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: Still going with this one :) I take some time getting these chapters together because I try really hard to have the length as well as have something 'happen' in the chapter so it's not just filler. Hope there's at least a few people still reading! Next one will be better, promise.

Cat: Thanks! That's what I was going for. Sure I'm a fan of "The Exorcist", but I thought that would be too much for this story.

bows to all reviewers Ah the fly, you guys are too smart :D

Hex - Chapter 6 Leave Me Alone Pt. 2

"Fear is the dark room where the Devil develops his negatives."

- Gary Busey

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"Just two good old boys, never meanin' no harm... Beats all you never saw, been in trouble with the law

since the day they was born.." Wilson sang playfully to himself as he flipped the light on in his office and sat down his things on his desk. A mountain of paperwork sat on the left side and he rolled his eyes. Probably best to get started on that before his day actually begun.

It was quite early, usually too early for Wilson, but he had rode the couch the night before and had woken up around five o'clock. Not wanting to be in the same house as Julie anymore, he had jumped in the shower and escaped to Princeton.

Upon arriving he had noticed a certain red corvette in the parking garage. He had also noticed a certain red corvette in the parking garage when he had left the night before. Weird? Certainly, House was usually knocking down patients to fly out the door after his shift. Impossible? Not entirely.

Wilson stood behind his desk and looked down all the junk that covered the surface. He sighed, rubbed the back of his neck and started out of the office to go see what was going on with House.

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Five minutes later Wilson was standing outside House's office debating with himself. The blinds were drawn. Well that was also.. strange. His car was parked down in the garage already collecting dust, so he was most likely in there. Couldn't still be on the tumor case, House wouldn't drive himself insane over a puzzle, that would be going too far. Right?

He rapped softly on the door, usually not being so considerate with House's privacy because he usually didn't care about privacy.. with the glass walls and such.

No answer, what he expected. House probably wasn't even in there. He opened the door and poked his head in. Well House wasn't as his desk, it sat deserted, all electronics shut off for the night. He was about to leave to go check the cafeteria, or even the clinic, but saw him laying on his back on the floor. His first reaction was panic. Did he have another clot? Heart attack? Is he dead? Then he heard the snoring and he sighed and opened the door the rest of the way. He was actually sleeping on the floor of his office with his hands behind his head as a pillow. Wilson shut the door and sat down in the chair in front of the desk and crossed his legs. House wasn't the deepest sleeper in the world, he expected him to wake up as soon as he had entered the room. As if just a "presense" could stir him awake.

Wilson suddenly felt a little evil sitting with his legs crossed, hands clasped together over his lap. He could really do anything he wanted to his friend right now. Smother his hand in shaving cream and pull a feather out of the air to tickle his nose with, break out the bowl of warm water and pretend he was giggling with a bunch of buddies at a college frat party. Oh he could whip out a sharpie marker and write lude comments all over his forehead and cheeks. Or to go for a simplier and faster effect, he could just bend down and yell into his ear.

But that was all a little childish, he figured. He decided to go the chicken route and just candidly cough into his fist, hoping that would do the trick. Nothing. Wilson rolled his eyes and started to move his foot a little starting to feel a uncomfortable. Like he was a sick pervert or something. He sighed again and began to twiddle his thumbs, debating whether he should just yell or what.

"Quit twiddling your thumbs so loud, you're giving me a headache," House suddenly said from the floor still motionless, eyes closed.

Wilson was shocked that House was actually awake and apparently now psychic.

"Is there a reason why you're sleeping on your floor?" he asked and stopped with the thumbs at House's request.

"I've fallen and I can't get up," he said and for a minute Wilson thought he was serious and needed help, but he was just getting his leg pulled. House slowly got to his feet with the help of the side of his desk and sank down into his desk chair. All the events of the day before flooded back to him and he placed his arms under his lap under the desk so Wilson couldn't spot the rash fungus growing up his arm like a tree root. The sleep had done him good. It probably would have felt better laying up in his own bed at home, but there was some sort of feeling that existed the day before where he just didn't want to leave the office. As if as soon as he walked outside the door he would be run down by a bus. Yeah, run down by a bus in a hospital, that's real probable.

Wilson sat and watched him.

"Aren't you going to pop a bottle of vicodin or something?"

Yes, House thought, and grit his teeth, if you leave. Instead he said nothing and gave Wilson a look sitting across from him, slowly scratching his arm without even noticing he was doing it.

Wilson raised his eyebrow at House's silence and lack of narcissism.

"Are you okay?" he asked, and as soon as the question escaped his lips he immediately regret it. House hated that question most of all, and here was his best friend sitting across from him asking it. His eyes went up to meet Wilson's and he turned a little sour.

"I'm fine," he sat with a grunt and just wished Wilson would scamper away and leave him alone. He didn't need anybody to baby him.

Wilson shifted in his chair, simply looking at House with that 'you're lying, there's something you're not telling me' look.

"And I suppose that rash that you're hiding from me is also fine?" he motioned towards the arm House had tucked beneath the desk. House let out a breath and looked away, annoyed by his friend's super human attention to detail.

"That damn drawer got me again," he replied in an animated voice which suddenly died as soon as he said the statement.

"Let me see it," Wilson urged knowing that he was entering no-man's land, but hoped House would just shut up and listen to him this time, like he had done the last time.

"Get bent," House muttered at his desk and Wilson raised his eyebrow in response, but didn't let it phase him one little bit.

"What's been going on with you lately? Cameron's been to my office several times about your behavior, you're not taking any new cases, you're more rude than usual.." Wilson trailed away from House, but snuck his eyes back to seek out some sort of human reaction.

House stared at the top of his desk.

"You're making yourself sick over that disappearing tumor, aren't you? Even you can't solve that one, so it's slowly eating you up inside, how there is finally something you can't fix with a moment of epiphany-"

"Wilson-" House warned, interuppting.

"-You should just be satisified that the kid got better, who cares how it happened. Maybe he prayed to his God every waking minute and something up there took pity on him, no harm, no foul."

House gave up and put his head down on the desk, forehead resting on the cool surface, face looking down at the floor.

"Talk to me House, tell me what's going on," Wilson urged, but not too desperately.

"I dropped my lollipop while I was jogging the one hundred metre an hour ago," he raised his head quickly, and said as sarcastically as he could ever say anything. His head was lowered afterwards.

Wilson didn't smirk, or snort, or make any sort of humourous expression at all. The situation wasn't humourous anymore, he was concerned.

"What is it, is it the leg?" Wilson asked with a little more rant than he had intended. House snapped up his head. Oh great, Wilson thought, he was about to make a speech.

"What leg? Why in the world would you even ask about my legs? Why not my arm," he raised his arm and flapped it wildly,"Wow works just fine, maybe I can fly away like a little birdie. My leg is exquisite, thanks for the thoughtful head nod on acting interested with my general well-being. I'm really just a huge leg you know, maybe I need to buy a big huge walking shoe to go with it. What color should I get?" he put his finger to his chin and looked at the ceiling, "What color should I get Dr. Wilson, what color should I get for my huge walking shoe?"

"House," Wilson got the point, House could can the act now.

"Oh no, no, Dr. Wilson," House stood up faster than Wilson had expected in his current 'dead' condition. He walked to the middle of the office without the use of his cane which sat by his desk and threw his arms in the air, the rash in plain sight. Wrist to elbow, Jesus. "I need to choose a color for this big gigantic shoe. Red do you think? Red is the angry color, would fit me well, don't you think? Or maybe blue, because we all know it would 'go with my eyes'. How about yellow? No wait, that's the color of everything that is icky and spilled on the clinic floor."

Wilson narrowed his brow and studied House ranting around like a madman about a gigantic shoe. No cane.. no cane. He's putting weight on his bad leg - how?

House paced around in circles, alternating from having his hands behind his back, to a hand up at his chin as he thought outloud about the colors of the rainbow.

"You know what color I always liked? Black. Yes that's what it should be, one big black gigantic shoe. But oh no, it's not going to a dress shoe if that's what you're thinking, those are for weddings and fancy things." House stuck out his right leg without thinking and jerked around his foot as he looked at his own sneaker. "And do I look like I'm such a fancy guy? Not really." He paced around again and then stopped in mid stride and looked at the wall.

Wilson sat watching him, wondering if he had just lost his train of thought or was done with his episode. House's eyes went from the wall and met Wilson's. It was almost a confused look on each man's face. Wilson didn't know what to say or think after something like that.

The gaze broke, and House went to scratch his red arm as he sat back down at his desk, looking anywhere but the man sitting in front of him.

"Could you just leave me alone," he finally asked, looking defeated, tired, embarrassed and pained all at the same time.

Wilson said not one word and stood up a minute later. By the time he was outside the office, House was still in the same position looking off to nowhere in particular.

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Hours passed.. or something. He popped open the vicodin and spilled the whole bottle into his hand by accident.

What if I just ate all of this, he thought to himself feeling the pills rolling around eachother in his open palm. Just slam his hand back and crunch down on the whole bottle until white spit was foaming at the sides of his mouth. No, that would be a disgusting discovery for whoever found his body. It wasn't just a matter of eating a bottle of pills and drifting into sleepyland.. There'd be vomit and lots of it, all over the place. He'd turn into a sick freak and would be found dead with claw marks on the floor on his way to the washroom..

He dumped over his hand and let the pills lay out on some paper and popped three before he could think any more.

So what would be the best way to off oneself.

A hanging? Ugh that would just be a weird feeling. Dangling in the air with nothing but a rope cutting into your throat. Not only could you not breathe, but your throat would be hurting the whole time. No thanks.

The 'ol toaster in the bathtub? The image of his skeleton ass laying baked in a bathtub with a cooked toaster floating around filled his mind and he shuddered at the thought of someone finding him dead that way. He'd have to put on a pair of shorts first. Toaster was out.

How about a good ol gunshot to the head? Never fails. Sure it fails, he'd seen it himself. Guy blows a bullet through his temple, is rescued by a super hero and ends up a drooling vegetable in a wheelchair.

Okay you're starting to piss me off, how about the fifteen year old angsty slashing of the wrists thing all the kids are doing? Oh yeah, like that would work. He'd just be caught sitting in a pool of blood with a box cutter and those big eyes looking up at whoever found him that messed up. Then he'd be strapped to a bed and taken to a padded room.

Before House was aware of what was happening, his left hand held a pen loosly and he was scribbling something on the bottom of a document.

Foreman burst in.

House took control of his hand and attempted to cover up the piece of paper not even having any idea what he'd written.

"Why didn't you take the case?" Foreman demanded and stuck his head forward like he was a chicken.

"Because I'd rather watch TV," House answered dryly, still holding the pen in his left hand.

"You're not left handed." The young doctor pointed towards his hand holding the pen awkwardly. House looked down, tossed down the pen and crumpled up the piece of paper into a ball, tossing it in the garbage behind his desk.

"I can write with my toes too, would you like to see that? It's actually a neat trick," House said in an amazed voice, ignoring Foreman's comment and trying not to look 'weird'.

The young doctor in front of him seemed to eat his words for a second and then brought his voice down a register.

"This is a good case. Something's going on with this kid. Did you even read the file?"

"I glanced at it." House lied. Well, he had tried to glance but that hadn't actually worked to his advantage.

Forman's eyes went down beside House's hands that were gripping eachother on top of the desk, and zeroed in on the whole bottle of pills spilled in a pile. He was about to say something about it, probably a lecture when House raised his index finger to silence him.

"Run along now Eric, you friends are getting lonely on the playground without you."

Foreman rolled his eyes, kept his mouth shut and left the office, beat once again.

House waited until he was out of sight and then deeply closed his eyes taking a deep breath. He then leaned to the side and picked up the ball of paper he had thrown out a minute earlier.

He smoothed it out flat on his desk using his sweaty hands and looked down at the pen scribbles courtesy of his left hand.

do it now

was all that was written, all lowercase, written in an angle up the page. He immediately crumpled up the paper again and tossed it back into the garbage can. He'd do nothing.

Right?

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