Title: Home

By: Tidwell

Rating: T. House's drug use plays a part at the beginning. Some language.

Disclaimer: House belongs to Fox and David Shore. Not mine, not mine.

A/N: This is my first House fic. Please read, enjoy, comments and constructive criticisms are always welcome.

Chapter 2

"Stop here."

The cab slowed then drifted to a stop between an island of yellow September grass and a chain-link fence. Beyond the fence was a well mown field. Its grass was so well maintained-

(As always…)

-and such a vivid green, House could only stare, open mouthed. Regret and elation vied for an emotional hold. This was a reaction he didn't expect or want.

"That'll be thirty dollars even, mister." Edwin was facing him now, waiting for his money, probably anxious to put distance between them. Their conversation had been wickedly entertaining. House concocted an inane story of how he was left on a church doorstep as a baby. Now,as an overtly religious man, he was going home to grant forgiveness to the woman who had given him up all those years ago. He was just miserable about it. What she did was wrong...wrong! But he had to make peace. It just tore him up but...he had to do it. Of course Edwin believed him, hemming and hawing and sighing through the entire ridiculous thing. If House hadn't been truly miserable,he would have laughed and called the guy a gullible fool.

He tore his eyes from the field, pulled a fifty from his wallet and pushed it through the money drawer. The "Spirometry" bar receipt was gone. Had Edwin kept it or tossed it in the trash with the mucus filled tissue? House studied the man's face, the bulbous nose, the graying sideburns, the uni-brow, and came to a simple conclusion. He didn't give a shit what the guy did.

"Keep the change." House pushed open the door, reached down to retrieve his duffle bag and cane, and eased out of the cab.

"Hey, thanks, and good luck." Edwin called. "You're doin' the right thing."

House slung his bag over his shoulder, leaned hard on his cane and bit his lip. Suddenly he knew. This was going to be a rough one. His right leg, the bane of his existence, was testing him. Hey, it's me. Still here, you know. Didn't think too much about me on the plane, in the car, in the bar, eh? But hey, I know you really missed me. And I missed you too. Here's a little shot of my love.

He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth as the pain overtook him, sending him to that familiar dark corner of his private universe. Starting in his upper thigh, the pain burned its way down with excruciating ease to his mid-calf.. He shifted his shoulders and moaned. His cane trembled under his white knuckled grip. In his jacket pocket were his pills, the only quick way out of this slice of hell.

"Need any help?" The voice was far away but the Vicodin was close. He managed a guttural "No" before another wave of pain caused his whole body to clench. Some other part of his psyche took over, hitching his cane under his arm, before guiding his hand into the breast pocket of his jacket. He removed the vial, thumbed off the cap (he transferred his meds into an easy open container for such occasions), and shook out two or three or five or seven of those smooth white tablets into his waiting palm.. Trembling fingers pushed them into his mouth. He threw back his head and dry swallowed..

Closing his eyes, he straightened, leaning on his cane, waiting seconds, minutes, eons, as the pain slowly, reluctantly receded.

Awww, no fair, Greg. We were just getting started. But don't you worry. I'm always here for you, just around the corner…

"Hey…mister?" Edwin stood by the passenger door of the cab, wringing his hands like a distressed grandpa. "You don't look so good. You want me to call someone for you?"

"Why would I want you to do that?" House was floating now, drifting in a lovely warm place.

"You want me to take you somewhere else?"

"No, Edwin. I'm where I want to be. I just had a cramp in my leg. It's okay now." People were so easily fooled. House was sure he had taken more pills than he should have. He was so high he was scraping clouds but the cabbie didn't know that. Even at work there were times when his intake was just over the max. But it was easy to hide. He could still function and no one knew, not Foreman or Cuddy, Cameron or Chase, or.."

Wilson?

Well, Wilson knew. Wilson could always tell, which was as irritating as it was a comfort.

House scowled. "Don't you have somewhere to go?" He was not enjoying Edwin's moon eyed stare. It was breaking through the soft, comfortable haze, putting a damper on the experience. When he was this wasted he liked to be alone.

"I'm just making sure you're alright," Edwin said, "that you don't fall down and die here."

"I'm a doctor. Ever hear the expression "Physician heal thyself"?"

"No."

"Edwin! Tch, tch, tch. You should visit the library. There you will find many odd shaped objects known as books. When you open them they teach you stuff, provided you can read."

"I can read." Edwin pouted, crossing his arms.

Shoot! Score! Well, aren't we the wounded little soldier? House's Vicodin shroud glowed a beautiful yellow-gold. He sighed. "I'm doing my best to heal myself. When you stand there ogling me like I have three heads you are not helping."

"Sorry…"

"Now, shoo. G'wan with your bad self."

"Huh?"

Leaning forward, House donned his most amiable grin. But he imagined his eyes were pistols, their charge poisonous, lethal. "Get lost."

Edwin shuddered, his face a scarlet mask of disbelief and rage. He opened his mouth to speak but a coughing fit hit him so hard he had to lean against the cab to keep upright.

"Spirometry," House murmured then let out a low wicked chuckle. He fashioned a gun from his thumb and forefinger and took aim at the cabbie.

Edwin sputtered, "I gotta tell you, fella, you're nuts."

House fired off one round, then another.

The cabbie put some speed on, nearly falling twice in his haste to reach the driver's side door. Fumbling with the handle, his gaze never left House. "Ithink you need some help. You should turn right around, go back where you came from and get some. And-and your mama?" He was breathless now, barely getting out the words. "Shedoesn't deserve to know the likes of you, no matter what she's done..."

Yawning, House turned away. He limped to the fence and rested his head against the metal wire.

"…and you ain't no doctor. I don't know any doctor who would last two minutes acting and looking like you do."

The guy could babble until the morning sky turned twilight purple. House was done with him. He had a more pressing concern: coming down off his high. One thing he didn't want was go home in this condition. His parents had never seen him buzzed on Vicodin. Yes, he could function. That wasn't the point. It was difficult enough facing them under the most mundane circumstances. If they saw him now his mother would think he was sick, his father would know he was on the road to alcoholism or heroin addiction.

The cab roared off. House barely noticed.

The chain-link was cool against his forehead. It felt good. In time, weariness would wrap itself around him, replacing the golden Vicodin shroud. Should he say 'screw it, forget about riding out the high, and limp home now? Three blocks away was the two story colonial he called home between the ages of fifteen to eighteen. This fact brought no sentimental rush, no inclination to get there as quick as his gimp leg could take him. For most of his life, hearth and home were foreign concepts. He spent his formative years living the life of a military brat, making friends on marine bases across the country and the world, only to have to say goodbye to them within a few short months. After a few years of this sort of thing, he got smart. He decided not to make friends. Simple. Books were better anyhow. Books were keepers. He could take them along everywhere, sneak them into church, boring parties he was forced to attend. Everywhere. Oh, his mother worried about him being on his own so much. She knew early on how he'd developed this love/hate relationship with life. Not a whole lot she could do about it. His father? Well, he didn't seem to notice. And now, ladies and gentlemen, Greg House has returned to Eldridge, Ohio. The words were like a bad mantra. Eldridge, Eldridge. But say them enough and they became meaningless, like a lot of things…

His thoughts were drifting but the question remained. Should he go home now, floating along, singing a song, and face the consequences? No. His original misgivings returned like unwanted houseguests. His parents wouldn't understand his course of pain management, even if he made an attempt to explain. In their day, if you were an addict you were put away for a good long time. There was no "rehab", only the cookie farm run by the men in the white coats. The fact that House earned his keep as a highly respected diagnostician would do nothing to convince John House of his son's ability to self medicate. A drunk was a drunk, a junkie a junkie, and a loser was a loser. His mother would hold his hand, drown him in tea and retire to her room to be alone and weep. Her sympathy and worry would be as debilitating as his father's ignorance.

House traced the intersecting chain links with his forefinger. It had been almost twelve years since he'd been home…

His father was a retired marine pilot, his mother Blythe, a military wife. But Blythe's great passion had always been music. At eighteen, she was told she possessed an extraordinary talent, a talent so rare it would be a crime to misuse it. She was offered a scholarship to New York's Julliard School of Music right out of high school. Under the tutelage of the Julliard professors she would hone her craft to perhaps become a celebrated concert pianist. She imagined traveling the world, meeting interesting people, dining with heads of state, living the good life.

But on a unusually cool July night, thirty six hours before she was to accept the offer, she met a young man…

And if God was really calling the shots, House thought, this was the cruelest twist of fate He had ever devised.