A/N- Disclaimer: season 7 would have gone much differently if I owned House. Also, astute viewers - I have changed the type of alarm clock House has by his bed because I became over-attached to the starting visual, kindly forgive me! Rated T for language, crude humor, and mature themes; subject to change.

Pain — has an Element of Blank —

It cannot recollect

When it begun — or if there were

A time when it was not —

It has no Future — but itself —

Its Infinite realms contain

Its Past — enlightened to perceive

New Periods — of Pain.

- Emily Dickinson

[4:07am]

The digital clockface shone red in the darkness, a lighthouse lantern just barely cutting through the hazy fog of pain as House slowly forced his eyes open. He scanned over the glowing display before squeezing them shut again, as if his eyelids could prevent his brain from receiving the messages shot off by damaged nerves. If only. His body began involuntary curling in on itself, and he balled his left hand into a white-knuckled fist as his right attempted to massage his mangled limb before abandoning the effort and reaching blindly over the side of the bed, feeling around for the amber vial on his bedside table. When his fingers finally connected with plastic, the rattle of pills echoed in the still quiet of the early hour. Not a creature is stirring — except for a House, he thought wryly, quickly popping the lid with his thumb and pouring a Vicodin straight into his mouth, using his tongue to push the pill back between his molars before chomping down. Fuck extended release. Then he could only lay still and wait for the effects to take hold before falling back into a restless slumber.

[6:18am]

House was mercilessly ripped from his ramshackle construction of sleep as if by some kind of internal smoke alarm. Tendrils of white-hot fire were wrapping themselves around his right thigh, tightening like a starving boa constrictor around a fresh meal, as the remnants of his quadriceps alternated between seizing and freezing, spasming furiously, trying to tear straight through his leg then halting like an immovable boulder. The flames abated for a moment before surging back to life with power to rival a nuclear missile. Those fleeting moments of reprieve were all that was keeping him alive, time to gasp in oxygen before the raging fire sucked it all away again. House was sure his heart was going to explode in his chest, he could practically feel it pulsing in his trachea, making a break for it, deciding to try an easier escape route than his ribcage. His jaw was clenched tightly to prevent any sound except an occasional sharp gasp, the pain of his teeth grinding against each other not even registering underneath the hellfire his thigh was spitting into his nervous system straight to his brain, wave after wave—

And then his teeth were forced apart abruptly, his jaw unclenching as he leant his head over the side of the bed. His heart, thankfully, remained in his chest, but anything he had managed to keep down during the day came flying back up, leaving him retching pathetically, bile followed by dry heaving, his stomach rebelling against the all-consuming pain as if that too could be spewed out.

A brief moment of blessed calm — House uncurled the fingers of his left hand and grabbed the end of his pillowcase, wiping at his mouth. His throat felt ravaged, raw. He desperately wished for water, but if he couldn't even keep his own stomach acid down, he certainly wasn't inclined to add any more ammunition for his stomach to launch back up. Another wave of pain coursed through his thigh, the fiery tendrils tightening their hold, and the water was forgotten. He grasped his right bicep with his left hand, digging his nails deep into the skin, clenching his jaw tighter, fighting against the urge to cry out, for at least he could deprive his pain of the satisfaction of vocalizing itself.

[6:52am]

The incessant 'lub-dub' of his heart was reaching the peak of a crescendo in his ears, soaring to fortissimo with the force of a freight train. The tempo accelerated rapidly, musicians mistaking his tympanic membranes for their timpani, their mallets pounding con brio. Pain was a lunatic of a conductor, that much was certain. House's sore throat and burning leg crashed into a unison, dissonant harmony, tritone echoing throughout the invisible concert hall. The thigh muscle's fury contributed an entire violin section, plus a couple 1812 Overture cannons for good measure, to the cacophonic symphony that was his body, heart, throat, leg, brain, unceasingly screaming it won't stop please God do you exist I'll pray I'll kneel, confess whatever sins could have led to this wretched existence PLEASE, this can't last, I can't His racing, uncontrollable thoughts halted abruptly. Salty liquid slid down his cheeks as an agonized, barely muffled groan was torn from his raw throat. Pain – a God given a voice only through hostile takeover of its host, joyously mocking the pleas and prayers of the afflicted. Their voices fell on ears as deaf as the arms of cacti who hug the wind as it whistles through a barren desert.

[7:15am]

Dr. Remy Hadley walked into the outer office of the Diagnostics Department, coffee in hand. House was nowhere to be seen, as expected. Last she checked it was only 7:00am. He wouldn't come limping in for at least a couple hours, and she had a while before the other fellows made an appearance as well. Remy looked around the room, exhaling loudly. She liked the quiet of the morning, and having the glass room to herself to think — or more recently, to try and avoid thinking — provided her with the precious commodity of silence, while also not leaving her sitting alone in her home. Some mornings (and they were getting more common), she would awake, heart pounding, with an overwhelming desire to escape — nothing else, just that one word, over and over. Escape. Escape. Escape what? Escape her thoughts. Her room. Her home. And, loathe though she was to acknowledge it, the idea of escaping her life had a nasty habit of floating into her mind. Hell, I wouldn't even be the first of House's fellows to do it. Best not to linger on that. She certainly didn't need a reminder of the day she and Foreman found Kutner. She also knew she didn't want to die. Today was just one of those mornings, and if she couldn't escape her thoughts, she could at least come here. It was safe. I won't let myself die in a hospital. So here she was.

After making her way to the back of the room, she opened the blinds, gazing out of the windows. The sun would soon begin to rise, filling the room with warm light. Sunrise had always been her favorite time of day. Sure, sunsets had the more vibrant colors, the flare of a showman taking his bow as he left a cheering crowd behind him. But daybreak, the sun itself waking up to start the day, that was the truly special moment. Her mother had held the same view, providing just about the only positive memory of her, and the earliest memories Remy could recall, which were for some reason springing forth today. When she was very young, she and her mother would sit out on the porch and watch the first rays of light shine through the leaves of the maple tree in their backyard. When my mother could still sit peacefully, that was. Before the old maple was struck down by lightning. She shook her head, clearing her thoughts and letting her eyes drift shut as rays of light came to land on her face.

[8:30am]

Remy glanced at her watch, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips but not quite managing to take hold as Foreman strolled in at the precise second the time changed. Punctual as ever. "Cuddy has a case for us," he said without preamble, handing her a folder before dropping into a seat to flip through his own. She rolled her eyes. The trademark Foreman bluntness, also right on time. Good morning to you too, ex who fired me. But her sarcastic response was never voiced, and her thoughts soon began wandering again, pale eyes running blankly over the patient's file without her preoccupied mind assigning meaning to any of the strings of letters written. Sure, she didn't want to die. But she wasn't sure she did want. I can't go on like this. At least when I was being 'self-destructive,' I was living. Now I'm just waiting. Waiting for the Huntington's to start its murderous rampage, picking off my neurons. Waiting for the symptoms to start creeping in, making themselves nice and comfy. Until I'm begging for someone to make it stop, to end it, like Kit. Kit is dead. I killed him. I killed Kit.

Freeing herself momentarily from her repugnant reverie, Remy glanced at Foreman out of the side of her eye — her thoughts were so loud she was sure they were being broadcast to the world, but he wasn't even looking at her, just running a finger across a line in the file, brow knitted in concentration. File. Patient. Right. But try as she might she couldn't corral her brain's attention. Dealing with Derrian had brought back to mind her time in prison, with what had preceded it at the forefront. Not that that particular event had ever left her mind in the first place, but now it had expanded to occupy even larger a portion, increasing the pressure put on long-sealed floodgates, allowing old memories to flow freely into her conscious awareness as she tried to lock them back up. But it was too late, for the levees had been breached, and the hurricane had struck. Hopefully I can weather the storm.

[9:00am]

Remy glanced up at the sound of footsteps just in time to see the door fly open, allowing the entry of one Lisa Cuddy, looking extremely harried, hair in disarray. She looked from one fellow to the other. "Where is House?" The two fellows now looked at each other before answering in unison with matching expressions of bewilderment.

"It's only nine."

Cuddy sighed. "Well, where are the rest of you?" They both began to answer again, before she held up a hand. "Only nine. Right. House really has spoiled you all, you know." Foreman raised his eyebrows, and Cuddy amended her statement. "Not many workplaces where your boss couldn't seem to care less whether you show up on time, and regularly arrives even later. And his boss is forgiving of that. Except today," she said, reaching up to brush a few stray curls out of her eyes. "One of our biggest donors has been ill since Tuesday, and there has been no improvement or diagnosis. I promised his family he would receive the best treatment we have to offer, and I — the hospital can't afford a lawsuit. Or God forbid, losing his funding..." she trailed off, a look of utmost horror plastered on her face.

Remy and Foreman stared at their boss, both at a loss for what to say. Finally Foreman tried after a long moment of silence. "House will show up eventually."

Cuddy gave a short, humorless, vaguely hyena-like laugh. "I'm sure. He always turns up 'eventually.' Unfortunately the Ellingtons are not threatening to withdraw funding eventually, unless eventually means now. Should I find the most recent edition of Miriam-Webster?"

"What do you want us to do, drag House into work?"

Cuddy fished in her pocket for a moment before tossing something at Foreman, who, startled, missed and bent down to retrieve the object. "Don't bother knocking."

And with that, Hurricane Cuddy was gone.

Foreman turned to Remy. "Is she okay?"

"What are you looking at me for?"

Foreman shrugged.

"Do I look like I have some kind of supernatural womanly senses?"

"... are you okay?"

Why no, I don't believe I am. "Does that really matter to you right now?"

He looked affronted. "Of course I care—"

"I didn't ask if you cared. I asked if it mattered. At this moment. Does it?"

He glanced away, and she sighed. "What did Cuddy toss at you?"

He held up the projectile. "A key. To House's apartment, I'm guessing."

Great. I can't even concentrate on a patient file and now we're being sent on a mission to wake our boss. That's brilliant. "Guess we better get going. You drive."

"We're actually doing this?"

"Do you want to keep your job?" Sometimes best to appeal to his sense of stable income when it comes to Foreman and pathos, she thought cynically.

"Yes, which is why I am against this. House would fire us both on the spot."

"And Cuddy would un-fire us," Remy replied with an attempt at a nonchalant shrug.

Foreman paused for a moment before responding. "Do you think the Ellingtons know what House looks like?"

"What does that matter?" She asked, taken aback.

"Well, it doesn't really matter what time House gets here as long as they think he's treating their relative."

"You really think Cuddy would go for that?"

"I didn't say Cuddy had to know about it."

Unbelievable. Remy raised an eyebrow. "Hard to hide the fact that 'House' has changed color or gender, depending on which one of us you think should waltz into the patient's room with a fake cane."

"Got a better idea?"

"Doing what our boss's boss just asked." She walked over and snatched the key from Foreman's hand before he could react, making her way to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Well, I thought first I would stop by Cuddy's office and regale her with the tale of your brilliant plan—"

"Fine. I'll drive."

Remy shook her head — finally — and the two fellows headed to the parking lot to retrieve their boss.

[9:15am]

Cuddy stepped out of her office bathroom, feeling more than a little embarrassed after seeing her reflection in the mirror. Dark circles were now sufficiently covered in a thick layer of concealer, and her curls had been corralled into a stronger state of semi-submission. I must have forgotten the anti-frizz creme. No wonder the Ellingtons are threatening to sue, it must have looked to them like the Dean of the Hospital was a newly-resurrected Albert Einstein in drag. Apart from the embarrassment, she was also feeling a little guilty at her treatment of House's team. It wasn't their fault he was late, and apparently ignoring her calls. Granted, the currently missing fellows were not House… then again, the way that team worked they were all basically gears in House's mind. She had to hand it to House, he could run a department. Like a mad dictator, sure. Or perhaps a tornado, swooping through the hospital, tearing apart obstacles in his path. And digging up graves. Can't forget that one. But the Diagnostics Department statistics didn't lie — and PPTH had received a sizable number of donations from his patients and their families over the years, grateful for help no matter the methods. Not that House needed to know that. It was evened out by the lawsuits anyway. Lawsuit. The Ellingtons are waiting.

And with that thought, Cuddy stifled a yawn as she power-walked out of her office and down the hallway, off to deliver the news that House was on the way and stave off a volcanic eruption from the relatives of Dick Ellington. What on earth possessed the man to go by that was entirely beyond her comprehension. Rich, Rick, Ricky, even Richard alone is a fine name.

'Rich' would certainly have been an apt moniker — his pockets seemed to know no bounds, a fact the Cardiology department was eternally grateful for. She had thought Dr. Hubert was going to faint from lack of oxygen with the rate at which he extolled the virtues of the Sonosite EDGE portable ultrasound system when she told him they would be purchasing it as soon as it got FDA approval. She hadn't seen one of her doctors so enthusiastic since the radiology department got a look at the new PhyZiodynamic imaging software last year. They had insisted on paging every department down to point out all the details; the wait times in the clinic had been astronomical that day.

But no. He went and picked the one name that makes him sound like he's starring in some kind of knock-off jazz-themed porno. What? Cuddy decided to stop her thoughts right there, thank you very much, best leave the name jokes to House. She had no wish to continue that train of thought. 'You must take the A train/to go to Sugar Hill way up in Harlem...' Yet on it went. Her mind had indeed taken the A train, and where it was headed was anybody's guess. But probably not Harlem. Unfortunately. She let out a long sigh as she stopped outside the door behind which the Ellington family was gathered. I need a vacation.