Chapter 30 – Detox Just to Retox

"That's Amanda fucking Seyfried."

Wilson shot me a confused look. "Come again?"

I pointed from behind the glass waterfall in the ICU waiting room of the Carnegie Wing, where Wilson and I were casually stalking the girlfriend of House's newest patient. "Amanda Seyfried!" I repeated. "She's been in like a million movies. Les Mis ring any bells?"

"I thought that movie came out in the fifties?" Wilson's brow scrunched.

"Well, yeah, that was the old one, but the musical version came out in–" I broke off. "2011. Right. Seven years from now."

"It must be a never-ending pain for you, being from the future."

"Times like this, yeah. Man, who's going to play Cosette now? I'm kind of crushed."

"Never pegged you as a Les Mis fan. Though I guess you do have a thing for tragic heroes," he commented idly.

"Believe it or not, I actually didn't like Jean Valjean that much," I replied. "I was always a Javert fan."

"Javert was a sycophant!"

"Javert was dedicated to his work. To the truth."

"But only the truth as he saw it," Wilson countered.

"Which was his fatal flaw, in the end. He couldn't accept any truth other than his own." I shrugged. "He fascinated me."

"Does House fascinate you?"

I smirked. "Yes, yes he does."

Wilson just shook his head. "You know, you scare me a little when you get that look." He turned his attention to Amanda Seyfried Girl again. "So, she's House's patient's girlfriend?"

"Yep." I gestured towards the nearby glass door of one of the ICU rooms. "Right there. He's got hemolytic anemia."

"Seriously? What is he, sixteen, seventeen?"

"Sixteen."

"It must be inherited."

"You think House would take a case that boring? Please."

"Did you bring this one to him?"

"Nope. That's Cameron's bag. I just wanted to come stare at his girlfriend."

Wilson shook his head, ducking further behind the waterfall. "Wow." I grinned at him, and he chuckled. After a few moments, however, his expression sobered significantly. "There's something I wanted to talk to you about, actually. A favor... sort of."

"Hit me with it."

"Cuddy and I came up with a plan." He crossed his arms, giving me a searching look. "Do you know what it is?"

"Yep."

"Okay... so, I need you to watch House and make sure he doesn't cheat."

"And support him through the incredibly painful withdrawal?" I tacked on, a little edge to my voice.

"Right. Not that he thinks he's going to have withdrawal symptoms..."

"...but he is," I finished. "Yeah. Okay, I'll keep an eye on him. Not that I don't do that already."

Wilson patted me on the shoulder. "Thank you. I just... I need to prove this to him. He needs to wake up. The pills are running his life. It's only a matter of time before they completely take over."

I didn't really know how to respond to that, but Wilson was already walking away.

"Aren't you gonna ask me if I know how this ends?" I called after him. A few passing nurses shot me strange glances, but I felt like the statement was ambiguous enough not to draw any real suspicion.

"Would you answer?" Wilson said, pausing and glancing at me over his shoulder.

"Well... no."

"That's what I thought."

"It's only been ten minutes."

I looked at House, an expression of pure innocence on my face. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

House just rolled his eyes. I'd been waiting for him in his office, using his computer to do my classes for the day. I was clearing through my work so fast in cyber school that it was looking more and more like I was going to graduate early. Huzzah to that. My ability to learn on my own was a life-saver; my grades were better now than they'd ever been when I'd gone to public school back in my own universe.

He sank down into his Eames chair, closing his eyes and throwing his feet up. "I don't need a babysitter."

"How many did you take before you handed your pills over to Cuddy?" I asked, disregarding him.

"Three."

"Modest, for you."

House didn't offer me a response.

"Sure you'll be able to resist dipping into one of your stashes?"

"I'm not completely devoid of willpower. Plus, I'm sure you went through all of my stashes and emptied them out."

"Surprisingly, no," I replied. "I mean, what's the point? I know you're resourceful enough to get them if you really wanted them. Even if I went through and trashed every bottle you had saved, you'd still find some way to get more. You're pretty much impossible to stop when you're determined to do something."

"The power of positive thinking," House snarked. "So, Cuddy got you in on this?"

"I'm not 'in' on anything."

"Then why are you here, and not at the apartment?"

I shrugged. "I was bored, and I like this episode."

House scrutinized me. "You owe me an episode name."

I met his eyes. "Detox."

House went quiet, and I knew he was staring straight through me.

"You can do it, you know," I told him. "If you're worried... you don't really need to be."

House cocked his head, snapping back into the moment. "Did you just tell me something about my future?"

"No. I'm merely making an observation."

"Of course you are."

I zipped my lips and made a motion of throwing away the key. Stare turned to glare, and House rose to his feet.

"I hate you."

I just smiled. "Love you too, House." He snorted derisively and limped for the door. "Where are you going?" I asked.

"Why? You going to follow me? Make sure I don't start combing the streets for drugs, desperate addict that I am?"

I held my hands up. "Pure curiosity, I promise. I'm staying here. I've got to finish this up."

Before heading through the door, House said, "I've got to go see a man about a lymph node."

I didn't see House the rest of that day. The team occasionally popped in and out of the differential room, but they were busy running a battery of tests on Keith, and then later prepping Keith for his lymph node biopsy. I worked six to close at Ryan's, so I didn't get home until half past twelve.

House was sleeping on the couch when I arrived, snow in my hair and cheeks stung red from the cold. We were well into late March, and we still had a foot of snow outside. Spring seemed to be coming slow, this year. Shivering, I pulled off my coat and flung it on the armchair. Time for a hot shower.

After I'd bathed and changed into my pajamas, I headed back out to the living room. House, to my dismay, was still passed out on the couch. I eyed the half-empty bottle of bourbon on the coffee table. At least he'd found a way to get some sleep. I briefly considered just going to sleep in House's bed and letting him remain on the couch, but if ever there was a time that House needed decent, comfortable rest, it was now, and the couch was no place for a 6' 2" middle aged man to sleep when he was in the midst of narcotic withdrawals.

Which left the unpleasant task of getting him up.

I went and knelt by his side, lifting my hand. A thrill of hesitation stayed me; I was still so wary of touching the guy, knowing House's aversion to physical contact.

You've lived with the guy for nearly five months. Chill out, I chastised myself. I gently clasped House's shoulder and shook him. "Hey, wake up."

He didn't move. "House." I shook him a little harder.

Nothing.

"Patrick? Patrick, come on. Wake up. I need you to wake up."

I nearly gasped, letting go of House's shoulder. The last thing I needed at the moment was to think of that. House was fine; his skin was clammy but still had color to it, and I could see his chest rising and falling. He was alive and at least mostly fine.

House wasn't my brother. Everything was okay.

I took a deep breath, calming down. Bracing myself, I tried again: "House!" A muscle in his cheek twitched that time, and he grumbled something inaudible. "Come on. You don't want to sleep here."

Another mutter. "House, get up, or I'll make you get up. Don't make me pull out a falsetto rendition of "Call Me Maybe". I will. I will sing horrible pop music from the future, raining a fresh hell down on you that you cannot even begin to understand–"

"Shut up," House groaned. "I can only take so much of that pre-pubescent soprano."

"One: I'm eighteen. Two: my voice isn't that high."

House lazily blinked open his bloodshot eyes. "Why are you waking me up?"

"You need to sleep in a real bed. Not the couch. If you have trouble getting back to sleep, I'm sure a few more gulps of this will send you on your way." I poked the side of the bourbon bottle. House pushed himself up. He pinched his eyes shut, hand massaging his thigh. His jaw formed a rigid line.

"How bad is it?" I asked softly, taking a step back so he had room to stand.

"You know just how bad it is. You're just hoping I'll give you a comforting lie to hold onto so you can stop worrying," he grumbled. He opened his eyes, kept them half-lidded, and grabbed his cane from where it rested on the floor. He forced himself to his feet. He swayed, and I reached out my hands to steady him, grabbing onto his biceps.

"I'll never stop worrying about you," I said honestly.

House shrugged off my hands. "Adorable." He snatched up the bourbon and limped past me, pace pained and beleaguered.

"House–" He looked like he was about to faint.

"I'm fine," he cut across me. He glanced at me over his shoulder. "Happy?"

Not even remotely. "Goodnight," I said, feeling useless.

House didn't say anything, just made his way into his room and slammed the door behind him. I sank down on the couch, staring at the closed door. The idea of facing the next week of watching House withdraw suddenly seemed a hell of a lot more daunting than it had twelve hours ago. Was I going to be able to sit and watching him suffer for seven days straight? He was just in the beginning stages, now. By this time tomorrow, he'd be a mess.

I sighed, resting my head in my hands. Stop worrying, huh?

If only.

The next night, I tried hard to be prepared for House's arrival home.

I'd gotten back from work around eight, and I went about doing everything I could to set up the apartment for House. Once Wilson texted me that House had left the hospital and was heading home, I'd drawn a bath for him. A bottle of ibuprofen sat on the coffee table, alongside a bottle of Jim Beam and a heating pad. There was a Desperate Housewives marathon playing on the TV, chicken noodle soup simmering on the stove, and a ready to use puke pail next to the couch.

It was the best I could do for him... which wasn't nearly enough.

House came in, soaked and shivering. It had been pouring all day. I froze in mid-stir, watching him from the kitchen.

"Cold sweats have started," he said without preamble. "Now things are gonna get real fun."

I set the spoon down and scurried over to him. I took his backpack and set it down, then slid his jacket off his shoulders. He didn't even fight me.

"You must be ecstatic," he said in a monotone, eyes glossed over and hazy. "Now I'm not just a metaphorical sick puppy for you to nurse back to health."

"Shut up. Go take a hot bath. Water's ready for you." I hung up his coat. "I've got soup going, I'll make you some toast. It's probably all you can handle right now. Choke down some ibuprofen with dinner. Hold off on the booze until you're ready to go to bed."

"Yes, Mom." He rolled his eyes, but he did amble off to the bathroom as ordered. Wow. Had I just told House what to do and he actually listened? He really must've felt like shit.

While House was in the tub, I finished the soup and poured it into two bowls. As long as House was on the detox diet, I was too. I hadn't stopped Wilson and Cuddy from their little experiment – something I was beginning to regret, in the back of my mind – so this was at least partially my doing.

Just as I started to load bread into the toaster, I heard sounds of retching from the bathroom. I stilled. It was rough, dry hacking. House must've not eaten much today. That didn't surprise me, I doubted that his stomach could handle much at the moment. I dithered for a moment. Should I let him puke in peace, or go to him and... what?

I couldn't do anything. I stowed the bread and let the soup simmer. I paced around the kitchen, flexing and unflexing my hands anxiously. Eventually, House stopped vomiting. I expected him to come out of the bathroom. I waited.

And waited.

He still didn't come out.

Okay, screw it. I poured a glass of ice water and made my way to the bathroom door. I knocked once, then twice. "House, if you don't say something, I'm coming in." I didn't receive an answer. My heart sped up in my chest. "I'm opening the door. Right now. You better stop me."

I wrapped my hand around the door knob and twisted, pushing in, not a word from House to delay me.

Please be okay please be okay please be okay–

House knelt by the toilet, drenched in sweat and pale, the side of his head resting against the porcelain, dressed in the sweats and t-shirt I'd left out for him on the sink counter. I breathed out a heavy sigh, half relief, half anger. "I wish you would stop scaring the shit out of me like that."

"Sorry. Didn't know the painful withdrawals would interrupt your evening. Want me to go over to Wilson's and puke there instead? It'd probably be an improvement over that shag thing Julie's got in the living room." His voice was low and rough, hoarse from heaving. I sat down on the cold tile next to him. I offered him the glass.

"Here."

He glared at me, but it was half-hearted. He lifted a shaking hand and accepted the glass of water. He downed it one long, desperate gulp, then set it down next to him with a clatter.

"It's been, what, about thirty-four hours?" I asked quietly.

House nodded. "Brunt of it will be day three and four, peter out around five. Hopefully."

"I've got some stuff for nausea, some ibuprofen... do you want some? It might help out."

"Unless you've got a bottle of Subutex floating around somewhere – or absinthe – then no thanks."

"Absinthe will make you go blind."

"All the better."

I frowned. "Bed or couch?"

He side-eyed me. "What?"

"You wouldn't still be in here if you could get up on your own."

"Maybe I just like the scenery."

"House."

"I can walk."

I rose to my feet, grabbed his cane, which was leaning against the side of the now-drained bathtub. I handed it to him. "Alright."

He took the cane, placed the stopper on the ground, and pushed. He managed to half-rise before letting out a gasp of pain and heading straight back for the ground, knees hitting the floor. House ducked his head, gritting his teeth hard. I pursed my lips, surprised to find a sudden heat growing in the back of my eyes.

Seeing him in positions like this on TV had been difficult, but it was nothing compared to actually witnessing it firsthand.

I bent down next to him. "I know it's against the Gregory House Code, or whatever, but please... just let me help you, okay?"

"I don't need help. Get out."

"House–"

"Get. Out."

On instinct, I obeyed him. Even bent in half and sick over a toilet, House still had a commanding presence, and my bordering on unhealthy dedication to him made it so I was hard-wired to do as he told me. I rose from the floor and made for the door. I couldn't help him if he didn't want to be helped.

"If you need me, just yell," I said over my shoulder before closing the bathroom door behind me.

We're only on day two. Just how bad is this going to get?