"I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom."
-Edgar Allan Poe
House walked into his small apartment, setting his cane on the kitchen door handle and limping towards the fridge. He reached in and grabbed a bottle of Speyside, twisting open the top and pouring the single-malt scotch into a dirty glass by the sink. He stopped for a moment and looked around. The place was a mess. Dirty dishes piled up, the trash bin was overflowing.
He pondered quietly, thinking about a time when he married an illegal immigrant just to have a full time house maid. He wondered where Dominika was, what she was doing. It was a pointless thought. Those days were over. He was getting old, the pain was getting worse. The puzzles were becoming scarce and he was alone. Of course, that never bothered him before, but the lack of puzzles, prostitutes and yes, even people, was leading to a mild grade depression.
House limped slowly, with glass in hand, into his living room. His old jazz organ that Wilson had bought him long ago was still in the corner. In the other was one half of his desk from the Dx Department at Princeton Plainsboro. He walked over to it and set his glass down. After taking a moment to go through his collection of CDs, he put in an old Buddy Guy album and sat behind the glass desk.
As Buddy Guy hollered in his bluesy yell over the speaker and played away on his polka dotted guitar, House reached beside him and picked up the old over-sized red and gray tennis ball that had accompanied him from case to case when he was head of diagnostics. He smiled, tossing it up and down, thinking about his prior cases as Princeton Plainsboro. He couldn't remember the names, or even what the patients looked like.
The puzzle was the only thing that mattered.
The case that looked so similar to smallpox and nearly cost him his life. The case with an underlying genetic condition that was overlooked because both patients were married. The man who held the hospital at gun point because he was so desperate to find a cure. The death row inmate. The six year old who had the same exact symptoms as Esther, a patient he had lost twelve years before the case who was one diagnosis away from being solved.
And, in some ways, the crew. His crew. The black car thief who wanted desperately not to become House himself. The overly moral one, who weighed every decision with right and wrong. The Australian playboy turned head diagnostician, and then turned prisoner for the murder of an African dictator years prior. The bite-sized jew who practiced office infidelity until the birth of his two children. The genius, all-too-honest intern. The prison infirmary nurse. The little Asian one.
And Thirteen.
Something about the past.
Something about a promise.
Pain.
Leg pain.
House clutched at the missing muscle in his leg as the sudden onset of pain shot through his body like electricity. His torso was in pain as well from the transplant operation, though the stitches had dissolved by now and it was nothing compared to his infarction. He set the ball down and drank the rest of the glass' contents, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a Bupremorphine strip. His hands were shaking. He opened the strip and pulled out the orange film, the substitute for his long endured friend the Oxycodone. He pondered for a moment how he could get his hands on the good stuff again, even if the Vicodin tore threw his newly placed liver. He felt temptation rise within him, the overwhelming urge to pull out his cellphone and check previous dealers he once contacted because of the pharmacy ban for all non-synthetic opiates that had been placed on his name.
He thought about the rush of euphoria, every Mu receptor being saturated with dopamine that would only come only from those little blue pills.
House pulled out his cell phone and threw it against the wall, watching it shatter into a dozen pieces. He forced himself to place the film under his tongue and forget about it. Not only did the Suboxone contain Bupremorphine which would counteract his withdrawals and somewhat block the pain, but the combined Naloxone would keep him from being able to feel any standard opiate for at least the next 24 hours.
He leaned back in his chair and tilted his head back, tasting the disgusting yet tolerable taste seep down his throat.
And then the panic began, thoughts racing through his head, the life of an addict.
House's eyes glanced up to the top of his bookshelf, where he kept a syringe filled with morphine when the pain became too much. It was conceived as an end of the road motive, used only for breakthrough pain, and had not been touched for over two years.
He had almost forgotten about it.
He had a little bit of time. He could take a last hit before the Naloxone reached his receptors and blocked any future use of pure opiate joy for the day.
Getting up slowly, still contemplating his motives but knowing full well that he would succumb to his ways, he took a deep breath and began limping towards the bookshelf.
Thoughts started passing like five o'clock traffic through his head, battling for a way of willpower to his actions.
Don't. See if the Bupe will do anything for the pain first. At least give the maintenance a try.
Doesn't matter. It won't take the edge off like the non synthetic will. You know this.
You're getting old, how long do you think you can keep doing this to yourself?
And you promised your bestfriend before he died.
You promised Wilson.
House stopped as he approached the bookshelf. With no puzzle, no human interaction, how could anyone expect him to go through this alone? It was torture. He shook his head in disgust with himself and grabbed the stepladder.
And then there was a knock at the door.
House hesitated for a moment. It could be the obnoxious landlord, a dictator of his building dwellers, coming like a loan shark for a shakedown with his vocal abuse of how long the rent has been over-due.
Couldn't be. His knock was more forceful than the one outside his apartment presently, and he also shouted through the woodwork because he knew House rarely opened the door for anyone.
"You've reached the life decoy of Gregory House. Go away."
He reached out and grabbed the handle of the stepladder, pulling it towards him.
Another knock, and then a voice on the other side. A female voice.
"House... please open up. Foreman sent me down to talk to you. We've got a case..."
House felt his teeth grind against each other, taking another look at the magical box that could take him out of his world of pain for at least a few hours. He felt an overwhelming urge to ignore his visitor, even though it was the first potential case and visiting associate he had in over a year.
He justified the decision in his mind. If the case wasn't interesting, he could rush her out and go for the morphine. He had plenty of time. Might as well check out the case.
His white knuckle grip released the step ladder handle, and House grabbed his cane and let out a sigh of frustration before unlocking the door.
Dr. Adams heard the chain unhinge from the opposite side, and then watched the door creak open about four inches. The sight of what she saw gave her a whispered gasp under her breath.
House was a mess. He was pale, his eyes still a yellow, glassy hue from the liver transplant. He smelt like he hadn't bathed in a week, and his beard had fully grown in. His hair was longer, though she could tell he was losing most of it. The worst part of all was the look in his eyes. Behind the bags of sleepless nights and physical pain, she saw loneliness. A loss of hope. A missing glow that was eternally lit when he was head of Diagnostics.
"House..."
House immediately read her reactions, and noticed the red patient folder hanging in her hand. His first reaction was to grab it without hesitation, but he suddenly felt intimidated. There was a fear that his diagnostics skills had gotten worse over time, or be ineffective because of the lack of pills.
Or maybe he was just looking for an excuse to lock himself in for the next few hours.
"I'm fine. Just started a new medication. Super model beauty is a common side effect."
He was out of breath. He looked as if he was clinging to his last bit of self-control, tired of wrestling with himself every thirty minutes to whether give in to the addict or live a life of pain.
She reached her hand in to press the door open more. House released his grip and allowed her to do so.
The place was a mess. Multiple glass bottles of scotch could be found lying everywhere. Empty pizza boxes and other trash sat on the piano. Papers, laundry and guitars were thrown carelessly around the apartment.
"When was the last time you had anyone over..." Her voice was quiet and subjective, eyes still searching the place to find any hint of drug use still going on, one of the main objectives that Foreman had given her before she left the hospital.
House nonchalantly closed the door behind her. He made one last glance at the morphine box before realizing it was almost too late. The medication had started taking effect in his body.
"Fortunately prostitutes don't weigh their self-serving values on whether or not you have a clean joint."
He limped over to the desk, taking a seat behind it and staring at her in his studious, contemplative way.
She was still beautiful. Her face had become less childlike, blossomed into an ambitious, though higher-standard-than-usual display that would easily intimidate the normal guy looking for a serious relationship. House spotted the tan line of a wedding band around her left ring finger.
"You were always the desperate one, going all out to find what you want. Wouldn't think you'd take up online dating though."
Dr. Adams looked surprised, turning her attention from the pigsty back to House. She saw he was clutching his leg.
"Did you hack into my account?"
House shook his head.
"No need. Your face tells all. And the tan line where your ring used to be."
She clutched her finger with her other hand, looking down.
"We were only married six months, he was-"
"Is he the patient?"
"No-"
House slammed his cane against the desk, interrupting her mid-sentence.
"Don't care."
Her expression went from deep and intuitive to annoyance. She glared at House for a moment, but the mere sight of his appearance brought about more sympathy than anger. She said nothing, and he obviously took it as it was still his turn to talk.
"What's going on with the patient?"
"He's a young guy, twenty-four, popular entertainer from New-"
House slammed his cane against the desk, loud enough to make Adams jump back a bit.
"Symptoms!"
Dr. Adams was done tip toeing. She reached out and grabbed the end of the cane with both hands, the red patient folder dropping from her hand and hitting the floor. They both wrestled over it for a bit, but having the handle gave Adams the advantage. She pried it from his grip, tossing it to the side and slamming both hands on top of the desk. She hunched over and glared at House directly in his eyes, his immature ways of communication failing to impress her.
"Foreman and I are the last of your Dx team that still give half a damn about you! You'd think with him saving your life and risking his career to get you on the transplant list you would at least try to not be such an over obnoxious ass! Just because you are in pain does NOT give you the right to speak to me like your intern!"
They stared at each other for a moment. For the first time since she stepped in the room, House was really listening to her. She took a deep breath.
"I'm not the same kid you picked up while dropping the soap in prison, although I am grateful that you did. I wouldn't be head of Dx now if you didn't. But I refuse to kiss your ass anymore."
House stared back at her for a moment, studying her emotional display as if he had planned it all along. He slowly stood up, limping to the front of the desk and bending down to retrieve the file. She turned and picked up his cane, clutching it in her hand as House skimmed through the patient folder.
At seeing the name his head snapped up from reading, glaring at her with piercing, blue eyes.
"Why didn't you just say it was Linus Hightower? This guy's New Jersey's top rated psychic; he makes telepathy and talking to dead people actually kind of cool. Or maybe it's just the hippy hair and leather pants. You would have won me over by just saying his name."
She glared back, not saying a word. House mocked her once more in a Mr. Miyagi dialect before continuing through the file.
"You still much have to learn, young grasshopper."
Adams was surprised how much she had forgotten what working with House was like, but beneath his cold, immature exterior she could see the brain was calculating differentials. She crossed her arms and smiled. House began the differential process.
"Says our mind reader suffered paralysis and severe pain in his right leg during a show in Trenton. Did it happen while he was instant messaging the dead?"
"No. He was backstage preparing for a pre-concert special but never made it to the stage. We searched the area for environmental toxins on the day he was admitted... and before you ask, his tox screens were negative. He was addicted to cocaine but gave it up four years ago. Apparently his girlfriend inspired him to clean up and pursue his gifts more seriously."
"That's how it always starts. Then you find yourself crashing your vehicle through their dining room."
House continued looking at the file, but it was evident from the blank look in his eyes he was already analyzing a theory and playing it over in his head.
"Tox screen was negative for the standard 18 panel test. Does the mind reading mutant pop anything at all?"
"He says the only thing he takes are B12 Vitamins and caffeine pills, but we ruled out vitamin deficiency. What about disk herniation?"
"That'd make sense... except the pain would be somewhere else, not just his leg. Don't be an idiot. If you didn't think I'm capable you wouldn't have come."
She couldn't help but to smile a bit. Disk herniation was a dud, a simple Dx test just to see if House was still on his game.
"Could be a blood clot."
"Angio was totally clean, his bloodwork-"
"Was the patient in pain?"
She stopped for a moment, considering what idea he may be thinking of.
"Yes... he graded it at 7 this morning..."
"Muscle biopsy?"
Dr. Adams had begun pacing the room. House grabbed his trusted red and grey tennis ball with his free hand, bouncing it off the glass desk in front of him while glancing down at the file.
"It was clean. No neurogenic or myopathic abnormalities. Also negative for trichinosis, no toxoplasmosis or polyarteritis nodosa."
"Sedimentation rate?"
"Normal, no inflammation, no immunologic response."
House smirked, catching the ball in his hand and looking up at Adams.
"You say normal, I say, well... whats a good euphemism for abnormal?"
"I don't understand, his sed rate was 15... How is that not-"
He walked closer to her, handing her the file and grabbing his cane from her.
"15 is normal for us. This guy's not normal. He's got mental instability, a haircut from the seventies and a fan base full of middle aged single moms who still play with ouija boards. He's practically a non-paraplegic Charles Xavier who looks and lives like a rock star. Which is good, because I'm sure it's hard to convince women to sleep with you when your in a wheel chair."
Adams looked confused. House sighed in frustration.
"Seriously? Professor Xavier? From the X-Men? They make at least ten comic book movies a year, how could you not know this information?"
Adams was trying to decide whether she should take House serious. The idea was a ridiculous one.
"So because he claims to be a psychic, his body is different from any other human being?"
"He's an idiot con-artist who researches people and lies about it for a living. But his standard temperature is 96.2, not the standard 98.6 like us. Apply the same logic to sed rate."
"So if 15 is high for the patient, then the cause is inflammation..."
House opened the door, gesturing to Adams that Dx was over.
"Go with cancer. Tell Foreman to throw me a welcome back party. Lots of midgets, porn and booze. Not to be confused with midget-porn and booze. And tell our sick psychic to say hi to Wilson for me. I'll come by in an hour."
She smiled. Going through differentials with House again brought a feeling of nostalgia. She remembered her days working for him, immediately running out to do a test, tox screen, or break-in. She stopped before crossing the threshold, turning back to him.
"How did you know about the online dating?"
House turned back to her, cane in hand. For a moment, she saw him as his old self. Mangled, miserable, but calculatingly precise.
"You've been divorced for two months and turning 40 soon. Of course you've got an online dating profile."
Dr. Adams merely smiled. There was a glow about her that made House a little nostalgic, too. He missed her company. And he was impressed, not with how far she had come up the corporate ladder, but how she had already ruled out many of the differentials.
"Foreman wants to see you. When you get to Princeton be sure to stop by his office."
He nodded in response and watched his former protégé leave the apartment, the door closing behind her and leaving him alone once more.
House turned back to his book shelf and glanced up at the wooden box. The voices were gone.
At 3:26pm on a Tuesday, two homosapien feet crossed the threshold of Princeton Plainsboro. They were clad in black and yellow Nike Shox, and a solid dark red wooden cane beside them. House twirled the cane in his hand and banged the handle against the dark marble floor three times.
The many nurses, security guards and doctors stopped for a brief moment in the lobby. Everyone turned to see who was at the front door.
"Hunny, I'm home!"
A few people stopped momentarily and stared in his direction, specifically one middle aged nurse who wasn't sure if he was speaking to her or someone else. House seized the moment to make an impression on her life.
"It was a figure of speech. Actually a quote. Either way I wasn't talking to you. I'm already in a committed relationship with my boo Dr. Foreman."
She shook her head and walked off, taking a cue from everyone else and ignoring his rude demeanor.
House glanced around the lobby. The Dean's Office had been moved, replaced with a bigger in-house pharmacy filled with medications. He felt a rising urge to somehow con his way into getting those beautiful, 30mg Roxicodones that had plummeted his addiction into overdrive. He decided against it, and instead made his way to the Guest Area, where two receptionists and a security guard were posted. He recognized the African American woman, someone who worked in management who had been there quite a while. The other two were unknowns, which wasn't surprising to House. It had been over a year since he had stepped into Princeton Plainsboro, after all.
The guard was wasting his hours away lazily sitting in the back corner of the round desk, watching the cameras and drinking his coffee. The two receptionists appeared busy; one perky, nervous looking blonde woman, who was filling out paperwork, and the older and obviously more experienced black brunette to the opposite side, chatting away on the hospital phone line.
The blonde nearly jumped from her seat at the sight of House, her smile so bright he could almost see the whiteness of her teeth sparkling. She had a face of an elementary school teacher and breasts of a good stripper, a combination that would be a shame to waste behind a reception desk, so House thought to himself.
"Hello, sir! Welcome to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital! My name is Erica, how can I help you today?"
This performance was almost too much to handle. Her ponytail and breasts bounced as she spoke, almost if they were perfectly synchronized in union with each other. Her eyes, though soulless as they were, had a strange glow to them that boldly read out anti-depressants. Her entire spunky demeanor was enough to make House take a deep breath before speaking, almost as if he was unsure whether to ruin this poor girl's day or not. Almost.
"Hi", he said, in an overly nice tone, all peachy with smiles.
"I'm a special guest musician here, I'm supposed to report to the dying children on the cancer ward and sing my cover of Highway to Hell."
The bright smile of the receptionist faded a bit, and she paused. House tilted his head to the side, unsure as to if she was trying to determine whether this was a real stunt, or what floor she should send him to. The security officer behind her was stifling a laugh. This was odd, as most people were not very appreciative of House's witty humor.
"If you're a musician, then where is your instrument?"
House's eyebrow rose curiously to this response. He couldn't help it. He was on the brink of laughter.
"Well you see I got this bum leg, so I brought my groupie elves to help set up. They're all from a hot female elf world, where boobs your size are natural, and not just implanted with silicone to compensate for lack of brain size. If you'd like I can-"
The other receptionist came to the rescue. She hung up her phone and put a reassuring hand on the blonde's shoulder, ushering her to step aside. She had no problem doing this, as her bright, gleaming smile had faded into a confused, misunderstood frown.
"You must be Dr. House. Dr. Foreman told me you would be coming. You can follow me."
House nodded, still grinning at the blonde, and followed the receptionist as she worked her way past the desk opening on the side. She handed him a Visitor's Pass, obviously premade before his arrival. He followed her to the elevator, but not before turning to the security guard and making one last remark.
"Tell the other village people I said hello."
The elevator doors opened and both of them walked in. The receptionist pressed the 9th floor button and the elevator started to climb.
"The application requirements have been extensively lowered. I guess the amount of dumb blonde milfs were low this year?"
She again said nothing, instead going through a file of paperwork that she had brought with her. Probably nothing but a rouse intended to help ignore House's witty dialogue.
Once they reached their destination, the receptionist waited until House walked out the elevator before giving him instructions. With her head still down engaged in her 'paperwork', she told him where to find the Dean's Office.
"Take a left to the Administration Ward from here, Dr. Foreman's Office will be on your right."
House simply nodded, limping with cane in hand towards the direction she suggested.
Princeton Plainsboro had changed dynamically. The walls were no longer the terracotta colors that were once there. The teaching hospital had adapted a much simpler appearance, with inauthentic black marble floor and cream colored walls, something that reminded House more of a corporate facility. More staff members filled the hallways than House ever remembered, and the many glass panel rooms had been exchanged for something more private, more akin to lambent textured stone that collided well with the rest of the dark, boring colors.
Foreman was definitely the boss, and it definitely showed.
House walked through the Administration Ward, finding strange stares from lawyers in black suits and Head of Department doctors who either recognized him or wondered what his purpose was. He stopped for a brief moment at the doorway entitled "Dr. Foreman / Dean of Medicine" and smiled at the secretary watching him from inside.
He walked through the secretary's office, a young girl who stood up from her seat and watched him with disapproval.
"Excuse me sir, whats your name? Do you have an appointment with Dr.-"
"I'm his probation officer."
"But Dr. Foreman is the Dean of Medicine."
"He's also black. Don't know if you noticed."
The woman immediately picked up the phone to call security. House wasted no time in throwing open the door and inviting himself in.
Foreman stood from his desk, which was large enough to match his ego. He smiled at seeing his old mentor.
House widened his eyes and heightened his voice like a frightened child.
"I see dead people!"
The young girl was at the doorway by now, phone in hand, watching her boss for a confirmation. House turned his head to face her.
"That was an inside joke, because I'm treating a dying psychic. Although, ironically, a black Dean of Medicine with his own private prostitute is equally unbelievable. Are you into crippled white guys too, or do you follow the 'black in the back only' guideline?"
She stared at House with a puzzled look and replied defensively.
"I'm not a prostitute. I'm a secretary. I'v worked in hospital administration since-"
"Yeah yeah yeah. And I'm Evil Kenevil. That's why I got this awesome cane."
House winked at her suggestively. She didn't know whether she was offended or confused.
Dr. Foreman waved his hand in her direction, a gesture to show her everything was fine. House took a seat, glancing around the office that still had signs of recent modifications.
The secretary closed the door slowly behind them, still watching the strange man who so abruptly invited himself in.
"Still rocking the goatee and super dome. It does a good job establishing your ghetto attitude to the world."
Foreman smirked. He expected nothing different from the old Diagnostician. He joked back, straightening his tie as he sat across from House.
"Gotta stay one step ahead of the white man, you know that."
House and Foreman exchanged an equally pleasant stare for a moment. Both of them were glad to see each other. House always knew if Cuddy were to be replaced it would be Eric Foreman, even if it was so many years ago.
"It's good to see one of the original members of the Breakfast Club again."
Foreman nodded in response. He knew House owed him for risking his career. He had used another alias for the old doctor in order to get him a liver, otherwise the committee would have shot down the request because of House's many years of drug use. It was only a month and a half ago, but Foreman hoped to see signs of improvement in House. He knew recovery time would be at least a month after transplant, and he desperately searched for clues to if House was still using drugs.
"How's your leg?"
"You mean how's my addiction. It's fine. I've recently been prescribed Suboxone. Hopefully it will dull the pain just enough to deal with you and your big breasted lackeys."
Foreman quirked an eyebrow and simply nodded in response.
"You're going to be okay House. You still have people that care about you."
As much as he wasn't used to it, House needed to hear that. He missed the shared company of others, even if it was just to ridicule them. He chose not to respond. He hated talking about himself right now, as it only manifested sympathy and worry in those he still had somewhat of an actual relationship with.
"I know you didn't call me in to talk about the patient. Dr. Adams seems like she's doing just fine on her own."
Foreman stood from his desk, and turned to the window behind him. House figured he was hiding his emotions, that whatever was involved with this charade was close to his heart. House narrowed his eyes while he studied his behavior.
"It's true that the patient needs you right now. Adams is good, but most of her team has moved on to new Diagnostic opportunities in other hospitals. The two doctors she has are pretty good with differentials, but we need more results. I want to bring you on as a consultant, there's a lot going on right now and we could use your help."
His voice had begun to shake. The usual high-blood pressured Foreman had departed, and right now all House could see was concern. It was something more than the typical worry that followed House in all his relationships. He had already asked about the drugs, about the pain. This was something else entirely.
"Foreman... Why did you call me here? What's going on?"
The Dean of Medicine turned his head back towards House. His eyes were glossy, his entire countenance shaken.
"It's Remy. She's missing."
