A/N: This is a very significant chapter in this story. Pain is nowhere close to done, with several hills left, but this chapter is a milestone. Enjoy!

(H/C)

House held the Vicodin in his hand, studying it.

How many pills had he seen over the years? He knew every curve of them, every letter imprinted on them, even knew them by feel in the dark. His love-hate relationship with these tablets extended over a decade now: Love because they allowed him to be functional, hate because he was dependent on them and because he knew as well as anybody who had ever lectured him how hard they were on the body long term. They were slowly killing him.

It was time to change things for the sake of his family. He would only take two more. Just the bedtime dose tonight was left, and then it would be over, forever. Starting early tomorrow, detox would begin. The room wasn't cold, but he shivered.

Before that, within mere minutes, he would have to talk to his daughters. In fact, he had already told them after the meal, when they were starting to look around for activities for the usual evening parental play time, that he had something important to talk to them about. Then, having said that much, he had announced that he needed to go to the bathroom first and retreated, gaining a few more minutes respite.

House poured the half bottle he had remaining into his hand, turning them over and over, stirring the pills in his palm. On a sudden impulse, he dropped all but two into the toilet and then flushed. He had already cleared out "spare" bottles hidden around the house, not wanting any there to tempt him when things really started getting bad. He had been surprised himself how few spare bottles he actually had these days. Of course, he didn't want the girls accidentally finding some, though they knew why he took the meds and that they were not in any way candy. Having breakthrough meds that he didn't have to conceal made a difference, too. His extra fills of Vicodin could have been counted on just a few fingers, not even requiring all of one hand, and all of them had been in secure, locked locations.

Life had changed. The memory of those lonely years when just about all he'd had was the pills he both loved and hated was still there, but better, more recent memories had crowded in on top, pushing the old ones back. Even Tritter wouldn't have come up with much searching this house. Not that House had normally had as much stockpiled as Tritter had found in his old apartment; it had just been horrible timing there with House knowing that Wilson had questioned at first the return of real pain and afraid that the oncologist would stop prescribing and leave him with no treatment at all.

Wilson. He had agreed to keep prescribing the morphine, though his expression proclaimed that he still thought House was being stubborn and that he would prefer to have MacDonald handling everything. Was Jensen right? Did part of his friend's disapproval over the years actually spring from feeling over his head professionally in treating House's pain?

The swirling water had long since gone down the pipe, taking his Vicodin with it. House pocketed the bottle with the remaining two pills. He turned away from the sink and stood for a moment, even more conscious than usual of the pain and his balance, analyzing every ounce of feedback.

Aside from the cold knot of anticipation in his stomach and the butterflies circling it, he actually felt remarkably good tonight. He had, this afternoon, gone to see Wilson's chiropractor. The man had emphasized that several adjustments would be required here, and then a maintenance schedule to prevent things getting this out of whack again, but House was surprised how much the first treatment had helped. His shoulders, neck, and hips all had noticed a difference immediately.

He had also picked up the prescription of amitriptyline while running errands this afternoon and had now taken the first dose of that. Off-the-shelf inserts were in his shoes with custom ones measured and ordered. Yes, he'd done as much as he could this afternoon to get all the other recommendations rolling to help him in dealing with his pain both through detox and afterward.

There was no change that he could tell yet from the amitriptyline, but he knew expecting results after only one dose was pushing it. What definitely was helping right now was the prednisone. He had filled that prescription Monday, two weeks' worth, and was now a few doses in, and his body was reacting as it always did. Everything worked a little better; all the pains were dialed down, from the largest in his leg even down to his left side and recently broken ribs, which he had thought were fully healed. The lingering ache in them had been so minor in House terms that he hadn't even realized they were still not quite at 100% until the prednisone removed it.

He was about at a 4 at the moment. Good, remarkably good, especially for the end of a day. He could easily live and work at a 4.

But he was still on Vicodin. How much of tonight was due to the Vicodin? How much was due to the prednisone, which was only added for two weeks to help him adjust to a new regimen? How much was the chiropractic treatment and the amitriptyline added to the Voltaren, the things he would be able to keep? The TENS unit would be started later after detox. He looked at the hot tub. It, too, would be staying, but he couldn't live in it.

Would the other measures be enough? He could still hear Jensen's voice in his head. If you truly believe that your pain is manageable without narcotics, that course is the right decision.

MacDonald didn't. He had said so, said he'd developed a radar, a sixth sense in all his years of practice. He thought House's case would wind up on the stronger meds eventually anyway, even if they tried lesser measures first. As much as House tried to discard that statement, he couldn't. His own medical radar was too calibrated, and it had saved his patients many times.

House ran one hand down his leg, feeling the gaping crater there. He pressed slightly, and the pain promptly ramped up, even through Vicodin, prednisone, Voltaren, chiropractic, and whatever amitriptyline might be doing so far.

Would it be enough? Setting his jaw, he gathered himself and then stepped out solidly, firmly, doing his best to take a regular step as everyone else did, landing with full weight on his right leg alone, reminding himself in advance to keep thinking, to analyze if there was any difference in his leg's response between tonight, with the new measures, and the few times he had tried this in the past.

Pain slammed through his thigh, ricocheting up and down the leg, and in the next moment, the half muscle gave way, and House fell. The crash reverberated around the tile walls. Before he managed to finish gathering himself on the bathroom floor for the effort to stand back up, the door burst open, presenting the full scene not only to Cuddy but to both of his daughters. "Greg!" She raced across to him.

"Daddy!" The girls were just as fast, latching onto him, terrified.

"I'm okay," he said quickly. "Perfectly okay. I just overbalanced a little." He looked around the semicircle of his audience. Abby was locked onto his right arm and Rachel his torso, both of them wide eyed with fear. Abby let go with one hand long enough to put a hand on his chest and verify that he was breathing, the check that Cuddy had taught them long ago to verify that somebody was still alive and doing fine.

Cuddy was on his left, and she looked almost as scared as the girls did. "Greg, what happened?"

"I just fell. It's happened before. I'm sure it will happen again." None of them looked convinced. "Yes, I'm breathing, Abby. I'm still alive, and I'm all right."

Cuddy picked up his wrist, taking a quick vitals check herself. "Your pulse is too fast," she said.

His leg was snarling at him. No longer was tonight a 4. He still tried to downplay it. "I just need to - straighten it out a little." He fitted the action to the words, working around his toddler leeches.

"You need to take big medicine," Rachel ordered. "That fixes hell leg day."

"No, I don't. Not right now. We were about to talk. I'm all right, Rachel, just tripped and fell." He looked around for his cane.

Cuddy followed his gaze. "It's propped up against the sink. And you're in the middle of the floor." She looked at him suspiciously, and he couldn't blame her. There was no possible way his cane and himself had wound up in these respective positions if they had taken that fall together.

"Could you get it, please, Lisa?" he asked. His eyes shifted to the girls.

Cuddy stuffed down what she would have liked to say with difficulty, but her eyes were eloquent. "It's okay, girls. Here, let's get the cane, and then he can get up." She retrieved it and held it upright, making a firm pillar for him to grab. "Can you back up and give him a little more room?" The girls reluctantly let go, still watching him closely. Even Belle was here, sniffing at his leg with concern.

House reached out to the cane, made a half effort, then sighed. "Easier to use the sink, too," he admitted. He scooted backwards a few feet, and Cuddy followed. With a support on each side, left hand on the sink and the cane held upright by her on the right, he made it. He leaned on the cane and took a tentative step, limping and cautious as usual. His thigh protested, but it held. "I'm all right," he reassured all of them. "Let's go in the living room, okay?"

The girls reluctantly started out of the bathroom, looking back at every step to make sure he was upright and following. Cuddy stayed right by him, as did Belle on the other side. Once they were to the living room, he sat down on the couch.

"Hell leg needs up," Abby told him.

He yielded rather than arguing with her. Cuddy disappeared for a minute, returning with the heating pad. Belle had jumped onto him with infinite care, and both girls pressed close but still stayed on the floor rather than climbing up. "Why don't we have a snack first before we talk?" he asked.

Nobody was distracted, not even Rachel. He was the center of attention, like it or not. "I just fell," he repeated. "That happens sometimes. I didn't hurt myself." The girls were glued to him. He looked back at Cuddy.

She was badly rattled herself, but she dutifully tried. "He didn't hurt himself, girls," she repeated. "He's fine." She met his eyes and raised an eyebrow. He debated, then nodded reluctantly. He had to talk to the girls tonight. No way should he do that tomorrow morning with detox beginning. He regretted his impulse for a leg self-test now, hadn't meant to fall and frighten them, but the evening's agenda remained. The clock was ticking.

Cuddy folded down to the floor between the couch and the coffee table, graceful even while tense, and took his hand. She squeezed tightly, leaving the big jump into this subject to him, but she was there. They were together in this.

House had tried to rehearse this a few times this afternoon, but he'd quickly given that up, realizing that his imagined reactions for the girls were things that Jensen kept telling him they weren't ever going to say, like how disappointed they were. Running that scenario wasn't likely to help prepare him. Now, he wasn't sure how to start. "You know I take medicine for my leg so it will feel better," he said awkwardly. Well, that was a stupid opening. Of course they knew that, far more than he wished they did.

Both of them nodded vigorously. Rachel gave his leg a feather-light pat and suggested again, "You take it now, Daddy."

"No, it's not hurting that badly now." It was probably back down to a 6 after the initial sharp insult, still annoyed but at least not screaming. "I didn't hurt it, Rachel. But I . . . the medicine I take. . ." He skidded to a halt, looking desperately at Cuddy.

She stepped into the gap. "Daddy is going to try some different medicine for his leg. We're going to change what he's been taking."

Both of the girls registered that loud and clear. They brightened up, and House was surprised that they even looked less scared now. "Good new medicine?" Abby asked.

Rachel was on a slightly different track. "You can fix your leg now?"

"No, we can't fix it." Cuddy looked over at him. "I wish we could, girls. It's always going to hurt him."

"I'm sorry, Daddy," Abby said. She leaned over and kissed him softly on the offending leg. "But good new medicine?" she asked again.

"We're going to try to find some things that work better. Hopefully it will hurt him less once we get them sorted out. But sometimes it takes a little while to work out what medicines to use and how to take them. And while we're working it out . . ."

"But then you feel better?" Rachel interrupted. "Not like now?"

House looked at her innocent, trusting eyes. At least they were innocent right now. Fifteen minutes ago, they had only been scared. What would they look like tomorrow when both of the girls saw far worse than a routine fall?

"We're hoping that it will make him feel better," Cuddy said. "But he's probably going to feel worse before he feels better."

"Do you have to feel worse?" Abby asked.

The question seemed to reverberate through his skull. House closed his eyes, but he still could see their faces, concerned but soaking up this rare chance at data. A conversation about his leg in this household was almost unheard of.

"That's . . . the way it works sometimes," Cuddy said. "Not often. Not usually." Abruptly she was worried about her own misstep in explaining Blythe's death, worried that they would become afraid of medicine itself, and he heard it in her voice. "Medicine is good, girls. It helps you when you're sick or hurting. But sometimes. . . "

House had opened his eyes again, studying his family, and now he interrupted. "Sometimes it takes a little while to get the doses right with something as hard to deal with as my leg. Most stuff is easy to fix, but this is a little harder, and they can't totally fix it anyway. So they might need to adjust the medicine a little at first. But it shouldn't be too bad, and my leg should feel better once we get things sorted out. It will still hurt, but we'll try to find a medicine that works better than this one now does. Things are going to be better."

Abby smiled, and Rachel leaned across his chest, giving him a hug. "That's what I needed to tell you tonight, girls. I'm changing the medicine so we'll find something that works better. Go get a book now, and we'll read before bed. Might even have time for two."

"Yay!" Rachel galloped off toward the nursery and the bookcase back there. Abby hesitated for a moment, touching his leg again, then let go and trotted after her sister; book selection was something she took seriously.

House brushed his fingertips against the bottle in his pocket. Only two Vicodin. He'd have to call Wilson until he could see MacDonald. He looked up at Cuddy. "I'll sign the damned contract," he said softly.

Cuddy hugged him with even more exuberance than Rachel had a minute ago. They were still locked together, slowly letting the tension go, when their daughters came back into the room.

"Book time!" Abby announced.

"No kissing. Book time!" Rachel agreed.

Laughing, their parents split, and the family group was carefully rearranged on the couch, House still with the heating pad but now with his daughters tucked on each side where all three could see. Opening the book, he started to read.