"Maybe there's a reason and could there be a plan

Or are we all just fools to think we'll understand," John Mellencamp

Warnings ECT: I would recommend reading my stories Casablanca and Too Much Rain, just because there is information in there that is mentioned in this story. Also forgive me for what I am about to do, but this story has a mind of its own and seems to be going in a direction I didn't want to take it in even without my approval. It is not I who controls the story but the story that is in control of me.

House says everything is cause and effect. It's easier for him that way, simplifying everything so he can rationalize it to death, until he can control everything. With him it's always about control, manipulation, power. Unfortunately, it's not that simple. Nothing is that simple. People are complicated.

"I was in pain and I didn't want people to know. I didn't want you to know. I wrote the script so you wouldn't know."

"You wrote more than one, over more than a year. If it was just from when the Ketamine treatment wore off I wouldn't even care. This—I can't—why?" My heart is racing at a hundred miles an hour and my mind is even faster. I don't know what to think, or feel, let alone what I should say to him. There isn't some big reason for House being like this. He is just who he has always been. "You know that I will always," he cuts me off.

"Except when you won't. Besides, do you tell me about everything that happens to you? Don't answer that. This isn't about me forging your signature on prescription slips."

"It's not?" I try and act surprised but House knows me so well. He always knows what I'm thinking, sometimes even before I think it. I must be transparent right about now.

"You're here because I had—a lot of Vicodin stashed around here, and you think you need to be worried."

"A lot? Fifty is a lot. A hundred is a lot. You had—what it had to be close to a thousand. That's—that's. . ."

"But you're not mad about that. Not really. You're worried about me, aren't you Jimmy? Well don't be. I'm fine."

"No you're not. You're not even—there are only two reasons that anyone would need that many pills."

"I'm not selling them. I just need the pills around in case—for when you get like this and won't speak to me for a few weeks, won't fill out prescriptions."

"Why—how—I can't believe you think I would buy that. Even if you really did need to keep extra pills around, you don't need that many. Unless you plan on taking them."

"Of course I plan on taking them," he shouts, kicking the table away with his good leg. "I'm in pain!"

"You know that that's not what I meant. Stop dancing around it. What. Are. You. Planning?" House pulls himself up, grabbing the cane, and stumbles into the kitchen. I can hear him rooting around in the fridge, probably looking for beer. "Please, talk to me," I beg, walking to his side and putting my hand on his shoulder. He closes the fridge and leans back against me.

"Do we have to do this right now? It's been a long day and I'm completely out of beer."

"Knowing you there's more booze in this place somewhere. Sit down, I'll get it."

"I spent all of last night in a prison cell, all afternoon with a lawyer and it looks like you're going to be here for a while. Don't bother with the "good cop" routine, I'm not confessing to anything," he says but sits at the table all the same. I pour us each a glass from the bottle of vodka I find in the freezer and bring them over and sit next to him.

House grabs the glass and downs half of it in one sip, with a wince. I put my hand on his, squeezing it softly. He shoots me a look but then lowers his head. "I'm tired make it fast."

"You were like this before—you just hid it better."

"But you knew? Knock it off; I don't want to talk about this. Please," he begs.

"Remember what you said before about not having anyone? Well you're not the only one."

"Save the sob story for your next girlfriend. You can't trick me into opening up."

"It's not a trick. You and I—we don't have much—basically just each other. But you know all my secrets. You know everything about me, but I feel like there's something. You're hiding something from me and I just wish you trust me enough to tell me."

"It's not what you think," he explains, as he finishes his drink.

"What do I think?" I ask wondering if maybe there actually is a cause for all of House's behavior. Maybe there really is something in his past, something that made him like this.

"You think—if I tell you about—if I tell you something. You think you can save me from myself with the truth. You think it will answer all of your questions. All of this, of course, is assuming that there is a deep dark secret."

I've met his parents, House's dad might not love him but he didn't abuse him, he's not the type. Neither is his mom. But they moved around a lot and there were plenty of people around him when he was a kid, if there really is something he hasn't told me.

"You're the one who's always telling me about cause and effect. What's your cause?" I'm begging, reaching out to him, desperate for an answer, mostly because I don't think I can watch him do this to himself much longer. I love him, but God…

"I don't have one," he says quickly and then looks away, reaching blindly for my glass. "Are you gonna drink this? It wouldn't have mattered if I said yes. House just takes it, and chugs the whole thing. "Whoa." Then there's a long silence, before he stands up and limps to his bedroom. He doesn't ask me to join him, and when I get there he's all but passed out, still dressed, and sprawled across the bed.

"You can't sleep like that. At the least take off your shoes," I explain, doing it for him. I pull the shoes from his feet, without even a complaint or a moan. When I reach for his pants, however, it's a different story.

"Don't," he orders, sitting up and pushing me off of him. The blow catches me by surprise more than anything and lands me flat on my ass. "Jimmy? Are you okay?" he asks quickly. I don't think House knew it was me.

"You hit me."

"No. I wouldn't do that. I hit--," he stops catching himself. "Where are my pills?"

"You left them in the living room. Don't get up. I'll get them." He reaches out for me, one hand weak and limp with all the fingers stretched out. "I'll be right back." Then I realize he's not afraid because he thinks I'll leave. "There's nobody else here. I promise."

"Don't be stupid. Of course there isn't anybody here. I'm just tired. I was confused."

"You thought I was somebody else?" He won't even look at me now. He won't say anything either. I touched a nerve and he isn't going to tell me anything else tonight. "I'm going to sleep in the chair over there. Okay?" House just closes his eyes and grits his teeth. When I come back wit the pills he's changed into pajamas. After he chews a couple Vicodin he lays back and falls asleep.

I stay up all night, watching him, thinking, worrying, loving him. In the morning his eyes open slowly like the fluttering wings of a butterfly. He pulls his mouth open next, tongue clicking softly. His hand reaches up to wipe his eyes.

"I never said it was okay for you to stay," he says in a harsh whisper.

"It's late. We should get moving."

"It's Saturday," he tells me, yawing and closing his eyes again. All I can think is thank God. Thank god because I don't want to worry about him working today, I don't want to think about what might happen if he leaves the apartment like this.

"This isn't the first time," I remind him, not being nearly gentle enough, but I'm frustrated and I want an answer.

"If you only knew half of the things I've done, you'd realize forging your signature is nothing."

"You know that's not what I mean.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Yeah, actually I do. I've been up all night, so I know exactly what time it is. I found you last time, and you promised me you wouldn't do it again."

"Oh," he says quietly, "that." And then neither of us says anything for a few minutes. "I wasn't trying to kill myself."

"Yeah well the guy who pumped your stomach at the emergency room might have had something different to say about it."

"I took ten pills. At my weight it would take more than twice that many to make my heart stop for good."

"Do you know what ten would have done?"

"Exactly what I wanted them to do. Now stop."

"I'm afraid for you. I'm worried."

"Well then, by all means go ahead, push me right on over the edge, if it will calm your fears and quiet your worry."

"I just need to know whether or not I can leave you to go to work on Monday and not have to worry about what I'm gonna have to come back to."

"Seeing as the cops took all of my pills except for these I'd say you've got nothing to worry about. And that would be only if I was planning to kill myself, which I'm not."

"But you are keeping something from me. Something important."

"Jimmy don't," he says looking straight at me, and there's something in his eyes that I don't recognize fear, maybe desperation. But I do, because I love him and I've convinced myself that it's better to know the truth. Because it's killing me to see him like this. I get up from the chair and walk over, standing next to the bed. "What are you doing?" His voice is quick, panicked, uncalculated, scared.

I see what happens next as if I am standing beside myself, as if it's not me who does these things band the James Wilson I se is being cruel, hurtful and for no good reason. He takes his hands and presses them flatly against Gregory House's chest, straddling his waist, knees on either side of him, holding him down on the bed.

House is face looks angry, teeth clenched, eyes narrowed but he does nothing to stop his so-called friend and then the tears start rolling down his cheeks as he tries to turn his face away. "Please" he begs, "please," and suddenly, I'm back inside of myself and I see what I'm doing, what I'm about to do. He sees the change in me too and uses it to his advantage, to save himself.

"House brings his knees up between my legs and grabs his cane, limping off as I fall onto the bed, clutching my injured parts. The pain is excruciating but I'm trying as hard as I can not to care about that. I hear him in the kitchen, slamming cabinets, glasses clicking, and his voice cursing. When I can stand, I walk to the kitchen unable to even look him in the eyes.

"I'm sorry," I mutter knowing it won't help. He holds up a full glass of something and takes more pills. He too, is unable to face me. "I don't know what happened back there. It was like I wasn't my self. It was like I was outside of my body and I could only watch as he—would you get mad at me please? Call me an idiot or tell me that I was myself and I can't just excuse my behavior like that. Just say something. Please. Anything."