March 8th

It was already a miserable Monday when James joined the coffee queue in the cafeteria, stainless-steel travel mug in hand. He'd overslept because the alarm hadn't gone off; as a result he'd gotten on the road later than his usual time and ended up in the very rush-hour jam he'd attempted to avoid. Even worse, somehow he'd forgotten to buy beans the last time he shopped (even though he'd placed them at the top of his list), and now both his kitchen and office coffee-makers sat cold and empty. So here he was, reduced to drinking caramel-colored water for his sins, while he longed for his usual double-strength, Kona blend, blast-o'caffeine treat.

He bought a cinnamon-raisin bagel and cream cheese as compensation for the morning's events and was about to head upstairs when he spied Chase at a booth with journal in one hand while he ate breakfast with the other. James headed in his direction. He felt his mood lift a bit for the first time that morning. Finally! He's been avoiding me. Now I can squeeze some information out of him.

James slid into the booth. Chase frowned at him, clearly unhappy at his presence. He looked tired; there were shadows under his eyes, and his shoulders drooped just a bit. "Good morning," he said, but it sounded insincere.

"So, back from the wilds of New York," James said, and winced inwardly at the too-hearty inflection in his voice. "How was it?" he asked, and tried to sound a bit more normal. Chase gave him a direct look.

"Fine."

James set aside his exasperation. "Could you be a little more forthcoming?" He removed a bagel half from the plastic wrap, but kept the younger man in his peripheral sight. "How's House?"

Chase leaned forward. "He's doing really well. In fact I'd say he's on his way to full recovery." Robert's words held a subtle mockery. "Not what you wanted to hear, is it?"

James paused, plastic knife suspended in mid-air. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't want him to find anything even remotely resembling healing. That means you and Lucas have a common goal."

"I am NOT working with Lucas!"

Chase straightened. "Yeah, I'm sure. Anyway, you can count me out. I won't be a part of whatever you two have planned." He folded the journal and picked up his plate. As he stood he said, "Doctor Goldman knows what you're doing. She'll be waiting for your next move. You're a fool if you make an enemy out of her. She's smarter and tougher than you are, and she has House on her side. Neither you nor the boy-toy stand a chance." He gave James an ironic salute. "Cheers," and he was on his way.

James watched him go, his mind at sixes and sevens. After a few moments he pushed the bagel aside and took out his phone.

Sarah answered on the third ring. "Jim," she said, her tone neutral. "Chase must have reported in, am I right?"

James was silent for a moment, taken off-guard by this uncharacteristic offensive action. "I—I don't know what you mean," he said at last. "No one did any reporting in."

"So you had to go to him." There was a brief note of amusement in her voice. "Good for Rob."

"Why does everyone think I have it in for House?!" he asked, and let his frustration show. "You said it yourself—I'm the one who recommended you to him in the first place! I'm also the only one who came to see him while he was in Mayfield—I helped him get into treatment, if you remember!"

"What would you do if you discovered he's in full recovery?" Sarah asked softly.

James felt a surge of some strong emotion he couldn't really name. "Are you saying that's what's happened?"

"I'm not saying anything. I'm asking you a question," Sarah said.

"I'd be thrilled," James snapped. "It's about time he took responsibility for his actions."

"So you think this is about choosing drugs and acting out versus willpower and being a responsible adult," Sarah said. James paused.

"Obviously you don't," he said.

"I think everyone in that so-called hospital needs a crash course in Addiction for Dummies, starting with you." She sounded angry and worse, disappointed.

"I know what addiction is!" he said, loud enough to make a few heads turn. "Danny taught me everything I need to understand—"

"No he didn't and no you don't! You have absolutely no clue whatsoever!" Sarah's voice had risen too. "If you understood it you wouldn't have enabled to the extent you did!"

"If I hadn't given him the drugs he would have found another way!" James said. He wanted to bang the table with his fist at her lack of comprehension. "I kept him out of jail, I kept him from hitting rock bottom!"

"There is no rock bottom," Sarah said after a few moments. She sounded distant. "There's only free fall. It sickens me that you would condemn someone to that state of existence for your own gain, James."

James gasped, outraged. "I—I didn't condemn—I—I—for my own gain, that's not true! That is not true in the least!"

"Yes it is. You kept Greg right where you wanted him. I'm not saying he didn't cooperate. People in chronic pain will stick with any plan that gets them what they need, especially if their med supply is unreliable. I'm saying you have an almost pathological desire to fix people because it makes you look like a good guy. You always did, even in college. Greg fits your agenda perfectly. You give him little dribbles of help, just enough to keep him hurting and needing you. Add in all the anger and resentment you feel toward him, everything you won't admit is there right beneath the surface, and it's a wonder Greg escaped at all."

Her words brought his frustration to the boil. "Oh, great. I see how things are. House gets off scot-free on everything because it's all my fault that's he's a mess and has been for years. And by the way, how long have you been calling him Greg? Does Gene know?"

"I never said he gets off scot-free. He has plenty of things to answer for, just like the rest of us. But you should know, Greg House is my friend now as well as my patient," Sarah said. "If you're suggesting I'm having an affair with him, I'd say that's more your style than mine."

James flinched. "They're legitimate questions," he muttered.

"No they're not. They're words meant to hurt Greg, Gene and me. Fortunately . . ." She drew in a breath. "Fortunately I'm the only one who heard them."

"Sare . . ." James closed his eyes. Dammit. "I'm sorry."

"You're only sorry you made a mistake in showing your hand too early," Sarah said. "You need help, Jim."

"I'm going to an analyst twice a month," he said.

Sarah sighed. "It's not enough."

Her answer caught him off-guard. "What?"

"I believe you have a form of obsessive-compulsive disorder. I also believe it's getting worse. You can't see what you're doing hurts other people to the point of destroying their lives because your addiction—your disease-has blinded you to the consequences of your behavior."

James felt the world contract around him. It was as if all the air had leaked out of the room. "You—you think—you believe I'm an addict?"

"Yes," Sarah said quietly.

"How dare you," he whispered. Fear surged through him like an electric shock. "How dare you accuse me—I'm not—" He stopped, struggled to focus his thoughts. "I'm not House," he said.

"You mean you're not a loser," Sarah said. "Be honest for once in your life, Jim. Say what you're really thinking."

"I don't—I never said he was a loser!" James wanted to hurl the phone across the room. "I meant I'm not an addict!"

"But House is your definition of an addict," Sarah said. "He's a loser. I mean that literally. He's someone who's lost control. That scares you, doesn't it? The thought of losing control."

"I told you once before not to analyze me," James said. He fought to keep his voice down.

"I'm not analyzing you. I'm asking you . . ." She paused. "Get help, Jim. Please."

"You really do believe I'm fucked up," he said, stunned. "Me, not House."

"We're all fucked up to some degree, but some of us know it. If you need any assistance I'll do my best for you," Sarah said. Her soft voice held immeasurable sadness. "Otherwise, don't call again, Jim. You've done enough harm. I won't allow you to do more." And she was gone.

He sat there for a while, watched people come and go as thoughts chased themselves around and around in his head. Finally he got to his feet, folded his uneaten bagel in his napkin—no point in wasting perfectly good food-and headed to his office. After all, he had a schedule to keep, people to see, a job to deal with. I'll show her I'm not an addict, he thought, and turned his thoughts to work, and the long list of people who waited for his help.