so. James was a disappointment if House was honest with himself. They'd been together since both of their first divorces, hell they'd wanted each other since med school. But no…now that he was inmate number what- the- fuck- ever. He would never be a well respected doctor ever again, he'd be lucky if he could work in fast food or as a janitor somewhere, when he was released from this purgatory he found himself in.

Oh well House mentally sighs, he couldn't do anything now but be a good boy and do the volunteering, which was something he used to loathe but one year in and almost 9 more to go, he had learned to love those hours of peace that were provided daily. He sighs as he moves slowly to his bunk, he had to have the bottom one of everything in this prison. His leg ached horribly, despite the forced therapy he had been required to go through every other day, there were some days he thought of taking some of the dealers up on their offers of jailbird heroin or crack, just to ease the pain. "But I can't," he thinks to himself, I spent all those weeks in detox to stop this, I did what Jamie wanted and now it no longer mattered. Well maybe it did, it mattered to himself, he had proved once and for who was stronger, the drugs or him. He had finally won, and now because of that he was stronger, at least a little, when he was in the yard, he worked out, he lifted, and he walked in so many fucking circles, it made his head ache.

Now though his busy day was finished, and he still had a few hours til lights out. Scratching his face, combing his hair with his fingers, he glances at his pillow and bunk and then looks to the measly shelf which holds his possessions. "What a joke" he says with a sigh, a book of Shakespeare's plays and a couple romance novels. He shrugs and reaches for the heavy tome with well worn pages made up of entirely the best work ever written by a man , if anything he could borrow Frankie's bible, if he got too bored and wanted some good fiction to read.