A little holiday update to get you through the week. One more between now and the new episodes and then we get rid of Tritter, and we might get an ending.

"I know it isn't true; know it isn't true
Love is just a lie, made to make you blue
Love hurts..." Roy Orbison

House stays asleep for a while and I must have nodded off as well, because the next thing I know I wake up and he's pawing at my pants, digging through one of the pockets.

"What the hell are you doing?" I shout, probably too loud and cruelly, but it's weird and confusing and I'm not quiet sure what else to do or say. House lets go of my pants, and gets up off of his knees, shaking the pill bottle in my face.

"I figured that if I woke you up you'd make that face, yeah the one you're making right now, and—this is difficult enough with you looking at me like that," he says staring at the pills but not taking them just yet.

"I—if you—look when I fix this thing with Tritter, you're going to have to make a choice, a couple of choices. You'll have to decide whether or not you wanna keep going on like this. You don't belong in prison but…"

"Do you think I like who I am? What I am? Do you think I wouldn't change if I could? Even if I wasn't in pain, I've got the other thing and I can't—it's too much. It's been to long and I don't know—please don't make me do this," he begs swallowing the pills dry.

I don't know what I'm supposed to say to him. He should deal with the other thing and if the pain wasn't as bad as he thinks it is then, we could wean him off the drugs, or get him to take less, but he won't do that. He'll never change.

"You stole Oxycodone from a patient of mine, from a dead patient, because you were in pain and strung you. You were like that because Cuddy cut off your Vicodin because Tritter is trying to send you to jail because he found out you forged my signature on a prescription. Yeah, maybe you do need the pills and maybe the reasons for you to take the drugs are more than,"

House throws a pillow at my head, hard, and he tries to storm off but doesn't get very far. He stumbles, trips and falls, landing hard on the floor.

"I fucking hate you!" he screams, and then quietly, "you stupid fuck, you stupid, worthless, limping, loser freak. I hate you," he whispers to himself. "I hate you. I hate you." I know he won't ask for help, and if I try, he'll probably get mad, but he needs me so I go to his side, and I get down on my knees, wrapping my arms around him.

"You're not worthless. Who told you that? And since when do you believe anything anybody ever says?"

House doesn't fight my arms. He even leans back into me a little, and he sighs, loudly. We sit like that for what seems like a long time and he closes his eyes.

"It's harder not to listen when you're five, but I wasn't talking about myself, I meant this, useless excuse for a leg."

"You meant yourself, but—you aren't alone in feeling that way. Nobody likes who they are, well almost nobody."

"Just shut up, okay? This is stupid and pointless. Would you just consider the possibility that I am in pain, real pain and leave it at that? Maybe I do take too many pills, but isn't it also possible that I'm in that much pain."

"Fine, when we take care of this thing with Tritter then I'll keep writing perceptions, but would you just talk to me and at least consider some of my advice."

"What exactly, are you planning on trying to do to me?" he asks, rubbing his thigh, wincing.

"I want to help you. Maybe make you less afraid of this thing, make feel stronger, a little happier. I just want to help you."

"You 'just wanted to help,' when you attacked me in the bedroom that day. You 'just wanted to help,' when you told Tritter about the prescriptions and worked out that deal of yours. You 'just wanted to help' every time you screwed up. Why should I trust that now is any different?"

"I'm not sure you should, but I love you and I am trying. I'm doing the best I can—I think I can help you to feel better."

"You're trying to fix me, Jimmy. You think that if you can help me deal with what that—what he did to me then I won't be half as depressed and I won't be in as much pain and then maybe you might be able to get me off the pills, and I'll be a complete person instead of a complete ass, and I'll be forever indebted to you for saving my life."

"And wouldn't that be awful? Less pain, God forbid, and happiness, well who hell is happy anyway? As for debts, do you really think I care about that?"

"What if—what if it doesn't work? What if the pain doesn't go away and everything unravels because I let you get my hopes up? Or what if you can't help? What happens then?"

And this dear reader is where I will leave you.