Chapter 7

House knew more than most patients what to expect over the next days. He knew the pharmacology and physiology of drug withdrawal, how the effects of the drug reverse in the extreme. He had also been there before, through the nausea, the chills, sweating and fever; the excruciating pain that made him regret not having had the right leg amputated all those years ago, if only for a moment. He knew the symptoms, the order and the duration. He pondered whether that was a bad or good thing, as he sat up, his hand still holding Cuddy's, waiting.

He also knew that anything they were likely to give him would be usesless. Buprenorphine was useless, he'd be better off without it anyway. And with the hallucinations…Yeah better off without it. Clonidine, maybe. But Croft wanted to see how far he could go cold turkey. House had done that before, and Croft knew it. Maybe this time…

House looked into Cuddy's face and saw concern: her eyes were red, and mascara ran down her face in wet streaks, mingled with her tears.

"Hi," she said finally.

"So are you here—here; or are you a figment of my unreliable imagination?"

"Glad to see you, too." Cuddy was a bit taken aback at the bite in House's tone.

"I suppose it doesn't matter whether my brain has somehow conjured you out of memories and wishful thinking—or you're really here. On the other hand, if I was talking to someone not here, Pauline over there would likely ring for my friendly neighborhood shrink and Max with his ready syringe of Haldol. So, Pauline, is she real or is she Memorex?"

"Dr. Cuddy, you must be doing some good. Dr. House has decided to speak. Welcome back, Dr. House. She's here."

"On the other hand, who's to say if even Pauline is real. I…" the bitterness in House's voice gave way to defeat. "I just don't know anymore."

"Hey. I'm real. I'm here. Just as you asked Croft." Cuddy's gaze bore into House's eyes. He looked away.

"Point is…I really don't know, do I? You were pretty damn real the other night too. The whole thing was—the detox, the… You didn't audit an endocrinology class I took back at Michigan, did you?"

"How the hell did you remember that? And why would you? And what does that have to do with…? I think I mentioned it once. Like 27 years ago."

"Doesn't matter. I just…" The first wave of nausea hit sudden and hard. Pauline saw it coming first; she grabbed the emesis bowl, thrusting it into House's hands just in time. House gasped, retching into the bowl, as a cold sweat broke out and he began to shiver uncontrollably. Cuddy rubbed his back, trying to relax him through the violence of the episode.

Croft appeared at House's bedside. "Dr. House?" House turned, glaring . "I don't have to tell you that this will get worse…"

"Yeah. Been there, done that. So, yeah. I know."

"You have to let me know if you have any sort of visual or auditory, even touch sensation that you don't think is real. Or is strange or unexpected. With your uncertain mental status complicating the drug issues – or maybe caused by them, your delusions and hallucinations could be magnified. So. Anything."

"Like Cuddy being here?"

"She is here. And real. She's going to stay with you awhile. But if you experience anything you question as real let me know. Or Pauline. You'll probably feel anxious. And restless. If you want to walk it off a bit, feel free to stroll the halls if you feel up to it. But take Dr. Cuddy with you."

The hours passed and his symptoms worsened more retching, chills, muscle spasms that made his normal pain level seem like good times. There were times he was barely aware of anyone's presence. Pauline and Cuddy pushed fluids, threatening to hook him to a saline IV if he didn't drink and have something light to eat.

"Can we get some extra blankets?" House heard Cuddy say at some point when his shivering became so bad, she thought he might be having a seizure. Her voice seemed to come from somewhere distant, wrapped in gauze. She wrapped the extra blankets around his shoulders. Cuddy's knuckles brushed his neck as she tucked the blanket around and he flinched in agony at the simple touch of her hand.

"Thank you," he gasped, trying to find his breath—and his voice. "I need something…," he pleaded.
"I can't…I can't…" In a sudden burst of energy that came from nowhere, House swept the blankets aside, and nearly knocking over Cuddy, he got out of bed. "I need to wa…"Taking two unstable steps towards the window, House collapsed to the floor, his leg giving out from under him as his blood pressure plummeted.

Pauline and Cuddy both saw it coming, but were unable to reach him before he fell. Max was there an instant later, ready to help. House held up a hand, not ready to move from his new place on the cool linoleum floor. Resting his back against the wall, he drew his legs up , his head against his knees. Another wave of nausea, a new emesis bowl, and finally House began to come back to himself. "I think I'll rest here awhile," he declared, his breathing rapid and shallow.

"Well this is fun, isn't it? Sitting on the floor, puking your brains out. Sure must be impressing Cuddy big time! Why'd you ask her to come anyway? Can't do this on your own?" Amber's voice, no longer the distant and seductive purr it had become, but a playground sneer, relentless and taunting. "I give you two hours, tops, before you're screaming for buprenorphine, and you don't even think it works. That's how pathetic you are. Why don't you just put an end to it now, hmmm? All you have to do is get rid of them, right? You're creative, you'll find something. And that will be that. You'll…"

"Shut up. Just shut up!" House shouted, his hands over his ears. "Just shut the fuck up and leave me alone!" House's eyes were panicky, wide as saucers as he yelled at no one and everyone.

"Well if you're going to be that way about it…" Amber said in a huff. And she was gone.

"House?" Cuddy crouched in front of him, taking her hands in his; he was trembling. "Hey! Come back!" He blinked, noticing her finally. "Who were you talking to?"

"Does it matter?" he grumbled, trying to struggle back to his feet. "Someone who is clearly not here. Enjoying the freak show?" he sighed, hating every moment of her attention; feeling exposed and raw.

"No," she said seriously, stopping him. Moving her hands to his face, she forced him to look at her. "I'm not. I can't imagine what you're going through; how much this must scare the hell out you…I can't even begin…how much you must hate…" House looked away, refusing to return her gaze.

"Don't." House pleaded. He sucked in a breath as a sudden muscle spasm gripped his right ankle before moving up his leg, sending a thousand knives up his calf and into his ravaged thigh. House bit his lower lip to keep from screaming, which would have had consequences untold and infinitely more frightening than the simple, exquisite agony of this pain.

"Tell me where!" Cuddy shouted, seeing House's expression clenched, again withdrawing into himself. He could barely hear or see her, lost in the torture of the moment, much less understand what she was saying.

To House, at that moment, there was nothing else but the pain; it was his world. It was his prison, and there was no escape, but into his own mind. Frantic searching for a mythical "safe" place proved to be a fruitless endeavor, and he prayed to anyone who could hear his silent plea to put him out of his misery. To simply, finally let him die. He wanted it over.

"House!" A shout heard in the distance through layers of trembling and sweat, fear and pain—always more and more pain. Was she shaking him, or was it simply another wave of the chills? He didn't know, didn't care.

Cuddy watched House furiously working his thigh muscles, his panicked motions effective only in increasing the anxiety. She altered her position on the floor, placing his leg in her lap. Gentle, firm pressure, finding the knots, she massaged ankle to knee, trying to knead all his trouble away, knowing it was ridiculous notion. But it seemed to calm him as his motions became less frenzied, his breathing more regular.

"Do you think you can stand now?" asked Max. House nodded slightly as they worked in tandem to help House up and get him back into bed.

"He's burning up, hand me the thermometer, Max, it's…" Pauline straightened the light bedcovers as Max handed it to her. "101.2. Let's get him something for it."

Cuddy resumed her position sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling helpless to do much of anything for him. He was in agony again, sick; he was murmuring softly to a voice that no one else could hear. "House?" Her voice was soft, non-threatening. "Hey! Over here," she encouraged, as if speaking to a lost child. She laid a hand on his cheek, ignoring the sticky wetness of his sweat and tears, turning his face towards her. He closed his eyes trying to focus only on the softness and warmth of her touch. A barely distinct beacon lost within the fog of his consciousness. She moved her hand to rest her thumb gently on his closed eyelid, sweeping it gently, applying light but firm pressure. House sagged back, some of the tension slowly retreating from his face and shoulders.

Moving yet closer, Cuddy repeated the action with her other hand, the smooth, gentle motion of her thumbs seeming to calm him. The murmuring stopped; House appeared to have fallen into light, fitful sleep.

Quietly, carefully rising from House's bedside, Cuddy collapsed into the nearby easy chair, wondering if she would make it through the rest of the day, knowing that she must.