Chapter 31 – The Things They Left Behind

A/N: Thank you for all of the love so far, guys! You are far more than I deserve. Also, thank you to the guest reviewer who pointed out that I'd accidentally renamed the coffee shop Anya works at. I've gone through and fixed the mistake; she works at a place called Ryan's, not Perk Place. I done goofed.

When I woke up the next day, House was gone. I was surprised to see his car not parked in front of the apartment, seeing as I'd rolled out of bed around eight in the morning. With how he was feeling, I was sure House wouldn't go in until much later. Then again, he was smack in the middle of a case. Even while detoxing, House was still focused on his patient... or the puzzle, depending on how you looked at it.

I was off for the next two days, and thoroughly caught up on school. The idea of staying home and staring at the wall, wondering how House was doing, certainly didn't appeal to me. Plus, Wilson wanted me to keep an eye on him, right? Might as well head to PPTH and do my part.

I got dressed and put myself together, then caught a cab to the hospital. I wasn't sure where we were at in Detox at the moment. House hadn't talked about the case with me last night. After he'd finally emerged from the bathroom about a half an hour after he kicked me out, he made his way to his bedroom and slammed the door shut without another word to me.

He needed help, but he refused to accept it, and it was driving me mad seeing him suffer. Almost to the point where I was tempted to get House to just call off the deal and take his damn medicine. House's vicodin use never really impaired him to the point that he couldn't function; obviously I was determined to get him off of it eventually, but was now the right time?

Of course... would it ever be the right time, if the 'right time' was a time where I would be able to see him in endless amounts of pain for days on end? Am I ever really gonna be able to handle that?

I guess in the end I didn't really have a choice. I couldn't let House stay on the stuff indefinitely. I had no intentions of letting him get sent to Mayfield again, so I would have to choose a point in time where House would permanently detox off of the vicodin... but where? How?

Is now the time?

House getting off of vicodin so early into the show's run would no doubt have a ripple effect on the next eight years of his life. A ripple effect so massive that it might permanently cause me to lose my advantage of knowing what was next. It could change everything about how House reacted, and how others reacted to him.

I couldn't protect him if I didn't know what was coming.

"This is your stop, right?"

I blinked, realizing I'd completely zoned out on the twenty minute cab ride. I shoved my fare in the cabbie's general direction, then climbed out. I pulled my coat tight around me and headed for the hospital's front doors.

"Hey, Anya!"

I turned. Cameron was ten feet behind me and hurrying in my direction. I grabbed one of the glass double doors and opened it up, holding it for her.

"Thanks," she said, cheeks stung red by the wind. She went through, and I followed after her. "I've been meaning to talk to you."

"Let me take a wild guess..."

We walked through the crowded lobby of PPTH side by side, Cameron loosening her scarf as we walked. Cameron was still the person I was most comfortable around outside of House and Wilson, even though she didn't know the Big Secret. It was hard not to like Cameron when you were stuck inside the House universe, even if she was a bit aggravating from time to time. It was just a lot less stressful to interact with her than Chase, Foreman, or Cuddy.

"Your dad. How's he doing? At home, I mean... with the withdrawals."

"About as well as you'd expect," I answered, not really feeling like I had the right to give Cameron any details on just how bad the detox was. I knew House wouldn't want me to.

"Look, leaving a teenage girl with someone going cold turkey off of pain medication... are you okay?"

Well, that was a new one. Cameron being interested in my wellbeing, instead of just House's. I wasn't sure how to respond. "I'm dealing. It's just a week, right? Only four more days after this."

We reached the elevators. The doors dinged open, and we slid in with about six others. I hit the button for the fourth floor. Cameron was watching me, all big blue eyes and sympathy.

"I just wanted to make sure that you're able to handle him by yourself. He's in the middle of withdrawals, and that could turn bad."

Oh, shit. Was she asking me if I needed help with House? While the offer was nice, it was the last thing in the world House would want, and in all honesty, I could deal with House and his detox myself. At least, I was pretty sure I could. Plus, if House wouldn't let me help him, he sure as hell wasn't going to let Cameron.

"We're okay, Cameron," I told her. "If anything goes sideways and I get in over my head, you'll be the first to know."

She frowned. "Am I overstepping my bounds here?"

Kind of. "Nah. You're just worried. Which is understandable. I'm worried about him, too."

The doors slid apart, and we stepped out onto the fourth floor, heading for the diagnostic offices. I could see that Foreman and Chase were already in the differential room.

"So," I said, trying to change the subject as smoothly as I could. "How's Keith?"

Cameron's expression turned grave. "His liver's failing."

Huh. We were farther along in the episode than I thought. "Any ideas?"

"Right now? Nothing. Hopefully your dad will think of something. It still looks like lupus, but..."

"The progression is way too fast," I pointed out.

"Exactly."

We pushed into the office. Foreman was pacing. Chase was combing through Keith's file and nursing a cup of coffee. They both glanced at me when the doors swung open and chorused a good morning at me.

"Morning," I said, heading to the coffee maker to pour something for myself. I'd gotten up much earlier than intended, and I needed some caffeine. Foreman sank down into the chair to Chase's left, and Cameron shirked out of her coat and dropped her bag back by the desk.

"Have you seen your dad yet, Anya?" Chase asked as I busied myself pouring the steaming coffee into one of the mugs that was kept in the tiny kitchenette.

"Nope. Cleared out of the apartment before I was up, and I just got here." I glanced over my shoulder at Chase. "What did he do now?"

"The usual. Said something inappropriate," Chase answered. Cameron put on her reading glasses and seated herself next to Foreman, grabbing Keith's chart and examining it closely, not seeming terribly interested in the conversation.

"This was worse than usual," Foreman jumped in. "House shouldn't even be here, right now."

"Why? Because he was an ass?" Chase questioned. "If we sent him home every time he did that, we wouldn't need this office."

"He's in pain," Cameron stated.

"What does the man have to do to piss you off!?" Foreman exclaimed.

"This is his third day without any kind of pain relief," Cameron reminded him tautly.

"Exactly! He's detoxing! Can't you see he's out of his mind!?" Foreman looked beseechingly at both Chase and Cameron. I went to the table, steaming coffee cup in hand, now with the addition of several doses of cream and sugar.

"Out of his mind is going a little overboard," I told him, sitting down beside Cameron. "If House thought he wasn't contributing something to the case, he would send himself home. He's not irresponsible."

"I'm sorry, Anya– have you met your father?"

"Only about eighteen years too late."

The ducklings all jumped at the sound of House's voice behind them. Seemingly out of the ether, House emerged from his office, looking about as worn down as he had last night, though at least now he was standing. His eyes were bloodshot, and pain carved deeper into the ever-present lines in his face. He didn't look at me.

"Do you want to continue talking about me," House continued, resting his fist against the door's threshold. "Or should we discuss what the liver damage tells us?"

Chase, Cameron, and Foreman all ducked their heads in varying states of embarrassment. I was starting to notice a recurring theme in season one: the team would talk about House, thinking he was out of earshot, when in fact he wasn't, then House would dramatically walk in and everybody would blush and look uncomfortable.

"Hemolytic anemia doesn't cause liver damage," I offered when the other three said nothing. I plucked Keith's chart out of Cameron's hand, giving it a cursory perusal. "Not to mention, he's coughing up blood. That means you've got three of the indicators of organ-threatening lupus. Only problem is, it's moving too fast."

"Better say something smart, gang, or the fourteen year old girl is going to upstage you," House said, limping into the office.

"Eighteen," I corrected automatically. "Weirdly enough, Hepatitis E fits the array of symptoms."

Foreman scoffed at my idea. Which, in reality, wasn't really my idea, but House's. I luckily remembered the current differential pretty well. "There's only been one case of Hep E originating in the US since–"

"His history says he's been in and out of the country four times in the last year," House interrupted.

"Do you really think Hep E is a possibility?" Cameron asked dubiously.

"No. I think lupus is way more likely," House replied.

"Alright. Then let's get him started on IV Cytoxan and plasmapheresis." Cameron rose from her seat.

"No," House said again, halting her. "We should rule out Hep E first."

"You just said it wasn't Hep E," Foreman pointed out.

"No, he didn't. He said that lupus is way more likely," I said. "If we treat for lupus, but Keith really does have Hep E, then he's up shit creek without a paddle. He'll be dead in under a week."

"But there isn't a treatment for Hepatitis E." Cameron crossed her arms, brow pinching worriedly. "Either he'll get better on his own, or he'll continue to deteriorate."

"Yeah. I went to medical school, too," House said through gritted teeth, leaning heavily against the counter of the kitchenette. "Start him on Solu-Medrol."

"If he's got Hep E, that's only going to make him worse!" Cameron protested.

"That's the whole point," I said.

"It's Goldilocks, people," House explained. "It won't hurt him so much that it'll kill him, but it won't hurt him so little that we can't tell... it'll hurt him just right. And if it does nothing–"

"We'll know it's not Hep E, and we can start treating for lupus," Chase finished.

"Now watch me do it while drinking a glass of water," House said, his snark weak with how tired he sounded.

Foreman stood up, spreading his arms out. "What do we tell the dad? 'We think your kid has lupus, so we're gonna treat him for Hepatitis E. And, oh yeah, if it really is Hep E, we're not actually giving him Hep E medication, so it's gonna make him worse, not better.'"

"Do you think he'd go for that?" House deadpanned.

"So you want us to lie?" Cameron asked.

"No. I want you to lie."

"Why me?"

"Because he trusts you."

The ducklings stared at House. He made his way out of the differential room and into his own office, closing the door behind him without another word.

"He can't really expect me to–"

"He does," Chase cut across Cameron. "You know he does."

Cameron shook her head and made for the door. "This is a mistake," she said as she headed out into the hallway, Foreman and Chase behind her.

I heard Foreman add, "This is a lawsuit," just as the door drifted shut, leaving me alone in the differential room. I warmed my hands on the sides of my coffee mug. They were still bitten and partially numb from how cold it was outside. I rose to my feet and headed for House's office, shouldering open the door. He was in his Eames chair, eyes closed.

"I'm sleeping," House said.

"I can see that." I gently nudged his feet aside, careful not to jostle his leg, and I sat down on the footstool. "How are you doing?"

"Peachy."

I went silent, because I wasn't really sure what to say. I wanted to ask, "Is there anything I can do?" But I knew the chances of me getting a genuine answer from House were less than zero.

"Come to play guardian angel?" House asked at length.

"Don't I always?"

"There's nothing you can do."

I chewed the inside of my lip. "I wish there was."

House blinked open his eyes, only so he could roll them at me. "Do you ever get sick of that bleeding heart of yours?"

"I'll take a bleeding heart over the opposite." I watched him. His attention was trained on the ceiling. He was trying hard not to focus on the pain, I could tell. "House... have you thought that maybe this is your chance to stop? To get off the pills permanently?"

Ripple effect, I reminded myself. But if I could stop House now, shouldn't I at least try...?

"I'm not addicted to the pills."

"We both know that's bullshit."

"I'm addicted to not feeling pain," House told me. "I've got plenty of vices, plenty of addictions. The others, they're for pleasure. They're unhealthy, not that I'm planning on stopping any of them anytime soon. This?" His hand trailed down to his thigh, massaging the muscle. "This is a necessity."

"What if I told you that you could get by without the pills?"

"I know I can get by without them. I just don't want to."

"I've just–" I broke off, having trouble speaking past the lump in my throat. "I've seen what drugs do to people, okay? Good people. And I... I just don't want you to end up..."

House looked at me sharply, with surprising clarity. "Do the pills kill me?"

"What?"

"In the show, do they kill me?"

"You know I'm not going to answer that."

House narrowed his eyes at me. "No, they didn't. If they had, things would've been different when you met me. You were all wide-eyed stares, blind hero worship, and youthful excitement. If I'd died on the show, there would've been a lot more sobbing, I imagine."

Well, he wasn't wrong.

"So, who was it?"

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Who did you lose to drugs?"

I could practically feel myself shutting down. "No one."

"Ah-ah, kiddo. I know your tell. Who was it?" House repeated.

I didn't flinch. "I said no one."

"You know you'll tell me eventually."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Uh-huh." House seemed to lose interest in challenging my denial. "Whatever. Get out of here and go bother Wilson, or something. I'm going to catch a nap while Cameron tries to sell snake oil to Daddy Dearest."

I rose to my feet reluctantly. I didn't really want to leave House, but I also didn't want to risk him pressing me for more details and me breaking. "Okay," I said slowly. "If you need anything, text me."

House just snorted. I sighed and left the diagnostic offices.

House said to go bother Wilson, so go bother Wilson I did. Though truthfully, bothering him just consisted of me lying on his couch with a copy of Oncology Today and pretending to read it and not think about House. Wilson sat at his desk doing paperwork, an occasional world-worn sigh escaping him. Other than that, it was a mostly comfortable silence.

"I never really got why you picked oncology," I said eventually, flipping through an article on a new experimental treatment for paraneoplastic syndrome. "I mean, you've got a big heart, right? And short of being an ME, no medical field is gonna give you as many unhappy endings as oncology."

"I'm not going to get into a philosophical discussion about the meaning of life and death and good deeds just to get your mind off of House, Anya," Wilson said, pen scratching against paper.

"You owe me that much. You're the one who thought this whole vicodin bet was a good idea."

"You're saying it's not?"

"I'm saying I don't know. I'm saying House looks like hell."

"He needs to realize he's an addict," Wilson reasoned. "Maybe then we can convince him to get help."

"Him realizing he's an addict might not help nearly as much as you think it will."

"I can't tell if you're playing devil's advocate, or if you're stating that as a known fact." Wilson looked up at me. "Does this help him or not?"

"You know I'm not going to tell you. And 'help' is subjective. I'm just saying that if House ever decides to go off vicodin permanently, it's probably gonna have to be a decision he makes on his own terms, for himself. Forcing him into it isn't the way to get it done."

"It's only for a week."

"A week's a long time to have a hot knife twisting in your leg with no relief."

Wilson seemed somewhat taken aback. "Are you actually angry at me for this?"

"I don't know if that's the right word. I just don't feel good about it." I sat up, wrapping my arms around myself. "I wish this was easier. I wish he was easier."

"If there's one thing House isn't, it's easy."

"True."

"There's only a few days left, and if he wants, he can go back on his pills," Wilson reassured me. "This is for the best."

"Have you ever thought of letting House decide what's best for himself?" I didn't mean it to come out nearly as harsh as it did. "I mean... sorry, I didn't mean to say it like that–"

"Anya," Wilson cut across me. He didn't seem upset about my cutting tone. "If House deciding what was best for himself turned out so well, then why are you here, so intent on rewriting his life piece by piece so it turns out better than it did the first time around?"

I pursed my lips. He had me there.

Around dinner time, I returned to House's office, a cup of soup from the cafeteria in one hand and a bottle of ibuprofen in the other. I wanted to make sure that he kept eating and kept his energy up, even if he didn't want to. The soup was just chicken broth, which hopefully he'd be able to keep down.

When I heard a crash from House's office, I went from speed walking to full-out running. I shoved into the differential room, practically threw my peace offerings on the glass table, then sprinted for House's office. Once inside, I saw him at his desk, sitting in his chair and clutching his hand, his overlarge mortar and pestle just inches away.

Fuck! I thought this wouldn't happen until tomorrow!

House was gasping, tears in his eyes, teeth gritted. He looked up at me blearily. "Bad time," he managed. "Slammed my hand in a drawer–"

"I know what you really did, House. Shit." House's hand was already bruising fantastically. I went into the differential room and grabbed the first aid kit from the cupboard, returning moments later. I put it on House's desk and opened it up, sorting through and trying to find medical tape.

"Don't bother, I'll need to get it x-rayed–"

"Your middle finger and ring finger are broken. Future knowledge has its perks." I felt my hands shaking. Why? I knew this was going to happen. The hand breaking scene was probably the most memorable part of Detox. I withdrew the medical tape.

"Get out of here. I'll have Wilson deal with the hand."

"Will you just shut up and let me do this?" I asked roughly. I grabbed his hand as gingerly as I could, trying to ignore the veritable storm of emotions rising in my chest. "Jesus, all I want to do is help you, and you make it so fucking hard. No matter what I change, I can't change you, and you– you do shit like this, and I hate it. I hate watching you hurt yourself."

"I'd rather hurt like this," House told me as I began wrapping the tape around his middle finger. He winced, hissing through his teeth. "If you don't like watching, you know where the door is."

"Why do you say that like you think it's an option for me? I can't leave you. I care about you."

House looked at me, still partially gasping for breath. He jerked when I finished the first layer of tape. It must've really hurt.

"Why do you care so much?" he asked, a raw note to his voice that I wasn't used to hearing. I felt heat building in my eyes again, and I hated that Detox in particular was turning me into such a wreck. I had to keep it together and keep my own demons out of it.

"I care so much for a lot of reasons," I faltered, trying and failing to gather myself. "I care because I know you're better than this."

"I know you're better than this! You know you're better than this!"

I couldn't keep the memories back. I tried to focus on taping House's middle finger. Once finished with it, I moved onto his ring finger.

"You don't know anything about me," House said harshly. "You watched a TV show."

"You're too strung out to see it, but I do know you, and I know that you don't need the pills. I know that you're better off without them. I wish– I wish you could see that you're strong enough to stop." I cursed myself for allowing my voice to break.

The tears in my eyes fell. I tried to duck my head so House wouldn't notice, but he did. Of course he did. He noticed everything. I finished the last layer of tape on his second finger, then took a step back, trying to still my trembling hands.

"In case you can't tell, I have stopped."

"But you'll start again," I whispered. "I know you will. I just– I want you to give up the pills, but I don't… I don't know. I don't know how to stop you, or how to do it right. I wish to God that I did."

More tears flooded down my cheeks. I backed away, covering my mouth with my hands. I wasn't seeing House anymore. I was seeing someone else.

I was seeing my brother.

"I know you're better than this! You know you're better than this!" I told him. He looked up at me, green eyes bloodshot and watery.

"Did you come over here just to bitch at me?"

"You're detoxing."

"Yes, I'm fucking detoxing. Jesus!" He sat up on his futon, scratching half-mad at the crook of his arm, scraping the scabs of partially healed track marks. "I haven't had any since yesterday. I'm coming down."

"This is your chance to stop. If you don't take it–"

"I'm not stopping and I'm not interested in a lecture, so if that's all you came here for, you can get the hell out," Patrick snapped at me.

"You're a bastard, you know that? You don't even care anymore. You don't care about anything except the drugs, and you can't even see it."

"Oh, I can see it," my brother growled. "And why the hell do you think I do it, anyway? I do it so I don't have to care. I don't have to think. I'm not addicted to heroin, I'm addicted to peace. To not wanting to claw my fucking skull open." He pointed at the door. "Now get. The hell. Out."

"Fuck you," I spat at him before turning away from him and stomping out of his apartment.

That night had been the last night I'd seen my brother alive.

I let out a gasp of pain, my composure dissolving completely. I leaned against the wall of House's office, and it was the only thing that was supporting me. I muffled my sobs with my hand, and they racked my body, my chest and head aching. Tears flowed freely, and I couldn't see.

"Stop," House said. When I didn't, he sighed heavily. "Stop it."

"I– I– I-" It was awful. It was the kind of crying that you couldn't stop. The hiccupping sobs forced themselves out and shook me down to my core. I couldn't breathe. I sank down to the ground, my legs no longer able to support me. "I– c-can't."

"Why are you crying? It's just a broken hand. My broken hand, by the way."

"It's n-n-not about you," I managed. It's about how much you remind me of him, sometimes.

I put hands on either side of my head, fingers scrabbling into my hair and gripping tightly, trying to cause pain in the hopes that it would snap me out of my little breakdown. It had happened to me a lot when Patrick was at his worst, and after I lost him. I was barely holding it together, then, and the awful feeling in the pit of my stomach was so reminiscent of that time that it made me want to throw up.

I couldn't save Patrick. I couldn't save House. Why the hell was I even here?

"Who was it?" he repeated his question from earlier.

I couldn't speak. I tasted salt on my lips. I couldn't. I couldn't.

"Who?"

"I can't, House," I struggled to speak coherently. "I can't."

I pulled harder at my hair, and it fucking hurt, and that helped pull me out of my hysterics to some degree. I tried to time my breaths, breathing in and out, slow and deep. I managed to stop myself from crying.

He just watched me, he didn't do anything, didn't say anything, and I didn't expect him to. House didn't know how to deal with a crying teenage girl. I didn't hold it against him. I just wished so much that he wasn't so similar to my brother – true, my brother had been more far gone than House ever was, but because they both struggled with addiction, I saw Patrick's reflection in House more often than not.

I missed my brother. But I'd been missing him long before I'd been sucked into House's universe.

"I don't know what you want me to do," House eventually said.

"I don't want you to do anything," I said, my voice finally steady again. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, grimacing as I rose to my feet. "I've gotta go."

"Kid–"

Before he could say more, I was gone.