Fic : Thirty Days of Solitary 2/30
Jun. 28th, 2012 05:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
menolly_auTitle: Thirty Days of Solitary 2/30
Characters: House with small bits of Wilson, Foreman, Adams, Chase, Cuddy, Park and Taub
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: For everything up to and including Twenty Vicodins
Words: 1100
Summary: House was sentenced to thirty days of solitary confinement for his actions in Twenty Vicodins. This is the story of his time in solitary, and what was happening back at PPTH while he was there. Story will mainly focus on House, but there are segments featuring the rest of the cast. Starts just before the end of Twenty Vicodins.
A/N : Many, many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
damigella_314. Without her constant help and encouragement this story would be called 'Five Days in Solitary'.
Click for previous part
Day 2 - Saturday 8th October 2011
He's barely slept all night, the pain and the beginning of withdrawal keeping him awake and on edge. His hands are trembling, his mouth is dry and his palms are sweaty. When he looks in the small square of aluminium tacked to the wall that serves as a mirror he can see his eyes are red and his expression is drawn. He looks like shit.
He's been living on two Vicodin a day since entering prison and that's only been enough to stave off withdrawal. He's had none since binging on four in his cell yesterday morning. If he doesn’t get some soon he knows it will only be a matter of time before he's curled up in a ball screaming in pain.
He sits on the bunk, shaking hands clasped between his knees, shivering, waiting for something to change, for something to happen. They can't just leave him here like this, he needs his medication. He's entitled to it.
He's afraid.
He hears heavy booted footsteps approaching his door and he looks up, his heart rate quickening. The footsteps stop outside the door and his name is called. He goes to the cuff port, awkwardly turning his back and placing his hands there when ordered. Cuffs go around his wrists, biting at the flesh. When his hands are safely secured behind his back the door is opened and an officer stands there with a pill cup; another officer waits out of range.
"Medication," the officer says, his eyes sweeping over House and the cell, as if he's checking for danger, or contraband.
House eyes the pills in the cup hungrily, but he can't take them with his hands behind his back, he waits for the next move.
The paper cup is held to his lips and the pills are tipped into his mouth. A paper cup of water is held up and he drinks from it, washing the Vicodin down. He feels instant relief as they hit his system, purely psychological, he knows. He hopes the dose will remain at what it was in gen pop, at least in here he'll get all his pills, with no-one to strongarm him into turning some over. He opens his mouth wide so they can check that he’s swallowed the pills, as if he wouldn’t, at this moment.
"How long am I going to be here?" he asks but is unsurprised when he's ignored and they leave, with the door clanging shut behind them. He fears for one moment that they won't release him from the handcuffs but they do without incident and then the cuff port is shut and he's alone. He shakes out his hands and arms, glad to be free again.
The pills help him sleep and he sleeps most of the day away. It isn't until evening that he returns to the problem of Nick's illness. He runs the symptoms again in his head, wishing for a whiteboard, or even some paper and pen. He likes to write things down and look at them, look for the patterns, look for the meaning in seemingly random symptoms. He works best when he can bounce ideas off other people, off his team. He thinks for a moment about his team, and his office, and the conference room, places he'll never be again, people he'll probably never see again. He thought he'd made his peace with his old life during those couple of months hiding out in Fiji. He had thought that he could leave all that behind and start fresh once he'd done his time. He'd obviously thought wrong.
He sits on the bed and rubs at his thigh, the Vicodin has worn off and the leg has started complaining again. The surgery to remove the tumours from his leg has left it even worse than it was to start with, and the pain has a sharper quality to it than it has had since before his time in Mayfield. Being without his cane for the last couple of days hasn't helped. The doses he's been able to get, and keep, in here have only been enough to take the edge of, and to stave off the worst symptoms of withdrawal but his body has been constantly craving more.
He remembers those few months after Mayfield, when he was doing okay, when the pain was under control and he was trying to change. Futile of course, he was losing that even before getting together with Cuddy and Cuddy had been his last chance.
He shies away from his thoughts of Cuddy and returns to the problem at hand. If it isn't mastocytosis, what the hell is it? He'd been sure, so sure, that he was right. Oh, he knows that he often throws out a diagnosis and tells people it is right, but it's different when he finally gets the answer. He just knows. If he's lost that, then he's lost his 'gift'. It doesn't matter anyway, he tells himself, because he's not going back to being a doctor, he's going to Fiji to study dark matter. He runs the symptoms again and comes up with the same answer. It has to be mastocytosis. Nothing else fits.
When a dinner tray is pushed through the slot in the base of the door he sees the piece of paper sitting on top of the unappetising looking food and slowly limps over to it, grabbing the piece of paper and unfolding it.
"You were right!" He balls the piece of paper up in his hand and sits back on his concrete slab of a bed, a slight smile crossing his face as he feels a wave of relief. He was right.
For now that's all that matters.
Wilson has a new routine for Saturdays. He sits in a waiting room, on a comfortable chair, with a few other people, all trying hard not to look at each other. When his name is called he goes with a heavy tread into the inner office of his psychiatrist. The man is friendly, and does his best to put Wilson at ease but it still takes Wilson a while to relax enough to talk.
They talk about many things, his childhood, his parents, Danny, his three wives, his patients, all his failures. The conversation always comes back to House, his best friend who ran a car at him, and left him standing, injured, on the sidewalk and then walked off without a backwards glance. His best friend who disappeared for three months without a single word. His best friend who has been in New Jersey State Prison for the last eight months.
The man who used to be his best friend. The man he couldn't help.
Wilson’s doctor has prescribed medication, a healthier lifestyle and new friends. The medication is easy; Wilson is used to anti-depressants by now. He’s given up red meat, and taken up jogging. He’s started trying to spend more time with his colleagues in the hopes that one day; maybe, some of them might turn into friends.
And every Saturday he goes to his psychiatrist’s office and talks about House.
Click for next part
Characters: House with small bits of Wilson, Foreman, Adams, Chase, Cuddy, Park and Taub
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: For everything up to and including Twenty Vicodins
Words: 1100
Summary: House was sentenced to thirty days of solitary confinement for his actions in Twenty Vicodins. This is the story of his time in solitary, and what was happening back at PPTH while he was there. Story will mainly focus on House, but there are segments featuring the rest of the cast. Starts just before the end of Twenty Vicodins.
A/N : Many, many thanks to
damigella_314. Without her constant help and encouragement this story would be called 'Five Days in Solitary'. Click for previous part
Day 2 - Saturday 8th October 2011
He's barely slept all night, the pain and the beginning of withdrawal keeping him awake and on edge. His hands are trembling, his mouth is dry and his palms are sweaty. When he looks in the small square of aluminium tacked to the wall that serves as a mirror he can see his eyes are red and his expression is drawn. He looks like shit.
He's been living on two Vicodin a day since entering prison and that's only been enough to stave off withdrawal. He's had none since binging on four in his cell yesterday morning. If he doesn’t get some soon he knows it will only be a matter of time before he's curled up in a ball screaming in pain.
He sits on the bunk, shaking hands clasped between his knees, shivering, waiting for something to change, for something to happen. They can't just leave him here like this, he needs his medication. He's entitled to it.
He's afraid.
He hears heavy booted footsteps approaching his door and he looks up, his heart rate quickening. The footsteps stop outside the door and his name is called. He goes to the cuff port, awkwardly turning his back and placing his hands there when ordered. Cuffs go around his wrists, biting at the flesh. When his hands are safely secured behind his back the door is opened and an officer stands there with a pill cup; another officer waits out of range.
"Medication," the officer says, his eyes sweeping over House and the cell, as if he's checking for danger, or contraband.
House eyes the pills in the cup hungrily, but he can't take them with his hands behind his back, he waits for the next move.
The paper cup is held to his lips and the pills are tipped into his mouth. A paper cup of water is held up and he drinks from it, washing the Vicodin down. He feels instant relief as they hit his system, purely psychological, he knows. He hopes the dose will remain at what it was in gen pop, at least in here he'll get all his pills, with no-one to strongarm him into turning some over. He opens his mouth wide so they can check that he’s swallowed the pills, as if he wouldn’t, at this moment.
"How long am I going to be here?" he asks but is unsurprised when he's ignored and they leave, with the door clanging shut behind them. He fears for one moment that they won't release him from the handcuffs but they do without incident and then the cuff port is shut and he's alone. He shakes out his hands and arms, glad to be free again.
The pills help him sleep and he sleeps most of the day away. It isn't until evening that he returns to the problem of Nick's illness. He runs the symptoms again in his head, wishing for a whiteboard, or even some paper and pen. He likes to write things down and look at them, look for the patterns, look for the meaning in seemingly random symptoms. He works best when he can bounce ideas off other people, off his team. He thinks for a moment about his team, and his office, and the conference room, places he'll never be again, people he'll probably never see again. He thought he'd made his peace with his old life during those couple of months hiding out in Fiji. He had thought that he could leave all that behind and start fresh once he'd done his time. He'd obviously thought wrong.
He sits on the bed and rubs at his thigh, the Vicodin has worn off and the leg has started complaining again. The surgery to remove the tumours from his leg has left it even worse than it was to start with, and the pain has a sharper quality to it than it has had since before his time in Mayfield. Being without his cane for the last couple of days hasn't helped. The doses he's been able to get, and keep, in here have only been enough to take the edge of, and to stave off the worst symptoms of withdrawal but his body has been constantly craving more.
He remembers those few months after Mayfield, when he was doing okay, when the pain was under control and he was trying to change. Futile of course, he was losing that even before getting together with Cuddy and Cuddy had been his last chance.
He shies away from his thoughts of Cuddy and returns to the problem at hand. If it isn't mastocytosis, what the hell is it? He'd been sure, so sure, that he was right. Oh, he knows that he often throws out a diagnosis and tells people it is right, but it's different when he finally gets the answer. He just knows. If he's lost that, then he's lost his 'gift'. It doesn't matter anyway, he tells himself, because he's not going back to being a doctor, he's going to Fiji to study dark matter. He runs the symptoms again and comes up with the same answer. It has to be mastocytosis. Nothing else fits.
When a dinner tray is pushed through the slot in the base of the door he sees the piece of paper sitting on top of the unappetising looking food and slowly limps over to it, grabbing the piece of paper and unfolding it.
"You were right!" He balls the piece of paper up in his hand and sits back on his concrete slab of a bed, a slight smile crossing his face as he feels a wave of relief. He was right.
For now that's all that matters.
Wilson has a new routine for Saturdays. He sits in a waiting room, on a comfortable chair, with a few other people, all trying hard not to look at each other. When his name is called he goes with a heavy tread into the inner office of his psychiatrist. The man is friendly, and does his best to put Wilson at ease but it still takes Wilson a while to relax enough to talk.
They talk about many things, his childhood, his parents, Danny, his three wives, his patients, all his failures. The conversation always comes back to House, his best friend who ran a car at him, and left him standing, injured, on the sidewalk and then walked off without a backwards glance. His best friend who disappeared for three months without a single word. His best friend who has been in New Jersey State Prison for the last eight months.
The man who used to be his best friend. The man he couldn't help.
Wilson’s doctor has prescribed medication, a healthier lifestyle and new friends. The medication is easy; Wilson is used to anti-depressants by now. He’s given up red meat, and taken up jogging. He’s started trying to spend more time with his colleagues in the hopes that one day; maybe, some of them might turn into friends.
And every Saturday he goes to his psychiatrist’s office and talks about House.
Click for next part
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-06-27 09:16 pm (UTC)He's afraid.
Of course everyone sees what their own way of thinking and education make them see: to me, this description of life in prison seems final proof that we have to find something better to deal with criminals. Not just 'criminals' like House, although most people in jail in Italy are like him, addicts or mentally ill, but anyone human has basic rights (and I know an Italian jail would probably be much worse).
The surgery to remove the tumours from his leg has left it even worse than it was to start with
This fic is a sad reminder of the many threads left dangling by canon.
If he's lost that, then he's lost his 'gift'.
This, of course, is the one thing that matters. House has a gift, and it's not anywhere close to dark matter. We can feel House's fear, and then, thankfully, his relief.
a new routine for Saturdays
Poor Wilson. Canon has left so much out of his pain.
no subject
Date: 2012-06-28 07:18 am (UTC)Its a screencap from 20 Vicodins, that I found on my hard drive, I downloaded the whole of 20 Vics as screencaps at some stage from somewhere... (and apparently I got the size of the window wrong - it looks like quite a large window in that cap, oh well)
I think rather than finding something better to do with criminals it would be better if we focused on the societal conditions that leads to a lot of criminal activity - don't know how we fix that though :)
House has a gift, and it's not anywhere close to dark matter.
You're really not keen on the idea of House studying dark matter are you :) He definitely has a gift, but sometimes it seems equal parts a curse. Without that gift he would have been out of jail at this point (although poor Nick would be dead so there's that)
no subject
Date: 2012-06-27 11:46 pm (UTC)It's good to see you work the surgery and tumors into this fic. You have serious guts to tackle S7.
no subject
Date: 2012-06-28 07:21 am (UTC)I think the whole 'steal experimental medicine and then operate on your own leg in the bathtub' was about the most mind boggling thing that happened in House, it never really got the attention it deserved because of the second most mind boggling thing (car-into-house). One wonders if there would have been *any* professional or personal consequences to that episode if the car thing hadn't happened.
Thanks for reading :)
no subject
Date: 2012-06-28 01:15 am (UTC)Wilson's "We're not friends anymore, House" sounded so final in "Transplant." It's probably something his psychiatrist talked to him about - the unhealthy dependency he and House have on each other and how it was hurtful for Wilson AND House. But, of course, they need each other more than they'll ever admit.
Can't wait for the next chapter.
no subject
Date: 2012-06-28 07:23 am (UTC)I was going to make Wilson a little bit happier than this in this fic but I thought nah - let's go for angst all 'round :)
Thanks for reading and commenting :)
no subject
Date: 2012-06-28 05:32 am (UTC)And Wilson...oh...Wilson. You poor, poor thing.
no subject
Date: 2012-06-28 07:26 am (UTC)Thanks for reading and commenting :)
no subject
Date: 2012-06-29 04:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-30 11:55 am (UTC)