Chapter 11 - Gregory House

He sat in the passenger seat of Wilson's car while his friend drove down a country road that opened up to a huge, multi-story building. The brown facade looked old, the building was much more reminiscent of a town hall than a psychiatric clinic.

Wilson had told him before they had left. He had told him that a few years ago he had gone to a mental hospital to face the problems in his life. Wilson had now arranged an appointment to meet the head of the clinic, a certain Dr. Nolan.

House didn't know yet whether to be tense or intimidated. The fact that he had once been so badly off that he had voluntarily entered a mental hospital made him shudder. When he asked Wilson what the specific reason for that decision was, he just prodded around and withdrew from the question, so House concluded that it must have been something serious. Though he'd already guessed it, given the whole situation.

Wilson put the handbrake on and sighed.

"Here we are," he muttered without looking at House. They both looked at the old building, at the entrance of which they could now clearly see a sign with the large inscription "Mayfield Psychiatry". One by one, the two friends got out and then slowly walked towards the clinic.

House examined his surroundings very carefully, always ready to be attacked by dark memories. He expected the worst, but nothing happened at first, not even as they passed through the large front door and looked around.

In the entrance area they immediately received a young lady who confidently approached Wilson.

"We have an appointment with Dr. Nolan," he replied when the woman spoke to him. She nodded in understanding, turned around and motioned them briefly to follow her. Soon after, House found himself in an elevator playing soft music as they went up a few floors. The whole time he was cautiously silent, just observed, but still nothing moved in his head.

After a few minutes, the elevator door opened with a low bell. The strange woman was the first to exit, House followed her limping way and Wilson went behind him. They were escorted to a brown door with the inscription "Dr. Darryl Nolan".

The young lady knocked, then opened the door a crack and stuck her head through to her superior. House could only glimpse inside.

"Dr. Wilson and Dr. House," she briefly introduced the visitors and opened the door completely to an inviting nod from Nolan so that the two men could enter. House heard her leave the room behind him and close the door.

So there they were, Wilson and House, and this stranger who apparently had treated the diagnostician himself. At first they just stared at each other, especially House looked at the person opposite with suspiciously narrowed eyes. He didn't recognize anything about him, he didn't seem familiar.

"Have a seat." Nolan made an inviting gesture of his hand on two armchairs that were standing by, facing a single one, in which the psychiatrist himself sat down shortly afterwards. Wilson sat down first, House hesitated before he finally did as well. He watched as Nolan took a clipboard with a few sheets of paper and a pen from a small table next to his armchair and laid it on his lap.

"Dr. Wilson told me what happened to you," he began. His voice was warm but firm. He looked directly at House. "I very much hope that this little session can help you make a faster recovery."

House nodded curtly in thanks.

"If you agree, I would follow Dr. Wilson's suggestion and tell you something about your stay here," Nolan continued, crossing one leg over the other.

House exchanged a quick look with Wilson before turning back to the strange man. Ever since they entered, he had tried to see anything about him that seemed familiar, but unfortunately to no avail.

"Sure, just start," House demanded dryly and leaned back in the chair, playing with his cane with one hand. Now he felt his pulse quicken and the excitement grabbed him. What was he about to find out about himself?

Nolan leaned back as well and let his gaze flicker quickly over the sheets in his hand a few times. House guessed that these were the records of his stay that he was going through again.

"You volunteered because of hallucinations." And so Nolan began to tell. "You have successfully underwent withdrawal from pain medication that was believed to have caused your psychosis. "

House blinked slowly. He heard about this for the first time. He looked questioningly at Wilson, who, however, had lowered his gaze to the floor.

And all of a sudden, House's stomach turned and he felt terribly sick. Suddenly Nolan's voice could no longer be heard, instead a muffled, almost painful noise blocked his ears and for a moment he felt as if he would pass out instantly. His whole body began to roar in protest when an image became so clear in his mind that it was able to scare him. Again he had slipped out of his own body in a way that enabled him to see himself, in a room - one might almost call it a cell - fixed on a bed, panting and sweating with pain. Under the roar in his ears, he heard desperate cries for help from his own mouth, and at that moment he felt as if he had to repeat them, for sudden bursts of pain and panic rose rhythmically inside him.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, he felt the leather of the armchair under his cramped hands, under the nails that dug into both armrests.

Nolan had stopped talking and was watching, Wilson had lifted his head and leaned a little worriedly in House's direction. But the situation was already beginning to ease again. The memory that had struck him like a bomb faded, leaving him cramped and rigid with shock.

When he recovered he was still feeling sick. He didn't know whether to be happy or sad now. That he had regained one of his memories, that Wilson's plan had its first effect, was gratifying. But he hadn't expected how his memories would play out. That they were so real, so real and tangible, as if he was there again.

"House..." he heard Wilson's voice next to him, obviously worried and also a little unsettled. He quickly made a defensive gesture.

"I'm fine," he replied harshly. Blinking quickly a few times, he caught himself again, forcing his body to relax and releasing the crushed leather from his grasp. He tried to make a composed impression on the outside, only his heart did not find its way back into the right rhythm straight away and pounded incessantly and downright panic against his chest until it ached.

But the soothing rest was just a ruse, because it didn't last long. House heard the first words that Nolan uttered again, but he couldn't understand them anymore, they sounded dull and far away.

The pain and nausea shot through his body again until he thought he was about to throw up. In his leg in particular, it felt like thousands of tiny needles were piercing it from all sides. He still felt how he grabbed his right thigh with his hand before the feeling subsided again and he lived through another memory paired with unspeakable pain.

This time he saw himself at Princeton Plainsboro, smashing his hand with a weight on a chest of drawers in his office and tears welling up in his eyes. The images swirled in his head, then he heard the voice of a woman penetrate his ear almost clearly.

"You wouldn't even be able to do it for a week without it," she said challengingly. House didn't understand. Without what?

But then this picture also faded again. Everything blurred in his mind's eye, turned, then became clear again and he recognized his apartment. Or rather, he recognized his bathroom, in which his hunched figure hung over the toilet bowl and gasped in agony, his aching leg stretched far away and frantically, almost in panic, rubbing over it.

And then it got dark. House didn't return to Nolan's office. The psychiatrist, like his best friend Wilson, had suddenly disappeared, and House saw nothing but yawning emptiness and darkness. No sound reached his ears anymore, he felt as if he had turned deaf. And then his consciousness slipped from him, soothing nothingness enveloped him and let him sink into the darkness.