Notes and disclaimer in Part One. As always, thanks to everyone that reviewed.
Extrabitter: thanks for the info and personal experience; I'm definitely going to try and keep it in mind. My friend and research defnitely agree that it's subjective as each person tolerates and reacts to meds differently.
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Take the missed dose as soon as you remember. Do not take a double dose of this medication. Wait the prescribed amount of time before taking the next dose.
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More PT. He always pushed himself in that respect. He hated the crutches with an absolute passion and with a little Vicodin in his system, finally managed to bear a small amount of weight on the leg.
So, he ordered himself a cane. And not one of those crappy aluminum deals the hospital doled out. A wooden one, from one of those fancy catalogues he managed to get his hands on while watching a three a.m. infomercial. It arrived it the mail in a long, thin package that itself was already a fantastic alternative to the crutches.
It hurt like hell at first. And when the pain settled, it still hurt more than before and his hand and shoulder felt the pressure of the added weight. But it was freedom, in a way. A cane was easier to carry. Less bulky. It didn't stop the stares, but nothing did. Things were different. Whether on crutches or welding a cane, people still held pity in their eyes as they offered you their seat on the bus or opened a door.
He wished they'd disappear. They didn't and instead, his thoughts about returning to work did.
Wilson had been pushing him to go back to work. And surprisingly, so was Cuddy. His physician had recently become the interim Dean, although word on the street was she'd be the permanent Dean before the year was out, and she was looking to get him off his medical leave of absence. But he knew the looks patients gave him as he limped through the front doors on his way to physical therapy. Would they look at him any differently if he threw on a white coat and tried to treat them? He didn't like dealing with patients much before, hated clinic hours, considering them a necessary evil he had to endure in order to tackle the big mind-boggling mysteries of medicine. Dealing with patients who gave him a sympathetic glance or were bold enough to ask what happened to him would just make the entire process even more painful.
In light of her recent promotion, Cuddy had turned his care over to another doctor named Boulder, that lived up to the expectation his name suggested and that House rarely saw. Instead, he'd walk up to Wilson's office from PT, fish out the prescription pad he knew Wilson kept in his front drawer, and wait for his friend to return and fill it out.
Much easier than seeing the new guy.
Wilson objected, being the man he was, but even he caved, as House figured James learned writing the dose out and handing the paper over was easier than continuing to argue with him. Either way, he got Vicodin and no questions. Not ones he couldn't dance around, anyway.
One particular day, Greg sat back in Wilson's chair, his legs propped up on another chair, his hand absently rubbing his thigh, and his empty pill bottle next to the computer screen. The prescription pad lay on top of the small pile of charts James had currently piled in his inbox, a pen conveniently next to it. His eyes were on the game of Solitare he had open on Wilson's computer screen.
Wilson entered, lab coat on and pocket protector in place, as usual, and stopped in front of the desk.
"I just wrote for you, House."
He clicked the mouse across the computer screen. "Nah."
Wilson picked up the bottle. "Last week."
Greg shrugged. "It's been a bad week. Extra PT session and all."
Wilson grabbed the pad and bypassed the pen for one from his pocket. "You only have an extra session because you skipped out on PT completely last week."
"I was tired."
"No, you weren't."
"General Hospital was on. Getting good and all."
"I'm sure it was." Wilson handed him the scrip. "You need to go."
He said nothing and carefully lifted his feet off the chair, using his hands to lift the right down. He couldn't help the groan that escaped. Wilson passed him his cane.
"New tie?" he asked, gesturing towards the blue and white striped piece of material Wilson was currently sporting. "Who are you trying to impress?"
"No one. And it's not new."
He smiled. "Oh, it's new and it's definitely for someone considering it's a vast improvement over your usual Thursday morning neck attire. Probably for that new pretty red-headed nurse I saw walk by your office and peer in when I got here."
"Julie? She and I are just friends."
"Julie, huh? See, you know her name already. Not just friends."
"So, I know her name. Most people would consider that a normal, friendly thing to know about their coworkers. Maybe you should try it sometime."
"Not worth the effect. You see, every new useless thing I learn just pushes some other useless thing out. And I'm already cock full of all the useless trivia my brain can handle." He got out of the chair and made his way to the door, stopping at the doorway. "Although, I do suppose it's a good thing I own a tux."
Three weeks later James was engaged again and House was sprawled out on his sofa, leg propped up, watching Entertainment Tonight and shaking his Vicodin bottle. The distant rattle told him he probably had about seven left, give or take a couple. Eerie that he knew such a thing, considering it was kind of drug addict sense and all, but he thought of himself as simply observant.
The TV screen flashed to a commercial and he flipped the lid. His last dose was a little over three hours ago, and while that was a decent amount of time, Wilson, Boulder, and his own medical training reminded him he needed to wait at least four, maybe even try and stretch it to six.
But he was in pain. PT was hard that day and he'd been on his feet so much that his ankle was even swelling. Probably enough of a concern to call Boulder's office and schedule an appointment, but taking another Vicodin or two was a much more appealing option.
He dumped two pills out into his hand and stared a moment at them. It had been over three hours; that was pretty close to four.
He swallowed them dry, the bitterness sitting on his tongue even after the pills were gone, and tried not to think about the fact he'd probably be needing another refill a little earlier this time.
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Other, less serious side effects may be more likely to occur. Continue to take Vicodin and talk to your doctor if you experience: constipation; dry mouth, nausea, vomiting, or decreased appetite; dizziness, tiredness, or lightheadedness; muscle twitches; sweating; itching; decreased urination; or decreased sex drive.
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He finally went back to work. Cuddy offered him his own department, a new one they had been discussing – the Department of Diagnostics. House could now call himself a diagnostician, although one could argue that every doctor was one of those, so that title was really just full of crap.
Still, it sure sounded good. Too bad he didn't care. Too bad he simply sat in his brand new office in the brand new shiny glass encased wing of the hospital thanks to yet another big shot donor offering up millions. Simply sat and played with his Gameboy. He completely mastered six different games over the course of two months.
And treated a grand total of three patients – and one of them was over the phone. The other two were so easy to fix that it was laughable.
Cuddy's brow furrowed and she shoved him in the direction of the clinic, reminding him of his obligation, telling him he needed to actually treat patients.
Well, after the first woman gave him a sad glance and a ten-year-old asked him if he was a patient or a doctor, despite the fact that he was wearing the telltale white coat, he limped straight out of the clinic and into Cuddy's newly settled office and announced he was through with clinic duty. Surprisingly, she didn't badger him about it.
He also stopped wearing the white coat. He knew he was a doctor; the rest of the world didn't need to know. Let them think he was a patient for all he cared. It gave him less people for him to try and care about.
He started throwing letters asking for consults in the trash and ignored his answering machine.
Cuddy suggested he hire a staff. Two or three doctors. Probably hoped it would turn him around. He looked at resumes, but never held interviews. Instead he spent his time dividing them all into three neat stacks – interesting, average, and no way in hell. Then he ignored them.
To be honest, most afternoons, after he ate lunch, he was tired and nauseous, and sat back and pretended those symptoms were side effects of the cafeteria, and not of the continuing amounts of Vicodin he was taking.
Not the Vicodin, right. And it wasn't the Vicodin that had him disinterested in both the opposite ex and his right hand.
Just like the picture of he and Stacy didn't taunt him from his lower right hand drawer.
God, Stacy.
Every so often, he'd think of her. Wonder where she was, what she was doing, if she was as miserable as he was. Most of time, he truly hoped she was. On rare occasions, he didn't.
He simply didn't hope for anything.
Time passed and the seasons started to blend together. Winter came around again and the icy streets taunted him. He'd given in to a few things; gotten hand controls for his car when it was apparent his leg couldn't handle the gas pedal, at least not for extended periods of time. And to be honest, he didn't drive often – he really wasn't supposed to when he was on his meds – so he only drove to work when he needed to. But the ice was a different animal all together. The ice he couldn't completely avoid by simply taking the bus.
He was standing on the sidewalk outside the hospital's main doors when the inevitable happened.
He slipped.
Which of course meant he fell, and of course he fell on his leg and the entire world seemed to think that was some kind of big deal. Unfortunately, when he couldn't get back up, he was forced to realize it might just be that.
He refused help and Cuddy had called Wilson, who had dragged a wheelchair out over the snow and after some prodding, finally forced him into it.
"You're not calling Boulder," he insisted, glaring at anyone that dared to stare at him as Wilson pushed the chair through the ER and towards an exam room.
"Oh, and why shouldn't I do that? That's right, you're fine. Can't support yourself on the leg even with the cane, but yep, still fine."
"He'll probably want to do an MRI." House was thankful when they reached the gurney, despite the fact that the ER was far from secluded, but at least it was currently fairly quiet.
Wilson stopped the wheelchair. "And again, that's a bad thing because…?"
"Boulder's too obsessive."
"Most doctors would consider that being through."
"Most doctors aren't me."
"Of course not. How silly of me to think that."
House just glared and reached into his pocket for his familiar pill bottle. He pulled it out only for Wilson to snatch it out of his hands.
"Hey, that's mine! Get your own."
"They'll just mask the symptoms. You know that. Besides, didn't you take one an hour ago?"
He just reached out for the pills. "In case you didn't notice, I fell and it hurts."
"Oh, now it hurts. Funny, because just two minutes ago I could swear you said it was fine."
"James."
Wilson shook his head. "Seriously, no. Not until I or Boulder takes a look at that leg."
"You or Boulder? You're giving me a choice?"
"You should be that lucky. I look, if it's serious, I call Boulder."
"How about you look and give me back my Vicodin?" House reached out again for the pills, but Wilson lifted them out of reach. "Nice. Taunt the cripple while you're at it." He sighed. "You're a sadist, you know."
"I try." Wilson leaned against the gurney. "You need help? Because we can't really do this with you in that chair."
He looked from the gurney to the wheelchair to Wilson. He shifted and felt slightly lightheaded and wasn't sure it was from the fall, the leg, the pills, but he supposed it didn't matter in the end. He was a silent a moment.
"Yeah," he admitted. "I do."
Three months later he received a phone call and hired his first staff member, a young Australian named Robert Chase.
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End Part Two. More to come.