Beautiful Lies

Hey guys! Here's the last chapter of Part 1 and it's longer (yaaay!). And by the way, I was watching Stuart Little on TV the other day. It just proved to me that Hugh Laurie can be hot whatever form he assumes. It's a real gift, I think ;)

Ch. 10

House turned off the TV in his room. The psychiatrist hospital evidently did not have cable, and there was only so much to watch on 10 channels. He felt better than he had for ages. He'd shaved and showered properly for the first time since the detox. He had no idea how he looked, since they didn't have a mirror in the personal bathrooms. But the important thing was, he felt completely himself again.

In fact, he was bored. How nice it felt to be bored. No hallucinations taunting you, no mind-numbing pain. Life was almost too normal, too banal.

He grabbed his cane, running a hand down the smooth oak. "Welcome back, Little little Greg," he murmured, grinning.

He rose to head out the room, easily ignoring the slight pain in his leg. The door was unlocked. He looked up and down the corridors, and smiled wickedly. This was going to be fun.

--

"House is getting discharged tomorrow," Wilson said. He looked glowing, Cuddy noted. Better than he'd looked for the past two weeks since House had been admitted into Mayfield.

"How is he?" she tried to ask casually.

"Wonderful," Wilson exulted. "His hallucinations are completely gone, his pain is at a manageable level—he might not even need painkillers for it. He is addiction-free…"

"In other words, he's almost a normal human being," Cuddy said, smiling.

"Yeah," Wilson said. His face fell for a bit. "How long do you think it'll last?"

Cuddy leaned back in her chair. "I don't know," she said. "But I'm glad it happened."

"And he talked to me on the phone!" Wilson sat down, looking like an excited little boy. As if House hadn't talked to him just the day before.

"What did he say?" Cuddy said, interested.

"Uh…he said, 'Now I don't have to have the split-brain surgery.'" Wilson looked a little puzzled. "I don't think the psychiatrist ever mentioned it as an option."

"No," Cuddy said knowingly. "That kind of insane idea can only be House's own." She felt a little cold when she thought about it. That kind of drastic measure only told how desperate House had been. But it's fine now, she told herself. That is all past.

"So," Wilson said. "Who is picking him up?"

Cuddy looked down. She'd love to see the recovered House, but she didn't know how he would behave upon encountering her as a non-hallucination (to his mind) for the first time. She didn't know how she'd behave. "I think you should," she said.

"Are you sure?" Wilson asked.

Cuddy took a deep breath. "Yes."

--

House happily roamed the grounds of the psychiatric hospital. Technically, his meanderings were supposed to be confined to the gardens, but here he was, poking his head into corridors of the patient wards.

He saw an intendant walking down the corridor with a cart. He neatly sidestepped into a supply closet to avoid her. If she saw him, she'd assume he was some crazy patient let loose (and she wouldn't be too far from the truth), and would take him back to his cell.

House's wanderings, while seemingly random, were not without a purpose. He was trying to find a familiar room, one he'd been in before.

He waited for the intendant's footsteps to disappear, and set off again.

Finally, he found himself in the room, one with a vending machine, chairs, a ceiling fan, and a fine layer of dust over all. For a moment, he closed his eyes and saw the drive up to Mayfield, New York from Princeton with Wilson. Two separate times. The first time he'd come to visit a crazy person. The second time he'd been the crazy person. The drive took four hours. Four hours was a long time to stay silent.

He tried the handle of the adjoining room. It was locked, which didn't surprise him. He frowned. He'd never gotten around to accepting Wilson's offer of meeting his brother.

He walked to the vending machine and felt around his pockets before remembering that he'd had to empty them at the time of admission. Deep in thought, he set off for his room. It was almost dinnertime.

--

The next day was the long-awaited discharge day. House had to do a final session with the psychiatrist.

"Dr. House," the psychiatrist said seriously, after going through the preliminary checkup, "I must advise you still to be careful. Your brain may have recovered successfully, but the emotional trauma you have sustained due to recent events—"

"Thanks for reminding me," House said sarcastically. "I really would've preferred to forget them—you know, them being emotionally traumatic and all."

"Dr. House," the psychiatrist chuckled, "and you accuse me of being Freudian. You know as well as I do that the more traumatic a memory is, the harder it is to repress it. You may still experience nightmares—"

"I slept fine last night," House interrupted.

"And the pain in your leg may still increase," the psychiatrist said, ignoring him. "The important thing is to abstain from alcohol and drugs, both recreational and pharmaceutical. And you should attempt to participate in more social settings, form stable relationships with more people…"

"Yeah, sounds like me," House muttered.

"You must try," the psychiatrist said, stern for once. "I am very serious, Dr. House. Consider what happened a warning bell. If you continue on the self-destructive route you have been on thus far, there might be no recovery come your next breakdown. You may have weaned off Vicodin now, but you will feel temptation the moment your pain gets worse. Therefore it is essential that you have a healthy frame of mind and a strong support group when this happens. You must start changing your lifestyle."

House was very glad when an intendant came to inform them that Dr. Wilson had arrived.

"I have told Dr. Wilson, as well as Dr. Cuddy, to keep an eye on you," the psychiatrist said as House stood up to leave.

"What'll have changed?" House said dryly.

"Go easy on them," the psychiatrist, standing up as well. "Your friends are doing everything they can." He extended a hand to him, which House took to shake after a moment. "Good luck, Dr. House."

--

"Hi," House said.

"Hi," Wilson said.

They stood facing each other awkwardly for a moment. House rolled his eyes. "You're going to hug me, aren't you."

Wilson nodded. House suffered his embrace for a brief second before stepping back.

Wilson coughed. "I'm, uh, glad you're alright," he said quickly, turning towards his car. Bright summer sunshine beamed upon them, a direct contrast to the dark blustery day when he was admitted.

"Me too," House said honestly. He followed him, suitcase in hand, his heart a million times lighter.

--

"How's Cuddy?" House asked quietly during the car ride.

"She's good," Wilson said. "She'll be happy to see you back at work."

"She has to un-fire me first," House reminded him.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Impossible as always," he commented. He had no idea how House was going to act towards Cuddy now, after the fiasco that resulted from the hallucination. One thing was for sure, though: Wilson vowed never to play matchmaker again. House'll have to figure this one out for himself.

"We swept your apartment, by the way," Wilson said. "Cuddy and I. Took all your Vicodin, including the one in your shoe in the closet. You sure pick creative hiding spots."

House nodded, as a stab of pain shot through his leg, as if mourning the loss of Vicodin. He sure hoped Wilson and Cuddy had really gotten every last bottle, because he wouldn't be able to help himself if he did find one. As pathetic as it sounded, House knew the first thing he was going to do when he got home was to check all his hiding-spots. He sighed.

To distract himself from thoughts of Vicodin, he thought of Cuddy. Their encounter in the psychiatric hospital was a little fuzzy, mainly due to the fact that he'd thought that she was a hallucination at the time. He still couldn't be sure that she'd meant what she'd said.

"Did you leave me my scotch, at least?" House said.

Wilson chuckled at the memory. "Cuddy poured it down the drain."

"Devil woman," House muttered.

"She knows you'll just buy more." Wilson turned serious and looked at House. "But we're hoping you wouldn't."

House thought of the endless lonely nights that stretched ahead, with no refuge of alcohol or Vicodin. Nights that made the TV sound hollow and weak against the crushing emptiness. Nights that even his music didn't seem able to entirely fill. How the hell was he going to survive that?

"No promises," he said gloomily. There was a silence.

"Oh, and a pipe burst in your apartment," Wilson said off-handedly. "Flooded the place. Your piano's probably still floating."

House turned sharply towards Wilson. "That is not funny," he stated as Wilson burst into laughter. "You do not joke about the piano."

But he smiled slightly.

"You're going to be okay, House," Wilson said quietly.

End part 1.

I watched the end of the finale again to make sure I have details right, and it depressed me all over again. It's like...no matter what I write, in the canon House is still stuck in that gloomy gothic hellhole. Gaaad I want season six right now.

Thanks SO much everyone for supporting this story! Part 2 may not be for a while, because I want to take a little hiatus from writing. However, who knows? I probably won't be able to stay away for long. Leave a review! I do love them so dearly =)