He felt the pain spread through his body as the fiery tongues of hell itself were begging him to come join them. He had to arch his back slightly, closing his eyes as tight as they would go. He felt a scream coming on. He willed his eyes shut even more, shuddering as he released the scream silently. Nobody else needed to know of his inner torment. Nobody could know and truly understand what he was going through.
He collapsed back on the couch softly, listening to the calming notes of a Beethoven piece…one he's played since he was teenager. Even now, with the pain breaking through the ever-fading wall that morphine had built, his fingers twitched in the familiar chord progression. He frowned as he realized that it could just be twitching because of the pain, but what mattered?
His eyes closed again involuntarily. His frown increased when he realized that it wasn't him that turned on his radio. Distant realizations hit him like a ton of bricks, and his eyes flew open, a harsh breath following it. He shouldn't have moved so soon. The pain started up again and he curled up, knees touching his chest, nails digging into his palms, leaving red crimson moons as reminders of the harsh reality of waking up…especially on his couch.
There was a sound somewhere which sounded far off to him; the sound of the radio halting. A hand touched his shoulder, not as gently and reassuringly as it should have. House moaned quietly, and lay back down on the couch again. Once the frayed muscles and damaged nerves calmed down enough for House to open his eyes ever so slightly, he did a quick scan of his surroundings.
Wilson was the second thing he noticed, after his chest holding the morphine, who was towering above him, looking royally pissed. House grumbled a useless, meaningless, halfhearted, and nearly inaudible apology.
That started Wilson up.
"Sorry?" he hissed in a harsh whisper. "You're sorry? House, what the hell were you thinking?"
Wilson was just pushing the pain level up. The morphine was wearing off. House leaned over on his right elbow painfully and searched for his Vicodin bottle, sitting innocently next to the morphine.
If looks could kill, House would be dead.
"Have you completely lost it?" Wilson practically shouted, snatching the Vicodin bottle out of House's clammy hands.
House groaned and plopped back down onto the couch. His body shook as the morphine made its last effect, and ebbed away. "'Giff me 'dat." House murmured, slowly slipping back into unconsciousness.
"Not a chance!" Wilson said amazed. "Go the fuck to sleep; we're talking when you can put three words together."
House watched through half opened eyes as Wilson stalked away, grumbling.
Then, the darkness came again, and House welcomed it.