02. addiction

Once Lost, Never Forgotten

House walked unceremoniously into Cuddy's office. She looked up hesitantly, finding him silently gesturing.

"House, what in the world are you doing?"

He took a step closer, seating himself on her desk. "Anthony is coming by for a little visit, I hear. I'm just prepping."

She ignored the fact that House had once again entered into her private patient files. "He can lip-read, House. You don't need to use sign language."

"Sign language? No, those were just my warm-up stretches. These conversations we have can be a real workout." He made no effort to hide his sarcasm.

Cuddy just rolled her eyes in response.


Anthony had been one of the "lost souls", as House liked to call them. One of the ones that had gotten the best of him. One of the ones he hadn't cured. Well, that wasn't entirely true.

House had given Anthony back his life, but he had taken away the one thing that was most important to him. The one thing that made life worth living.

He had given him a fate worse than death.


"A deaf musician. That should be an oxymoron." House scoffed, but he knew she could see through his words. It was not sarcasm, it was respect. Admiration. Something he felt for very few people.

"Feeling guilty won't get you anywhere. You don't need this right now" She advised him.

"You're not exactly in any position to preach to me about guilt, Cuddy." He narrowed his eyes at her grimly.

"You don't owe him anything, House." She replied, her voice softening.

He tried to find comfort in Cuddy's words, but how could she ever understand? The passion and intensity that he had seen in Anthony as he delved deeply into the world of melodies and compositions rivalled his own.

Music, the only sufficient gift. Why hope for happiness? In so many ways, it was enough to hear such harmonies, extensions of the very soul, at the end of every day. Never too much, just enough to sustain; as essential as the air we breath.

Now, what can he hear? What can he render? Is he only left with memories of the songs he once cherished?

No, for a person like Anthony, life could be nothing less than hell. And House knew that he was the only one to blame for this fact.

"When he's done with all of his official business, tell him to come to my office."

House turned and left, not even waiting for Cuddy's reply.


"Why did you call me here, Dr. House?"

He refused to look Anthony in the eye and kept his back to the man, remaining seated at the large piano that was now situated in the middle of his office. "I wheeled this thing all the way over here all by myself just to hear you play, don't I at least get a 'thank you'?"

"Why is there a piano in your office?" Anthony's voice held no irritation or agitation, simply curiosity.

"I just told you why I –" House began, before realizing Anthony had no idea what he was saying. At the very least, he needed to see the words being formed.

He turned toward Anthony. He was a large, solid, poised man, neither light nor gruff, but House could see that the years were taking their toll as grey nipped at the strands of his once-young hair. "Sorry. Forgot about the lip-reading thing…" House mumbled.

"How could you forget?" Anthony shot back bitterly. "What do you want from me, House?"

"Play something."

"House, I'm deaf, I can't –"

"So was Beethoven. Didn't stop him. He made quite a name for himself, or so I've heard." House countered.

Anthony opened his mouth to reply, but changed his mind. He slid next to House on the piano bench and placed his hands in the familiar position.

It was a simple tune, but it was strong and assured. The sound of a confident musician, the sound of an experienced player. The sound of a man who had never forgotten a single note, even in all his years filled with silence.

His eyes rested sometimes on his hands, sometimes they remained closed. What he heard, what he imagined, House would never know.

Every note was in place, ordered, clear. There were no mistakes. No forced gravitas. How was it that he achieved every dynamic to perfection? Why was it that he could play so well what he could only hear in his own mind?

House closed his eyes and was certain he was listening to the past. These could not have been the trills of the same man he had crippled for life.

"It isn't a disability." Anthony stated, as if reading House's mind. "It's an obstacle, a hindrance, but it only makes me work harder." His determination was noble, impressive even.

"That's not always how it works out…" House disagreed, rubbing his leg absent-mindedly. He fingered the small bottle in his pocket.

"Do you still play, Dr. House?"

House said nothing; he simply nodded.

"Play something for me, something I've never heard before."

He gave Anthony a sceptical look. If he had never heard it before, what was the point in playing it for him now? But House knew better than to stand in the way of his irrational obstinacy.

House's fingers slid experimentally over the keys before he took a single deep breath and finally let go.

Lyrical, definite, devoid of his usual urgency. He sailed exactly and easily, triplets and staccatos, creating a rolling and assured tone. The notes came from memory, ingrained into his soul. His brain and heart fell into a rhythm of calm.

Fingers drew music from the keys as if to gather a sweet scent from a rose. Lovely, inexorable, phrase after phrase of pure perfection. A beauty beyond imagination, only things that Anthony would never hear.

But Anthony's head was down. He was deep in concentration, lost in a world House would never understand, a world he would never be willing to open up to.

"Who did you write this for?" Anthony asked, suddenly.

"Myself." House lied, curtly.

Anthony studied House and shook his head in disbelief. "You should play it for her sometime."

House stiffened slightly. He heard the strong click of high heels trail down the corridor and was thankful in that moment that Anthony was unable to hear any of it.


He sat alone at his piano and dry swallowed another Vicodin. It was strange to wilfully induce harm on oneself time and again in this way. But it was as if he was an outsider looking in, as if he was tempting fate to do its worst. It was not self-indulgence, it was defiance.

But where House had chosen pain, Anthony had chosen fortitude. He had created purpose. He would not run, he would stay and fight. House had left the whole world behind, but Anthony was finding his way back.

Lost in his thoughts, House was barely able to recognize the sound of knocking at his door.

She stood in his doorway, inquisitive. A small smile played upon her face as she wondered just what madness she was getting herself into this time.

"You wanted to see me?" Cuddy asked pleasantly, catching him off guard.

He paused, wanting to choose his words carefully, but he thought better of it. Words had never been his forte.

"Sit down, Cuddy."

His hands settled back onto the keys of the piano, and everything fell into place…