Disclaimer: I don't own House or any of its characters, but I wish I did :)
A/N: A big thanks to ca choel for looking over my story and fixing my spelling and punctuation mistakes. You allowed me to finally post my story after such a long hiatus.
Chapter 2: Suffering in Silence
Mechanically, without thought he dry swallowed two Vicodin, just as he had done so many times the last few years. If someone had asked, he wouldn't have been able to say whether it was for the incessant ache of his thigh, or the relentless taunting of his mind.
'Perhaps it was both' he thought honestly.
Both where causing him pain. This is about the time Wilson would give him a lecture about the inappropriate usage of his opiates, and the thought of the younger man standing his hands on his hips, a disapproving yet caring glare caused a small smirk to curve the corner of his lips. It disappeared though, as if it had never been there to begin with.
Lifting his head, he looked down at his left hand that he had raised up in front of him. He flexed his fingers several times, trying to alleviate the dull ache that had been pulsing there for quite some time, it was an uncomfortable feeling, and it seemed to be spreading down his right arm which lay resting on his thigh.
'Guilt' he told himself. His guilt always manifested itself in some sort of physical discomfort. The last time he recalled it happening had been his shoulder during the long months of dealing with Tritter. Just the thought of the detective brought on a look of disdain upon his face.
A frustrated growl slipped past his parted lips, and he placed his hands on his face pressing both palms over his eyes 'A drink' he thought desperately. 'I need a drink.'
With a grunt, he struggled to pull himself off the couch, and limped as fast as his weary body would allow him to towards the kitchen.
His fingers slid around the neck of his favorite bottle of scotch, and he watched the liquid with anticipation as he poured a generous amount. Lifting the glass, he stared momentarily at his hazy reflection. He appeared disheveled and withered in the rippled reflection.
'When did I get so old?' he wondered cynically, lifting the glass to his lips, downing it in its entirety. His brows creased together as the warm liquid sent a numbness down his throat.
When he lifted his hand to pour another round he stopped abruptly, his right hand moving away from the bottle and clinging tightly to his chest. His fingers folded into a fist, pieces of his shirt gathering up along with them as he kneaded into the foreign sensation that radiated in his torso.
Involuntarily he groaned, lifting his left hand to pour another glass, hoping that the scotch would assist in numbing the growing discomfort.
His hand trembled slightly, and the diagnostician watched curiously as the liquid sloshed over the side, running down the exposed skin of his fingers. His features changed to a study of concentration, his mind moved quickly to process the various sensations that were manifesting themselves in increasing amounts throughout his upper body. These feelings were foreign to him, thus they were an anomaly, a puzzle, a puzzle which he was assembling the pieces to at that very moment.
"What the hell?" he gasped in surprise, losing his grip, sending the glass shattering onto the tiles below. He stumbled back, catching his balance against the island in the middle of the kitchen. Placing both hands down on it firmly, he breathed heavily, his head hanging limply between his arms. He felt strange. He felt as if an elephant had come through his door and sat down right in the middle of his chest.
'Psychological pain caused by guilt my crippled ass!' he grunted.
Tilting his head, he looked over towards the portable phone that sat on the side table beside the couch. Composing himself, he limped unsteadily into the living room. His eyes were filled with understanding as the final pieces of the puzzle fell into place. He tried to repress his panic, but adrenaline seized him quickly. He could hear the blood rushing into his ears; his heart rate was accelerating, and pounding so hard he could almost hear every beat.
'Clam down!' he scolded. 'You've got to pull yourself together and calm down!'
He grasped the receiver in his hand and fumbled with his fingers, trying to dial the only number his mind could remember at the moment. He kept repeating to himself to stay calm, but it's as if his body had declared mutiny, refusing to obey his orders.
'Why hadn't I caught this before it progressed this far, you're supposed to be a doctor!'' he chided himself. 'It's Wilson and Cuddy, they've made you paranoid that's why! You don't even believe your own body anymore, not without psychoanalyzing it all first!'
'Pathetic' he groaned.
The handset was pressed against his ear as he waited impatiently.
It rang once.
'Please Jimmy' House pleaded silently.
Rang twice, a third time, and then the voice box came on.
"Damn it!" House cursed, hanging up before making another attempt.
Each time it rang reality shouted about the futility of his efforts, and he believed it, because deep down he knew that Wilson would not answer for him.
'You pushed him away. What did you think would happen you idiot!'
After a fourth time of hearing the younger man's voice recording, he felt a wet sensation on his face.
'Wilson was right' he thought upon realizing his defeat. 'In the end I was the one who always needed him, and now he isn't here.'
Angrily he rubbed at his eyes, cursing the wetness, and the weakness that it represented.
'I don't cry' he scolded.
