The morning after the intervention, House called Nolan.
"You win, Nolan," he said. "Book me your finest suite at the Mayfield Hotel."
"No," Nolan said.
"No? Was I was wrong in thinking that last night was an intervention? Because, if not, that was one really lousy party game."
"Yes to rehab," Nolan said. "No to Mayfield. You're not hallucinating. You're not in a crisis—well, no more than any other addict. You should check yourself into the Peabody Wing."
"At PPTH?"
"Why not?"
"Because they're a bunch of morons. I'll be mainlining vicodin by the third day."
"Then why check yourself into rehab at all?"
"Good question."
"That's why I'm asking it."
House hesitated.
"I'm sick of hurting the people I love," he said, honestly. "I'm sick of being hurt by the people I love. I figure getting clean is the first step to accomplishing that."
"Told you you didn't need Mayfield," Nolan said. "Look. The reason why you're not going to be mainlining vicodin by the third day is because you don't want to be. You want to get sober. The Peabody Wing is as good a place as any to do that. Plus, employee discount!"
"Are you sure?" House said. The tiniest bit of doubt had crept into his voice. He didn't know if he trusted himself not to scam.
"I'm positive," Nolan said. "As I see it, eight weeks in the Peabody Wing and then you and I can discuss starting your therapy again."
"You're not going to bill me for the intervention, are you?" House said. "Cause that would be a dick move."
Nolan laughed.
"Good luck House," Nolan said. "I'll see you on the other side of sobriety."
#####
House woke up shackled to the bed.
At some point during the night one of the goons in the rehab wing must've restrained him. Also, some asshole had scratched the shit out of his arms and legs.
There was a reason addicts hated to detox, House thought. Because it sucked. There was nothing to compare it to, except for perhaps a slow-motion plane crash. (If, at the end of the long, inevitable descent you weren't actually dead but in so much pain you just wished you were).
"Good morning!"
He looked up.
It was a tall, slim woman in a lab coat, about 50. She had short gray hair, trimmed neatly, and she wore gardening clogs. House vaguely recognized her from the hospital cafeteria.
She walked over to the window, opened the blinds.
"I'm Dr. Jean Waterson. I'll be your case worker during your stay. How are we feeling today?"
House blinked, adjusted to the light.
"I don't know how you're feeling, but I feel like shit," he said.
She smiled tolerantly.
"Sorry about the shackles. You were scratching yourself pretty raw last night. We thought you might need a blood transfusion. Shall we take them off?"
"Why don't we?" House said, with false cheer. "Then, just for fun, you can give me a gun and see which one of us I shoot first!"
"I'm glad you still have your sense of humor, House, you'll need it."
"Who says I'm joking?"
"I trust you," she said, leaning over and unlocking his restraints.
He shook out his arms and legs.
"Ugh," he said.
"Scale from 1 to 10, how's the pain?" Jean asked.
"Eleven," House said.
"I can get you a clonidine," she said. "That'll help."
"Vicodin would help more," House said.
"We're working on that," she said. "So. . .here's the story. You can stay in your room for another day. Then on Monday, you can join everyone else in the cafeteria and the commons, maybe even sit in on your first group therapy session."
"I'm not really much of a joiner," House said.
"We're going to work on that, too," she said, mirthfully.
"Yeah, good luck with that," House said.
#####
From Mayfield, House had learned how to handle group therapy.
You didn't have to say much, but every once in a while it was good to have a fake epiphany about your childhood. If you could manage a few tears, all the better.
It was also good to spew back some of the bullshit they fed you. Counselors loved when you repeated their words back at them: "I realize I am not in control of my life!" or "I clearly need to take responsibility for my own actions!"
Then you could go back to dozing off.
House's first group therapy session had been pretty uneventful. The chairs—brightly colored and plastic, as if their very cheeriness could make up for the general gloom of the room—were uncomfortable. But then again, everything was uncomfortable for House right now. His leg was killing him.
They hadn't even made him say much, except for his name and his drug of choice. ("Dr. Lisa Cuddy" he thought for a second, and almost laughed out loud.) He was about to head back to his room, when Dr. Jean Waterson stopped him.
"So what did you think?" she said.
"I loved it. It was better than Cats," House said.
She chuckled.
"House, this may be inappropriate for me to say, but I'm. . .an admirer of yours."
"And here I assumed based on the clogs and the lack of makeup that you were gay," he said.
"An intellectual admirer," she said, scoldingly. "I think what you do, all those lives you save, is pretty incredible."
"I'll be sure to sign an 8X10 glossy for you before I leave," House said.
"That won't be necessary," Jean said. "But I do want to say, I'm proud of you for doing this. I know it took courage."
"Oh yeah," House said. "Real courage. I'm a big fucking hero."
"I wish you could see yourself as others saw you, House," Jean said. "I think it would help with your recovery."
Then she gave him a warm pat on the arm and left him alone in the group therapy room, staring at the incongruously cheerful chairs.
#######
A few days later, some of his fellow patients roped him into a game of online trivia. (He was bored. The TV was on the fritz.) House beat them so soundly they decided to change the rules. They began playing House against "the field." Sometimes as many as 12 patients pitted their collective knowledge against him. A few times, they even recruited the counselors to help. House usually won pretty handily anyway.
House had just correctly answered a question about Lech Walesa's famous motto ("Solidarity will not be divided or destroyed," House said, with a yawn) when he peered into the hall—and frowned.
"Gotta go," he said, popping up.
"You can't leave!" a patient named John said. (He was a pharmaceutical student who had delved a little too enthusiastically into his own research). "You're the whole game!"
"You're a smart kid, John. Pretend to be me," he said—and rushed into the hall.
"Checking up on me?" he asked.
Lisa Cuddy, who had been walking briskly toward the elevator, stopped.
She turned, gave a slightly embarrassed smile, folded her arms.
"Hi House," she said.
"Hello Cuddy," he said. "And you don't need to check up on me. I'm not scamming this time. I'm clean. If you'd like, I can urinate into a cup for you. Or into your purse. "
"I'm not checking up on you," Cuddy said.
He squinted.
"Then why are you here?"
"Last I checked the fourth floor was part of the hospital that I run, House. I come up to this wing all the time."
"No, actually, you don't," he said. "You come up here once a week, at 11 am, on Tuesdays. Today is Friday. Look Cuddy, if you don't believe that I'm sticking with the program. . ."
"House, I believe you!"
"What then?"
She sighed, then said softly: "If you must know, I'm up here because I'm seeing Dr. Ball."
House's mouth dropped open.
"Cuddy, he's married!"
Cuddy grabbed House's arm, and dragged him to an alcoved corner of the hall, near a window. (It was the same semi-hidden corner where House occasionally snuck out to smoke cigarettes.)
"I'm seeing him professionally," she whispered.
House furrowed his brow.
"You're seeing a shrink?"
"Yes."
"Since when?"
"Today was actually my first session."
"But why?"
Cuddy gave a little snort.
"Why?"
"Yes why."
"In case you hadn't noticed, I've had a bit of trauma in my life lately."
"You mean. . .because of your illness."
"Yes, because of my illness. And . . . because of our breakup."
"Which was entirely your choice," House countered.
"Just because it was my choice, that doesn't mean it wasn't traumatic for me," Cuddy said.
"Funny, I try to avoid self-inflicted trauma," House said.
"Do you?" Cuddy said, archly.
They both had a to laugh a bit. House was the master at bringing misery to his own doorstep.
"Okay, I'm a bad example," he conceded. "But most normal people try to avoid creating more pain for themselves."
"Guess neither of us are normal then."
He nodded at that, somewhat satisfied.
"But why now?" he probed. "We broke up over a month ago."
"I guess . . .I guess the intervention and our little late night shouting match had an effect on me," she said.
"What kind of effect?" he said.
"I don't know, House. I'm just trying to getting a more clear understanding of where things went wrong between us."
"Besides me screwing everything up?" he cracked.
Cuddy laughed.
"Yeah, besides that," she said.
House shoved his hands in his pockets.
"So how did it go? Did you talk about me? Did you make it clear to Ball that you broke up with me despite our incredibly satisfying sex life?"
Cuddy shook her head.
"Actually House, we mostly talked about my childhood."
"Welcome to my world," House said.
Just then, one of the counselors came out of the rehab center, and spotted House.
"House, you need to get back to the . . ."—then he noticed Cuddy. "Oh, sorry Dr. Cuddy, I didn't see you there."
"It's okay, I've got to go anyway. . . "
His head dropped. This unexpected encounter with Cuddy had been the highlight of an otherwise shitty week.
Noticing this, she put her hand on House's arm.
"I have another appointment next Friday?" she said, wrinkling her nose.
"Same corner?" he said.
"It's a date."