All my conversations now start with 'where's my', 'have you seen,' and 'what the fuck happened to.'

'Where's my wallet, have you seen my shoes, and what the fuck happened to me will to live? – Jeff Green.

Damnit. Opened one bleary eye, did the smallest of double-takes as he saw the clock on the wall. The pain pounced, as he woke up, pain from his leg and pain in his head. Work. Now. Scrubbed wearily at his forehead with one hand, fumbling for his Vicodin with the other. The pill bottle eluded him. Opened the other eye, turning a furious glare to the bedside cabinet. Tangled in his sheets – they held him down, pinning him to the bed. His cane, at least, was accessible – seized it, not bothering to remind himself of how much he hated it, dragged himself out of bed and began the search.

Damnit. What the hell had he done last night? Been drunk, it would be safe to say – the knife behind his eyes wasn't a very subtle clue. Also messed his house up. Moved mechanically through his morning routine, pretended to care about what breakfast cereal he was going to have, discovered the Vidodin under the bed, retrieved them bitterly and awkwardly and felt ironically glad there was no-one there to watch him, to look on with pity in their eyes. Took three. Had a headache.

Damnit. Found one shoe, on the kitchen table. Found the other, with some difficulty, under the piano. Ran his fingers along the keys, gently teasing out a chord or two, made his head hurt more. Turned with some determination towards the door, one hand went automatically to his pocket. Spent twenty minutes searching for his wallet.

Damnit. Paused by the door, eyed his house, pressed his head against the cool wall until the Vicodin kicked in and numbed it all. Went to work. What else was he supposed to do?

You're going to end up alone, House.

What else was there?