House was awake when Cuddy walked into his room. He was actually on the phone with his mother so Cuddy waited until he was finished with reassuring his Mother that he was just fine and the cancer had been found in time and Wilson was taking good care of him and no, there was no need for her to come and see him especially not with Aunt Sarah. But once he was done, Cuddy didn't waste any time.
"What did you say to Dr Stone?" Cuddy demanded.
"Why?" House wanted to know.
"She told me to shoot her if she ever volunteered to evaluate you again," Cuddy informed him.
"And I thought we had such a nice little chat!" House exclaimed surprised (not).
"About what!" Cuddy insisted.
"Life, Death, dreams, things like that," House shrugged. "Nothing that ought to make anyone suicidal."
"Then it must have been your stellar personality that did it," Cuddy snapped. "Spill!"
"There is nothing to spill," House maintained. "I answered all her questions, including the ones about my dreams. For some reason I hadn't got halfway through explaining about them and what I thought they meant when her eyes just started to glaze over. I really think that a shrink ought to be able to hide her boredom a little better than that from the patient."
"I was right," Cuddy sighed. "It was just your stellar personality. So what kind of dreams did you invent then?"
"Didn't invent any," House replied suddenly quite seriously. "I had a strange dream where I met Death and talked with her about the meaning of life, my life to be precise. A lot of things that I hadn't thought about - hadn't wanted to think about, started to come together."
"You had dreams about the Grim Reaper," Wilson's voice came from the doorway. He had just got there in time to hear House.
"No, not the Grim Reaper," House shook his head. "My Death was a woman. Or a girl. I'm not quite sure how to describe her. She wore white, she was beautiful – I'm sure, though I cannot for the life of me remember anything about her face except her midnight blue eyes. She was ageless and timeless and ... Never mind. But as dreams go, it was interesting."
"And suddenly the meaning of life was revealed to you," Cuddy gathered – not at all convinced that House wasn't pulling her leg, serious though he seemed to be.
"No," House denied. "The meaning of life eluded me once again. Even the meaning of my life; but even so, I did realise that I do want to live. But there are some changes I need to make."
"About time," Wilson huffed. "I have been telling you for years that you need to stop taking Vicodin to get high. You need to go back to the rehab..."
"Shut up Wilson," House told him almost gently causing him to stop in mid-sentence with his mouth open. "The first thing I need to do is to sack you as my physician."
"What!" Cuddy nearly screamed – Wilson was still trying to catch his breath.
"Obviously I need you to help me with the cancer," House explained. "You are top of your line after all; I would need to be an idiot to go to any other oncologist. But if I want to keep our friendship; if it's suppose to go on working even at the level it is working now, I need to find someone else to write me my Vicodin. You are not objective enough."
"You're lucky I'm not objective," Wilson shouted. "If I was, I would have forced you into rehab ages ago."
"I doubt that," House mused. "But that is neither here nor there. I do know that I have myself to blame for some of it; I haven't always been honest with you about my medical condition. On the other hand, most of the time you don't want to know because you need me to be an addict."
"That is rubbish!" Cuddy defended Wilson though House was pretty much ignoring her.
"Cuddy's right," Wilson insisted. "Nobody would be happier than me if you got your act together and stopped self-destructing."
"I know you don't want me to self-destruct," House conceded. "That is why you, every now and then, get it into your head to withhold my Vicodin or you try and talk – or even force – me into rehab. But you still need me to be an addict because then you can be my enabler. And if you are my enabler, then I cannot leave you. – Like everyone else has."
"I don't know what you are talking about," Wilson stared at House a little like rabbit caught in the headlights, though he did manage to make his voice almost convincingly firm. Obviously not quite convincingly enough, though, as Cuddy suddenly turned to look at him like she, too, had got some food for thought. "You need me to be your enabler, House. This has nothing to do with my needs."
"If you say so," House dismissed Wilson's claim. "However, that does not change the fact that I realised that I don't trust you enough, anymore, to have you as my doctor. I don't want to come to you for a prescription wondering if I will get it, or if this is one of the times you have decided to help me. That is putting a strain on our friendship, too. And since I'm not planning on going anywhere any time soon, I don't want that. We have enough problems without that added to it."
"You don't trust me!" Wilson stared at House – hurt, confusion, denial and very deep down an acknowledgement were shining in his eyes. House felt sorry for his friend; he felt sorry for himself, too, but he held Wilson's gaze: this was necessary, and if their friendship couldn't handle this, then it was even more fragile than he had thought. "After everything you've done to me; everything you put me through, you are telling me that you don't trust me."
"James," Cuddy touched his arm consolingly. "House is still not well. I don't know what went on in his dreams, but until he is himself again, until we sort this out in a calm and adult manner, I can be his doctor. You two just take a time-out. Until he is better."
"Sorry Cuddy," House told her. "I don't trust you any further than I trust him. Neither one of you are objective when it comes to me."
"What?" Cuddy couldn't believe her ears.
"So how do you like them apples," Wilson asked her.
"But who then?" Cuddy wanted to know.
"Don't know yet," House shrugged. "I'll find one once this cancer thing is dealt with. That, as I said, I do trust Wilson to handle, so I have time to find someone else for the other stuff I need."
"Why wouldn't you trust me," Cuddy demanded. "I'm the one who wrote you Vicodin when Wilson couldn't!"
"Until Jimmy-boy convinced you that you needed to force me to take Tritter's deal," House reminded her. "I know you were distracted at the time, but had Tritter gone after any other doctor in the hospital you would have had the hospital lawyers up his ass so fast and so hard he would have had begged to have another thermometer there instead. But since it was me, you gave him a free hand because you thought you could teach me a lesson that way. Humility or something, I don't know, I don't care. I'm not interested in your lessons. And you let it go too far. Sure, Wilson was the one who finally screwed things up, but you dropped the ball, too. I cannot trust either one of you because when it comes to me, neither one of you is objective. And you, Cuddy, are way too easily manipulated."
"Tritter didn't manipulate me," Cuddy insisted.
"No, but Wilson did," House pointed out. "He does it on regular basis. He comes to you with deep concern in his puppy-eyes telling you how worried he is about me and how I need to change, to give up the Vicodin or learn humility so that I don't melt my wings or something. You object, but you listen and finally, even sometimes against your better judgement, you let his concern sway you and you do what he wants. That is until I decide to counter his moves. I know you too well, Cuddy. When I put my mind to it I can make you do anything I want; even perjure yourself."
"You did not make me perjure myself," Cuddy gasped. "I did it for the sake of the hospital. And because I did think that you didn't deserve to go to jail. But it was my decision."
"Sure it was," House scoffed. "Come on Cuddy! Did you really think my rehab-stunt was for Tritter! He wasn't going to get daily reports from the rehab staff on how I was doing and what conversations I had had with what visitors I had. Yeah, I needed to do it for the judge, too, but though she was a smart woman and could well see what Tritter really was all about, she could not make the evidence go away. You were the only one who could do that. So there I was, being pathetic and brave, even working on a patient and you were impressed with my efforts. Unsuccessful visit from Tritter – which I hadn't actually anticipated, but thank you for your persistence, his visit was most timely – and an apology to Wilson and you were toast. Getting hugged by Cameron was, of course, a nice bonus, but not the real aim."
"You, you..." Wilson was sputtering, trying to find ways to express himself and his indignation! That apology had been the one thing he had believed to have been real about House's rehab.
"I cannot believe you," Cuddy was in shock. "You made me commit a crime! Have you any idea how deeply I agonized over that! How hard it was for me! How could you!"
"I didn't want to go to prison," House pointed out. "Besides, you did let things get that far. You and Wilson. I know I wasn't an innocent victim there, not completely, though Tritter's witch hunt went way too far considering the offence. But you share in the blame too. However, that is water under the bridge, no point in dwelling on it, except that you do see why I cannot trust you, Cuddy? Not as a doctor. I do trust you with my life, I did just that then. But not for the Vicodin."
"But I trusted you," Cuddy choked.
"More fool you," House didn't think now was the time to be merciful, not if this was going to be sorted out. "You should know by now who I am and what you can trust me with."
"I... I'll leave you to rest," Cuddy managed to say with some dignity before she retreated from the battlefield.
"I don't think I can bear to look at you right now," Wilson stated disgustedly and he too left the room.
"Yeah, yeah," House muttered. "I have heard that before." He leaned back against the pillows and hoped fervently that he had been right in thinking that a frank conversation with his friends would, eventually, lead into a healthier friendship between them all. If he was wrong, he had just lost his two best friends – and hurt them for now good reason.
---------------------------------------
Wilson stormed into his office. How DARE House! After everything he had tried to do for his friend. And to say that to Cuddy, too. If he had seen Cuddy's face when Chase called for Wilson in the operating room, he wouldn't have dared to imply that he could not trust Cuddy. House was important to Cuddy – just as he was important to Wilson. House was the brother he had lost, and he was not going to loose him, too! Wilson threw himself on the couch and fumed until he fell asleep after the long day of anxiety he had had. Anxiety for House, the ingrate.
Wilson woke up with a start. He was sure he had heard a noise! He sat up abruptly and looked around.
"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you!" A young man, maybe a teenager though Wilson couldn't really say how old he was, was sitting on Wilson's desk. He had a thick, curly brown hair, narrow face and nearly black eyes. He was wearing a sort of monkish robe, with a hood but under the hem of his robe a pair of jeans were showing.
"Who are you?" Wilson was bewildered. "And how did you get in here. I'm sure I locked the door."
"Oh, locks don't hold me," the boy shrugged. "I'm one of Her minions, you see."
"Her minions?" Wilson didn't feel any wiser.
"Didn't Dr House tell you?" the boy looked surprised. "I thought he told you everything."
"I don't think he has mentioned you, or Her, whoever she is," Wilson replied cautiously. He obviously had a madman in his hands.
"Death. Didn't he tell you about his meeting with Death?" The boy asked.
"He did mention that he had had a dream about her, but what has that got to do with you?" Wilson was beginning to think the maybe the madman in this scenario was actually him.
"Ok, so he just didn't go into details," the boy accepted. "Well, he did meet with Death and I'm one of her minions. I'm Depression. But not to worry, I'm not here to get you. She just wanted to know how you took House's decision to replace you. She doesn't want you to break up the friendship, you see."
"Death wants me to remain friends with House," Wilson was sure he had lost his mind.
"Yeah," Depression nodded. "She kinda likes House, you see. She even cried for him and I haven't seen her ever do that. Of course I have only been around for a couple of hundred years, so there is plenty I haven't seen. Pestilence said that he has seen her do that before once or twice and he has been with her like forever. But even he hasn't seen her send flowers to anyone. Ok, it was just one, but Calla lilies are her favourites and she doesn't even let anyone else look after them, so that is huge."
"And why haven't you been around longer," Wilson decided to fasten on the one thing that made some sense to him in Depression's ramblings.
"Well, before people didn't really have time to be depressed," Depression shrugged. "I mean they were too busy just trying to survive. Sure, some did feel depressed even then, but not many and Death could handle them just fine. It wasn't till people started to have time on their hands, you know actual free time, that they had time to get depressed too. Of course the postpartum depression was the one that was most common at first, but people got more creative with time. It still amazes me how many just choose to kill themselves with work! Just look at you; you only have this job and House. I'm actually amazed, looking around, that this is the first time I'm here. I have been in offices like this so many times that I've lost count. This is a really depressing place and that's my professional opinion, so to speak."
"Could we leave my office out of this," Wilson suggested. "Now why was it you came here?"
"Just to tell you that you better take a good look at yourself and what you have done to House," Depression said. "Or perhaps I should say to your friendship with him. Death is rather angry at you for the way you have behaved. Like what was that about last Christmas! A guy tries to off himself and you just storm off in anger?"
"He wasn't trying to off himself," Wilson huffed. "He was just dead drunk!"
"You're telling me that Death doesn't know when somebody is trying to kill himself," Depression scorned. "Yeah, right, she sure would be the last to know. You really are as blind as she thinks you are. The only thing you did right last Christmas was to not give House the medicine to stop him from puking his guts out, because had you given them to him, he would not have vomited the overdose out in time but you really would have found him dead in his rooms and not just dead to the world."
"He tried to kill himself!" Wilson was stunned.
"Duh!" Depression rolled his eyes. "Did you really think he was so stupid that he didn't know signing the register for those meds wasn't going to land him in prison for sure? The only reason it didn't matter to him was because he wasn't going to be around for that. He only wanted to diagnose the girl, say goodbye to his Mother and then just stop the pain. I would have thought anyone could have seen that."
"I... I..." Wilson didn't know what to say. Depression seemed so sure and now that he heard it said out aloud, Wilson couldn't believe that he hadn't come to that conclusion right then. It seemed so obvious. "House was right. I am too close to him. I don't know how to be objective anymore."
"Do you know how to be his friend still?" Depression asked.
"I don't know," Wilson said distressed. "But I'm sure going to try."
"Ok, that's good enough," Depression hopped from the table. "I'll go and tell Death. She'll be happy. And you really want her to be happy with you, since she has ways of getting you if she isn't. She is Death, after all."
"Ouch!" Wilson woke up as his body hit the floor. He had rolled himself off the couch. He felt confused for a moment and he looked around expecting to find Depression somewhere in the room but he was alone. "A dream. Get a grip man, it was just a dream. You just took the things House told you and twisted them and your fear for him made you dream stupid dreams. That's all. Nothing to worry about. Right?"
Though Wilson was sure he had nothing to worry about, he still decided it was time to go home – and time to just quickly peek into House's room before he went; just to make sure everything was ok. Having done that he donned his coat and left the hospital for the day.
