A/N: I know, I know. I should be working on an update for Dear God, its coming soon I assure you. I should be up by the end of the week, I have a 1 hour study hall with nothing better to do than write so that's all I do. Anyway, this story sat as half a page for almost two weeks, and today, what do you know. I get an idea for it.
Sorry if it seems a bit rushed in the end. I typed this during my 60 minute study hall, and there is only so far 60 minutes can go. I just about got to posting it, but the frigging bell rang.
Description: The Ketamine is beginning its slow fade and House begins to break further and further from the people that care about him most.
Disclaimer: All the glory that is Gregory House is not mine, sadly.
"Numb"
One
"Desperation"
Ever since the Ketamine treatment he had felt like he was walking on a tight rope. Teetering between two choices, will he keep on going free and able, or will his plummet back into the pit he was so used to. Of course, like any normal person he had his plans if he ever decided to jump and stop the walk himself; it has been that way for years. Usually these thoughts stay firmly rooted in the back of his mind.
As his hope of living again began to fade, these thoughts once again took center stage. They kept his mind racing, robbing him of sleep and the brain capacity for anything else. All it took was a twinge in the thigh after two months of freedom to send him into a whirlwind.
At first, the pain started out coming on occasionally, just a twitch in the muscle and a tiny burst of agony. He tired to ignore it, but his heart sank every time this happened. He didn't want to go back to the shell he used to live in, dependant on pain meds to even get out of bed in the morning. He didn't know if he could bear live like that again.
Everyone told him that the pain wasn't coming back. He wanted to believe them, he really did. He pushed himself harder, trying to convince himself that the pain was the result of slacking on rehab. He ran further, went to the gym daily, and started swimming. Nothing worked. Eventually it became too much to ignore. This was no muscle ache; this was the relentless gut wrenching agony he had lived with for the past nine years. Only it wasn't just popping in to say 'hello'.
He returned from work that night, and limped in the door, his window of hope was shattered and now the shards were coming back to stab him. He flung open the closet door and stared at one of the tethers that used to hold him down, that would entangle him once again. The cane was stashed in the golf bag, out of sight out of mind; it was the only one he had left. He had ceremoniously thrown them into the fire and triumphed at them being engulfed in flames. Wilson had convinced him to keep one, just in case, so he did. Only, he hid it. Now he took it out, the familiar weight of the wood in his hands. He placed the rubber grip to the floor trying to get used to the motion of his lopsided limp. The floor boards creaked as he leaned his weight into the cane.
He made his way down the hall, into the bedroom, and to his bed, just barely. That was when the first spasm hit, and that was when he knew. This was for good; he was back where he started. He threw the cane across the room in a fury and it smacked the wall with an ugly sound. Angered tears streamed down his face, he clenched his fists and brought them down hard on the bed. It was only in the secrecy of his apartment would he ever allow himself to loose it like this. He wiped the moisture from his face and tried to regain control over his emotions. He pivoted onto the mattress to elevate his leg on several large feather bed pillows. He began wishing that he hadn't thrown away all the Vicodin. The leg cramped up again as it adjusted to the change in position. He pulled the sheets up to his chest and tried to take comfort in their security, then tried, and ultimately failed, to surrender himself to sleep.
He didn't sleep that night while his body was wracked with the returning pain. He was drenched in sweat, his sheets tossed to either side. He shook both with the shock of the pain and the chill of the apartment that seemed permanently stuck to his skin after he peeled off the blankets. One wave of pain after another rolled in, he couldn't remember it ever being this bad since the infarction. The spasms seemed never ending, as soon as he stopped one; another took its place, tying the damaged muscles into knots. He gripped and rubbed at the thigh fruitlessly, the tissue refused to back down. This vicious cycle continued all through the night. By morning he just wanted to cut the fucking leg off just to end this agony.
The shrill ring of the phone began around noon creating a dull pounding in his head just behind his eyes. The calls were nonstop for about two hours, which made him relish the thought of smashing the receiver into a million little pieces, he just didn't have the will or volition to do it. Message after message recorded onto the machine, a concerned Wilson and an angry Cuddy, typical. He looked over at the clock squinting, his eyes to force them to focus on the red numbers. It was after 12:30, he was due into work hours ago.
About and hour later there was a familiar knock on his door, he barely heard it as it was muffled through the walls and the haze of his mind. He opened his mouth to try and yell, "Go away!" but it came out as a grumble, his throat was bone dry. Then there was the unmistakable sound of a key scraping a lock and the door hinges creaking.
"House, where are you?" Wilson called out; House could hear his expensive French loafers plodding through the apartment. Wilson began to check all of House's more obvious hidey-holes, before stumbling upon his friend. His heat sank and his mind immediately began to think the worst as he rushed to the bedside.
House had his eyes tightly shut, closing off the outside world. He was concentrating on trying to relive this massive amount of pain. 'Focus' he thought to himself, 'Breathe in, breathe out.'
"House! Are you are okay? Are you sick?" Wilson went straight into doctor-mode, House rarely got sick unless he educed it on himself. House looked at Wilson, straight into his eyes. If his expression wasn't a dead give away, his eyes always told it all. Pain echoed from deep within the blue orbs, to have its calls answered by calming brown ones. That was all the confirmation he needed, his eyes gave every thing away. He couldn't believe he was about to say these words. "Greg, is the pain back?"
House managed to choke out a few choked words of a plea for help. "Help me. It's bad." Wilson watched House tense as he rode out another spasm. No one should be subjected to this much pain.
"Where is it?" House looked at him, eyes wild. "Your stash, I know you have one."
"Bookshelf. Top." Wilson dashed out of the room. The truth is he had known about House's 'secret secret stash' ever since he cured Crandall's 'daughter' that escaped Katrina. He grabbed the step ladder and climbed on to it, pawing along and knocking books off the top shelf until he felt the cool metal box on his fingertips. He sprinted back to the room and opened the box. He was confused; he didn't know how House had organized everything in here. He felt a sudden urge to dump the contents of the box onto the bed. House tried to calm himself, slow his breathing. He mentally told himself that a release would be coming soon.
Wilson finally found what he needed in the pile of things. He gathered them and started to prepare everything with lightning speed. He uncurled one of House's arms that was clamped to his side and tie the blue rubber tourniquet just above the elbow. He hesitated a moment before drawing the dose, that was until House swallowed back a scream. House never screamed, not even when the pain was the worst. Sure, he screamed at people but that was about the extent of it. He injected the liquid relief into his veins and he instantly relaxed.
"Thank you" whispered House, his eyes closed. He was being pulled into the darkness of sleep, but not willingly.
"Shh…" Wilson put a finger to his lips, "just let the drugs do their work." Finally, House succumbed to the strong painkillers and fell into the depths of peacefulness, for now anyway.
Wilson waited a few more minutes to assure that House was stable before he left the room, leaving the door cracked just in case. He fished in his pockets for his cell phone and came up with nothing but pocket lint. He checked his jacket and found the tiny device tucked inside the breast pocket. He pressed number two on his speed dial and held the phone up to his ear.
"Princeton-Plainsbro Teaching Hospital, Dr. Cuddy speaking" She said in her professional demeanor, she hadn't even bothered to check the caller ID on her phone.
"Cuddy! It's Wilson." He tried to keep his voice composed. He was a bit shaken over what had just happened and he was physically and mentally rattled.
"Wilson, where are you? You've been gone for almost two hours. Have you found House yet?"
"Yeah, I found him." He took a deep breath before continuing, "He's actually why I'm calling. It happened, what we all tried to deny; his pain is back. It's bad this time."
"Oh God," was all she was able to say. Wilson swore he could hear the faint sounds of crying on the other side of the line, "How bad?"
"I had to give him morphine to get him to stop hurting. Now I wish he hadn't thrown all his Vicodin in the toilet after he was sure the treatment would stick." Wilson recalled sadly.
"Do you need a script? I can have one of House's team members bring it to you."
"Script, yes. Team, no."
"Care to explain?"
"Look Lisa, you and I both know he has a screwed up sense of pride. He wouldn't want any of them to see him like this, hell; if it were up to him none of us would know. There are few people he can trust in this world, and he trusts you. Do you mind bringing them over?"
"Okay. I have to finish up some paper work, but I'll be over as soon as I can. I'll be done in about fifteen minutes, okay?"
"You might wanna hurry, he should be waking up soon. I didn't give him enough to make him sleep for long, and we all know how he fights sedation."
"The paperwork can wait, I'm on my way." He heard the shuffling of papers and the sound of a computer shutting down.
The line filled with the bleak dial tone before he even got the chance to say good bye. He hit 'end' and stopped the call. He felt that he should go check on House.
Wilson peeked in the door, allowing the tiniest shaft of light to illuminate the room. House was shifting uncomfortably on the mattress, the sheets once again thrown around forgotten. Wilson felt for him. After nine years of constant pain, he found an end, only to have it cave on him. Wilson shut his eyes tight and a silent tear fell down his cheek.
"I'm sorry Greg, I really am. Don't worry though, we'll find hope for you yet" the words were whispered into the deafening silence, never to fall upon listening ears.