House lay on the bed, tilting a pill bottle back and forth in his hand.

The bottle said Dr. Lisa Cuddy. The prescription was for one pill, no refills.

House had never gotten a prescription for one pill. He was more the not to exceed 8 to 12 pills in 24 hours kinda guy.

He'd only gotten this out of her after intense begging, a promise to relinquish his Vicodin bottle and to drop in at Dr. Meyer's next available appointment. It was ten o'clock tomorrow morning. If he wanted to be human, he had to go to bed right now.

House opened the bottle and took the pill. He turned off the light and lay in the darkness, waiting for sleep.

His wrists cuffed, as usual. His hands are over his head.

This is worse.

He knows he is dreaming but he can't wake up.

He's lying on his stomach and Tritter is holding down his legs so Wilson can fuck him.

He knows its Tritter even though he can't see him and he knows he's being fucked even though he's never been fucked before and he knows he's dreaming but he took that stupid pill and no matter how hard he tries he cannot wake up.

Wilson's pressed against the length of his back, gasping in his ear, the warm breath shooting sparks down his ear canal. He's pressed against his bed sheets and getting some wonderful friction. He finds his hips moving of there own volition. The icy cold hands on his ankles pressed down

Wilson moans.

If he stretches his arms above him he just feel his head board graze against his knuckles.

That's real. That's real.

He rams his knuckles into the headboard hard, feeling the pain reverberate through his hands.

This isn't happening. He isn't handcuffed, he knows that. Wilson's isn't here; he's at home in his own bed sleeping. Tritter isn't here.

Tritter laughs.

Tritter isn't here. He locked the door before he went to bed, so there's no way Tritter could have gotten inside. Tritter isn't here.

He rams his fists into the headboard. Yes, that pain is real. He does it again.

This isn't happening because Wilson would never do this to him.

House threw back his bed sheets and leapt from the bed. One step on the left, one step on the right and his leg went out from under him. The floor came up fast and he threw his hands ups to break his fall. The pain in his right hand was tremendous, and he smiled manically.

"Yes," he hissed as he drove his hand into the floor once, twice, three times. It hurt like hell, but it was real, real, real.

A few moments later, after grabbing his cane from under the bed, he scrambled into the bathroom and collapsed in front of the toilet.

He drove the aching hand once, twice into his stomach before any sort of logic started functioning. No good.

He leaned back, his brain desperately assembling a plan. He grasped the bare edges of one and jammed two fingers down his throat, hard, his teeth clamping down on his abused knuckles. He quickly brought up his dinner and that fucking sleeping pill.


Calm began to descend on House. He let his body collapse backwards, his back on the cool tile of the bathroom, his legs awkwardly bent beneath him.

He would find his secret stash of Vicodin. He would go out and buy a case of some overpriced, over sugared energy drink and drink every single one and watch infomercials and play his piano until his neighbors called the cops.

He was not going back to sleep tonight.