A/N: Ok, I tried to research the whole medication thingy, but it's just sooooo damn complicated. (My own damn fault to give him an illnes like this, I know!).
Well, last night I eventually came to the point when I wanted do hand House a box of aspirin and tell him to be content with it or snuff it.
I then decided to make the medical stuff as vague as possible. If anyone has any suggestions as to what he can and can't take with his conditions, I'd gladly change the story accordingly!

Further A/N: This capter is dedicated to chaoskir and her lovely braincell! Hope she doesn't kill me for posting on weekends:-)

--------------------------------------------------------

House went to his second appointment with Montague on Friday and it didn't go just as well as the first one. Montague tried to talk him into going to a shrink and then he began talking about depression and not dealing with issues...

It had taken all of House's self-restraint not to start a screaming match or go storming out indignantly.

If Wilson only knew what I'm willing to go through for him...

At least Montague's ideas about the change in his medication were acceptable. He'd had a talk with Roberts and they'd co-ordinated his meds: House was willing to try the new medication and see how it worked out. What he was adamant when it came to seeing a shrink.

Don't need anyone trying to fuck with my head, thank you very much!

His head was perfectly fine as it was. And besides, the two times in his life he'd tried talking to a shrink, he'd ended up analysing their life and problems instead of his own. Since then he'd stayed well clear of that kind of crap.

When Wilson came home, looking all hopefull and wanting to know how the appointment had gone, House only gave him a rather abreviated version. He basically stuck to the meds-part and left out all the arguing about his mental state.

Once he had finished Wilson seemed relieved. House thought about telling him the rest, but then decided it wasn't worth upsetting the peace they'd so recently established. He could always tell Wilson about it later or better yet never at all.

House started his physical therapy the following week. He had simply refused to join an existing group „I'm not a group-session-kinda-guy.", but he had agreed to do all the activities his therapist suggested.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He returned to work after his two weeks off, glad to be out of the apartment and have something to occupy his mind. Sitting around with nothing to do but watch TV and talk to Steve McQueen had had a bad effect on his moods, as Wilson had quickly discovered.

After his return to work things got a little easier. House still complained about all the healthy food Wilson made him eat, but it was more out of habit than real dislike.

Four weeks into his new post-infarction-post-heart-attack life he had a particularly bad case. None of his theories proved right, None of the test came back with workable results. It was infuriating. He spend hours in his office, playing yo-yo and throwing his balls around.

What the hell is wrong with you? Suddenly lost half of you brain? Come on, think!

But no epiphany presented itself. He yelled at his team until Cameron broke into tears and Foremans scowl looked a lot like it would turn into another resignation-letter. But still no answers.

On top of it all, after two days of guessing and their patient slowly dying, he had another appointment with Montague and the guy dared to suggest group-therapy again. This time House did yell at him, but regretably, it didn't do much to improve his temper.

Around five he decided he'd had enough and went home.

If that moron dies tonight, so be it!

On his way home he stopped at a gas station and bought a bottle of Teachers. It was horrible stuff compared to what he used to drink, but he didn't really care. All he wanted was to get pissed and forget his miserable existence.

He shortly considered Wilson, but:

to hell with him and his conditions! I need a break.

He'd settled himself on his sofa and was on his second glass of the amber liquid, when a key turned in the lock.

Damn it! He's home early.

He had been hoping he would be so far gone by the time Wilson came home, he wouldn't be able to deal with this right away. House could feel his stomach twist with dread. That was surprising.

You're afraid of Wilson. Way to go, buddy.

He just remained were he was, the glass in his hand, but not drinking from it. Wilson dropped his things and took off his jacket before coming around the couch.

„Hey House. Chase told me you'd gone home early. Still no idea about your..." He stopped abruptly taking in the sight of the open whiskey bottle and House holding a half-full glass.

„HOUSE!"

House didn't look up at him. He could tell exactly how Wilson looked like. No need to actually see his face.

„What?" he snapped. Bad idea... very bad idea!

„What?... WHAT??? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND!"

Shrug.

„WE HAD AN AGREEMENT!"

„No need to scream, Wilson."

„NO NEED... God!" Wilson rubbed his face furiously, trying to calm himself down. Finally he spoke again, in a slightly calmer voice. „I thought we had agreed that you would stop drinking and would come to me instead if there were any problems."

„Maybe I didn't want to talk."

God, your sounding like a sulking six-year old...

„So you think drinking alcohol and risking your life will help you figure out your problems."

House couldn't take it anymore. He wished people – and one person in particular – would just leave him the hell alone. The next words burst out of him, before he'd really thought about them.

„Do you have any idea how much of this psycho-babble I've had to listen to already? Everybody's trying to analyse me. You really think it's gonna make me change, if you people keep repeating yourself over and over again? Here's the truth: It's not going to! It hasn't in the past forty years and it's not going to in the next forty. So why don't you just cut it out and leave me alone!"

After his outburst Wilson looked at him with those hurt-accusing brown eyes of his and this aggravated House even more. When Wilson turned and headed for the door he shouted after him.

„Why don't you go and find someone who actually wants your help!"

The door slammed shut and House was alone. Just like he'd wanted.

Damn... „Fuck! Bloody fucking shit!"

House flung the glass he was still holding against the wall. When that didn't have the desired effect he grabbed the bottle and send it flying the same way. It shattered against the wall, spilling half the room with whiskey.

Fantastic... you've just destroyed your only way to get pissed...

He slumped down against the sofa cushions and sulked. Unfortunately the combined feelings of guilt and regret soon made the sulking much less fun. With another loud curse he got up and went to bed. Alone. Again.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

TBC.