Title: Intervention
By: Sy Dedalus
Rating: Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.
Paring: Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)
Spoilers: Season One.
Summary: The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc.
A/N: Thanks for not flaming me! Leaving you here, though… —ducks—
Chapter 29: Bloody Monday
House sighed heavily as he sank on to his bed. In his fist were two Benadryl tablets. The last two he had. And he needed them. Crap.
It was almost midnight. Stomach pain had roused him over an hour ago and he, attributing the pain to hunger, had scarfed the remaining rice that Wilson had been so kind as to refrigerate. Predictably, it had come up again with a fair amount of blood less than ten minutes later. That was quick. Really quick. Too quick. And there was too much blood. If he took the two Benadryl he had in his hand now, he'd probably sleep for a few hours, but when he woke up…well, this problem wasn't going away like he'd thought it would.
What a rotten weekend.
He sighed again, placing the pills on the rumpled bed spread so he could rub his face, and weighed the possibilities. As much as he hated it, he realized he would have to get some form of treatment for this if it didn't go away soon. Which it would. But in case it didn't, maybe he should have some sort of plan of action.
Clinic. He would not go to the clinic. Absolutely not. Not going to happen. The sheer irony of it would kill him. He couldn't face Cuddy and her sanctimonious smirk. Nuh-uh. Not happening.
That left fighting to get an appointment with someone in a private practice or the ER. Neither appealed to him. He didn't want to fight with secretaries and the odds were that whatever monkey he got stuck with would want to do a bunch of stupid tests first. It would be slower and he'd have to deal with more morons than he wanted to deal with under any situation, never mind a situation where he actually needed the morons to do something for him. ER. The ER was faster, but if he went there he risked a fight over admission. This was the kind of thing that some idiot intensivist would want to bring a surgeon in on and that wasn't going to happen. If got desperate enough to end up in an ER, it would only be for a round of platelets and maybe a pint of blood—that was it. He didn't need anything else; he certainly didn't need any surgery. But it would come up, he knew. In the current age of litigation run amok, it would certainly come up. And he'd have to put time and energy into combating it. No thanks.
There was always the option of showing up at one of the offices in Gastro, but he hated all of them and he'd alienated the whole department last year over something he couldn't really recall. Probably petty. Even worse, Cuddy would surely get wind of it and would manage to find him before he could leave the building. Not happening either. Never even an option. In fact, as long as he was weighing alternative options he'd never take, Wilson could fix this easily, eliminating the need for other people. But then he would have to deal with Wilson and he just didn't want to do that right now. He'd spent too much time in hell with Wilson lately. No matter what happened, Wilson wasn't going to hear about this until it was just another story and not something that was happening in the here and now. In that case, he reasoned, if he ended up dragging himself to an ER, it was going to be Princeton General's ER.
He scooted up the bed and swallowed the last of the Benadryl with as little water as possible, making a face. He sighed and put the water aside, kicked at the covers until they were out from under his bad leg and he could grab them and pull them up, and lay back on a nest of pillows. It felt good, lying down, even if he had been sleeping for the past month. He was still tired.
Maybe it would go away on its own, the bleed. His blood was normal, he knew. It would clot and heal. Yeah. Heh. He smiled wryly: if his body was good at anything, it was clotting. So he would give it a few hours. And if it was still a problem later, he'd call in another prescription for Benadryl and have it delivered. He could wait a few hours more and probably a few hours after that. It would go away with time. And anyway, he had the strength of a new-born kitten right now and he just didn't feel like negotiating the bus and the weather to let a bunch of ill-informed cretins tell him what he already knew. He had a peptic ulcer and it was bleeding. Stop the bleed, give him some antibiotics, tell him to stay out of Mexican restaurants for a while, send him on his way. Boring.
Okay, it was slightly more complex than that, but he still knew what would happen and he was bored by it. So tired too, he was so tired.
He knew he'd regret it later, but he wanted to curl up on his side, so he moved the pillow that was normally under his right leg to his left knee and rolled over onto it, grunting with the effort. His leg protested but his stomach cheered him. Yeah, he was tired, really tired. But this way he wouldn't aspirate either. ...not that it was even a concern, because the bleeding would stop. He'd just sleep a while and the bleeding would stop...
