A short one-shot focused on House killing his pain, and being discovered.
This just kinda burbled up while I was in the process of working on updates for all of my 'open' House stories… and it just didn't quite fit anywhere…
Oh, who is SHE? Well, she's whoever you want her to be…
It's up to the reader on this one! She's just someone who loves him unconditionally and completely accepts him for who he is…
Rated M/Adult, just to be safe.
All the usual and applicable disclaimers and warnings apply, such as don't like - don't read; I don't own House or any other characters, or anything or anybody else, blah, blah, blah…
House MD fanfic by NiteJasmine
She opened the front door and walked in, purse slung awkwardly over her shoulder, keys clamped in her teeth, arms full of groceries. She was so glad to finally be home. It had been a long, frustrating workday. She half-turned and gently kicked the door shut, and headed for the kitchen.
She was nearly at the kitchen door when she turned her head and saw him, lying half-sprawled on the floor in front of the black leather couch. He was laying heavily on his left side, like he had fallen over and landed that way. Both arms and his one good leg were rather folded around and crumpled, but his right leg had been carefully kept out straight and out of harm's way. He was not moving.
She sprang into action.
"Greg!" She shouted as she dropped the keys from her mouth, along with everything else she was carrying, and hurried over to him. She harshly shoved the coffee table out of the way and knelt down in front of him. He was unresponsive.
"Greg?" She called to him, as she quickly put a finger against his neck to feel for a pulse, while carefully leaning her ear down right in front of his mouth to see if he was breathing. She could feel a slow but steady heartbeat. And although his respiration was shallow and also rather slow, he was breathing.
She looked around. And she saw the discarded tourniquet, and the empty syringe on the floor where it had rolled after dropping from his hand. Then she saw the small metal box, which was sitting on the floor, the lid still open. It was a whole kit of needles and other light medical supplies, and several glass bottles, some with clear liquid still in them. She plucked one of the small bottles from the box and read the label. Morphine.
She put the little bottle back in it's place with a heavy sigh. Then she reached down and ran a soft hand across his forehead. She should have known. The weather outside had been miserable. Wet and bone-chilling cold. If any kind of day would be a really bad pain day for him, today would certainly fit. Plus, he had just finished up a rather tough case at the hospital, and he had been on his feet consistently for a couple of days.
And odds are, he had held out for most of the day, probably gulping down Vicodin after Vicodin, and suffering in agony before finally reaching the absolute end of his rope, finally giving in to the desperate need for relief and shooting up. He had apparently planned ahead, and had sat himself on the floor so he wouldn't have very far to fall over when the drug took effect.
"Oh, Greg," she said quietly, gently stroking his face. "Oh, baby."
He gave a light groan in response. A good sign. He was conscious. Just in a heavy, drug-induced thick fog.
She pushed the sofa back a little, and gently rolled him onto his back, cradling and supporting his neck. She grabbed one of the small throw pillows from off of the couch and put it under his head. She wanted to let him rest, but she needed to be sure that he was not in any danger.
"Greg," she asked him again, rather loudly. "Greg, how much did you take? The Morphine. How much?"
No answer, just another soft moan.
"Hey," she said, getting closer to his face with her own. She didn't want to sound threatening. "You didn't you take more than 15, did you? Did you take more than 15?"
If he had, there was an urgent trip to the Emergency Room in his immediate future. She got her answer. A slight shake of his head. No.
She sighed in relief.
"Okay," she said softly. She ran a hand gently through his hair, and caressed the side of his face. She leaned down and kissed his forehead.
"What am I going to do with you?" She whispered, more to herself than to him. But he had heard her. He groaned lightly again in reply.
"Shhhhh," she said, still caressing his face. "It's OK, baby. Just relax. Go to sleep. It's OK."
She leaned down and kissed him again. She would always be there to take care of him. She would never leave him. She couldn't. She loved him too much.
Then she got up, and gently covered him up with the light blanket from the couch. She hurriedly snagged just the temperature-sensitive groceries and roughly shoved them all into the fridge wherever they would fit. She left the rest of the stuff sitting in their bags on the floor. They could wait.
She pulled a few more throw pillows off of the sofa, and made herself a soft little nest right next to Greg. She made herself as cofortable as she could, then found the remote and clicked on the TV, turning the volume down low. She laid an arm gently across him, and put her hand right over his heart, feeling the soft and steady beat, along with the slight rise and fall of his chest.
She would stay there with him and make sure that he was OK. She would stay right there next to him, until he woke up.