Painkiller
Author: Mrs. Ronald Weasley
Rating: PG-13 or T
Pairing/s: Slightly House/Wilson
Warnings: Drug use
Category: Angst/Drama
Summary: House falls to darkness. Companion piece to Crash and Burn.
A/N: Written on request from sydneylover150. Hope you enjoy it dear! Although it may not be as angsty as the last, I hope it answers your questions!
A bolt of white-hot pain seared through House's thigh, lancing through the prominent scar that marred the once smooth skin. He looked around, shiftily shooting mad looks at the small tin box that sat in front of him, as if it'd jump up and attack him. No such misfortune was going to occur, he decided, so he pushed his door shut with his cane.
Greg heavily sighed with vast relief; then he carefully opened the box on his nightstand, the small container with little dents that he alone could open. It opened quietly, without protest, as if it was heavily greased. Inside of the box were several hollow cylinders of a translucent orange plastic with a white rubber cap closing each one. The containers were filled with large capsules like that of a long cylinder with rounded ends and full of a thick liquid. The labels on the bottles, yellowed and dusty, were still barely legible.
Morphine.
Another bottle – a smaller bottle that's frosty white, filled with yellowish liquid and with an eyedropper attached. The jet-black text was illegible, the white background blurred into various shades of grey where the edges of the black ink smeared into white paper. House knew what it said, and he used it often, more often now than ever. The liquid was a mild tranquilizer. A translucent white syringe rolled next to it, sterilized needle gleaming dangerously.
Wordlessly, he took the syringe and, placing the needle into the liquid, sucked it in. He wouldn't bother with the morphine at the moment; he wanted fast relief, a rush of surging adrenaline, drugs and then… nothing. Just a void of black nothingness that he could float, swim, obliviously in.
The syringe was full. He pierced his left arm in the pale, tiny scar that he had poked at least a dozen times before with that syringe, and dug it deeper as swiftly as possible. He couldn't savor the pain. He needed the painkiller almost desperately, with an urgent need like animal lust, but deeper, stronger, raging in him, roaring in his ears…
He plunged the syringe down, forcing the liquid into his bloodstream, and as the searing pain in his thigh and arm numbed, the crazed look in his fevered blue eyes flickered and died. House was free from pain, free from this world, free from his cheating love, free from ever having to feel anything again. The spiritual manacles were cast aside, the shackles torn off, and he was simply free.
He had conquered his oppressors, temporarily, until the painkiller wore off…