Disclaimer in chapter 1.

This chapter is set 1. directly after the preceding one, 2. one day after the surgery referred to in earlier chapters, and 3. some two years prior to the story's present time (which is, say, still one year or so after mid-season 3). I don't know why I use the 'because' fragments in this chapter. It arrived in that fashion. If I didn't get the name of the rehab unit right, someone please correct me.


Wilson's Dis-ease

Because last time, House had gone to rehab for morphine dependence—not only to ease through the physical withdrawal but because he had a history.

Wilson yawned and shook his head, trying to dislodge the stream of thoughts distracting him from chart reviews. His morning coffee hadn't kicked in yet, and the charts weren't dispelling the image of House fast asleep on the couch. Still so underweight.

Because last time House had checked into the familiar McDaniel Wing, it was just after a near overdose. Wilson walked in on him then, too, but he hadn't turned and left, disgusted, as he had so many times in the past.

Dwight Lee Grier. Lymphoma. Third round of chemo. Progressing poorly…

Because pills were one thing. Pills House could (and always did) expel himself.

…developed an infection at the cannula site, spiked a fever, brief ICU visit…

But IV morphine courted death. That's what scared him. House shooting up for months and him not knowing about it. And this hadn't even been the first time he'd used morphine on his own for pain control. At home. In a metal box. He'd never known. Not until a chance return to House's apartment amid a chance overdose. How long could it have gone on?

He dropped the pen and let his head fall into waiting palms, staring at his own handwriting. Trapped in memory.

He'd stayed that time and watched House. Paraphernalia on the table. Trickle of dried blood. House had wanted to be caught.

And when House had finally come down after hours of barely acceptable pulse rates and sluggish responsiveness, they'd had a long conversation.

Trapped like a prehistoric mosquito in amber. Dwight Lee Grier was no help at all.

Exasperated but trying to understand, Wilson had asked: "Do you need it?"

House kept his head down, sitting up now for the first time in hours. Pre-dawn's cobalt blue particles peaked through the window.

"I used to."

He spoke quietly. They'd already yelled at each other.

"Not anymore."

Then a long pause. Wilson waited, tired after the protracted scare House had subjected him to and numb with the knowledge that House had been using for months—and that he'd used before. That Wilson had never known, had never picked up on the change. He felt as shaky as House looked, hunched forward on the couch, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

In his office, chart spread out before him, Wilson shivered unconsciously.

House's eyes traveled up to meet Wilson's. Telling so much, asking so much, but expecting so little.

"I can't stop."

Those three words and the forlorn expression flashing across House's haggard face, and without speaking they packed underwear and toiletries, buckled themselves into Wilson's sedan in the early morning grey-blue, and parted at the wing's check-in desk.

Two years ago. More than that. Just before they fell into this thing they were doing now.

At his own office desk, Wilson sighed. Memory hounded him this morning as if he'd done the wrong thing last night by not forcing the issue. But this time, he told himself, House had a support structure at home and he was meeting with a counselor every day. (Wilson reminded himself to call House in a few hours and make sure he was awake and able to get to the hospital.)

He didn't expect House's recovery to be any easier than it was last time. How could he? Recovery was never ever easy.

His lips curled at the chart: maybe he was naïve to think he could handle it. He certainly hadn't handled it last time. House had needed an extra week to get used to fighting the cravings.

Because he'd never actually quit Vicodin in the past—not for real, not for good. The threat of him quitting Vicodin had never been more than a threat. Vicodin he always needed legitimately.

But morphine he wanted. Morphine was a full-blown addiction, not just a physical dependency. Morphine he'd inflict harm for.

Wilson smiled grotesquely at the chart again, recalling the massive bruise House had planted on the jaw of the rehab wing's director after a lengthy shouting match. Wilson smiled because the director had had it coming to him, but the knowledge of how the director had treated House following the punch twisted his mouth into an ugly shape. Even if House had been responsible for exacerbating the situation, the director was the professional and House was the addict: the addict had an excuse for behaving badly.

After House's first venture into rehab during the Tritter escapade and the jail-cell revelation that House had bribed the orderly to slip him Vicodin, Wilson had had to tell Cuddy and she'd had to inform the rehab director. When the orderly admitted that though he'd been offered bribes before, he'd never taken any until House came along, the director was more than a little upset with House. So when House had returned with a morphine addiction and the same old Vicodin dependence, which Wilson and Cuddy agreed House needed to keep, the director was very unhappy—especially after House shook a full bottle of Vicodin in his face within an hour of checking in.

Wilson shook his head, smiling genuinely at that memory. If House only knew how amused Wilson was by his antics sometimes…

But angering the unit's director was stupid. House had known that. And, just like he had with Tritter, House had paid for taunting him. Because Vicodin detox was one thing, and House was relatively accustomed to it. Morphine detox was a different kind of hell altogether.

Morphine detox. One thing Dwight Lee Grier probably didn't have to worry about, the poor bastard.

Wilson read a little further before his mind skipped off to memory again.

He remembering entering the visitation area during the afternoon visiting period on the day House had checked in. Cuddy had visited him during the morning period and reported that he'd been sullen and withdrawn, refusing to look at her. Tearing himself up, clearly acknowledging his fault. Wilson thought he could use a morale booster, if only in the form of someone House could avoid looking at.

When he didn't see House, his first thought was that House was sulking. Wilson had informed the desk that he'd be visiting House; House must know about it.

He was in his room, the orderly said. He wasn't feeling well. But she would tell him again that he had a visitor.

Wilson waited, tapping his foot.

No, he didn't feel well enough to leave his room.

Wilson rolled his eyes. No one felt well twelve hours into detox. But whatever shape he was in, Wilson wanted him to know he had support. Tonight would be very long for him; Wilson needed him to know that despite the willful self-destruction, someone cared about him.

But visitors weren't usually allowed in the rooms and the orderly would have to check with her supervisor.

Wilson waited, thinking viciously that his white coat made him supervisor enough. Almost no sleep the night before, a full day of work, and having to explain the situation to Cuddy this morning: he had no patience left. And yet he waited. Polite Dr. Wilson always waited.

The orderly returned. Oh, of course. Certainly Dr. Wilson could visit Dr. House. Her mistake.

He had seen House sick. House tended to get sick more than most people. His Vicodin habit saw to that. And he'd seen House detox—more than once. But this was something else entirely.

He saw legs first from the doorway: long and carelessly sprawled on beige tile flooring. Then the rest of his friend, curled on his side behind the toilet. Not an uncommon place to find him on day one of detoxing. But his whole body shook this time, and the usual ragged pants that accompanied the bathroom floor stage came too slowly for Wilson's liking. Never mind his total lack of color.

Wilson was just about to say something when House grabbed the toilet seat and pulled himself up faster than Wilson thought he'd be able to. Wilson made a face and turned his head, but he couldn't avoid hearing the strained choking heaves. Or the smell, he noticed, even though someone had tried to blanket it with a strong antiseptic. He considered himself accustomed to smells. Chemo created a rash of horrible stenches. But knowing this was the smell of his friend's protracted suffering broke through the barrier and turned his stomach. He could hear, too, that House wasn't having much luck expelling the poison.

Finally the cough-chokes stopped and he heard House spit. He turned his head: House dropped to the floor and made a half-hearted effort to curl more tightly around his midsection.

"Good to see you too," Wilson said awkwardly.

House didn't respond. He made no indication that he'd heard anything at all.

Expecting recalcitrance, Wilson pushed himself up with a few choice words about moping in mind. He ignored the mess in the toilet and kicked House's foot.

"Hey. House."

House stayed still. Quiet. A tired, pained, half-conscious expression on his face.

Wilson frowned. "Are you okay?"

House breathed in and out once, then his tongue darted out in a poor effort to moisten his lips.

"No," he sighed.

Eyes closed, body tight.

Wilson knelt next to him and peeled a wrist away from his abdomen. Pulse fluttering like a hummingbird's, skin tenting when Wilson pinched it. No sweating.

Wilson leaned back on his haunches.

"Pretty dehydrated, huh," he observed.

He didn't expect a response from House, and he didn't get one.

"Keeping any water down?"

"No."

Wilson sighed, putting a hand on the sink to lean a little.

"How long?"

House breathed slowly for several long seconds. Wilson began to wonder if House had heard him.

Then House sighed again. "Hour. Two."

He could hear how raw House's throat was.

"You saw Cuddy this morning," Wilson pointed out. "You were okay then."

He paused to let House speak. House merely breathed slowly in and out, jerking once at what Wilson assumed was a particularly bad cramp.

"They're giving you metoclopramide," Wilson observed.

He knew they were. He'd requested it as House's anti-emetic of choice.

"How long since your last dose?"

"Lunch," House breathed.

Lunch was nearly five hours ago. House should have had another dose at least two hours ago. Wilson's eyes narrowed, recalling the fight House had had with the director this morning.

"I assume you asked for more."

House kept breathing. Wilson assumed from his lack of response that his previous assumption was correct.

"They said no, or didn't bring it to you, or you didn't keep it down—" Wilson sighed irritably. "Help me out here."

House's face lost its remaining color as he lifted a hand to the toilet seat and tried to pull his body up. Alarmed, Wilson sprang up to give House room to move. Then he watched as House's arm strength failed and he collapsed back to the floor, already retching uselessly.

Wilson peaked at the toilet. A little bile. Very little. Not enough time between that round and this one for any appreciable amount to collect in House's stomach. He glanced back over at the clenching body of his best friend. House's torso had twisted so that he faced the floor. One arm curled up under his chest, the other grasping at tile as he tried to keep his head a few inches above a non-existent pool of vomit.

Finally, the spasms stopped and House's shoulders sunk inward while he gasped for air. He turned his head to the side but didn't attempt to readjust anything else. A miserable heap, Wilson noted.

"They didn't bring it," House said hoarsely, not once opening his eyes.

Exhausted. Dehydrated enough that dehydration was the cause of the vomiting now.

Wilson raised a hand to his forehead in frustration, glanced toward the orderly who was supervising his visit (and not paying attention), then knelt down again.

He plucked House's shirt. "All right," he said, gently grasping House's upper arm, "let's sit up."

He pulled House's arm and House tried to push himself off the floor with his other arm. Wilson felt the weight-bearing arm tremble, shake, and give out, but by that time they'd collectively leaned House against the wall and lifted him half-way up.

Words of encouragement at the ready, Wilson opened his mouth to speak when House suddenly stiffened, flailed for a few seconds, and slumped forward. Wilson caught him and eased him back down as he registered what had happened: loss of consciousness due to sudden blood pressure drop. Not uncommon, but not good either. House's pulse fluttered beneath his fingertips.

"What's wrong?"

Wilson started, head whirling around. Until he saw the orderly standing in the bathroom doorway, he didn't realize he'd called out for help when House had passed out. Reflex, he considered.

"I need a cup of water and a word with the doctor in charge of the unit," he barked.

The orderly filled a cup next to the unmade bed with water from a ubiquitous jug on the dresser.

She offered the cup to Wilson. "I can't leave you alone with him," she said and stood stolidly in the doorway.

Wilson put the cup down, paused a moment before responding to bite back the anger he felt at the clear case of negligence before him, and replied icily: "Then call someone else."

This she did, standing in the hallway and beckoning another person.

Wilson shook House gently and felt his muscles come to life as he sucked in a surprised breath. Bewildered, half-frantic eyes searched the small room, found Wilson, and connected the recent past with the present, then calmed as the surge of adrenaline wore off. His eyes slipped shut as if they'd never been open.

Wilson placed a hand on his arm again. "Try some water," he said. "Just a sip."

House lay quietly.

Not expecting an answer, Wilson rearranged himself so he could lift House's head up. To his credit, House tried to help, though he couldn't do much. Wilson spilled a fair amount on House's cheek and down his neck, but House dutifully swallowed the little bit that entered his mouth. Wilson lay House's head back down and watched House's stomach jump, trying to reject the liquid, even as House fought the reflex down.

Wilson closed the toilet lid and sat tiredly where he could divide his attention between House and the orderly watching from the edge of the room.

He waited. House answered none of his questions. Wilson noticed he wasn't shaking like he had been earlier, and guessed he'd sink into delirium in about half an hour. Maybe less.

Because he didn't get the medicine he needed. Wilson watched him breathe, still slowly, knowing he'd done this to himself. Taking a swing at the director of the rehab unit was a great plan to get through rehab. But medical professionals had an obligation to their patients that extended beyond personal grievances (even if House might not know it); he'd inform Cuddy in the morning. By that time House should be able to punch the guy again.

Dwight Lee Grier.

Sitting in silence, the words in his handwriting blurred and swam in front of him.

No rehab this time because he, Wilson, didn't want it. Thought he could do a better job himself.

And the first part had been easy. No evil unit directors to avoid dispensing meds. No—Wilson had stayed with House almost to the point of having their own shouting match, and had ensured that every symptom-reducing substance was delivered on time. Besides, as House had pointed out, detoxing was a piece of cake on the first day after the surgery that had so significantly reduced the pain that led to the morphine use in the first place.

"Gets easier after you've done it a few times," House had joked from his bed in the glowing aftermath of his first methadone hit. The bulky bandage around his thigh protruded through a slept-in blanket.

Of course it was easier: plenty of IV saline to keep him hydrated, once-daily methadone to wean him off the morphine, metoclopramide and loperamide to keep his insides inside him, clonidine and diazepam for restlessness (though Wilson prefer walking him down the hall), and more bad daytime television than he could watch—plus the badgering boyfriend, the pestering partner (and, in House's ruder moments, fuckbuddy Florence) to keep him annoyed. But nothing for the shakes and House hated the shakes more than anything else.

"I'll take your word for it," Wilson replied.

House smiled and closed his eyes.

Wilson, nearly two weeks ago, felt uneasy.

Wilson, watching Dwight Lee Grier tumble together on the page now, felt uneasy.

It was worse than watching him vomit two sips of water on a beige tile floor. Then, at least, he'd been able to drag House to the bed and run electrolytes into him once the supervising doc arrived. That hell was treatable. In this hell, even chemicals didn't work.

Because House had been off methadone for a few days now. Irritability and restlessness still had a tight hold on him, though the usual withdrawal symptoms had been very light. In a moment of stupidity, his rehab counselor recommended buprenorphine. House promptly snapped back that the level of Vicodin constantly in his bloodstream, low as it was, would throw him into severe withdrawal. He would know, Wilson reflected, having experienced just that during the first visit for Vicodin rehab. The idiot who'd given him buprenorphine before all the Vicodin had cleared his system, and the idiot who forced House to take the stuff when House knew it would magnify all the symptoms…. It shouldn't have surprised him, then, that House would bribe an orderly to keep that stuff away.

He'd known that for days that chemical help was out.

Probably this would come down to House's will to stay clean. If House did want to stay clean, he would stay clean. Wilson knew that. Only a few of his cancer patients had ever approached the level of willpower House possessed.

But Wilson didn't know what House willed. If he got bored or depressed, he could snatch a fix in under an hour, provided he wasn't in another city or state. There, he might need two hours.

Dwight Lee Grier didn't have to worry about any of this. For a moment, Wilson envied him.

Then he wrote himself a note to call House at ten, forcibly pushed aside all memories of prior detoxes, and made himself concentrate on the chart.

Because he always did his job, whether he could stand it or not.