Disclaimer: I do not own the lovely Gregory House and all his associates . . . blah blah blah.

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Broken Promise. Only Lies

The room smelled. The mattress was lumpy. The lighting was weird. And most importantly, Gregory House did not want to be here.

He hated everything about rehab, and he hadn't even been gone long enough to be missed. He managed a laugh. The thought that anyone would miss him was wishful thinking. But that was fine. He didn't need them missing him. It was there fault he was in this stupid place to begin with. All he needed was his vicodin; but he didn't have that. That was their fault, too.

He hated the all too perky nurses that made him want to rip out whatever hair he had left. He hated the ugly wallpaper that he was forced to stare at for lack of something better to do. He hated the stupid sign that hung on the back of the door, reading 'You can do it!', along with one of those goofy yellow faces with a smile cemented onto it. And most importantly, he hated the fact that he was here, his vicodin wasn't, and he was about to go on an excruciatingly painful ride.

There was a knock at the door, and for a second, House decided on ignoring it. But then another knock followed, louder than the first, and he decided whoever it was, wasn't going to go away. A few grunts and swears later, House had managed to drag himself off the cheap bed and across the room to the door. He wasn't at all surprised to find one of the beaming nurses staring back at him when he answered.

"Gregory," she replied cheerfully; as if he was on vacation, rather than in rehab.

"Whadoyawan'?" came House's bitter, muffled reply. The words were smashed together, and the young nurse was almost unable to comprehend the doctor's language.

"You've got a package. Well, a gift's more like it." The thought of someone caring enough to send the addicted old doctor a gift seemed to brighten her smile all the more. It was disgusting.

"Who's it from?" he shot back immediately. He certainly hadn't asked for anything. And he didn't want anything, either; except for his vicodin, that is.

"Don't know. They didn't leave a name. A secret admirer, maybe?" She smiled at him, and practically threw the package into his hands before he could protest, then walked back down the hallway and out of sight.

House closed the door quietly behind him, locking it this time, and took a seat at the edge of the bed. Pulling the 'gift' out of the small bag, he was surprised to find a set of DVD's from one of his favorite television shows. He glanced around the small room. No television, but he did recall one out in the lounge. He'd be sure to get there early enough to snag it for the day. Maybe tomorrow, but not right now. He had enough drama in his life already; he didn't need the fictional world of his favorite soap opera to add onto it.

He tossed the gift beside him and laid down across the small twin bed, closing his eyes. Chase, Foreman, and Cuddy were no brainers; they wouldn't buy him the small box set. That left Wilson or Cameron as the secret sender of the gift, most likely intended as a motivational 'pick me up'. It could have just as easily been either or them, and House was too tired, too weak, and in too much pain to try to waste his time with it now; so he let the thought go. He had more important things to worry about.

He'd detoxed before, but it had never been permanent. The time he'd placed the bet with Cuddy, it had only been for a week, and then he'd been right back on the painkillers. Wilson was wrong. He didn't just take the vicodin for the pain in his leg. He was dependent on the natural high. But they just didn't understand. None of them did. After all the pain, both emotional and physical, that his life had thrown at him, he needed that natural high just as much as he needed the oxygen that filled his lungs. And now they were telling him that he was suppose to live without it? How was he suppose to do that? How!?

His thoughts were interrupted by another knock and his eyes shot open. God, what could they want now!?

"Go away," House muttered, although he doubted whoever was on the other end of the door could hear him. He closed his eyes again, rubbing his temples in an attempt to ignore the continued knocks that followed.

"God damn it," House swore under his breath and rolled over on his stomach, placing a pillow over his head. A few seconds later he heard the rattling of keys. Most of the doctors in rehab had a master key to all the rooms, in case of mental, suicidal, or just plain difficult patients. House groaned as the door opened and a man came in. He wasn't as cheery as the nurse, thank God, but he still wasn't happy to see him.

"Come on now, Greg, time to take your medication," came the voice.

House lifted the pillow off his head in hope. But alas, no vicodin in the small cup of pills. Still, he took them greedily, and swallowed them down dry. The man didn't look at all surprised. After all, he dealt with addicts everyday. Gregory House was no exception.

"Don't you have anything stronger?" House asked. More like pleaded.

"Sorry, nope. That's all they'll let me give you," came the young man's reply and he began to turn to leave.

"How long have you been working here?" House called after him. The man turned around. Was the doctor, er, patient, trying to make small talk? Highly unlikely. He'd heard about the doctor's reputation as a 'people person'.

"Oh, I'd say about a couple of months or so. Why?" The man answered, taking a step back inside the room.

"How do you like it here?" Already an idea was beginning to form in House's mind.

"Oh, it's all right. Really only in it for the pay. Apparently no one wants to work with rehab patients. No offense."

"None taken." House sat up on the bed, leaning in closer to the man.

"What if I could promise you twice what your getting paid now?"

He could see a light spark in the man's eyes. "I'd say you could just about get whatever you want." The door closed.Clearly the man had caught on by now that what they'd be doing wouldn't necessarily be regulation.

"Perfect."

Maybe he'd be able to get through this after all . . .