Disclaimer- House owns me, not the other way around. Now, prepare yourself...

-Chapter Eight-

Surreality

House watched Wilson decrease the amount of morphine that the patient was on. "So you managed to remove the tumor?"

Wilson turned to House, a strange look in his eyes. "No. It grew. He's not going to live. His parents are flying in from Maine to say goodbye. I think they won't get here in time though."

House looked back to the patient, picking up the file. "Rednevah, Tom. Lymphoma¼ This wasn't a terminal case. What happened?"

Wilson snatched the file from House's hand, a cold grin playing over his lips. "Don't know. Yet." An anguished moan came from behind him, growing quickly into a scream.

"He's awake!" House muttered. "We need to up his morphine, not turn it down!"

Wilson shook his head. "No. You're wrong, House."

"Dammit, Wilson, he's in pain! Unless you have a reason for letting him suffer-"

"Oh, I have a reason. I need him to tell me something."

"You didn't have to turn his morphine off! He'll die from the pain before he even gets the chance to speak! Put him back on!"

"No."

"What the hell is wrong with you? You're practically torturing this man. This is nothing like you."

"Actually, you're right. This is more like something you would do."

"This isn't the time to be poking fun at me. His stats are climbing steadily. Heart rate is climbing past one-thirty, BP is one-ninety-two over one-seventeen. He's in danger. If you won't put him back on, I will."

"No you won't." Wilson grabbed a syringe and strode over to where House stood.

"Sedatives?" House frowned. "Not going to help him. At least not that one. It's the wrong kind."

Wilson turned to House. "For you, if you don't get out of my way. It'll wear off in half an hour."

House raised his eyebrows. "Are you stoned, hungover, or joking?" A feeling of unease began to appear in the pit of his stomach.

Wilson took another step forwards.

"Jimmy, just¼ put that away." He backed away until he hit the wall. "You've got to be kidding me. Are you¼just¼ Wilson!" House shouted as his friend brought the needle down in an arc. He stepped aside at the last moment, and brought his cane up, holding it like a club. "What the hell?"

"I warned you." In his eyes were no sign of the glazed look that temporary psychosis often brought. Only determination.

An erratic beeping sounded over the agonized screams of the patient, and House looked over. "He's going into v-fib. Get a crash cart and call a code, or you'll never get to hear whatever it was that you wanted him to say."

Wilson stood, not budging. "What. You going to hit me with your cane to get me out of the way?"

He looked over at Wilson, then back to the patient. He hesitated, for a moment, then swung his cane at the hand holding the syringe. Wilson stepped out of the way, and House limped hurriedly past him, reaching for the defibrillator. He felt a piercing pain in his shoulder, and turned, to see Wilson pull his hand back with the empty container. "What--" House could feel the effects of the drug racing through his system already, and he reached for the machine anyways, grasping the twin paddles. His unsteady legs gave out , and he dropped to the floor, Wilson standing over him.

The last thing that registered with him as the world faded out was the long, sustained tone signifying cardiac arrest. And the self-satisfied grin on Wilson's face—

-House woke, covered in cold sweat and heart pounding, to find himself sliding out of bed, his alarm clock going off. He clawed frantically at the sheets, but only succeeded in bringing half the bed down with him. Oh shit. This is going to hurt.

He dropped onto the floor, crushing his right leg beneath him. Immediately, a searing pain shot up his leg, and he barked out a yell of pain, instantly forcing himself to stifle it. The last thing he needed was sympathetic Wilson coming in here and asking if he was all right. Stupid question.

Teeth still gritted with the pain, he reached up to the table, now directly above his head, and grabbed the bottle of Vicodin. He slid one into his palm, and swallowed it, sinking back to the floor. It was several minutes before he trusted himself to stand up.

House grabbed crutches, cane, and bag, slipping his keys into his pocket. Another day at work. Great. At least no more clinic duty.

He slammed the car door shut, and slung his bag over his shoulder, visibly wincing as it bumped up against the damaged tissue in his right thigh. He re-adjusted his bag, and entered the hospital.

Once inside, he clipped his pager to his belt, and made for the elevator. To his horror, the doors were open but there was no elevator in sight. Where the elevator should be, there's a few men gathered by tan empty shaft, passing around tools, and acting important.

House made his way over to them, and stopped. "Where's the elevator?"

The most important-looking man of the group waved him away without looking up. "We're conducting maintenance on Lobby, Guest, and C-hall elevators." he muttered, annoyed, "You'll have to take the stairs."

House frowned. "I can't take the stairs."

"You'll have to."

House waved the end of one of his crutches in the man's face, forcing him to look up. "Do I look" he growled, enunciating every word, "like someone who can use the stairs? You said that the Guest and C-hall are down. Which aren't?"

The man instantly adopted a softer, condescending tone. "All other wings. The closest is-"

"-A. Yeah, I know. Nice to know you learned your alphabet, too." He made a face, and turned away. A-hall. Two hundred feet from here. I'm tired, my leg hurts, and I'm late.

He propelled himself down the hallway, until he reached the elevator. Once he was inside, he pulled his bottle of Vicodin from his pocket, staring at it. Common sense told him to forget it. How long had it been since his last? An hour? His leg hurt as if he hadn't taken his pill yet. And yet he had.

He shook his head. Just one. Maybe the pain would be gone by the end of the four-hour hiatus. He wouldn't take another out of place after this. It was just because of the added weight of the cast, pulling on the damaged muscles in his thigh. After his leg healed, the pain would disappear, and he would have no need for the extra dosage. Just for now he'd have an extra. Just one.

House popped the bottle open, and slid a Vicodin into his palm, dropping the container back into his pocket. He leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes, slipping the small pill into his mouth. His breath slowly escaped from his lips as the bitter taste filled his mouth, then ,almost reluctantly, he tilted his head back, and swallowed.

He stood, motionless, crutches dangling from the fingertips of his left hand. A ping sounded, and the elevator doors slid open, but he gave no sign that he noticed.

"Dr. House."

He knew that voice that, with only the utterance of his name, had expressed displeasure, exasperation, and the unspoken command to pay attention, or else.

"Is this why you're late this morning? Fell asleep in the elevator? Because I'm pretty sure that the time you'd normally be spending in the clinic would suffice as a naptime."

House slowly opened his eyes, his serenity instantly evaporating into annoyance. "I was thinking about whether I should stop by your office on the way here or not. But just thinking about you makes me tired."

Cuddy gave an unamused smile.

"You'd better hope you have enough energy to get where you're supposed to be."

"Actually, I was just plain late. Bet Dr. Wilson's even later than me. He can't hold his alcohol at all."

"Actually, he came in a full forty-five minutes before you."

House shook his head and turned away, moving quickly down the hallway on his crutches. Cuddy didn't follow. The clicking of her heels faded into the distance, and he soon found himself in front of his office.

Inside the connected workroom were Foreman, Chase, and Cameron, having a heated argument. House slipped silently through the door, and stood motionless.

"-to kill him! I'd be angry, too, if it were me. But I don't think he'd go that far." It was Chase, his Australian lilt not hiding the doubt in his voice.

"Come on. You've seen him angry. He doesn't just get mad, he gets revenge." Foreman.

"I agree with Chase. House is a rational person." Cameron. Figures, but…

"Rational? He's stoned on painkillers half of the time, the other half, he's in too much to think at all. How can he be rational?"

House slowly shifted so that he could see through the glass wall without being seen by his employees. Foreman was standing by the whiteboard, Chase was reclined in a chair, and Cameron was sitting on the glass tabletop, looking angrily at Foreman.

"He's in pain." Cameron retorted. "Pain causes inability to think. His medication gets rid of the pain."

"He's addicted."

"Addiction only means that his body is dependant on a chemical reaction that the drug causes-"

"-Dependence is a physical symptom. The drug chemically changes the way that the brain works. You saw him in detox. He was mentally debilitated by the absence of his Vicodin. If he were to have gone longer without it, things would have gotten worse. He might not have been able to make it. Look what he did to rid himself of pain! We all know he broke his own fingers. If that's not irrational thinking…"

"He needs the pills. He's desperate to escape the pain."

"Exactly. A desperate person will do anything to escape pain. Which brings me back to my original statement."

House slumped down against the wall, the rest of the conversation unheard. He let his head drop. What if… No. He would not allow himself to think that way. He was addicted. But it didn't affect his life. He wouldn't let it.

He stood up, and went back to the office door, opening and closing it noisily, acting as if he had just arrived. He dropped his bag by the desk, and opened the door to the workspace.

"Good morning, people." He looked at each of them in turn, his face as blank and unconcerned as he could keep it. All three of them were staring up at him. There was an awkward silence.

"Good morning… Dr. House." Cameron ventured. "You came in late."

House turned his head a little. "That was phrased as a question. Yes. I was late. I overslept. Big party last night, lots of hookers. Wilson was able to join me for the first time. So. Any news about our little.. sharpshooter delinquent?" The pause in his voice was barely audible. Nobody noticed.

Cameron nodded, and began to speak, but Chase cut her off. "Yes. There's still no sign of the grey coating on the tonsils or throat, and the tests came negative. Kevin Zalinski doesn't have diphtheria."

Whoa. It's been a while. And you know why? Because I've been writing and rewriting the next chapter of Will Be, and I just can't seem to get it right. So I gave up for the time being, and decided to update here. Three and a quarter pages. Told ya I'd be back to my normal soon! So, since you waited so patiently, I figure I'll give you some teasers so you won't forget me. Next chapters…

Security- Kevin Zalinski has a shocking secret that House can't ignore. Or he'll be killing the kid…

Will Be- Wilson wakes, but he's not feeling too good. In fact, he's seriously hurt. The horizon doesn't look promising either, as storm clouds the color of lead fill the skies.

Thanks to all who reviewed. (I don't have the time to list you all right now, but next update I will!)

P'Bantonox