Jimmy Gets High

By Shakespeare's Girl

A/N: Inspired loosely by the Daniel Powter song "Jimmy Gets High." And I would just like to announce that this is the darkest House fic I've ever done. I think. Be warned, this is not a funny fic. I went to a very dark place. But then again, dark is nothing new, especially if you've read some of my Buffy/Angel or Smallville stories. (Shameless plug!)

He's had it.

This is it. The last straw. House parading around with Thirteen like no one could see, making sure everyone did.

He can't take it anymore.

He steals the things he needs from the hospital supply closet, then takes them home. There's no one here, no one left to bother him. No Julie, no blonde bitch, no House. And that's the one that makes him so angry he doesn't care anymore. No House.

For as long as they've known each other, House has been pretty much single. Sure there was Stacy, and that thing with Cameron, but he'd always known that there was no chance that House would ever stop needing his best friend.

Except now there was. House had found someone who was both sexually desirable and a good protege all rolled up into one package. Now there was no need for the responsible best friend.

James Wilson had suddenly become completely superfluous to everyone in his own life.

And James Wilson had no where to go but down.

He's crying as he prepares the syringe, crying as he lines up the vicodin pills next to the vial of Morphine he took from the lab. He finds it ironic that he's going to attempt to kill himself the same way that House has kept himself alive all these years.

He takes a pill. He doesn't drink any water, just swallows it dry, like House would. It tastes bitter, unbearably bitter. He takes another one.

Something's missing. He stands up, and realizes that the vicodin work faster than he thought they did, because he's dizzy, and the room is spinning. How does House manage to get anything done when he takes these things? What was he doing? Oh yeah, vodka. He's got a bottle of the really good stuff stashed somewhere around here. He stumbles, wondering once more how House copes with the side effects of vicodin. This is impossible. House must be in way more pain than he thought.

The phone rings. Wilson ignores it. He turns on the radio. He doesn't listen, instead he reaches behind it and grabs the vodka. He takes a drink and winces at the combined taste of alcohol and vicodin.

He stumbles back to his syringe and pills. Not long now.

He fumbles for another pill, then decides he should probably shoot up while he can still see straight. He manages to grab the needle, then stares at it for a while, contemplating. He can hear pounding, and he thinks that maybe it's someone at the door, but he's not sure, and really, how can anyone think with these drugs in them? He takes the fourth pill, still holding the syringe full of enough morphine to drop a horse.

Something crashes somewhere near by, and James looks around blearily, unsure what's going on. Then he looks down. Oh. Right. Shooting up. With morphine. He tries to align the needle with the vein in his elbow, but he forgot the tourniquet, so he's guessing. He sinks the needle into his skin, and he's surprised that it doesn't hurt at all. He's about to press down on the plunger, when something knocks his hand away.

"How many pills did you take?" someone demands, and James thinks he knows that voice.

"What..."

"Jimmy! How many pills?"

He thinks. Pills. Pills. Vicodin. He'd taken vicodin. Right. That's why the loopy feeling. And he'd been trying to shoot up morphine. He looks down at his arm. The syringe is gone. "Pills..."

"Dammit!"

That voice is so familiar, he knows he should recognize it.

Jimmy. It hits him then. Only one person calls him Jimmy.

"Greg..."

"Yes, it's me. Now tell me. How many vicodin did you take before I got here?"

James forces himself to think. House is here. He wants to know about the pills. "Um...f-four? Five?"

House shakes his head slowly. "Not good, but not enough to kill you, thank god." He hears the cane clatter against something. "James Wilson, what were you thinking?"

"Didn't need me."

"What?"

"No one needed me. No one. So I figured...what's the point?"

House snorted. "Eveyone needs you. Cuddy needs you. Cameron needs you. Your patients need you."

"No they don't. Not really."

House sighs now. "I need you. Don't ever try to commit suicide again. Is that vodka?"

"You need me?"

"Yes, you idiot. Now hand me that bottle."

Wilson does. Because House needs him. It's the last thing he thinks of before he drifts off into unconsciousness. And he thinks he can hear House snoring.