Beautiful Lies
Ch. 2
Merci beaucoup for the wonderful reviews!
Good news: I updated fast (you may thank the end of AP exams)! (Potentially) bad news: I don't really like this chapter, it's more a filler than anything...but I hope it clarifies some things. Things'll get a lot more interesting next chapter, I promise!
House decided that all he could do was to wait. If he detoxed within a day and then Cuddy came to pick him up and professed her undying love, then it was all a hallucination. But if the detox took a week—as he knew it should—then it would have to be real, wouldn't it?
"'Course!" Amber said perkily. "I mean, sure your brain made up detoxing once, it wouldn't do that again for a longer period of time."
Damn. House thought. He needed someone to control him. But how could he make sure that someone was not a figment of his imagination?
"Dr. House," the door opened again. House looked up. It was his psychiatrist. "How are you doing?"
"I'm just wonderful, thanks," House said sarcastically. Just because he was now a mental patient, didn't mean that he would act like one.
The psychiatrist walked towards Amber's chair. House gleefully anticipated him sitting on top of her. Unfortunately, she disappeared as the old man sat down. "I understand that you wish to quit Vicodin."
"Yes," House said shortly.
"And you are aware—"
"If you insist on calling me Doctor, could you treat me like one?" House snapped. "I am fully aware of whatever crap that is associated with detoxing from an opiate substance. Do I need to sign a form?"
"Relax, Dr. House," the psychiatrist chuckled. He wasn't easily annoyed, which was annoying. "I just want to talk to you. You are familiar, of course, with the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders and its five axes?"
House nodded. He wasn't trained in psychiatry, but back in med school all students had to do a Psych rotation and they'd covered the DSM-IV.
"Of the first four axes, Dr. House," the psychiatrist said, peering at him seriously under his Freudian glasses, "You fall under three. You have clinical syndromes—hallucination, and possibly mild depression. You might also have brain damage sustained from the bus crash you were in a year ago, and the deep brain stimulation you underwent soon after. And one of your colleagues had committed suicide, which is negatively psychosocially…"
House was getting bored of the old man droning on. And he didn't want to think about Kutner, who mercifully had not appeared again since last week. "Is there a point to your Psychology lesson?" he cut in.
"My point is, Dr. House," the psychiatrist said, "your condition is complicated and rooted in many causes. The good news is, your global assessment is moderately high. You are functional, rational, not a danger to yourself or others—"
"Not yet anyway," Amber giggled, suddenly appearing behind him.
"So basically," House said, "as soon as my hallucinations stop, I'll be fine."
"Well—"
"Yes or no?" House asked impatiently.
"Essentially, yes."
"Which is why I want to detox from Vicodin!" House exclaimed. He still couldn't forget the relief and joy he felt when he had detoxed and realized Amber was gone. Sure, it had turned out to be a hallucination, but he could make it happen in real life, right?
"We could start off small, and gradually reduce—"
"No, no," House said. Any amount of medication in his body might still feed Amber. Besides, if a pinch woke someone from a dream, good old leg pain would surely snap him out of his delusions. "Cold turkey."
"Fine, Dr. House," the psychiatrist said, standing up. "If you're certain—"
"I'm certain."
"Then we will take steps to ensure that your detox will be successful. However, the reason I came was to warn you that simply stopping Vicodin might not relieve your symptoms."
"I know," House said. But it was just like solving one of his cases; he had to do a test to try whatever options he had. Funny how just two weeks ago, he'd rather have MS or schizophrenia then detoxed. Now he wanted to be Vicodin-free about all else. It had become like a monster to him. He still couldn't shake off the horror he had felt when he realized Cuddy's lipstick was really a little orange bottle.
"In that case, I wish you luck," said the psychiatrist, and left.
--
"Now, was that real?" Amber said. House looked back and saw her lying on his bed. When he didn't answer, she taunted, "you don't know, do you? You can't—"
"There is a way," House said, looking at her grimly. Her eyes widened as she read his mind.
"No way," She said incredulously, sitting up. "You want to cut your corpus callosum? You know that only works for seizures, right?"
"No, not to get rid of my hallucinations," House said. "If I became a split-brain patient, then my right brain could have a chance to express itself. It would know when my left brain is making things up." The idea had just popped into his mind as he thought about the patient he had. His last patient. The last patient he might ever--No. He wouldn't think about that.
Amber stared at him for a minute. He noted with satisfaction the fear in her eyes. It meant that it might actually work.
She sank back down again onto the bed. "That's radical, even for you."
"Yeah, well," he smiled humorlessly, rubbing his stubble. "I am supposed to be insane, after all."
"They'll never agree to it," Amber said smugly, her confidence back. "Cuddy and Wilson. And you can't make the decision yourself, because you are legally incapacitated!" She almost sang.
"They will," House said. "if there was no other option. My cognitive ability wouldn't be affected by a split-brain surgery. I could go back to work."
"Yeah, with a freaky alien hand," Amber muttered.
"It can be a party trick," House shrugged.
"You do know it's for life?"
"Which is why it's a last resort," House said, looking at her. "Meanwhile, I'm going to detox."
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