Author's Note: I still own nothing House-related.
House's apartment was chilly and it took him a minute to remember opening the window. He dropped the laundry bag onto his couch and hobbled into his bedroom to shut it. His bedroom was very cold and he could feel his leg drawing up. He made his way back out to the couch and rummaged in the laundry bag for his bedding, pulling out what he needed. He made the bed, collected pajamas and went into his bathroom to change.
Once he was under the covers and warming back up, he found himself thinking about his evening with Sarah. Had he ruined everything? She probably thought he was a jerk. Really, would it have been too much to tell her thanks when she'd brought him up his laundry? No, all he said was good night and then he'd left. Nolan had told him he needed to make new connections. An opportunity had landed in his lap and he'd managed to screw it up in typical House-fashion. He could almost see Wilson shaking his head at him, that I-am-disappointed-yet-unsurprised expression on his face.
"I am such an idiot," he muttered.
In spite of his early night, House didn't get up until almost 9:30 the next morning. His leg was aching more than usual and he lingered in a warm bath, hoping to soak away some of the soreness. He was feeling glum. Was there any way to fix things with his neighbor? Probably not, he concluded. Probably she was better off not getting to know him. He didn't exactly have a great track record with friends. He wasn't sure how he'd done it but somehow he'd finally managed to alienate even Wilson.
It was gray and nasty out. The precipitation was not enough to call drizzle, more like spit. House wouldn't have gone out at all except that there was no food in his apartment and he was hungry. He was able to park closer to the building when he returned from the store, which was a relief.
When he'd finished eating and putting away his purchases, he turned to the laundry bag on the couch. He carried the clean clothes back to his dresser. When he opened the top drawer he heard a suspicious rattle and he froze. He reached in hesitantly to shift the clothing, his heart racing. He scooted aside a stack of socks and a familiar orange bottle rolled forward, banging against the front of the drawer. He stared at it as sweat beaded out on his forehead.
House wasn't sure how long he stood there, staring at the bottle. Finally he reached a trembling hand toward it, picking it up cautiously as if it might burn him. The smooth plastic felt so natural in his hand. He knew how the rough edges of the lid would feel beneath his thumb as he popped the top off. He could almost feel the pills in his hand, taste the chalky residue they'd leave behind on his tongue.
With a strangled cry House dropped the bottle, hearing the pills inside it rattle as it hit the bottom of the drawer. He backed away and sank onto his bed, shaking and sweating. Jesus, he thought, did Wilson even try to find his stashes? It didn't seem possible that he could have missed this bottle. How many others were lurking in the apartment, waiting for him to stumble across them? For a few minutes House railed at his friend. How could he send me back here, knowing these pills were here? Does he want me to self-destruct? He's afraid I won't need him anymore if I get healthy so he sends me here to fall apart. It's all about his need to be needed. He's set me up – putting me in the Amber shrine, whispering to her, kicking me out of his apartment, the silent treatment – it's all about getting me to slip. Then he can swoop in and save poor pathetic House.
The last thought sent a spark of fury through him. He got to his feet, picked up the offensive bottle and carried it out to the living room. He put it on the table behind his couch and moved to the closet, finding more bottles in his shoes. He put them on the table and moved on to the kitchen. He'd hidden a bottle in a coffee mug, he recalled. The irony had amused him at the time; it was a mug he'd made during his pretend rehab stint a few years back.
House worked frantically, trying to remember each hiding place, retrieving more and more bottles and adding them to the collection on his table. When he'd finished there were twenty-five little orange bottles sitting on his table, and he'd also pulled out the "back-up" bourbon bottle from beneath the kitchen sink. He added it to the collection and stepped back.
As soon as he stopped moving, the full horror of his situation hit him afresh. What was he going to do now that he'd found these pills? He thought about flushing them down the toilet but couldn't see himself actually doing it.
There was a knock on his door and he rushed to it like a drowning man to a life preserver.
The gray skies that greeted Sarah when she'd opened her curtains that morning had seemed fitting for her mood. She was still annoyed at herself for scaring off her neighbor the night before. She'd seen that the leg was a sore spot with him, physically and mentally, yet she hadn't been able to stop herself. Now he thought she was a patronizing jerk.
She started a pot of chili on her stove, intending to let it cook all day, and spent the rest of her morning cleaning the apartment. By 1pm every surface in the kitchen and bathroom gleamed. The bookcases had been dusted, the bedroom carpet vacuumed, and her desk organized. Not even Maggie had escaped; she'd had her toenails trimmed and been bathed.
Sarah ate a sandwich, standing over her shining sink so that she wouldn't drop crumbs on her freshly-cleaned counters or floor, and then went out to her living room, dropping onto the couch. She was mustering up the nerve to go to the store, dreary weather or no. Maggie looked over at her for a second, before dropping her head back down and resuming her nap. Sarah was sorely tempted to join her but she made herself get up.
"I'm going to the store," she told the dog. "I'll be back in a little while." She gave Maggie a farewell pat and got her jacket from the closet. The dog didn't offer to move as Sarah put the baby gate in place and stepped out into the hallway. She stared over at her neighbor's door for a second, almost hoping it would open. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe she could find the right words to fix things.
No words came to mind and the door didn't open so Sarah moved on. She stopped at her mailbox and unlocked it. There was the usual assortment of bills and junk mail offers. She stopped cold at the fourth envelope. Once again the mailman had delivered something meant for her neighbor. She stared at the envelope, her heart racing. This was her opening, her chance to try to fix things. She stuffed the rest of her mail into her handbag and went back down the hall. Now she needed to figure out what to say.
Sarah stood outside the door to apartment B, hoping inspiration would strike. She felt more foolish by the second. What if he opened the door and found her standing there?
"Here goes nothing," she muttered, reaching out to knock.
House flung open the door, desperately hoping that Wilson would be on the other side. He'd even have welcomed Cuddy. She might despise him but she would at least haul away those pills. He didn't expect to find his neighbor standing there, an envelope in her hand. He stared stupidly at her.
"Uh, the mailman apparently can't tell the difference between A and B," she said, holding out the envelope. "I got your mail again." He continued to stare at her and she frowned. "Are you ok?"
"No," he said, reaching out to take the mail. His hand was shaking and he saw her note it. He took a half-step back, and she looked past him. He saw her eyes widen, heard her sharp intake of breath and knew she'd spotted the pill bottles. Her eyes came back to him, scanning him and looking for some clue as to what was wrong with him.
"I… I'm sorry," she said.
"I need some help," he said, looking away from her gaze. He couldn't believe he was saying this.
"What can I do?" She hadn't hesitated for even a second.
"Get rid of those," he said, gesturing toward the pill bottles. "Please." He looked up to find her staring at him, clearly puzzled. After a second she stepped past him and moved to the bottles. She looked at them for a second before dropping her purse onto the table and scooping them all up. She strode down the hall to his bathroom. He stayed by the door, hearing the sounds of pills plopping into water and then the toilet flushing. The sounds were repeated several times and still House didn't move.
Finally she came back to him and glanced over at the bourbon bottle.
"You want that gone too?" she asked and he nodded. She picked up the bottle and went into the kitchen. This time he followed, standing in the doorway as she poured the alcohol down his sink. She turned around when the bottle was empty and looked at him. "I'll get rid of the empties." She moved past him and he heard her go back into the bathroom. When he heard her shut the apartment door, he sagged against the kitchen door-frame.
Sarah's mind was racing. When she'd first seen the bottles she'd thought her neighbor was battling cancer or HIV. Why else would he have so many prescriptions? She'd been surprised when he'd asked her to get rid of them and shocked when she realized that they were all Vicodin. She'd added things up as she'd stood over the toilet, flushing away pills. He had twenty-five partially-filled bottles of Vicodin, all dated within the year but none from the past three months. To judge from last night, he still had pain issues. He'd told her he was moving back in. She concluded that a pain problem had led to a pill problem which had resulted in a stint in rehab.
When she'd returned to the living room, she'd found him still standing there, the apartment door open, literally giving her a way out. The bottle of alcohol had caught her eye and he'd nodded when she'd offered to dispose of it. Leaving the empty bottles around for him to see had seemed cruel so she'd taken them away.
When Sarah returned from the dumpster, she knocked on the door to the apartment before opening it. It took her a moment to spot her neighbor. He was still in the doorway to his kitchen, slumped back against the frame. He didn't react at all to her presence. She moved slowly toward him, afraid of startling him but unable to just walk away. He looked… defeated. He was staring off at nothing. His face was still but there was so much going on behind his eyes.
"Hey," she said quietly and he looked over at her, surprise flashing across his face before he shut down again. Clearly he hadn't expected her to come back. She leaned against the opposite side of the door-frame, waiting. She wasn't sure what to do now but leaving him alone didn't seem right.
Minutes passed and still he said nothing. He'd gone back to staring at a spot on the floor. Sarah didn't know what to say. Usually when in doubt she resorted to humor but the best crack she could come up with was something about his toilet feeling no pain. It sounded stupid and insensitive in her head and she knew it would be worse out loud. She wanted badly to see him stand up straight, to lose that bowed look. He shouldn't feel defeated, she thought. He should feel victorious. It had taken a lot of guts to get rid of those pills, not to mention asking for help.
She had to do something, to get him to move from that doorway and whatever unhappy thoughts were consuming him. He wasn't a big talker; maybe the best thing to do was offer him a distraction.
"Come on," she said. "Let's get out of here." He looked up at her. She pushed away from the door-frame and after a second he followed suit. She started back to the apartment door, collecting her purse along the way, and he followed. In the hallway she stopped long enough for him to lock up and then she moved to open her own apartment.
