Title: Hex

Rating: T

Genre: Angst/Drama

Pairings: No specific pairings - Friendship

Summary: After "treating" a patient for a serious condition, Dr. House starts to exhibit the exact same symptoms himself. But it's nothing he can medically cure with a perscription - It's demonic possession.

A/N: Woohoo Chapter 4 and I still have more material left. Thank God I planned out this thing before starting to write. Thanks so much for the reviews, I hope you guys like this chapter!

runs with scissors: Nah I just named it Peaches for the sarcasm effect.

N.Beresford: Haha! You know I didn't even realize I pretty much covered all the meningitis symptoms until you mentioned it. However the neck pain was just from sleeping awkwardly, and the sensitive to light part was just because he woke up. I don't have House jumping to diagnose to himself because in my view he's excellent at looking at other people, but when it comes to himself he brushes it aside and doesn't want anyone to know or worry about him.

Hex - Chapter 4 Phase 1

"We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell."

- Oscar Wilde

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Thump.. thump.. thump.. The ball hit his shoe and then rolled across the floor and hit the far wall. What a waste of a day, waste of a life. He was tired of having this personal little pity party about his new sickness all by himself, and thought maybe if he did something else his brain power would fight off the fever with little swords and canes. That was just wishful thinking though, he was feeling worse. And it had only been a couple hours. Since when did sickness' creep up that fast anyway. He almost wanted to break out the whiteboard and start diagnosing himself, but figured it would be a waste of time since what he most likely was catching was the flu. It was flu season and all, as Cuddy had mentioned earlier. No big deal. A crappy head, maybe a puke here and there, and gone in 48 hours. He could tough it out like the little wounded soldier he was.

House shifted his position and leaned back in his chair, left leg propped up on the corner of his desk. He let his head roll back and almost felt like he was drunk.

He was tired too. After the whole Cameron incident which he hadn't gave much more thought over, he had begrudgingly tracked down Wilson and waited impatiently for him to write out a perscription for a refill of his precious vicodin stash. He remembered staring at the floor the whole time, and not making jokes about his friend's writing looking too feminine or any of that. After getting his bottle refilled, he had retreated back to the privacy of his office, clenching his jaw and not saying a word to anybody, not even Wilson who had given him a few looks.

He thought of popping out his little tv and channel surfing for something decent but decided the effort to fish it out of his bag was too much and just continued sitting there, staring at his ball across the room like a wounded four year old.

So many patients he had treated had seen right through his exterior. Knew that he was really a coward behind all the snide remarks and that he didn't just have a wall up, he had a whole goddamn brick building for protection. He had been living this way for so long, that that's the only thing he knew and that seemed right. He cured patients everyday, but the only person he couldn't seem to cure was himself. What made him think that the patients' lives were worth more than his?

He made his head level again, closed his eyes, and starting drawing imaginary circles on his right thigh, over the jean fabric. He would never admit that he hurt any place other than his leg. His leg was his defense. Oh, House looks sad today? His leg is bugging him. House is pissed off at the world? His leg. House is actually feeling something other than a dead feeling? He must be high on vicodin. In some ways he almost enjoyed having the handicap. It was his wall. Nobody could break down the leg. It was the grand excuse over all excuses. Now Cameron on the other hand, if she was sad, or angry, there was automatically some drama going on in her life that everybody had to know about. But not House. He even thought about getting a t-shirt that read on the back, "It's not me, it's the leg" and then he would never have to talk to anybody. Nobody would even be brave enough to challenge the shirt and stare into the commanding eyes of Greg House and tell him wrong. To ask him a direct question, ignore all of the sarcasm and wait out a real answer. No sir. He walked down the hallways and people scattered. He liked it that way, but sometimes he didn't. Nobody would ever know. Not while he was alive anyway.

He roughly rubbed his hands over his face and willed his mind to just shut up and think about Gilligan's Island, or something more playful. Deep thinking was bad and he wasn't known to do it that often. Deep thinking was a symptom. He didn't even want to think of the "disease" that would be causing the symptom, but it was there lingering in the back of his brain. Clinical depression. There, he had thought it. Now what? Was he going to turn into a pile of goo and go crash through the hallway sobbing and looking for flowers to smell and people to hug? Not likely. He would stuff that word back in the 'mental problems' box where it had come from. He'd need a bigger lock too. House was crazy, but not that sort of crazy.

His eyes opened and he stared out the glass doors out into the hallway as people walked to and fro, not even giving him a glance. Leg up on his desk, staring off into space. They were "scattering". His fever hadn't let up either. That was the problem then. The temperature was making him nuts. That's all it was, and felt a relief that all of this crap would be gone in a few days. He didn't need all of this stupid feelings creeping up in him again.

His glance went off the door and went towards the wall directly in front of him. The sunbeam from the window sat in a rectangular shape, and his eyes went around the outside, tracing.. What was light.. Light couldn't exist without darkness. The office had the light on, so what made the sunbeam that much lighter..

"House,"

There were no real 'days' because in reality, each day just repeated itself, over and over. Not just in daily events, but in a global aspect. Calender and time were made by man. Man did not create the universe. Maybe a true day equaled a year. Maybe there were no such things as days because who actually decided that when we sleep is the end of a day.. -

"Goddammit House!"

Snap. And a crackle and pop while he was it. Cuddy had again morphed into his office without him even noticing. How did that keep happening? He just wanted to be left alone, why didn't anybody get that.

His eyes moved slowly over the few feet and sat on her face. She was blurring around the edges just slightly.

"I need you down in the clinic now. Don't give me any comments, or any remarks about my blouse, just do it."

He had almost smiled at the fire raging within her (scatter) but resisted the urge to curl the sides of his lips up into god forbid - a smile. So he had won the first battle, she had rehearsed in her office for a few hours, and now she was back, pointing fingers and reading the script she had written down on her hand with a bic pen. It was a beautiful moment. He had barely even noticed that she had just ordered him to the clinic. He said nothing, but just stared at her.

"Well, did you hear me?" she prompted eagerly and threw out her hand, eyes widening.

House broke his gaze with her, swung his left leg off the desk, slowly took his cane and eased himself up from the chair. His head swam, and he slowly limped past her and out of the office living her alone and confused. She whipped around on her heel, and raised an eyebrow as she watched him walk away.

-----

Down in the clinic, House realized that Cuddy hadn't been lying. Every seat was filled and even a few strays stood against the wall, waiting to be seen. He had sort of expected that. Cuddy never asked him for "favours" unless she was desperate. She knew there was no point in asking him to be considerate of someone else because he'd just stall and stall until the one asking the favour would just get frustrated and give up.

Not feeling excited enough to complain he took the file without a word to the nurse and made his way over to Room 2. He just hoped that he could get through the day without having to change his clothes, hose off his cane in the men's room again, or attempt to examine a kicking and screaming kid's ear. House placed his hand on the door and pushed it open. Sure, he could have looked at the file to find out who he was going to be spending time with for the next five minutes, but he liked to be "surprised".

The coughing and sneezing from inside is what alerted House first, as he entered and shut the door behind him. A heavyset middle aged man sat on the bed, arms flailing around as his body as he sneezed and coughed repeatly, his plump face turning a cherry red.

House raised his eyebrows and took a seat next to the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. He sat patiently and waited for the man to calm down. The guy sneezed loudly and then it was quiet, as he continued to make various 'sneezing faces' waiting for the next one to come along.

"Are we done yet?" House asked the guy, but was cut off by that anticipated sneeze and cough.

"I-" the man sneezed, his head whipping down at the action, "can't stop," he coughed loudly and sneezed again, "sneezing and," he paused for more attacks.

"Yeah, yeah, I already got that part," House leaned his head against the wall behind him and closed his eyes for just a second. He opened them again, and rolled his eyes at the man in front of him in the cut-off shorts and white t-shirt that had "Class of 1981" scribbled across his chest in 'ancient t-shirt making' technology font.

The guy was going to ask him further about why he couldn't stop, but was interuppted again by more sneezes.

"Maybe you should stop the cocaine," House told the guy smugly and opened his eyes a little bit as if telling Mr. Snot that information would be doing him a favour.

The guy hacked wildly, not even bothering to cover his mouth with his closed fist anymore, and gave House a look in the process.

"Co-" Cough. "-aine?"

House put his full weight on his cane and stood up. He could have sat there all day with the man, waiting for him to spit out a sentence between spasms, but frankly the noise was making his headache worse. The guy was annoying him.

"Why did you drink icing sugar?" he asked, and knew the guy wouldn't admit it, even though it was all over his nose and mouth area like he had popped open a fresh bag and just dumped it onto his face.

Through sneezes Mr. Snot was trying to deny it, just what had House expected him to do.

"Stop drinking icing sugar. It's not good for your brain," And with that, he turned and left the room, letting the guy sneeze out the powder alone and look shamefully at his shoes.

Why did he always get the crappy clinic patients. Okay, he didn't always get the crappy ones; he remembered Chase going on and on one day about a kid with explosive diarrhea and a problem with keeping his clothes on - but other than that, he got crap. Gregory House was too intelligent for the clinic. It was an insult for him to even be walking the floors that reeked of some sort of industrial cleaner.

He made his way over to the nurse's station and dropped the file he hadn't even opened back on the desk. He had originally wanted to dump it in a wastebasket, but didn't need a short brunette with clacking heels following him around for the rest of the day.

A fly sat on the counter. Just sitting there, almost staring at him. House's eyes were drawn to it and he locked eyes on it. The nurse manning the "watchtower" slammed down about 20 files ontop of the fly and raised her eyebrow taking the file without any words. A fresh one was immediately stuck into his hand. House didn't bother informing her on the life she had just taken, but just groaned, got another look from the nurse, and checked the time on his watch. Hours and hours until he was free from the hostage situation.

-----

That night the television flickered in front of his face and painted the walls of his place with a blue color.

"T," House said aloud as Pat Sajack waited for the woman from "MISSISSIPPI!" to pick a letter to win her $500.

"Can I have a T!" The woman practically yelled, and began clapping and jumping once Vanna made her walk to overturn 5 Ts.

He rolled his eyes at the happy woman and slouched in his chair further. If that was even possible of course, he was almost practically laying down. What would make someone so happy winning on Wheel of Fortune. Wow, spin the rainbow wheel and guess the sentence that's up on the stage. Win a car. Win a vacation, or perhaps even a boat. Big deal. Those things just cost more money anyway, so they were probably just paying to win a prize.

The woman was spinning the wheel again, clapping, jumping, and yelling, "Big money! Big money!"

Why did the audience clap when someone spun the wheel? A retarded four year old with missing arms could spin that wheel. Were they so strong and intelligent for completing that task, they they actually deserved applause? He pondered and cringed as the audience clapped on. Maybe it was an audio track.

"N!" The woman screamed, and squealed when two Ns were revealed.

"Better to bend than to break," House solved the puzzle apathetically and afterwards didn't know why he had said it out loud. As if he had to prove to himself that he was intelligent and could beat a tv show puzzle.

The sound on the show went off stating their were only vowels left and the woman was ordered to solve the puzzle within the time limit.

He watched with sleepy eyes waiting for her to repeat what he had just stated, but she stared blankly at the board, biting her nails.

"Better to bend. Than to break." He told the woman again, hoping maybe this time she'd listen. The alarm went off and the woman's face fell. Sajack went to the next contestent, a man wearing black horn rimmed glasses and a grey suit and asked if 'Paul' could solve the puzzle.

Surely if he was wearing a suit, he could read as well. He stood there just as the woman had and shook his head a few times.

House's eyes perked up and he straightened his back out a bit as the shock of these idiot people on his television screen.

"Hey MORON, READ the BOARD," House said a little stronger now and was almost getting disgusted with humanity.

"Butter the .. bread than.." The man started, shook his head more as he was interuppted by the time alarm.

"Oh my GOD." He was pissed off now, even though he shouldn't have cared about some stupid show that had been on the air for roughly forty years. He picked up his remote and angrily pressed the power button, shutting off the idiots.

Darkness and silence engulfed him and he rested his head back wanting to sleep so bad.

-----

Sleep did not come. Every time he closed his eyes, the red grainy images of what he had seen recently flooded his eyelids. There was almost accompying whispers with the images, but he figured his brain was making all of that up just to torture him and make his eyes look like he was out all night smoking weed with a pack of teenagers. The Flu.. The Flu.. That's all this is.. Wait it out.. Go to work.. Smile once in a while.. Okay that's pushing it.

After sipping at a glass of water, making a face and splashing the rest into the sink, House padded into his bedroom to try once more for some much needed rest. He even thought of putting on some soft classical music before getting under the covers, but opted against it knowing he would probably need silence.

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By four o'clock he was sitting up in his bed, drenching his t-shirt with sweat and breathing heavily. He felt about 114 degrees. His adrenaline was pumping from some sort of nightmare he still couldn't put into words and his breathing was a little too rapid for a normal sleep session. House looked at the clock, cursed and then fell back onto the pillow.

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