Fic: Thirty Days of Solitary 11/30
Jul. 7th, 2012 06:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
menolly_auTitle: Thirty Days of Solitary 11/30
Characters: House with small bits of various others
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: For everything up to and including Twenty Vicodins
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 of Solitary'.
Click for previous part
Day 11 Monday 17th October 2011
It's raining today; he can hear it splashing against the window of his cell although he can't see it. He wonders if he will still be taken to exercise, he hopes so, exercise isn't much really, but in here it's everything.
His leg is aching badly today; the rain always makes it worse. The morning dose of Vicodin did nothing but take the very edge off and that was a while ago, and there's a long wait until the next one. He hates not having his pills available to pop one whenever he feels like it. Even when he was off the Vicodin he'd still carried a vial of his ibuprofen around and taken one just whenever instead of on a schedule. When he'd tried the schedule thing, back when he was newly crippled, he'd found himself watching the clock endlessly and just hanging around waiting until he could take another pill, to gain some small degree of relief. His life had been measured out in pain medication doses. Now he lets his body tell him when it needs dosing.
Except in here. Now his body is telling him how desperately it wants another pill, and he can't do anything about it, there’s absolutely no way of obtaining anything. Back in the main prison he’d developed a couple of contacts, guys who could get him something if he really needed it, and sometimes he really had – with Mendelsohn and his thugs taking half his pills every day.
He thinks about the feel of those Vicodin when Doctor Adams poured them all into his hand, their texture, their bitterness, the relief they could bring. He hadn’t even needed to count them, he could tell from the feel of them in his hand just how many there were. He wishes he had just one of those little beauties now.
He props himself up on a pillow and peers down at his leg, at the scar that has so dominated his life for the last thirteen years. What remains of the muscle twitches under the skin and he puts his hand there in a futile attempt to still it. He rubs at the thigh again, and again, but nothing helps.
The rain is still falling as he struggles to his feet and begins to pace. Five paces, that's all he can do. Five paces to the door, and five paces back, over and over, wearing a track. One, two, three, four, five. Turn. One, two, three, four, five. Turn.
He thinks of the morphine he used to keep, high on the bookshelf, ready for just these occasions – when the pain bites at him and won’t let go, no matter what he does.
He keeps pacing, trying to out run the pain.
It's not helping, there just isn't room, there isn't, he can't. One, two, three, four, five. He reaches the cell door, and without thinking slams his hand against the solid weight of it, then again, and again. It hurts, so he does it again, over and over. The door shivers under his hand. It feels so good. His palm stings, and turns red. He flexes the fingers, feels delicious pain in each one. Curls his right hand into a fist and throws his head back. Yes. His fucking leg is drained out for now by the pain in his palm. He's won.
When they come to take him to exercise he's sitting on his bed, flexing his fingers to keep the pain going.
Doctor Foreman turns out to be a somewhat humourless type, African-American, not overly tall. He appears young for the job he is doing but has a firm grasp of what he wants, and doesn't want. She quickly realises that he's not really interviewing her for a position at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. That's fine, because she's not really applying for one. She's not sure what drove her to send her resume to PPTH in the first place, other than the fact that it was Doctor House's last listed place of employment. She wants to see where he had worked, to find out more about him. He is the most intriguing person she's ever met.
The 'interview' soon comes around to her work at New Jersey State Prison, and the reason she is no longer employed there. She decides to come clean with Doctor Foreman and tell him everything, she feels that she owes House that. This is his boss, and the man who will have to decide whether he wants to re-employ House when he finishes his sentence. When she tells Foreman that she last saw House being dragged off to solitary confinement his composure is shaken for a moment, he actually looks disturbed.
“So, he was due for early release that day?” Foreman asks, making a note on a piece of paper in front of him.
“Yes. He would be out now if he hadn't gotten involved with the patient’s case. They revoked his parole of course when they took him to solitary. The last I heard they were going to bring extra charges against him. If he's found guilty of those he'll probably serve more prison time.”
“Damn.” Foreman swore, “He can't stay out of trouble for more than five minutes.”
“He was saving a prisoner's life,” she points out defensively. “Neither of us knew what was wrong with Nick. He came up with the diagnosis out of nowhere, and he took an enormous risk to back that diagnosis up.”
“Yeah, that's usually the way it goes.” Foreman makes a couple more notes and then looks up at her, “How did he seem? Is he doing okay in there?”
She thinks back to House's demeanour. “He seemed to be doing well, other than the problems with the Vicodin – another prisoner was pressuring him for extra pills before he was released. They call it an 'exit tax' - he had trouble getting the pills, but apart from that, he seemed okay.” At least he hadn't been brought into the clinic while she'd been there, other than after the riot which he had apparently started.
Foreman quickly concludes the interview, apparently having obtained what he wanted and ushers her out of his office; she's not expecting a call back. She thinks about hanging around the hospital, trying to find people who had worked with House to talk to, but shakes her head. She's done what she can; she can't spend her life obsessing over Greg House.
Characters: House with small bits of various others
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: For everything up to and including Twenty Vicodins
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 of Solitary'. Click for previous part
Day 11 Monday 17th October 2011
It's raining today; he can hear it splashing against the window of his cell although he can't see it. He wonders if he will still be taken to exercise, he hopes so, exercise isn't much really, but in here it's everything.
His leg is aching badly today; the rain always makes it worse. The morning dose of Vicodin did nothing but take the very edge off and that was a while ago, and there's a long wait until the next one. He hates not having his pills available to pop one whenever he feels like it. Even when he was off the Vicodin he'd still carried a vial of his ibuprofen around and taken one just whenever instead of on a schedule. When he'd tried the schedule thing, back when he was newly crippled, he'd found himself watching the clock endlessly and just hanging around waiting until he could take another pill, to gain some small degree of relief. His life had been measured out in pain medication doses. Now he lets his body tell him when it needs dosing.
Except in here. Now his body is telling him how desperately it wants another pill, and he can't do anything about it, there’s absolutely no way of obtaining anything. Back in the main prison he’d developed a couple of contacts, guys who could get him something if he really needed it, and sometimes he really had – with Mendelsohn and his thugs taking half his pills every day.
He thinks about the feel of those Vicodin when Doctor Adams poured them all into his hand, their texture, their bitterness, the relief they could bring. He hadn’t even needed to count them, he could tell from the feel of them in his hand just how many there were. He wishes he had just one of those little beauties now.
He props himself up on a pillow and peers down at his leg, at the scar that has so dominated his life for the last thirteen years. What remains of the muscle twitches under the skin and he puts his hand there in a futile attempt to still it. He rubs at the thigh again, and again, but nothing helps.
The rain is still falling as he struggles to his feet and begins to pace. Five paces, that's all he can do. Five paces to the door, and five paces back, over and over, wearing a track. One, two, three, four, five. Turn. One, two, three, four, five. Turn.
He thinks of the morphine he used to keep, high on the bookshelf, ready for just these occasions – when the pain bites at him and won’t let go, no matter what he does.
He keeps pacing, trying to out run the pain.
It's not helping, there just isn't room, there isn't, he can't. One, two, three, four, five. He reaches the cell door, and without thinking slams his hand against the solid weight of it, then again, and again. It hurts, so he does it again, over and over. The door shivers under his hand. It feels so good. His palm stings, and turns red. He flexes the fingers, feels delicious pain in each one. Curls his right hand into a fist and throws his head back. Yes. His fucking leg is drained out for now by the pain in his palm. He's won.
When they come to take him to exercise he's sitting on his bed, flexing his fingers to keep the pain going.
Doctor Foreman turns out to be a somewhat humourless type, African-American, not overly tall. He appears young for the job he is doing but has a firm grasp of what he wants, and doesn't want. She quickly realises that he's not really interviewing her for a position at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. That's fine, because she's not really applying for one. She's not sure what drove her to send her resume to PPTH in the first place, other than the fact that it was Doctor House's last listed place of employment. She wants to see where he had worked, to find out more about him. He is the most intriguing person she's ever met.
The 'interview' soon comes around to her work at New Jersey State Prison, and the reason she is no longer employed there. She decides to come clean with Doctor Foreman and tell him everything, she feels that she owes House that. This is his boss, and the man who will have to decide whether he wants to re-employ House when he finishes his sentence. When she tells Foreman that she last saw House being dragged off to solitary confinement his composure is shaken for a moment, he actually looks disturbed.
“So, he was due for early release that day?” Foreman asks, making a note on a piece of paper in front of him.
“Yes. He would be out now if he hadn't gotten involved with the patient’s case. They revoked his parole of course when they took him to solitary. The last I heard they were going to bring extra charges against him. If he's found guilty of those he'll probably serve more prison time.”
“Damn.” Foreman swore, “He can't stay out of trouble for more than five minutes.”
“He was saving a prisoner's life,” she points out defensively. “Neither of us knew what was wrong with Nick. He came up with the diagnosis out of nowhere, and he took an enormous risk to back that diagnosis up.”
“Yeah, that's usually the way it goes.” Foreman makes a couple more notes and then looks up at her, “How did he seem? Is he doing okay in there?”
She thinks back to House's demeanour. “He seemed to be doing well, other than the problems with the Vicodin – another prisoner was pressuring him for extra pills before he was released. They call it an 'exit tax' - he had trouble getting the pills, but apart from that, he seemed okay.” At least he hadn't been brought into the clinic while she'd been there, other than after the riot which he had apparently started.
Foreman quickly concludes the interview, apparently having obtained what he wanted and ushers her out of his office; she's not expecting a call back. She thinks about hanging around the hospital, trying to find people who had worked with House to talk to, but shakes her head. She's done what she can; she can't spend her life obsessing over Greg House.
