Chapter 3
Day Three – In Therapy
House sat in the brown leather chair, staring intently at the chessboard on the table. Quig sat opposite him, staring just as intently at House.
"This isn't going to work," House said.
"I could have told you that three moves ago," Quig replied. House shook his head.
"The rehab."
"I know."
House looked up in surprise. Quig continued to study him, but said nothing. You couldn't push House to talk; you had to wait for him.
"How do you know?"
"Are you asking as a friend, or do you want my professional opinion?" Quig asked.
"Both," House answered.
"Well, as your friend, I'd say that I don't think its going to work because you won't ask for any help. You're embarrassed, or you think people won't respect you if you admit you can't do it by yourself. And I'd say that I really wish you would ask, because I would help you." Quig said.
"And your professional opinion would be what?" House asked.
"Trust," Quig replied. He leaned forward and moved his queen.
"That's it," House said. "That's your brilliant, professional insight? Wow, I can sure see why they pay you the big bucks." House reached to the board to move a pawn.
"If you can't trust people, you certainly can't ask them for help. Everybody lies, right. And so, everybody screws up and nobody can be trusted." Quig looked at House for confirmation, while picking up his bishop and making another move.
"And how does that song go? People who need people are the luckiest people in world, right?" House quipped. He moved quickly, almost angrily.
"You don't even trust yourself," Quig answered.
"That doesn't even make sense," House complained. He watched Quig move another piece on the chessboard. "Don't trust myself to do what?"
"You don't trust yourself to feel things. It's led you to nothing but pain. It's why you distanced yourself from your parents, from your last girlfriend, from Dr. Cameron and why you've been self-medicating for the last six years. If you can't feel anything, you don't have to trust yourself. Makes for a very uncomplicated life. Also lonely and boring." Quig looked at House. "Your move."
"My life isn't boring," House countered, moving another piece quickly.
"No, your work isn't boring. What about your life outside the hospital?" Quig studied the board, looking at House again. He moved another piece. "Do you trust Dr. Cameron?"
"Sure, she'd a good doctor. She's a little emotional, but she's getting that under control," House answered. He moved his queen again, taking one of Quig's pieces.
"I don't mean as a doctor. I mean Allison Cameron. Do you trust her? Would you trust her with you?" House just looked at him.
"You're afraid of her," Quig said.
"That's ridiculous," House replied.
"No, it isn't. In fact, it comes right down to the problem. You're afraid of her, and you're afraid of you with her. You're afraid, because you're falling in love," Quig moved a last piece. "Checkmate."
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Day Four
House sat at the piano, his fingers torturing the keys mercilessly. He had been playing for hours, trying to keep his mind off his withdrawal and Cameron. His fingers finally began to cramp and he was forced to stop playing. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He stood up from the piano and went to the kitchen to make himself something to eat. He was still having headaches and shakes, but the nausea had at least subsided enough for him to eat. He made himself a peanut butter sandwich and then sat on the couch to watch some TV. Just then, the telephone rang. House ignored it, in no mood to speak to anyone.
"You have reached a number that is no longer in service. Please hang up, but don't redial," House's answering machine said.
"House? Are you there? Pick up the phone, I know you're home." Wilson's voice paused as he waited for House to pick up the phone. "House?" Wilson let out a long sigh. "Fine, don't pick up. I'll just keep calling." The machine beeped when Wilson hung up.
Several minutes went by, and the phone rang again. House gave an annoyed growl. Apparently Wilson was serious about constantly calling. House was about to pick up the receiver and hang up on Wilson when the machine answered again.
"House?" Cameron's voice asked. "Are you okay? Jimmy called and wanted to know if I'd heard from you. He seemed kind of upset. Did you two have a fight about something?" House closed his eyes and let Cameron's voice wash over him. "Well, I know you don't want to talk about it, so I'll just tell Jimmy to drop by and check on you…" Cameron let her voice trail off. House groaned and then lifted the receiver.
"I don't want to talk to Wilson," House said.
"I know that. That's why I was going to tell him to stop by," Cameron answered.
"Hey, I thought you liked me," House said in a wounded voice.
"What ever gave you that idea?" Cameron laughed softly. "Are you okay? Jimmy's either really upset with you or really worried about you."
"I'm fine," House sighed. "Just had a rough day yesterday, that's all. You know Jimmy, he worries about everything."
"No, I know he worries about you. You're not getting sick, are you?"
"No, despite swapping spit, I don't have any of your germs," House quipped.
"Ha, ha. Sometimes your wit is astoundingly like what I remember from the fifth grade," Cameron replied.
"Ouch! You sound better," House commented.
"I'm okay. I'm still tired, but I'll be back to work on Monday," Cameron said.
"Good, Chase's coffee is awful," House replied. He would be glad to see back to work.
"Aw, did you miss me?" Cameron teased.
"You'll never get me to admit it," House answered.
"Fess up, you missed me," Cameron teased.
"I don't confess to anyone," House retorted.
"Is that a challenge?" Cameron asked. "How about a deal? I'll confess something to you first, then you can confess to me."
"What could you possibly have left to confess about? My god Cameron, did you kill somebody?" House asked.
"No, nothing like that. I'll confess it to you, but you have to swear not to use it against me," Cameron answered.
"Hmm," House mused. "Whatever it is must be good, otherwise you wouldn't care. I'm not sure I can keep that promise, but I'll try."
"My middle name is Henrietta," Cameron said.
"Henrietta? Sounds like something you'd name a chicken," House laughed.
"Very funny. Don't tell anyone. I hate that name. It was my great-grandmother's name. She raised my mom after my grandmother died, so my mom used it for my middle name. So, now you confess to me. You missed me, didn't you?"
"Here's my confession, I don't hate all country music," House replied.
"That's cheating!" Cameron protested.
"I said I'd confess something, I did NOT say I would answer a question. You got your confession, didn't you?" House asked.
"That's not the confession I wanted, and you know it," Cameron complained.
"You have years to go before you can toy with the master," House said in his most self-congratulatory tone.
"Yes, Master. I'll just go back to my bottle now," Cameron sneered. House laughed. "I'm actually tired. If you're okay, I'll see you Monday? And I'll tell Jimmy you're fine and to leave you alone."
"Thanks. See you Monday," House replied. "Cameron? I did miss you." House hung up before she could reply.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the couch. He felt a little better. How did she do that to him?
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Day Five
House bolted upright in bed, panting and clutching his chest. He felt like he could barely breath; his chest was tight and pained. He was sweating and dizzy. Looking around the room, he had a hard time getting oriented, even though he recognized everything around him. He felt detached, like his surroundings weren't real, maybe he was still dreaming?
House rubbed his palm over his face and realized his hands were shaking. This was not a dream. He was having a panic attack. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to regulate his breathing. He'd never had chest pains or discomfort before, but he knew it was a possible symptom of his withdrawal. That was probably what was causing him to have a panic attack. Forcing himself to concentrate on the logical, he was able to get his breathing under control. He opened his eyes and looked at his alarm clock. 4am.
House lay back down on the bed and covered his face with his arm. Remnants of a dream were tumbling through his mind. He'd had a nightmare. He was in the hospital, and Moriarty had come into the conference room. Except in the dream, Moriarty didn't shoot House, he shot Cameron and then shot himself. Foreman rushed into the hall to get a nurse and call security, while Chase dropped to Cameron's side. Chase checked her pulse, then looked at House and shook his head. That was when House woke up.
Of course he'd been dreaming about the shooting since it happened, but his Vicodin hazed dreams weren't quite the same as this. And in all his other dreams, he'd been the one being shot, not Cameron. Somehow, this dream was much more disturbing.
House looked at the clock again. 4:30. There was no way he was going back to sleep now. He grumbled as he got out of bed and made his way into the living room. It would be a good two hours of watching the home shopping channel before anything decent came on TV.
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By 10, House was feeling awful. He was exhausted, but couldn't sleep. He was starving, but the smell of any food made him so nauseous he couldn't eat. He was sweating, but cold. Nothing on the TV could hold his attention.
House sat at the piano, hoping to lose himself in the music. He tried to calm the shaking in his hands before laying his fingers on the keys. He closed his eyes and willed his hands to be still. There was nothing he felt like playing. All his favorites pieces seemed too happy or too sad, too fast or too slow.
House remembered the piece he had been playing the night Cameron brought over pizza, and that she'd told him he should play for an audience. His fingers began moving, almost of their own accord, and he began the piece. After the fifth missed note, he stopped. Frustration quickly turned to anger as he regarded the piano. He'd always found solace in music and now he couldn't even manage a simple piece. He slammed his fists on the keys in rage, the resulting noise only deepening his anger.
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House sat on the couch, staring hard at the gray metal box. He'd been staring at that box for nearly an hour. Reluctantly, he opened it, revealing the vials and syringes inside. In that box were two vials of morphine; morphine that he had carefully and secretly stockpiled over the last six years. One vial was nearly empty, the result of some rather careless use on his part before the shooting. The second vial was full.
The first vial contained just enough morphine for a really good high. It was tempting. The second vial contained enough to be fatal. He wasn't suicidal, just analyzing, he told himself. He stared at those two vials for a long time.
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House reached for the phone, the box, vials and syringes spread out on the table in front of him. He'd filled a syringe, but hadn't used it yet. House dialed a number and waited. Wilson's voice mail picked up. House disconnected without leaving a message. Still staring at the syringe, he dialed a second number. This time the machine at Wilson's place picked up. Again, House disconnected. He picked up the syringe and rolled it in his hands. He placed the syringe back on the table and dialed a third number. This time Cameron's voice mail picked up. House cursed. He leaned back into the couch.
He sat up again and dialed the phone. A voice on the other end answered.
"Hey," House said. "It's Greg."
