A/N: Thanks for reading, please give feedback, either by private message or review. I've lost all of my beta readers, I probably drove them away…or crazy or possibly both. So for now, it's just me.
Addicts Never Lie
Chapter 38: Motivation
House had spent the last four days avoiding Cuddy and Wilson's phone calls and was actually surprised when neither of them came breaking down his door to check and see if he was okay. He had been careful as he slowly rationed out the remaining drugs he had found hidden in the medicine cabinet, but on the morning of the fourth day he began to run out.
That morning the pain in his leg, along with mild body aches are what woke him up. It was early, probably around 6:30 a.m., the sun barely starting to come up. He shifted slightly and could feel the hangover, flu-like effects that normally accompanied a significant decrease in dosage of pain medication.
Moving his leg at all caused excruciating pain, and he hoped that he would be able to get by with a dose of Oxycontin or Vicodin instead of using the last of the Fentynyl. Reaching down he massaged his leg until he felt like the pain had subsided enough for him to try and move again. Carefully, he reached over, grabbing the Ziploc bag of pills that were sitting on the night table beside his bed.
He felt pathetic, unable to even move before getting a dose of pain medication into his system. He plucked an Oxy and two Vicodin from the bag and dry swallowed them all at once with a little difficulty when he realized that he had nothing to wash them down with within his reach.
He had to wait almost a half and hour before the pills began to take effect. Despite the meds and his cane, he was cautious as he lowered himself off of the large sleigh bed, checking to make sure that his leg would not buckle under him before taking a few tentative steps towards the bathroom.
He used the toilet and then limped over to the sink, catching a glance in the mirror. He looked so old, even to his own eyes, as he saw the wrinkles and lines on his face. He was wearing a t-shirt and noticed dry flecks of blood still on his wrist where he had last injected the Fentynyl.
He picked up the towel that he had used before, wet it again, and gently washed the blood away. Surprisingly, the drugs were actually doing a pretty good job of keeping the pain under control. He ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing down a few pieces that were sticking up.
He could smell the layer of sweat on his body and in his clothes and decided to try and take a shower. He was still shaky on his legs and after some debate and hesitation, he struggled as he pulled out the showering chair from its hiding spot, where it had been since shortly after the infarction had occurred. He sat in the chair under the hot spray, lingering longer than usual, enjoying the feel of muscle aches dissipating and the feeling of being clean.
After dressing he ordered a few groceries from the local market and called and arranged for someone to come in and clean the neglected apartment that afternoon. He looked around the apartment, messy and covered in dust and realized how much the drugs had cost him…his job, his only friend, and if he continued down the road he was headed, his life.
He waited until the groceries were delivered and then decided to call down to the hospital and talk to Cuddy. He was hoping that he could talk her into letting him return to work. Even if it was only part-time or for consults he knew that he needed to be challenged in order to get out of this slump, and working was the only way to accomplish that.
He looked out the window at the rising sun; it was going to be a warm breezy day, perfect for a bike ride. However his bike was still in the shop and he had allowed his lawyer to take care of all of the paperwork and other legal matters involving the accident and since the accident hadn't been his fault, the person who had hit him had assumed all responsibility for the incident. Luckily the man had felt guilty and had offered to pay, not only for any repairs to the bike, but anything else that House may have needed as a result of the accident, including missed salary and any medical bills.
House pondered for a moment the fact that although he'd been hit by a car, thrown from his motorcycle, and almost ran over, he'd survived with only a concussion, some scrapes and bruises and a few cracked ribs.
Why couldn't I have gotten hurt enough to get some good drugs out of all of this?
He had spent most of his time at home isolated since his leave of absence, and it had been filled with increasing boredom and self-pity. He found that being unable to work without anything to serve as entertainment or a distraction only fueled his growing dependence on the medications. Despite his behavior, Wilson's visits were actually something that he had looked forward to, but lately even Wilson had been avoiding him.
He picked up the phone and dialed Cuddy's direct extension, disappointed when he got her voicemail. Reluctantly he called a few more times and waited until about noon. and then, when she still hadn't returned his calls, he decided to email her, not really wanting to drive down to the hospital and track her down.
When he opened up his email account he saw several messages from her and one from Wilson.
Well that explains why neither of them has been by, he thought as he opened the first email from Cuddy.
It was several pages long and described, in detail, a procedure that Cuddy had been researching involving using a continuous intravenous supply of Ketamine to induce a 7-day long coma, where the patients are monitored and supported by a ventilator.
The article went on to explain that although not yet approved by the F.D.A. there has been early testing outside of the U.S. that has shown to temporarily, sometimes permanently reduce or eliminate chronic pain by "re-booting" the brain's pain receptors.
He read down the article, intrigued, but still very hesitant as he read the side effects, which included reports of moderate to severe hallucinations, dissociation, inebriation and a sensation that patients were not in their bodies.
He also automatically concluded that putting him under in a coma would also eliminate the need for him to go through rehab or a painful drug withdrawal.
He sat for a moment staring at the article before shutting off his computer and quickly, but carefully slipping on his Nike's and grabbing his keys. He opened the door, stepped out onto the sidewalk and walked the short distance to his car, parked along the opposite curb on the corner of his apartment building. It started with a small sputter before he shifted it into drive.
Along the drive on the way to the hospital his plan kept replaying in his head. He would agree to Cuddy's proposition. He would get the Ketamine treatment…but at what cost?