With a jerk that sent pain flaring down his bad leg, House wrenched the mirror off the wall and tossed it aside into the tub, not caring that it shattered on landing. Good. It could match the rest of his life in jagged shards. The Vicodin bottles were there, his last remaining super secret hideout, never touched this whole year.

A whole year. For a whole year, he had fought to stay clean. He had battled his leg every morning, had suffered through each rainstorm, had gritted his teeth as the remaining overworked muscles in his leg protested at each step. He had tried massage. He had tried regular hot soaks, one of the best methods until Wilson's unreasonable declaration that the bathtub was off limits had interfered with that. The ibuprofen was a joke; all a year of it had given him was a growing uneasiness in his stomach and the fear, as yet unverified, that he was starting to develop erosive gastritis. But he'd stayed clean in all of that, had cursed and cajoled his leg in turn, had mentally dissected everyone who said that the pain was simply because of Vicodin. No, the pain was because of an infarction. But the hallucinations from the Vicodin had indeed scared him into trying to deal with the pain in non opiate ways. He'd tried so hard, for a full year.

Until his mind apparently joined the rest of the world in doubting his ability to keep clean and had gone in drunken pursuit of Vicodin.

He hadn't even been able to appreciate the blessed initial surge of pain relief, to feel the narcotic soothing the severed nerve ends and spreading out through the remaining muscle. Nope, he'd been too drunk to even enjoy the effect. Not that it had ever taken it away, but the difference was substantial.

Well, he was about to remedy that. If everybody including himself thought his relapse had been inevitable, he would at least benefit from some pain relief for once. Since his life was hopelessly screwed up anyway, nothing left to lose; he might as well have his leg feel better.

He slid down the bathroom wall, sitting on the floor, staring at the bottle, tossing it briefly like his thinking ball.

How had he managed to find Vicodin while totally wasted? These two bottles were all that remained in the apartment, and they were untouched before now.

How didn't matter. He had found it somewhere. Four drug tests, the last two of which had been completely performed in his presence, could not possibly be mistaken.

He opened a bottle, spilling out two of the chalky white pills into his palm. He stared at them - and he hesitated. He could hear his breathing accelerating, could feel his mouth starting to water just looking at them. Yet he hesitated.

Go ahead, he told himself. You've already made your decision anyway. This time, you're just sober enough to appreciate it.

He remembered Amber, her mocking voice, her persistent barbs, her annoying insistence that they were a team. He remembered Kutner standing in Cuddy's office looking at him. "Too bad none of it was real." He remembered days of utter hell at Mayfield, strapped to the bed, so consumed with agony that he would have killed himself somehow if his arms had been loose, just to stop the pain.

He remembered Cuddy, approaching him last year with such caring in her eyes, asking, "Are you okay?"

A sob broke through his lips. "No," he said out loud, echoing that encounter. "I'm not okay. Please, not again."

He'd already taken Vicodin somehow. He couldn't undo that. But he could choose not to take this Vicodin.

With an abrupt, near convulsive movement, he scrambled to the toilet, ignoring his leg's scream at the motion, and poured first one bottle, then the other down. He flushed urgently, knowing that in just a few seconds, he might change his mind. The pills, the last of his stock, hoarded for a full year, swirled down the pipe and vanished.

House leaned back against the wall beside the toilet, sweating, his hand working his leg, his breathing still jagged, but somehow, he felt stronger.

Maybe he hadn't had much Vicodin, wherever he had found it. Maybe it wasn't enough to have to worry about hallucinations again if he stopped adding to it. He suddenly lurched to his feet, limping heavily toward the door, hurrying to the bedroom. What if he had hidden a new stash of whatever he had drunkenly obtained? He searched the apartment near frantically, as only an addict could, but in the end, he was forced to conclude that there was no Vicodin here. He collapsed onto the couch, putting the heating pad over his leg, and slowly let his breathing return to normal.

So where had he gotten Vicodin?

His mind shuddered a few times like a car reluctant to start on a cold morning and then shifted into the problem, working it out mentally. Think, House. He knew the effects of Vicodin. Let's come at it backwards. When had he noticed any difference at all in his leg over the past few weeks? If he could peg down dates, it would give him a starting point, at least neighborhoods and bars to avoid, places where he might have made a connection with a source.

He replayed the last few weeks in detail, everything since his last clean drug test, and he kept coming to the same conclusion. There was only one time when his leg had felt marginally better than he would have expected under that day's conditions, and that was yesterday morning, the morning following his final appointment with Nolan. He'd come home from that session, drunk up the last of his liquor at home, and staggered out to a bar. He had no memory of arriving home later, but when he had woken up, in spite of a hell of a hangover, in spite of the previous evening's rain, his leg had been muted somewhat.

Maybe he'd only had one dose, maybe just two or three pills, and he didn't seem to have brought any home with him. Just his luck that a random drug test had been slated for that very morning.

House's head snapped up suddenly, his eyes sharpening, as the epiphany hit. What if that wasn't just bad luck? What if it still was sabotage, and sabotage of a far more malicious and extensive scale than just a lab worker with a grudge? What if the choice of that night had not been random and had been because of the drug test the next day?

Who could have known the night before that a random drug test would be performed that morning? They were truly random, on no system even he had been able to determine in the last year.

The obvious answer was the person who chose the times for testing, Cuddy. No, he couldn't believe she had had anything to do with this. At least not directly.

But she did have a history of sharing confidential details. What if a casual comment made in innocence had been an opportunity for someone waiting for one?

He reached for his cell phone and dialed quickly. Cuddy answered on the second ring, with almost a note a relief in her voice. "House! Have you been thinking things over?"

"Very much so. Listen, Cuddy, did you tell anybody night before last that you planned to pull a random drug screen on me the next morning?"

He heard her sigh and filled in the rolled eyes well enough in his imagination. "House, are you still looking for an excuse?"

"No, damn it, I'm looking for an explanation. Did you mention it to anybody?"

"That's confidential information, House."

"Which, I'm afraid, hasn't stopped you before. Please, Cuddy." The imploring sincerity in his tone derailed her annoyance for a moment. "Did you mention it at any point that evening?"

He heard the gears shift as her mind started to work. She was apparently going to humor him. "I think I mentioned it to Wilson. He came by right before he left. And then . . ." she trailed off, suddenly feeling guilty. Mentioning it to Wilson hadn't bothered her, but -

"Did you mention it to Lucas after you got home?"

"I . . . might have."

"Did he have a stakeout that night?"

"Yes, but . . ."

"Have you ever mentioned the tests to him? Is it something that's come up before?"

"I might have mentioned it once or twice." Her defensiveness suddenly kicked in. "House, this is a waste of time."

"Hopefully not. Thanks." He hit end and then speed dial 2.

Wilson answered on the fourth ring, probably having taken the first three to decide what tone to assume and what attitude to take here. "House. Are you okay?"

He ignored the question. "Wilson, night before last, did Cuddy mention to you right before you left that she was going to do a random drug screen on me the next morning?"

"Yeeeesss." Wilson drew the word out. "But what difference does it make? You weren't around to hear."

"Did you tell anybody else about that that evening?"

"Just how is that supposed to come up in casual conversation? Tipping the delivery guy? 'Thanks, here's your tip, and by the way, my friend House is getting a random drug test in the morning.'"

"The delivery guy. So you and Sam spent the evening at home and ordered out?"

"Yes, and again, what difference does it make?"

"I'm sure you talked while eating, probably watched TV later. Did you mention it to her at any point?"

Wilson's own defensiveness fired up. "House, this grudge you have against Sam is out of all proportion to reason."

"That wasn't a grudge; it was a question. Did you mention it to her?"

"I might have. I don't remember everything we talked about. She asked about my day, and I told her what had happened at the hospital."

"Including your conversation with Cuddy before leaving?"

"Yes." Wilson sighed, and House pictured the hands going to the hips. "House, just admit for once in your life that you screwed up and stop trying to shift the blame onto other people."

House ignored the jab, deep in mental differential. "Have you ever discussed the tests with her before?"

"We haven't been seeing each other that long. I think I'd mentioned the last one you had, yes."

"Night before last, was Sam home all that night?'

"Of course she was."

"Were you home all that night?"

"Yes. Well, mostly. I got called out about 1:30 a.m. to a patient. I waited until she died, then caught a nap in my office before work."

"Thanks." House sounded so sincere there that Wilson was left staring at the phone, his mouth still hanging half open for his next incomplete protest.

House put down his cell phone, his mind going at full gallop now. Two people, Lucas and Sam, both of whom hated him, both of whom had evidence that he had been drinking more lately. Lucas was observant enough and no doubt had made more of Cuddy's occasionally mentioned stories than she had. House was sure she would have mentioned his winding up in the wrong bed, for instance. Too good a House tale to miss sharing. Sam had been there the morning the police brought House back to the loft. Both had probably heard about previous drug tests from Cuddy and Wilson. Either could have concocted a plan to get him out of their respective partner's way for good and waited for the next opportunity.

But how? They couldn't have spiked his booze at the apartment, because that didn't stay around too long, and he'd run out on that evening. For one isolated incident of Vicodin, there had to be one isolated cause, not a hopeful repeated pattern. He would swear, or rather his leg would, that he hadn't had Vicodin until that night. Had they met him at a bar? Followed his drunken way home to share a nightcap with a little extra kick added?

The drinking. House sighed. Even if he was right and the Vicodin was sabotage specifically against that test, he couldn't escape the conclusion that he had set himself up for it with his behavior from the last few weeks. Making himself that vulnerable and gullible sickened him. No, the drinking definitely had to be dealt with. He didn't want to return to Nolan after the psychiatrist's judgmentalism and constant conclusion-jumping in that session, barely letting House speak before analyzing each comma of each sentence. But maybe he could find another therapist.

First things first. Find the saboteur, assuming there was one, and then he would try to find some more help for himself.

He thought for another 15 minutes, and then he picked back up the phone. Speed dial 1.

"House, what is it now?" Cuddy sounded annoyed. She'd probably spent the whole time since his last call ruminating on the implications.

"Cuddy, I need a favor."

She scoffed. "Forget it. You've run that bank balance down below zero. I've bailed you out enough. I'm sorry, House, but no."

"An easy favor. Hardly puts you out at all. Tell Lucas tonight about the failed drug tests, assuming you haven't already. Tell him I stalked out of the hospital and am no doubt home getting plastered tonight. Tell him there's a final drug test scheduled for the morning that will determine if the first ones were wrong."

Cuddy sighed. "House, Lucas would never . . ."

"Lucas isn't as innocent as that face looks. But really, what's the harm? It's pure hospital chit-chat. All you have to do is slip it into conversation. Please, Cuddy." His voice was pleading.

She hesitated. "If I do this, after nothing happens tonight, I want you to apologize to Lucas' face for doubting him."

"Done," he agreed quickly.

"And go back to rehab." He hesitated. "House."

He sighed. "Okay. If I set a trap tonight and nothing happens, I'll go back to rehab. But not with Nolan."

"Deal."

"Deal," he agreed.

He ended the call and then took a few minutes to strategize for Wilson. He'd fully expected Cuddy to wind up bargaining, because they worked like that, but Wilson would be harder. Wilson would be offended at the suggestion that Sam might have it in for House, maybe too offended to cooperate. Wilson's mind tended to skid to a halt when he was offended, unlike Cuddy who at least kept thinking. On the other hand, if House got Wilson offended enough, Wilson might well mention the requested info on second thought later just to prove House wrong, even if he said he wouldn't during this call. The thought of having to agree potentially to apologize to Sam was nearly as painful as his leg, but House could think of no way besides a trap to unsnarl this puzzle within his 48-hour deadline before he lost his license. He took out the phone.

Five minutes later, he hung up, satisfied that Wilson, though still sputtering denials, was far too offended not to play along later tonight just as a lesson to House. His Vicodin levels would be continually decreasing, although metabolism time varied a bit and might have been slowed more in his case by heavy drinking. But with an alleged final, all-or-nothing test tomorrow, any prospective enemy would be unable to resist a golden opportunity to top him off tonight, just to guarantee a strong positive.

The trap was set. Now, he just had to see which rat showed up to take the cheese.