006. Hours
Counting Down
House counted hours. Not actual minutes, he wasn't that much of an addict, but he did count hours. He was only meant to take a single Vicodin every 4-6 hours. At first he'd tried to do the right thing; he diligently waited the recommended six hours, suffering through increasingly excruciating pain. But he'd found that he was falling into a pattern. A bad pattern. After he'd taken a pill and once it had started taking effect, he'd be fine. Or at least as fine as he was ever going to get now. He'd be able to limp around with the aid of his cane, he could think, he could argue, he could be as close to himself as he possibly could. But as the hours passed he found that the pain increased and his ability to…to function started to decrease.
So he started taking one pill every five hours. That worked a little but not quite enough so he reduced the time to every four hours. That was even better. It was still bad as the third hour flicked over and the fourth hour began but he could manage well enough.
Then he went back to work full-time. Cuddy had offered him his own department where he could write his own hours and select his own cases. He'd have to take on Fellowship candidates but he'd be able to pick and choose them. And he'd have to work in the clinic but he was fairly sure he could avoid that.
He knew why she'd offered this. She was feeling guilty. She'd made the suggestion of what he'd found out later was termed the middle ground. He called it mutilation, something unwanted but in the end he couldn't blame Cuddy. Stacy was the one who'd made the decision not to tell him of the middle ground and then had made the decision to wait until he was in the chemically-induced coma and she could take over. He could blame Stacy but he couldn't blame Cuddy. She had only done what she was supposed to do…offer options. It was not her place to make decisions for the patients. He'd taken up her offer as much to assuage her guilt as to take up a challenge that actually interested him.
But the hours were having an effect. He had to be on his feet a lot more than during his recovery. Until he got his Fellows, he had to speak to patients, chase up test results, do all of the scut work he thought he'd gotten past. And now he paid a much heavier price. By the end of his first 'normal' day, he wasn't sure he was going to be able to get past the glass door of his brand new office. Wilson had seemed to know this and had appeared almost as though summoned. He'd not said a word, merely stood next to House's desk. As House had hauled himself to his very shaky feet, Wilson had picked up the small orange bottle that was sitting on the desk. Once House had been released from hospital, Wilson had taken over as his doctor, taken over the prescription writing, taken over the role of carer until House could manage on his own. He'd ruined his own marriage at the same time as House was destroying his relationship with Stacy.
House swayed on his feet, his hand clenched around the handle of his cane. He looked over at the one friend who he hadn't managed to drive away and saw the look on his face. He hadn't been able to stick with the four hour gaps today. He'd been down to three hours and he knew that Wilson would be able to do the math regarding the date the bottle had been filled and the number of pills that should be in there. Wilson gave him a long, measured look then held out the bottle. House snatched it out of his hand and shoved it in the pocket of his jacket. Wilson took the bag from his hand and they walked out to Wilson's car. Not a word was said about his overuse of the Vicodin.
As the days and weeks passed, House found that he couldn't stick to the 4-6 hours he was supposed to. He needed to be able to think, he needed to be able to function and 4-6 hours wasn't going to cut it. Three hours worked well. Three hours allowed him to do what he needed. Even after he hired Chase then Cameron then Foreman, he still stuck with the three hours. He'd thought he'd be able to cut back once he had help but it hadn't turned out to be the case. If anything, the three young doctors increased his workload. They went looking for cases and found them. They made him work. They made him think. And that meant he needed to take the pills.
He wasn't stupid though. He knew he was addicted to the pills but he was convinced it was manageable. That he could control it. That he could cut back whenever he needed to.
And then had come Cuddy's little bet. He wasn't stupid. He knew it wasn't Cuddy's idea. She might think about it but she still harboured too much guilt to actually suggest something like that. No, House knew where that little bet had come from. Wilson. Wilson, who wrote his scripts. Wilson, who knew exactly how much Vicodin he took each week, each day. He'd been angry initially but then the first of the withdrawal symptoms had hit. He'd tried to deny it but…well, he wasn't stupid.
He'd seen the horror and worry that Wilson had tried to hide when he examined House's bruised and broken hand. He'd been absolutely sure of the origin of the bet then but he hadn't said anything. Partly because of pure stubbornness and partly because he didn't really want to admit Wilson was right. Not then anyway, later it had been a different matter. The harsh words that had been said after the whole thing was over was enough damage for that week.
So now he counted the hours again. He tried to stretch the three hours to four hours, even five hours. He didn't often succeed; he'd forgotten how bad the pain could get when he waited that long. But he tried. Because Wilson was his best friend, his only friend and he'd asked him to cut down.