Wilson stood at the counter in the cafeteria. "One Reuben and a salad please," he said, smiling at the cafeteria worker. He'd decided to bring House some food. He assumed his friend wasn't eating because of nausea, but he was going to make him eat, just like he used to when they were living together in the months after the infarction. It was his job, his penance for suggesting the doctors take his thigh muscle in the first place. He felt guilt for that every day.
Another thing he felt guilt for was his overprescribing. House was his friend, and he could be extremely persuasive, but he should never have let that cloud his judgement as a physician. He probably should have never even been House's prescribing physician, but that was another story. House would have driven off anyone else who tried to care for him. He drove off Wilson enough as it was.
(LINE BREAK)
Meanwhile, in apartment 22B, House was getting worse. His breath hitched with every inhale, and he was curled up holding his leg. He hadn't been able to get off the floor since he'd tried to get to the bathroom. When he'd tried, he'd had to lower himself to the floor again. He was crying too, something he hated to do. At least no one was here to see it.
Suddenly, despite the constant massaging, his leg went into spasm. He screamed, holding his leg. He just had to ride it out. Just a few minutes...he kept screaming. It was the only thing that seemed to help; that and squeezing his leg as hard as he could. Finally, the spasm stopped and he leaned his cheek against the cool wall. He was crying and he couldn't stop. This had to stop or he might have to kill himself. He racked his brain for something, anything he could do. Suddenly, he had an idea.
He dragged himself to the kitchen to retrieve his crutches. Then, he used those to drag himself to the closet. He dug in it for a moment, then found what he was looking for. A hammer. Its gleaming metal surface looked like relief. He carried it to the kitchen table with some difficult and positioned the head above his hand. He was just about to smash down when he heard the door unlock. Still poised over his hand, he turned to the door. Wilson. Of course. Who else has his house key?
"Look away," he ordered Wilson.
"What?" Wilson barely had time to say it before House smashed the hammer hard down on his hand.
(LINE BREAK)
He yelped. It was better than the searing pain in his leg, though. He felt endorphins rush through him as he put down the hammer and slumped back in his chair.
Wilson sprung into action, dropping the food and rushed to House's side.
"House?! Why did you just do that?! Are you OK?!" he panicked. House didn't answer. He was still entrenched in the high breaking his hand had given him.
"Did you do that...to get Vicodin?" Wilson asked, examining the hand. House winced.
"Not everything is about drugs, Jimmy," House said. The pain in his leg was down to a dull throb. It still hurt, and he knew it would hurt later, but the respite would give him time to think. If Wilson would get out of his face.
"Then what was it about? People don't just smash their hands with hammers for fun!"
"Pain. What everything's about. What it's been about for eight years."
"How does smashing your hand help? Isn't that just more pain?"
"Endorphins."
"What?"
"The endorphins. Acute pain injects endorphins into the system, which overrides the pain."
Wilson sighed in frustration. Leave it to House to smash his hand in order to make his leg stop hurting. "It was that bad?"
"Yes."
"You're...insane. I'm taking you to ortho."
"No!" House protested. "Leave it."
"I'm not going to leave your hand broken. Come on."
"I said no. You're not my mom. You don't get to boss me around."
"Yes. But I can tell Cuddy. And she'll have you committed. You know she'll do it."
House sighed. "Fine. But you're fixing it. Don't want records."
It was Wilson's turn to sigh. "Fine."
(LINE BREAK)
He took House to his office and looked at his hand again. "I'm gonna need to set this."
House nodded, not minding another endorphin rush as the pain in his leg was coming back.
"Do you want Advil or something?" Wilson asked. House shook his head.
Wilson shrugged. "Okay. 1...2...3.." he set the bones, and House yelped in pain again.
"Sorry," Wilson apologized. He wrapped the hand in a brace. House held it to his chest as if to protect it.
"Does your leg still hurt?" Wilson asked
"Always," House answered.
"You know what I mean, House."
House sighed. "Yes."
"Can I do anything? Would you want to heat it? Or take a hot bath."
"I can do that stuff myself, just drive me home."
Wilson nodded and helped him to the car. He was thankful House had had the forethought not to break his cane hand.
