So after the finale, I was kind of pissed. How dare the writers do this to me, I lamented. How dare they take away my Huddy. But in the morning, I decided that I rather liked the way they're taking this. I've always been fascinated with madness. So this is going to be what happens to House at Mayfield, it's a mixture of reality and fantasy and House can't distinguish which is which. However, I can promise you eventual Huddy because it's me, although after last night's episode I am convinced that David Shore is not going to let Huddy happen until like the end of the series. Anyhoo, I hope you like this!
Disclaimer: Not mine.
It has been a week since House was admitted into Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. He had been scared shitless in the beginning, but now he has sort of come to terms with it. At least there was someone to keep him company.
He laid on his cot, with his hands folded behind his head, staring up at the grimy, mildewed ceiling. This Bedlam has probably been the same since the days they still drilled holes in patients' heads to let the evil spirits out.
"Well this isn't so bad," Amber said, lounging on a chair. "You get a Vicodin every couple of hours. Regular meals and laundry service, no less." Her tone was mocking.
House picked up a medical journal and ignored her. He was so used to her now, that it was scary.
"It's been a week," Amber said. "And they still haven't come to see you. Think they forgot you?"
House sighed. He missed his piano. He missed his guitar. He missed his apartment. He missed his medical mysteries. He missed--
"A shame, isn't it?" Her voice was filled with glee and cruelty. "That you hallucinated the whole thing with Cuddy. You'd've really liked it if it happened, wouldn't you have?"
House gritted his teeth.
"If it had all been real. And if she said she'd move in with you instead of firing you and bursting your little delusional bubble. Pathetic how much you need her, really."
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to block out her voice.
"Pity she'd only sleep with you in your hallucinations. Pity she'd only hold your hand and admit her feelings—"
"SHUT UP!" House roared, throwing the medical journal at Amber. It only passed through her, as she cackled.
"Face it, House—you've gone insane. You'll never solve another case. You'll never see her again." Her laughter echoed in the dingy little room, until House wanted rip his eyes out, wanted to shoot himself, wanted to do anything for her to disappear, for him to escape from this hell.
"Dr. House," the door opened, and the intendant stepped in. They still called him by his title, as if being a doctor meant that he had some kind of control over his condition. It was a horrible mockery, and reminded him every time that he might never be a doctor again. The intendant held out a little paper cup with a single Vicodin in it.
House glared at it. "I don't want it," he said.
"Dr. House—" The intendant began in a soothing voice.
"Listen," House said. "I want you to take this away, and never bring it to me again, no matter how much I begged you for it, do you understand? No matter how I bribe you or insult you or try to manipulate you. Please," he choked this last word out with difficulty. He would do anything to be normal again.
"I'll have to consult your psychiatrist," the intendant said uncertainly.
"Oh for fuck's sake," House snapped. "What is there to consult? I'm a drug addict. Aren't you supposed to encourage me to kick my drug habit?"
"With your current mental state, a cold-turkey approach might not be—"
"No!" House cried. "A cold-turkey approach is the only thing that's going to work. I know, all right? I've tried it all before." And I would have quit already if Cuddy had just—
He willed himself not to think about it.
"If Cuddy didn't walk away?" Amber helpfully finished for him. "But then, you shouldn't have insulted her, should you? She had a perfect right to go home and take care of her baby. She's not your keeper."
"Please," he repeated.
"All right," the intendant said. "I'm bringing this away for now. I'll go consult your doctor and you will be carefully monitored." He left with the paper cup.
House slumped back on his bed. He braced himself for the inevitable pain, nausea, and uncontrollable shivering that were going to happen within a few hours. But this time, he'd embrace it. He'd willingly give up another leg if it meant he could go back to the hospital, to his life.
"I never knew how attached you were to your life," Amber said in mock-surprise. "Weren't you the one always complaining and griping and insisting on being miserable—"
House smiled at her grimly. "Mock all you want. You are going to be gone soon."
"How do you know?" Amber said confidently. "How do you know that, even if you were to succeed in detoxing—which I highly doubt, by the way—that I would go away? How do you know that it's the Vicodin's fault, and there's nothing wrong with you mentally?"
It chilled him, how cock-sure she was. But he had to keep telling himself that once he detoxed, it would all be okay. His mind—and therefore, his life—depended on it.
But after a few minutes, he sat up again. How did he know? How did he know he said what he'd just said to the intendant? Maybe he actually did take the Vicodin, and his mind was just concocting another little story to make him feel better about himself. That was just it. He had no way of knowing.
Come on, House, he said to himself. You're still a genius, you can figure this one out. This wasn't the first time this had happened to him. He was also hallucinating after Moriarty shot him years ago. Then, he had broken out of the hallucination by "murdering" a patient.
The problem was, then he had been hallucinating the whole time, so he didn't really kill the patient. Now, his hallucinations and reality were all mixed up, and if he killed someone it might actually be real and then he'd be in deeper shit than he was now. How to tell the difference?
He settled back into his pillow and began to think.
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