Chapter Text
House stood up — eventually. He weighed his options:
1. standing up, getting ready, going to the hospital, and being an asshole who barks at everyone, pull off some pranks on Wilson or his team. Or even better, on both. 2. Taking his razor out of his drawer and ending it right there.
He settled on the ladder because he decided he wanted to prank Wilson at least one more time before ending it.
He looked at the watch on the nightstand, it showed 10 a.m.
He took three vicodins in one go before daring to stand up.
He holds his breath to brace himself before staning up. Okay. Okay. House, you gotta do this eventually, so just do it right now. Don't make it slower and more painful than what it already is.
After that, everything is kind of blurr, he probably brushed his teeth — if he felt like stading up more just for brushing his teeth — made some coffee and drank it with a croissant, if he had some, if not, he probably drank his coffee on a empty stomach. If he did, he would realize after an hour or two when the migraine kicks in for not eating an actual breakfast. But hey, I always have a migraine. Usually, I have no idea why, at least this time, I can have the pleasure of knowing why .
Did he drive in with his car or motorcycle? Probably motorcycle out of habits. Car or motorcycle driving back will be a problem if he doesn't get any better. He might have to ask Wilson to drive him back home.
He doesn't want to explain it to Wilson. He doesn't want Wilson to give him those sad, sympathetic puppy eyes he gives his dying cancer children. He will probably tell House he should see a doctor, that he's an idiot for not seeing a doctor already. Not because Wilson thinks House hasn't already figured out what it is.
Because he knows House too well to know House has figured it out a long time ago, but hasn't done anything that'll make it better and reduce his pain.
So he won't tell Wilson, even when he's too far gone to drive back home. He will sleep in his office or in the locker room if he can afford to walk.
-
He remembers everything being too much. The world spinning, everything being too bright too cold too hot. feeling his blood pressure and heartbeat going up and up.
Every step felt like walking on fire. It took everything out of him, like a full workout. Even a full workout was way easier than this.
He remembers wanting to squirm. Wanting to crawl back to where the pain was tolerable and stay there forever.
He was spiraling until Chase snapped him back to reality, "Hey, House, you okay?"
House huffed, "yeah moron I'm great. I'm just a little dizzy from all the pegging the hooker did on me last night, but hey, it was 100% worth it because, let me tell you, the fake dick wasn't actuall-"
Foreman steped in, "Alright, alright we got it you don't want to talk about whatever pain you got going on right now, and I don't want you to either, but can we please get back to our actual case because our patients is collapsing."
House doesn't show it, but he always appreciates Foreman's professionally in bad pain days like this when he is incapable of running from human connections as much as usual.
They ran a differential; House was half there, and the other half was concentrating on the burning feeling and pulse in every part of his body.
When the ducklings left after he gave them some tests to run, he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding back. Right now, he would kill to lay down. He could kill Cuddy so he doesn't have a boss that'll make him do his job but then he would have to go to jail which he doesn't think would be any more comfortable than doing his job in his own office so he settled on drinking coffee or taking propranolol.
Taking propranolol is nice. It's a temporary relief, but it really doesn't do shit unless he's already lying down or sitting. Hopefully, he's going to be sitting for a while. He decided to take propranolol. He dried swallow it with a vicodin. Jesus, who designed these pills? Can't even dry swallow them properly without worrying if I accidentally tossed it around somewhere because they're so fucking small. Even my vagina dick is bigger than them fuck's sake!
It takes a few long, pure minutes of agony for the pill to kick in. When it finally does, his pulse is a little less annoying, he doesn't feel like his head's veins are going to explode any second anymore
He tries to take a nap in his seat with some classic music playing in the background while he can, but of - fucking - course, the ducklings decide to come in the office the second House puts his head down.
"House?.." Cameron says, visibly worried but trying her best not to show it because she knows better than to.
House snaps his head back up and fully take on his asshole persona, "Do y'all have actual answer? If not then I'll appreciate y'all to stop wasting my precious time that I can rest with so my headache doesn't get worse than what it already is."
Foreman is unfazed. Chase is just standing in the corner bemused about where this is going.
House points his cane to Chase, "Hey, prince charming, what were the test results?"
"All negative, Grinch," Chase answered without missing a beat.
A grin spread across House's lips. Cameron raised her eyebrow almost immediately.
House eyes her up and down, "What?"
"Nothing, it's just the first time you gave us the unpleasantness of seeing your mischievous grin," Cameron explained.
"Oh yeah? Then get used to it, again. "
They talked about the patient test results and her status. In the between House and Cameron argued about a diagnosis back and forth until they stormed off to do some more testing.
That was when he felt them.
First: his head.
It's like someone was hammering his skull to shape it into a fist
Second: all of his body, his leg, his arms, etc.
The burning sensation. Like a stove was inside of his body.
Third: his eyes.
His vision went blurr. He could barely see with his eyes watering because of all the sensation.
Fourth: his stomach.
Oh shit. It's his goddamn cramps. Damn it damn it damn it DAMN IT.
GREAT. THE ONLY PAIN I HADN'T FELT TODAY WAS CRAMPS, BUT HERE WE ARE.
House was done. He started packing up and was finished in less than a minute. He threw on his jacket and he checked his watch, it was 1 p.m.
He started walking towards the elevator as fast as he was physically possible. Please please please please please please-
He was muttering pleases to himself again and again, hoping no one would confront him, especially not Wilson.
"House?" Well. Speak of the devil.
He is lucky because he was nearly in the elevator when Wilson called out his name. He got on the elevator and pressed on some random bottom with his can as soon as possible.
"HOUSE!" They made eye contact, only for a brief second before the elevator doors closed, House saw how worried Wilson was
He wondered what Wilson saw that made him this worried.
House hasn't looked in the mirror in days. He doesn't want to see it. He doesn't want to see how wrecked he is. Being miserable is bad enough that he doesn't need to see himself being miserable.
The elevator doors opened. He had no idea what floor it was, so he just walked forward in the hope of getting somewhere no one could find him.
He saw an old janitor closest. It's the one that's been unused in years. House knows that because one time he walked around the hospital looking for abandoned rooms in case one day he needs to go somewhere that no soul will ever find him if he does show up himself.
He went inside and blocked the door with a chair.
He looked around. It was dark except the brief flicker of light from the dusty window.
The whole place was so dirty and dusty that he considered getting out for a second. Eventually, he cleaned some corners and sat there because the alternative was going outside and existing. That's the last thing he wants to do right now. He just wants to go away. He wants to stay here until he dies out of dehydration and starvation. Until his flesh rots. Until he's nothing but bones. Until his bones become fossil and rot as well. Until everything about him and his existence rot. Until he's gone for good. It wouldn't matter, why would it? He makes everyone's life difficult. He's a bad employee, a bad boss, a bad friend, a bad son.
The only thing he isn't bad at is being a doctor.
But he isn't going to end it. Not today. Not in the hospital in some old janitor closest.
He tells himself it's because he has more self-respect, but deep down, he knows it's because he loves someone too much to leave them like this.
In that moment, he took an unbelievable amount of vicodin, opened his backpack, and rummaged around until he felt the razor cut. He put it on his wrist with steady hands.
He put as much pressure as he could onto the razor that wouldn't kill him and cut his skin. He couldn't see the blood, but he could feel and hear it dripping from his wrist to the floor. It stung, but it was comforting. He fingered the cuts. They were straight, neat. Good. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the comfort while he could. He would bandage it after a few minutes. Right now, all he wanted to do was nothing but to focus on the pain in his wrist that dulled all the other pains.