Chasing the High
Chapter 1
**Trigger Warning**: Self-destruction and substance use disorder/addiction, specific drug references
It started off innocuously.
A bump here. An injection there.
Nothing to worry about.
He didn't have a problem—he just had a secret.
And having a secret when your best friend was Doctor Gregory House was way more thrilling than it probably should have been.
He was touting the line between being caught and daring greatly. How long could he last? When could he grab ahold of his next amazing, glorious high?
He liked the way it made him feel.
He craved it.
The rush, the joy, the attention, the improved focus.
He could do anything, be anyone.
It didn't matter if he lost another patient to the unforeseen nonsense of the universe to give the most amazing and otherwise resilient people the worst news of their lives: cancer. Death. Cancer and death.
His heart would race every time he took a hit and whereas before it was concerning, now he just relished in it.
It reminded him of being alive.
Unlike some of his losses.
But when he was high, he didn't think about the losses.
Instead, he was present, elevated, invincible.
It almost killed him inside to not be able to share this rush of life with House. But House was his own free man, banging hookers and popping Vicodin left, right and center.
He knew both that if he told House, House would understand as much as he'd tell him to get off the drugs.
But he couldn't do that.
He couldn't give up the intoxication he was developing for this unique flavor of goodness.
It was too good to give up.
Too fun enjoying the chase.
Higher and higher he'd chase.
Jimmy Wilson was high on cocaine.
Sam and Wilson hadn't lasted.
House and Cuddy hadn't either.
Now Wilson was alone but not really because illicit drugs were by his side.
When he'd gone to House, to discuss Cuddy and their broken relationship, he'd been sober. House hadn't, but Wilson had a reason to hide his for the betterment of his friend.
He did a long line of coke the night House jumped from his hotel balcony. If House could live on the edge, why couldn't James? If House could be reckless, why couldn't Wilson?
He felt his face rush with warmth as he laughed out loud. Maybe this is what House had felt on his airborne flight down, that smile wide on his face.
Wilson enjoyed this. He never wanted to give it up.
He wouldn't. Not for a long while.
Maybe when it wasn't fun anymore.
But for tonight, it was fun.
He was placing the last eye drops in his orbits, luckily with his back towards his door when House burst through his office.
He jumped on instinct, having to consciously control and dampen his breathing rate.
He pocketed his eye drops and kept his gaze to the floor.
House whined and complained about his team and his case.
Wilson tuned out most of it. He added a hum and an 'Oh, really?' here and there but House has been so depressed and self-destructive lately he was sure he hadn't noticed Wilson or his state of affairs.
"What's up with you?" House finally scathed in response to his friend; eyes narrowed and rage beneath his brow.
Wilson blinked, glancing up at House briefly before averting his stare to his desk.
"What? I'm not longer nice enough to look at?" House retorted, hands clutching his cane tightly.
Gears of a new puzzle to solve worked in his brain.
Wilson could only picture and imagine his next high.
When the oncologist thought how House was still babbling and wasn't going to stop, he made for his office door.
"If one of us can leave…" he trailed off, having for a moment a second of wishing House would just see him. Really see him.
His hope deflated when House muttered to him, "You're pathetic."
A frown settled like the Pilgrims on his mouth.
"And you're a jerk."
He left the room soon after.
"What's wrong with Wilson?" The diagnostician was in her office, staring at her for the first time this week since their breakup.
She opened her mouth then closed it again. "There's something wrong with Wilson?" It was a weak question and House huffed instantly.
"You hadn't noticed?" he deadpanned.
"And you have?" she replied though the remark seemed to wound the older man more than she thought it would due to the briefest of moments where he was vulnerable and open to attack.
He dropped his gaze with a loud sigh. He seemed about to say something else when his pager went off. He looked relieved, glancing at it, saying, "This conversation isn't over."
He retreated from the office as quick as he'd come.
Cuddy frowned deeply, gaze swiping right as she tried to recall the last time she'd seen the oncologist but not coming up with any stark memories.
She'd heard about how much House was self-destructing but not once has Wilson come to her to either vouch for House or ask her what the hell she was doing.
In fact, she hadn't seen him for Clinic Duty in a while. Her lips grimaced and pursed as she rifled through some paperwork resting on her desk.
She found her answer soon enough.
The last time James did Clinic Duty was three weeks ago.
Cuddy wiped her hand down her face. How she hadn't noticed this, indeed.
She made a note to check-in with him soon.
For now, there was other paperwork to do and her own heart to mend.
He bit his lip hard in concentration.
Bathroom dosing wasn't his favorite thing to do, but he'd just left Mr. Charles McWhiner alone to succumb to his terminal diagnosis and the pain that brought him to see the monitor flatline was a reality too harsh and too cruel to bear alone, least of all sober.
So, James retreated to the one place he could count on with the one thing that would make him feel better.
He eyeballed the syringe, puffed on his arm's vein and injected the drug.
As soon as he felt the rush, the earth-shattering beating of his heart inside his chest, just when he was about to sigh deeply, close his eyes and enjoy the ride—the bathroom door wiggled in place, and he glanced down at the strip below where he saw two sneakers and a cane.
House.
Oh shit.
James suppressed a gasp as quick as he could, almost dropping the needle from his shaking hand.
He rebalanced, gripped it, but when Greg exclaimed in a shout, "Wilson! The hell are—?" he immediately lost his whatever and plink! the syringe landed on the floor.
On the other side of the bathroom stall, Greg stared down at the floor.
He noticed. He blinked. He saw.
He just couldn't make sense of it.
Any of it.
He bent down with a grunt, carefully picking up the syringe. The plunger was down, he'd already used it.
In a gruff rumble he stated, "I'll ask you this once: open the door, Wilson."
"No," the other doctor moaned and nearly crumpled into himself.
There was no way this could be happening.
Wilson had imagined for hours how or what Greg's response would be to his dosing but now confronted with the notion, he felt aghast, despair and panic—he didn't want the ride to be over so soon.
Tears pricked his brown eyes as House suddenly slammed his cane into the stall door.
"If you don't open this, I'm coming in. Cuddy won't be happy and, for god's sake, Wilson, just open the door!"
He had nothing left to lose so he shimmied himself back against the far wall with the toilet.
He'd never have time to constrict his pupils and the thrill of now being caught was as special as the high.
He giggled; he couldn't help himself.
"Are you laughing?" House roared, eyes moving to slits. "What are you taking?"
He slammed his cane into the door again, the thin stall peppering in with a crumpled nudge.
House's blue eyes peeked through the hole as he shoved his shoulders into the door.
Wilson had his sleeves rolled down again, wishing he had a magic elixir to hide his recent track marks, his hands up to his face, almost cowering in fear.
Fear of House's wrath.
Or fear of losing another great thing.
House catapulted into the stall, realizing how small it was with the two of them now in here.
Confusion and slightly unveiled concern scattered like sunbeams across his face, pulling the muscles into unnatural directions. Like he were competing in the Olympics for some sport.
Anger parted for short lived banter as the haunting reality of the situation landed in his frontal lobe, horror pulling down his features.
"Wilson," he breathed.
For his part, Wilson was staring right back at him.
"Dilated pupils." House murmured, puzzle pieces forming.
Without asking, which Wilson felt was a little rude, House reached out his fingers to place them at Wilson's carotid, but Wilson swatted his hand away in fierce annoyance as well as knowing his heart rate would betray him.
House momentarily hissed at him before doubling down and making a swift but gentle motion with his other hand that found purchase on the other side of Wilson's neck.
Wilson, bravely or moronically, stared back at him with this slightly crazed look.
Whatever he was taking was the good stuff, House mused, deftly counting beats.
A further concerned frown dripped down his face as he responded, "Your bpm is 150. A stimulant for sure, then."
Blue eyes implored his, what he once believed, was a sober best friend.
"Give me your arms—" House began but suddenly Wilson was off the wall and attempting to escape House's clutches. The movements were jerky and delayed, and Greg only had to block Wilson with his body, place heavy hands upon his friend's shoulders and force him into a seated position on the toilet behind him.
Wilson was breathing heavily, sweat upon his brow and House felt his own chest ache. He could suddenly see so much of himself in the oncologist, a reality he had never expected to face.
Wilson's gaze was to the floor as he panted, his heart beating wildly in his chest, wishing this would all be over.
Sitting here with House above him made him feel submissive, the total opposite of how his substance use really made him feel. He wasn't ready to come down from Cloud Nine just yet.
"You've picked your poison: amphetamines or cocaine?"
Wilson's panting was the only answer to the diagnostician's question.
"I'll find out either way," he stated quietly.
"No, you won't," Wilson murmured but House tilted back his head, though he couldn't force the brown to look at him, "Of course I will."
He whistled in a deep breath. "I'd much prefer it if you didn't have a stroke in the meantime." His own head tilted to one side. "Could you please tell me, so I don't have to write up a report for medical malpractice?"
Wilson's familiar rolling of his eyes showed a glimmer of the real Jimmy Wilson inside.
"Cuddy probably won't be impressed with two drug addicted department heads." He sighed. "Or we could wait here forever. I could do a tox screen, run a DDx. Your choice, Wilson."
It was of ill timing when Wilson's mouth opened but House was continuing, "Or I could search you right here."
Wilson's jaw clamped back shut and he shifted and shook uncomfortably.
"You're wishing you didn't have a dose in your pocket, huh?" House remarked in sad understanding. "Why are we addicts so predictable?"
Wilson glared up at him. If this was his last fix for a while, House was really sucking out the fun.
"Just leave me alone." He muttered, glare intensifying.
How much he wanted to wipe that sad smirk off his friend's face was astonishing.
"If it were meth you'd have blisters all over from the bugs under your skin. So, my money's on cocaine. God, Wilson, out of all the fun drugs, you picked the one with the most damaging cardiovascular effects. I'd have thought your pathetic, caring nature would have spared you from—"
Wilson's eyes flashed with rage. "I'm only pathetic because I hang out with you."
"But then, not as much lately. Have you been picking up a new friend without me?"
Wilson shuddered, attempting to leave again. "House," he warned, when the older doctor kept him seated.
The older man's tone shifted, softening, "How long, Wilson?"
"What do you care?" Wilson growled. "Did you want to be invited? If I'm so pathetic, what does that make you?"
"That was no longer my question," House remarked. He sighed. "Fine, if you won't tell me, then, how long have you been getting high at work? Because Cuddy's definitely not gonna like the answer to that."
Wilson glanced around, eyes on House's cane, shoes, the floor tile. He couldn't, didn't want to, unhinge his jaw to answer any of Detective House's questions. Anything would be damning. But then, so too, was his silence.
Wilson closed his eyes, suddenly leaning forward so that his forehead was against House's long sleeved and T-shirt clad stomach.
"I'm tired, House."
House pursed his lips. "Tired like: 'House, I wish you'd just shut up'? or 'I'm tired because I'm dying'? or 'I'm starting to crash and need some sleep'? or—"
"I'm just tired."
Tired of the lies, the hiding, the fake smiles; that first freeing, inviting, glorious hit because every dose after just never quite makes it there.
"You know, tired."
"Sounds like we'll be admitting you," House stated in a soft trill.
"No, just walk me back to my office?" He didn't mean for it to come out as a question.
"Just so you can OD or go into cardiac arrest without me? No thanks. You're getting admitted. Can you walk?"
"I wanna sleep," came Wilson's muffled reply, his warm breath against House's stomach.
"Yeah, well, no more hits for you tonight."
House lifted his hands from Wilson's shoulders and the absence made Wilson whimper in loss.
"House, don't," he whispered, smaller pupil brown eyes looking, pleading, up at him.
That long sadness entered House's face again. "Oh, James," he murmured, then pulled out his cell phone, patted Wilson awkwardly and spoke into his phone, "Need a wheelchair up in the third-floor men's bathroom. Don't ask questions. Thanks."
House glanced back down at Wilson, but the younger doctor was already looking away again.
A/N: Hi there! Welp, it happened again. Welcome to yet another new House MD fanfic by yours truly. This one actually wormed its way into my head back in July 2024 when after over a decade, I still fondly and wonderfully remember this old, old House fic I read where it was two chapters and Wilson was struggling with a meth addiction and I cannot for the life of me remember the title of the fic, who wrote it, even much of the plot line, but it was SUCH a transformational fic for me that changed my life for the better from concepts I needed to hear back being a senior in high school.
So, because I cannot find that fic, and it was on FFN and seems to be long gone by now, I couldn't shake the feeling and the urge to recreate something kind of like that but with a different substance and different take because, again, I don't remember its specifics but just that it really hit me in a good way, in all the best ways a fan fiction can, and I want to take it upon myself to try and have that same effect on someone else (for the better and the positive, of course!).
I don't know a lot about substance use disorders or specifically substance based addictions, but I'm open to learning and dabbling with it purely in a fictious sense. I do work in the mental health field and I'm thinking this story will be written and catalogued in a way that is disjointed and choppy, not necessarily confusing outright but confusing in time, in the sense to replicate how things aren't as they should be with Wilson in active addiction, clearing up only when he makes it further through his recovery and the shift in storytelling that'll happen by that point. (No permanent death will happen in this story!)
I really want to deal with the health complications his substance use will cause him because I think that's an important and life altering factor in his recovery that will force him to have to deal with things and practice those avenues of self-forgiveness that helps him to eventually grow and move forwards, with House having to do much the same in the process, too. I'd also say that 7x12 is right up with the inspiration of this fic, too, because what if House actually DID find a stash of drugs in Wilson's car and what would unfold in that regard.
I don't know when I'll have updates coming in for this story, but I will be in it for the long haul. I have a few other fic ideas that are taking purchase up in my brain, and it's only fair to get them into all of yours as well! Haha.
Thanks so much for reading! Let me know your thoughts in the comments and above all, stay safe, everyone.
Written: 7.8.2024, 7.11, 7.29-7.30, 8.19.24
Typed: 8.11.24, 8.19.2024
Edited: 8.19.2024