6

Author's note:

This chapter will written in several point of views of different characters. It's more of a character study this time (not too many events). Enjoy!!!

-XOXO, ISSY 💋 

Kelly

Kelly sat by the windowsill in her house. It was Tuesday evening, and she had just finished her shift at the hospital. The eight year old patient they had hadn't discharged yet due to him needing a longer period of time to examine his condition first.

The files in her hand were getting more and more exciting by every second. Her friend Vanessa had dug everywhere, literally everywhere for more information. Her police friend had gotten all medical history of House from PPTH by faking an inspection.

Gregory House

She placed two fingers on the name and swiftly removed them, smirking to herself. 

Cause of disability: Dr. House, head of diagnostics department at PPTH, nearly had an amputation on his right leg. While he was lying on the hospital bed, in so much pain he didn't want to live, they put him in a 48 coma.

His girlfriend, Stacy Warner, became his medical proxy. Although Gregory House did not want to lose his leg and do the procedure, Stacy Warner helped him decide to do the procedure, leaving  his leg muscle dead and crippled for the rest of his life. After the encounter, House got an infarction and broke up with Stacy Warner.

This was the end of the file. Kelly closed it and sealed it carefully in her drawer, locking it tightly with the key that was hung on her necklace, and tucked the necklace into her shirt. Her apartment was quite colossal. Her mother was a very wealthy person, and Kelly got the money after she passed away.

Cameron

Cameron was in the hospital bed, feeling lonely. House had gone back to his condo to rest for the night. She understood him, though. He had been at the hospital for three days, and he deserved his well-earned rest for the night.

House had diagnosed her with only one symptom—high fever, yesterday, in less than ten minutes. He earned his name, the best diagnostician.

She heard about a medical conference in Chicago, which Cuddy was sending House's whole team to next month. It was great, because Chicago was the place she grew up in, and maybe she could visit her old apartment with House.

House

He relaxed on the couch, right in front of the fireplace. He really needed to know what was in those files—luckily for him, not only Kelly had police friends, so did he. Well, at least he knew them. The two policemen he trusted—Laurie and Lucas.

Lucas had met up with Cuddy for a date after Bryan Edelstein was arrested, and Cuddy seemed to really like him. He still had his contact number from before. The question was, were they going to help him or not?

He wouldn't be any more interested in those files if not for Kelly, who acted all suspicious. He glanced at the clock and decided it was time for bed. But of course, he was House, and he wasn't about to go to bed without a nice bottle of scotch.

The fridge door opened and he reached for his precious scotch bottle and an empty glass bottle from the kitchen cabinet. He popped the lip open with a wine bottle opener, and slowly poured the liquid into the glass.

He brought glass to his lips and sipped, laying back as he turned on the television and watched some F.R.I.E.N.D.S. He wasn't really paying attention to the dialogues, because there was something else in his mind.

Yesterday (flashback)

"House, next month, I'm sending you and Wilson to a medical conference in Chicago where all the best departments of diagnostics will go. You and your team will go too, of course."

"And why is Wilson there?" House whined. "He's not from my department."

"Well, I sent him to keep you in line. He's not going to attend the conference, however, he will make sure you do," Cuddy said swiftly, ending the conversation there.

"I didn't consent to anything," House spat back. "I shouldn't be forced to somewhere I don't want to go. It's illegal."

"I don't remember since when you care about ethics and morals and laws," retorted the dean of medicine smartly. 

House, for once, could not think of a witty comeback. He rolled his eyes and sighed, leaving Cuddy's office and slamming the door. Hard.

End of the flashback (Back in House's condo)

The clock on the wall was ticking. An hour went by. House was now on his couch, drunk, the television turned on but not noticed. It was midnight.

He was irritated by everything in front of him, his emotions mixed with irritation. With a quick swipe, everything on the coffee table dropped to the floor with a loud and messy clang. He placed his hand on his forehead and leaned back, too tired to move back to his bedroom or brush his teeth.

The phone rang. If someone called him at this hour, it would be important. But did he care? No.

House, very annoyed at the moment, knocked the phone onto the ground. There was a loud crash, and it stopped ringing. He closed his eyes once again and swiftly placed his hand onto the floor, looking for his bottle of scotch and his Vicodin pills.

Finally, after a lot of effort, he retrieved the bottle and popped it open with his thumb, getting a pill and stuffing it into his mouth, chewing on it. He grimaced as the bitter taste of the pills reached his throat.

He managed to keep his eyes shut for a minute, but he felt like the whole world was tumbling down onto him and his chest felt heavier than usual. It was like so much stuff was happening at the moment, the accident, the files, the conference next week—it was like a never ending cycle for him.

The phone just had to choose this moment to ring—but because he slightly cracked it, the sound was faint. He cursed at the phone in a mutter, throwing a cushion at it. House didn't know why he felt like getting drunk. All those drinks were seriously getting back at him right now.

He would be hungover tomorrow morning, and it didn't matter how much water he drank right now, because he wouldn't be sober enough to think clearly. He dreaded to take another sip of scotch and wash down more pills with it.

They were all right. He was addicted. He had a pain problem, not a pain management problem, as he remember saying to Cuddy last year. He just couldn't control it—without the pills and without any other drugs, he would be miserable.

Finally, House couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed his cane that was hanging onto the edge of the couch and stood up uneasily, trying to stretch his leg but fell down to the floor with a thud. He managed to get up but with a sudden shot of pain in his right thigh.

There were several things he could do. One, go to the hospital, find Cameron, and maybe feel a little better. Two, call Cuddy or Wilson and seek help for whatever problem he was having. And three...none of the above. And of course, Gregory House was Gregory House and it was obvious what he was choosing.

He grabbed another bottle of scotch into the bathroom while slipping the bottle of pills into his pocket. He grunted as he forced the bathroom door to open, which was broken but he never bothered to fix it. Slamming the bottle onto the counter violently, he sat on the toilet lid and rested his head on the wall behind, trying his best to not faint.

All he wanted to do was have a good nights rest—but all was in his mind was the fact that if he dozed off, he was going to start tomorrow morning with an insanely painful headache that not even Vicodin could handle.

There was a sudden knock on the door. A familiar one, actually, which could only belong to Wilson. House leaned forward to look the bathroom door. He heard a sigh outside the door, and heard the door creak open. Then he heard Wilson gasp as he saw the mess on the floor in front of the couch that he made.

"House!" Wilson called worriedly. His eyebrows furrowed as he tried to make out where he was, searching all the rooms except for the bathroom. "House! What did you do this time?! What's with all the bottles of scotch?"

House sighed to himself as he rocked his cane frontwards and backwards, then lowering his head onto the head of the cane and tried to relax his body which only resulted to failing. Wilson continued to shout nonstop outside the door, and he felt a hand on the doorknob outside. He tried his best to keep quiet.

"House I know you're in there!" Wilson yelled. "Seriously, what's wrong?" He banged at the door with his fist, and felt the broken crack in it. He heaved in a deep breath and exhaled. He was not going to do this with him. Why did he even come by and check on him, anyway? He was a good friend, but it wasn't necessary to do this.

"House, I'm serious," he said again, this time a little bit calmer. "I just came by to see how you're doing, and look what a mess you're in." House did not make any noises from behind the door, and he kept as still as possible. He had to bite his tongue to stop his annoyed comments from coming out and giving him away. Wilson could always tell how drunk he was just by his voice, and by the incredible slurring in the sentence.

His leg felt better now that the Vicodin was actually doing its job. His cane, now on the edge of the bathtub, almost about to fall in, was grabbed by him. He turned the door knob to unlocked it and went out. Wilson stepped backwards as he saw what an awful state he was in, and he rubbed his eyes before looking back at him.

"House, what the hell did you do to yourself!?" Wilson exclaimed, half-worried and half-annoyed. "I've been banging on this door and searching for you for nearly ten minutes, you've got me worried sick! With all those bottles of scotch and those drugs everywhere! And on the floor too!"

"Yeah, because I don't recall asking you to check in on me, mommy," House grunted, slurring as he tried to regain his balance. Wilson got him just in time before he fell. "You're really drunk," he sighed. "How many bottles did you drink? Well guess I'm going to be staying here longer than you want. I'll go get you some water. Until then, sit down on the couch and maybe try not to do anything."

House sat down and rested his head on the armrest of the couch, and moments later Wilson handed him a cup of warm water. He sipped it up, still drunk, and unable to process what was happening, spilling half the cup of water onto his shirt. He seemed to remain a teeny bit of control over himself after drinking the cup of water, and threw the cup to Wilson.

"There," he muttered. "I've drank it all. Now it's time for you to leave. The doors right there." Still with his eyes closed, he pointed at a random direction where he thought the front door was.

"House, why did you decided to get drunk in the middle of the night?" Wilson asked, taking a seat next to him while shaking his head in disapproval. "You better get to bed now, you're going to be all hungover next morning. Or maybe, in a few hours."

House just nodded swiftly, and shifted so that he could rest comfortably on the couch, crossing his legs and putting his head on a cushion nearby. He thought about calling Cameron, but then he remembered that he broke the phone, and anyway, she wouldn't be awake at a time like this. He just looked while he watched Wilson gather his jacket and glare at the mess on the floor, before exiting the door.

As soon as he heard the door shut and keys clanging, he sighed in relief and massaged his head with his knuckles. It read 2:00 on the digital clock. Oh well. He wasn't going to sleep well either way. The clocked continue ticking—because why would time stop for anyone?

8:20

House woke up. His head was aching so bad he couldn't even focus on how many fingers he was holding up in front of him. His head was spinning so much, the moment he tried to stand up, he went tumbling down to the floor. He winced and groaned while holding his thigh and sitting down with his back on the bed.

It was too early in the morning for this shit. There was no way he was going to live with this today.  Cameron. Need you right now.

He remembered Wilson heading to his condo yesterday, banging at the bathroom door as he was drunk. Why didn't he listen? The faint sound behind the front door caught his attention. It was faint talking sounds of other people on the streets. How the fuck were they able to get up and start their day so early in the morning?

He couldn't sleep. Not with this kind of headache. And the rest of the morning? It went like crap.

Cameron (first person)

A cup of coffee in the morning was the one thing that could get me awake. I had spent the night thinking about how House was doing—and Kelly.

What was her problem? I don't usually despise people that much, considered that I'm a very easy person to talk to. It was like everything she was doing was attacking me, and I didn't like that feeling.

I grabbed the handle of my coffee cup and brought it to my lips. The strong aroma entered my nose and the incredible taste and relaxing sensation washed down to my throat. I closed my eyes and leaned back. This was the actual way to start a morning. On the other hand, it was the completely opposite of how I started my morning back when I had a job in the E.R.

It was not always, but most of the nights, I would spend in the hospital. The E.R. was the most busy thing you've ever seen. I would sleep in the lounge on the couch, and at 7 a.m., I would rush out of bed without breakfast and hurry to the emergency room.

I never got a good night's sleep. Of course, the E.R. was not the only factor. Bryan was a part of it too, actually, a major part of the whole thing. The sleepless nights, the depression, the nights when I would stare at the ceiling from my bed or the couch, my mind blank.

My thoughts were interrupted when the door slid open, and Wilson stood there as he stared at me with a worried look on his face.

My first reaction was asking, "What happened?"

Yes, yes, I am pathetic.

"It's House," he sighed. Okay. Getting more worried now.

"What? What's happened now?"

And getting even more pathetic.

"He's been drinking at least 8 bottles of scotch last night, locked himself in the bathroom and god knows how he's doing right now. He hasn't gone to work yet, but I suppose, being completely hungover and an insane headache—he won't be able to sleep for long."

Wilson began ranting on about how tired and exhausted House looked, and how terribly awful. I listened, because that's what I always do. I just sit there, look at the person to give them my attention, and listen. I would say it's one of the best talents I have, because how many people you know can do that for ten minutes straight?

"So, he's okay, right?"

"I think so."

I knew it. All that ranting just to come to the same conclusion that he could have said ten minutes ago. But of course, I don't complain, and let the coffee wash down my throat again. Wilson leans onto the door as he talks to me. Why doesn't he come in and sit down?

I heard a familiar sound of a cane thumping outside. I immediately turned my head to look outside, and to my disappointment, it wasn't House. It was just an old man using a cane to support his legs.

Speaking of which, I didn't feel hearing Wilson talking about how awful House looked yesterday night. Why did he think it would be comforting for me to know that he got drunk and is in terrible pain?

Wilson's voice drifted off from my mind. There was nothing else to do except to think. Think. Think. Think. And not listen to Wilson. I'm not listening.

I nodded as I pretended to listen to what Wilson was saying, getting fidgety in the process and biting on my nails. Bad Habits, Allison. I knew at the bottom of my heart that House would come to work today. Because no matter what a bad shape he was in, he was going to come and solve his "puzzle", also known as his patient or Chase or Foreman or Wilson, or that strange lady down in the cafeteria...and me.

This was getting too painful to listen to.

"I'm sorry, Wilson, but I feel like going back to sleep. I really need my rest and I just finished taking some meds," I stuttered. How stupid and how horribly pathetic I'm being. Wilson, being the very compassionate people-pleasing doctor that he was, nodded with a smile and helped me flick off the lights, and closed the door behind him gently.

I laid in bed and pulled the sheets up, waiting until I was positive Wilson was gone. Then, I stretched my arm all the way to the table nearby and moved my phone closer to me. After it got closer, I grabbed it with my fingers and called House.

I dialled that phone at least 5 times.

At the sixth, he picked up.

"Gregory House," he grunted over the line.

He sounded absolutely terrible and lifeless.

"Hey House, it's me. Wilson told me what happened last night," I replied. "How are you feeling?"

"Not great."

I smiled to myself. "Well, get well soon. You're heading to work, right?"

"Of course. I have way too many puzzles to work on."

I grinned.

I was right.