AN: I know I had a quick "prayer" in the last draft of the first chapter, but I got rid of it, because I think it works better at the end of this chapter.

Day Two:

"What the Hell took you so long?" House demanded, trying to hide the absolutely agonizing pain in his shoulder, the cold numbness inside of him, and the soreness in other parts of his body. He wasn't doing a very good job of it, though. He wasn't sure if he should tell Wilson what he'd been through or not.

I have to. There's still time to go to the hospital for an exam. Dumbass didn't even make me shower, he thought to himself, but he had doubts. What if Wilson didn't believe him? How much would it hurt to open up about one of the worst things that ever happened to him, only to be ignored, laughed at, or called a liar? How did I get to the point where my usual level of misery was so high, that this seemed normal?

"Sorry, I didn't have $5,000 in my loose change jar," Wilson taunted. Greg grimaced, watching helplessly, as his best friend walked at his side, acting as if bailing him out of jail was ordinary, something to be expected. "What happened?" Tritter tried to beat me up in the clinic, and I did something stupid, pissed him off enough to make him wanna do something, way, way, worse. Think, I've go a broken clavicle, and there's…The thoughts House had tried so hard to put together, straighten out, practice, and work up the nerve to tell Jimmy about were shattered in an instant. "I mean come on. How stupid can you be? A cop? You attacked a cop??" He attacked me first! I was protecting myself.

"Didn't know he was a dick, or I would have done something, I mean, uh—I wouldn't have, I would of," he stammered, stupidly. Wilson stopped, standing face to face with his friend, looking right into Greg's pain-filled eyes.

"Hey, are you alright?" he asked, but the only response was a shrug, followed by a wince. "What did you do? Walk into another door?" Wilson knew that something was wrong with Greg, but until he was willing to talk about it, there wasn't much point in pushing him into it.

"No, I met up with Julie after work. Turns out she gained seventy pounds, and well...one thing led to another and the next thing I knew, she was sitting on my—actually, maybe I should leave the rest of the details private." The drive to the hospital was filled with the sound of Greg tapping his cane against the floor, Wilson's stupid questions, and precious little else.

"What were you thinking? How did this happen? What are you gonna do now?" Wilson shouted at him. Greg shrank away, slightly, shifting his weight back and forth on the seat, trying to get comfortable.

"It's over. He was embarrassed, wanted to humiliate me, and he did. Nothing left to worry about." Jimmy didn't buy this. House had gotten himself arrested and despite his claims that Greg needed the pills, really was in pain, and that the prescriptions were all legit, the cop seemed less than convinced. Still, there was nothing more to do for now. Either Greg was right, and it was over, or, he was right, and something bad was coming. At the hospital House changed clothes in his friend's office, listening to his team discuss their new case, and Cameron's worrying about his being late. At least she still gives a crap about me. He thought about telling James again, but the man was in no mood to listen to anything he had to say. He got rid of his team quickly, and limped down the hall to go take a shower, but before he had a chance, House got a call from his landlord. Damnit, you already all of last night humiliating me over and over and over, what more do you want? Oh well, at least this time there's a bunch of them in my place, so I won't be alone.

XX

He was quiet, behaved himself, and felt perfectly fine, and would have stayed that same way, except that Tritter ordered is men to leave the room. Standing inches away, the man seemed so tall, so menacing. He was absolutely fucking terrifying. Then, the giant made a comment about how Greg couldn't be in that much pain without ever missing work.

"Did you consider the possibility that maybe that's the reason I never miss a day?" he snapped. The cop smiled, touching him on the hip this time, and stuffed another piece of gum into his horrible, disgusting, evil, big, fat, mouth.

"Yeah, I thought about that," he mocked. "But I also thought about what an obnoxious, unprofessional ass you are, and I figured, if you're unprofessional in one area," he paused, hand sliding lower. "If even a few of these are in somebody else's name or swiped from the pharmacy when nobody was looking? Hmm?" he asked, shaking the baggie. "Nothing? Do you even care, or is this…oh, I spoke too soon. There it is. Look at the poor, little baby," he spoke in baby-talk. "Are you gonna cry, little baby?"

"I'm telling," he whimpered. Detective Tritter smiled once more, rubbing Greg's face, with the back of his hand. He didn't have to say anything. House knew what was coming next. They won't believe you. "Wilson will."

"Wanna bet?" He laughed. That sound broke him in half.

"Leave. You got what you wanted, no let me clean my apartment in peace." Of course he didn't clean up, or go back to the hospital. Instead he drove down to Trenton's Saint Francis Medical Center, where he got his shoulder x-rayed.

"Yep," the intern—House had nicknamed him Dr. Imbecile—explained, as if to an idiot. "That's definitely broke. It's a break in what we call the—" House cut him off, more annoyed than angry.

"I'm a double board certified physician, you moron. I know what bone is. It's just a hairline fracture. Don't hafta put me in an immobilizer. I'll be fine." The doctor nodded, and started to walk away. "Hey! I'm in pain here!"

"I'll have the nurse get you some Ibuprofen." Greg sighed. He knew it was pretty pointless to ask, but he had to try. Then, he left before the nurse came back, and went to talk to Wilson.

"What did you say to the cop?" he demanded. Stop, his brain screamed. Don't get mad! Tell him! If you tell him now, Tritter gets thrown off your case, or worse, and since you got the crap kicked out of you and worse, nobody else is gonna try and touch you, or your pills, and Jimmy will make it all better.

"Nothing," Wilson said, honestly, just standing still, not fidgeting, not touching his mouth, not looking away. He was telling the truth, or he was lying but he didn't feel nervous and or guilty about it. Tell him! Do it, right this minute, or he's gonna end up hating you!

"Nothing as in nothing or as in nothing that would make him think I had a stash?" The other doctor looked at House stupidly. "Cops raided my apartment, found a butt-load of pulls." At least he didn't find the box. Not that it matters. He's still going to nail your ass to the wall.

Great, now my mind's taunting me. Even I don't like myself. Wilson yelled at him, sort of. House pretended not to care, and limped back to his office, to be alone, which—naturally—didn't happen. He wasn't alone for hours.

XXX

Later that night, as he lay on the sofa, starting at a TV show about something—he couldn't for the life of him pay attention—House allowed himself to cry again, but he couldn't keep it up. The crying was so physically exhausting that he had to give up after less than five minutes.

"Okay," he sobbed, in the darkness. You win. Do you want me to go to rehab? I should stop taking the pills, be nice to people, convert to Buddhism, or Christianity, or whatever, is that it? Whatever you want, I'll do it. I'll do anything, but I need Jimmy. Without him, it's over; I'm finished. Just don't take him away from me. I've spent my entire life hanging over the edge of a cliff, holding on by nothing but my fingernails. Then, Wilson came along and he lowered a rope. So, I let go of the cliff, grabbed onto the rope, but now… If he lets go—when he lets go, if the fall isn't fatal—see, you have to understand. People don't like me. I don't care, really, I don't, because I can't stand them either. It's been like that as long as I can remember, but with him, I don't know what happened. Our friendship, spending time with him, and that thing he does when I'm falling asleep, I don't know how, but the guy makes me feel good, and it's not just because he gives me Vicodin. I can't do it. Fuck... I think I've had way too much too drink. I'm not just talking to myself I'm talking towards the ceiling, to some all-knowing, imaginary being that not only created everything in the universe, but made human beings out of dust. I haven't prayed for anything, I haven't asked for anything since I was six, because I can't…because you—because I stopped believing in you. Because there is no you. People made you up to make ourselves feel better about how much the world sucks. I am such a loser. Maybe I do deserve this."

House didn't like how quickly his thoughts had turned against him. How low his self esteem was. Almost all of his problems were caused by his father. When he brought home an A, John would ask the little boy why it wasn't an A+. In fifth grade, Greg convinced his school to let him take part in the science fair, even though it was only supposed to be for the high school students. He won, of course, but his father didn't even admit that he'd done a good job. "Well, at least he's finally starting to live up to his supposed potential. I was starting to think he cheated on that smarts test," he said, and went back to reading the newspaper.

He was scared sometimes. He hurt all the time. He was sad all the time, and he was weak. Tritter saw it in him, and the cop had used Greg's weaknesses to his advantage. There was a fairly good chance that he was about to loose everything he had, his friend, a—somewhat—safe place he could call home, a job he was good at, amazing at, actually, and then there were the pills. Greg knew he was an addict, understood exactly what that meant, and how people looked down on him for it, but once again their opinions didn't matter.

They take away my pain, he told Wilson once, and it was the truth. If something annoyed him, the pills made it go away. If his leg hurt, they stopped the pain. If he saw that horrifying look in someone's eyes, they made Greg forget what he'd been through, and when he was nervous, or panicked, they helped calm him down. What more could he want? House fell asleep and dreamed that he was in a cage in the middle of the woods, being attacked by a monster who looked like a combination of his father and Tritter. When he woke up the next morning he actually looked, and felt worse than he had when he went to sleep. Oh well, he told himself, as he stood beneath the scalding water in the shower. At least it can't get any worse.