6.
House staggered into his apartment, immediately making his way over to the liquor cabinet to pour a triple shot of bourbon into a clouded water glass. He downed the amber liquid in one gulp, clapping the glass back onto the table and immediately pouring another.
There was something oddly satisfying in the way the alcohol burned its way down his throat. It echoed the way his unshed tears burned his eyes and how his aching heart smoldered within his chest.
He'd done it this time. He'd really lost her, lost her forever.
He'd pushed her too hard and too far, made her face her true self, her own narcissism, lies and manipulative needs. Cuddy mirrored and then rejected in House the very things she could not accept in herself. Her refusal to face the defects in her own character blinded her to House's authentic self and to how deeply in love with her he truly was.
House filled yet another glass. Was this number three or four? He'd already lost count, not that it really mattered. What had mattered to him was gone, the woman he loved, the hope his love for her had instilled in him and now, because he had given her only an all or nothing alternative, most likely his job at PPTH.
In the space of an evening, House had irrevocably lost everything that he held dear. More importantly, he'd forsaken what he believed for some time to be his last, best chance for happiness and the vision of love that would redeem him from the unrelenting misery his life had become.
He'd listened to his shrink's advice, he'd made connections, he'd trusted others. And now, because of the trust he had extended, he had been devastatingly betrayed and was left utterly alone.
House turned and limped over to the couch taking the bottle and his once more empty glass with him. He set about infusing a nearly continuous stream of bourbon into his system, not allowing any stray thoughts to prevent him from running full tilt toward oblivion or disaster, whichever came first.
In a short space of time, House had emptied the bottle. Undaunted, he grabbed his keys and somehow successfully navigated his car the few blocks' drive to a local dive bar.
The dark interior of the saloon perfectly matched the gloom that shrouded his heart. House was not overly disappointed when the bartender, correctly assessing his already drunken state, refused to serve him a drink. Tossing back a nightcap on top of the bottle of bourbon he'd already consumed was not the reason House had ventured forth into society.
He found what he'd actually been looking for in the far corner of the bar; a solitary occupant at a small table pounding down drinks almost as zealously as House had been earlier. House hobbled drunkenly over to the table and sat down.
The man seated across from him was built like a fireplug, short and stocky with large hands and an evident chip adorning his broad, ape-like shoulders if his two-fisted drinking habits were an indication of anything.
House knew that the disparity in their height alone might well be enough to rile the smaller man to violence. However, he felt that a few, well-chosen words, casting aspersions on the man's parentage and particularly, his mother, would seal the deal.
Once again, his keen powers of observation did not let him down. House didn't have to wait long at all for the man's reaction. The first soubriquet was barely past his lips when the smaller man leapt to his feet, overturning the table as he did so, and flung himself upon House, punching every inch of him his fists could make contact with.
The increasing darkness as House slipped into unconsciousness felt familiar and soothing. The man's hammering fists served as his justifiable punishment for ever allowing himself to hope, to dare to dream that he could be loved. How someone so unworthy as Gregory House could ever warrant even a modicum of happiness was so obviously foreign and outrageous that the very idea was simply laughable.
In fact, House would have laughed at the thought himself if he hadn't been spitting out his own blood at the time.
After another immeasurable amount of time, House woke up to the feeling of being wet and having his shoulder shaken. Someone had apparently taken it upon himself to pull the angry fireplug off him. Someone else had ushered him back to consciousness with a good splash of cold water in the face. Judging by the dampness of his clothes, the second someone had liberally used a few gallons of water.
Several hands helped House to stand up. His mission to have his self-imposed sentence accomplished, House decided to just go home. But when he finally stood upright, he could not find his keys in any of his pockets. The bartender jangled the keys just out of his reach and informed him that he'd already called for a cab. House was too tired at that point to argue and accepted the ride without complaint.
When the cab pulled up in front of his building 20 minutes later, he threw the driver the fare along with a substantial tip and slowly, painfully made his way into his apartment.
He made a beeline for his bathroom to assess and approve the physical damages to himself and to grab a shower. The hot water felt good on his bruised and battered face and limbs.
House toweled off and then limped naked down the hallway to his bedroom where he pulled on a fresh t-shirt and his pajama bottoms.
He looked forlornly at his empty bed as the ghosts of sex-with-Cuddy-past plagued his soul. Since the breakup he'd slept on her side of the bed and clutched a pillow covered in a linen case that he had refused to wash because it still held the smell of her perfume and shampoo.
House couldn't face sleeping alone in that huge bed after her final rejection tonight, not tonight.
He grabbed a blanket and the Cuddy-pillow from the bed and limped back to the living room where he ensconced himself on his couch. He began to feel drowsy while holding the television remote in one hand and massaging his over-taxed, throbbing right thigh with the other.
House had no idea how long he'd been asleep or even if he had been able to drift off at all when a sudden noise roused him.
Just as he was shaking his tender head to clear it, the noise came again and House catapulted himself off the couch.
For he had finally identified the sound.
Someone was knocking, no pounding, on his front door. He could say without a doubt that whoever it was, it was definitely not Wilson.
His heart fairly soared with the realization that, though firm, the knocking could only be created from a feminine hand.
He hurried as fast as his crippled leg and injured body would allow and without even looking, flung wide the door.