He was awoken by a knock on the door. Slowly, he lifted his head. It felt heavier than a ton of bricks. "What," his horse voice said.
"Meds and vitals," the female voice on the other side of the door said. A nurse entered. She was older than the one from earlier; Lavender Scrub Nurse. Her face was pinched and she looked hardened; like she'd seen everything and nothing would surprise her. She put a thumb on House's wrist to check his pulse, then handed him a cup of pills. He was disappointed to see that it contained no Vicodin; only methadone and an antiemetic.
"Cold turkey, huh? Tried that already." He downed the pills in one gulp.
"You're on a moderately high dose of methadone which we'll be lowering in the next few weeks. Any nausea?"
"Not yet. I'm sure the answer will be different by…" he looked at the clock. "Noon today."
The nurse nodded slightly and replaced his saline drip.
"You know I'm capable of drinking water, right?"
"You won't be in a few hours." House could feel the snideness in her voice.
He looked towards the wall and took in the sickly greenish-yellow color. It looked like the puke that would be coming out of his body shortly. The nurse took his temperature.
"A psychiatrist will be in to talk to you while you're still lucid."
"Fine."
The nurse left without saying a word.
(LINE BREAK)
House didn't want to admit it, but the pain in his leg was already getting worse. He reached down to rub it.
"You're in pain?" a man's voice said.
"Yeah. How about you knock instead of playing scare the cripple?"
The man was wearing a tweed suit. He must have been 100, but his eyes were kind, and they reminded House of Wilson's. Same color. That meant he would probably try to get things out of him he didn't want to say.
The man chuckled. "Sorry about that, Dr. House." He had a British accent.
"England?"
He chuckled again. "Yes. Good ear. I'm Dr. Matterson. How are you feeling? Besides the pain."
"I'm fine. Don't need happy pills, thanks."
The psychiatrist smiled. "I'll get right to the point, Dr. House. Your colleague said you were exhibiting some suicidal ideation prior to being admitted."
"Which colleague?" House asked, already knowing the answer.
"Dr. Wilson."
"Sounds about right. You know, he's a little...challenged. Ask anyone."
"Really? He seemed intelligent to me."
House shifted to put more weight on his left side. "That's what he wants you to think."
"He also said you'd been taking well over the recommended therapeutic dosage of Vicodin and forging prescriptions."
"That would be about right."
"And why did you start taking that much?"
House shifted again, the pain starting to get worse. He gestured to his leg.
"Ah, yes. You had a leg injury about eight years ago that caused chronic pain in the limb, is that correct?"
"Wish it wasn't."
The doctor flipped through his file. "And you also reported hallucinations as a side-effect of the Vicodin?"
"Yes. You can read; good job."
The old man seemed unphased by his snideness. "And how do you know these hallucinations were a side-effect of the Vicodin and not grief from losing two friends in the span of a year?"
"Because I'm a doctor. A real one; not a psychiatrist."
He nodded. "Alright, well I'm going to start you on 25 mg Zoloft for mood stabilization and possibly to help with the nerve pain along with an antipsychotic to stop the hallucinations."
"They've stopped."
"For how long?"
"Since I got here."
"Well, being in a new environment could have caused them to wane, but they could come back, so I'm going to proceed with the antipsychotics."
"Fine…" House agreed, knowing he had no choice. He had no choice in any of this. It was all out of his control now. He wished he hadn't let Wilson sign him in as a physician. Then he could leave whenever he wanted. And he wanted to leave right now.
"Alright. Well I'm available whenever you need to talk, Dr. House. I know rehab can be a difficult process, even for doctors who know about the symptoms of withdrawal. You are going to crave Vicodin, and you are going to want to leave here."
"I already do. Now goodbye."
"Goodbye!" the psychiatrist said cheerfully.
(LINE BREAK)
He had been right about the noon thing. He had to drag himself as quickly as he could to the toilet and retched for what felt like hours until something finally came up. He laid his head on the cool porcelain. He may as well just stay here. He could already feel the next round coming.
(LINE BREAK)
He sweat and shook, sweat and shook...and hurt. He hurt. The pain in his leg radiated up his back and into his mouth, where he tried to suppress whimpers. Thankfully, the spasms hadn't started yet. He knew they would, though, and he didn't know if he could take it. In that moment, he wanted to end it. He could hear Wilson's voice telling the psychiatrist, "Suicidal ideation". He tried to push it out of his head.
The nurse came, fixing his drips and checking his vitals. He whimpered pathetically. "Put me on...something for the pain…"
"I can give you Ibuprofen," the nurse so helpfully suggested.
"Fine. Won't help but fine."
She gave him the small red pills and he swallowed them with none of the same vigor he used to swallow the white ones. They didn't do shit. He had given up with dragging himself to the toilet unless he had to shit, which was often. Instead, a bedpan lie beside him.
"Dr. House!" Dr. Lei boomed, or as much as the small man could boom. House winced. He had a searing headache.
"How are you feeling?" the doctor asked.
"Shitty…"
"That's to be expected. Anything we can do to help?"
"Vicodin…"
The doctor smiled a little. "Anything except that?"
"No…"
"Okay. Well the nurse said your temperature was a little elevated, and that she gave you Tylenol. Hopefully that will break the fever."
"Whatever...OW!" House yelped as his leg throbbed more. He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, the doctor was by his side.
"What just happened?" Dr. Lei asked.
"What just happened is you won't give me drugs so I'm in pain. Cause and effect."
Dr. Lei nodded. "Well just wait for the Ibuprofen. I'll check on you in an hour."
"Whatever…"
The doctor left and House was once again left alone with his pain. He knew the Ibuprofen wouldn't be kicking in anytime soon. He wished he could have a hot bath; water steaming over his body and easing the cramps. Unfortunately, there was no bathtub in the bathroom. Probably worried I'll drown myself...he assumed. He slumped back and closed his eyes, hand still bracing his bad leg, body skewed to the left. If it weren't for his disability, he'd be in the fetal position right now. Pathetic.