Spoilers: Seasons 1-5 just to be safe, especially the finale of Season 5.

Disclaimer: It all belongs to David Shore and Fox. Am borrowing. I own made up character and fictional plot.

Two.

He's looking at me like there's something wrong with me.

"Mr. House, could you close your notebook, please? It's good to see you've taken my advice and found yourself a hobby, but I'm trying to have a session with you."

He's talking to me like I'm some brain-damaged kid.

"If you aren't going to put your notebook away, can I at least see what it is you're writing about?"

House looked up from the nearly full page of paper with purple scrawls. Purple was for therapy. He never replied to Idiot Shrink. Instead, he wrote his replies in the book. He shut the notebook and hugged it to his chest and gave a fake smile. "It's put away."

"Under your chair, please."

Instead of complying, he tossed a snarky remark, "You want me to sit under the chair? What the hell kind of therapy is this?"

Idiot Shrink rubbed his temples, slightly annoyed, "Mr. House—"

"Oh, just because I'm locked up in a damn loony bin means I don't get my title back?" People called him 'House' with or without the 'Doctor' in front of it ever since he left medical school. And now that, along with seventy percent of his dignity was taken away from him, too.

"Not with me you don't. I'm the doctor, you're the patient. Now, put your notebook under your chair or I'm afraid I'll have to confiscate it."

House sighed and slid it under there, but rested his feet upon it.

"Now remove the hat and sunglasses." Chester Baldwin, alias 'Idiot Shrink,' demanded.

House's thoughts scoffed at the man. That's not going to happen. Then he said aloud, "Aw, come on, Baldy, I gotta rep for the Gravedigger! And I gotta wear my shades inside. Got a sudden case of light sensitivity."

"Mr. House, you either play by my rules or you don't play at all. If you do not follow my rules, I will take everything you own as punishment and not give it back for a long, long time."

House nearly made a 'you gotta be kidding me,' face. He sounds like a little kid. Alright, fine. House retaliated with the same kind of childlikeness and whined, "Aw, pwease? Just this onnnnce?"

Idiot Shrink was defeated. He sighed in that aggravated way of his again, "Okay. But only this once." A pause as he readied himself for the session. "So, tell me. How has your first week here been?"

"It sucks. I need better meds. I'm in pain. No one seems to understand that."

"Now, Mr. House, you're only allowed a certain kind of medicine with a specific amount of dosage for the pain. The severity of the pain is in your head. You're feeling phantom pains. If you stopped harping on it, it will all go away."

The crippled doctor gaped at the psychologist. He reminded him of a hybrid antagonist made out of all of his past enemies. Well, two anyway. Vogler and Tritter. "Whatever."

"Why don't you ever take walks around the hospital with your orderlies to give that leg some exercise? We could even arrange some physical therapy!"

House only shrugged.

"Come now, Mr. House. You've got to find something to do around here. There are plenty of recreational things to participate in." Then he asked the inevitable question that House didn't want to talk about because it wasn't any of Baldy's business. "What do you do in that notebook of yours?"

House shrugged again and decided to stay vague with an answer. "I draw and write. I want markers. They won't give me any."

"So you like to scrapbook!" Idiot Shrink went on as though he hadn't heard House speak in the first place. "Why don't you join the other patients in the arts and craft room! You could make friends."

"I already have friends, Baldy." House was hateful and cold when he stated that, almost sneering at the psychologist.

The reply was just as cold, and hurtful, "Funny how I've never seen any visit you yet."

House gave a confused look. "One came and visited me last night! We talked about work and how everybody is too incompetent to do anything without me and how everybody is worried about me. We even talked about…" And he cut himself off. Had Wilson really come to visit or was it just a memory? Or worse, did it never happen? House could distinctly recollect thinking about Wilson and having some sort of conversation with his best friend the previous night.

House stopped. Grabbed his notebook and flipped through it until he found what he was looking for. The green conversation. And how Wilson said he's talked to Cuddy and she—

But the conversation had ended abruptly. Why?

"Because it wasn't real," he murmured quietly, "Because you didn't know what to say for her. Because it wasn't going to be anything good."

Dr. Baldwin leaned forward in his chair. "So you have made process. You've admitted that something you thought was real is not real at all. Greg, I am here to help you. I want to see what is wrong with you to make you all better so you can get out of here and get back to your life. And to your friends."

"Friend," House corrected him. "I only have one friend." He put his sunglasses back on and felt a single tear slip down his cheek.

He was back in his room. Therapy had killed him just as much as it had last week. He was on his bed again, his notebook open to a fresh page, a black crayon in his hand. He was preparing to write a letter.

Dear Cuddy,

He looked at that and frowned and drew a single line through the Dead of Medicine's surname. He started fresh, but on the same page and using the same colored crayon.

Dear Lisa,

I'm sorry.

Sincerely,

House

But he was frowning again as he scratched out the latter two words and replaced them with,

Forgive me,

Greg.

He put the crayon back in its box and put the box and the journal under his pillow. If They couldn't find it, They couldn't take it.

Nobody would ever take that from him as long as he lived. He would make sure of that.

[Author's Note: Thanks to everybody who read and reviewed! It means a lot that people actually enjoy my work! More reviews would be even more spectacular! :D And I apologize if House seems a bit out of character. I like to believe that his mind is so strained that he really is going out of his head with fear and depression enough to make him cry since he doesn't have the pills to make it all go away anymore. Wow, run-on sentence there, haha.]