Fic : Thirty Days of Solitary 27/30
Jul. 23rd, 2012 08:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
menolly_auTitle: Thirty Days of Solitary 27/30
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 27 Wednesday 2nd November 2011
Twenty seven days in this cell and he knows every nuance of it. He knows how many bricks are in each wall and how many cracks are in the ceiling. There are lines of dirt that he could reproduce from memory, and he knows exactly how many paces it takes from one end to the other. He knows every piece of scribbled graffiti and every rust mark on the pipe that runs down from the sink.
He knows that the cuff port is a little dented in one side, and the door sticks at that point, and that the dinner tray makes a certain rattle as it falls to the floor when it's shoved through its little hatch. He knows just how much he can see through that hatch, and how much of his hand he can allow in the outside world when he returns the tray without bringing down the ire of the guards.
He knows that, if he breaks the rules - if he fails to hand back his tray, if he disobeys any barked order, that he'll be dragged out of his cell and taken away.
He's not sure where they take the prisoners who break the rules, but he's heard the guards take them. He’s heard the guards yelling an inmate to step back, to lie on his bunk. Sometimes he hears the spray of the mace and the coughing of the person with a face full of poison. The officers shout clear warnings at every step but House suspects many of his fellow inmates have been driven crazy by their stay here, or reckless enough that they no longer care.
He hears them leaving, the booted feet of the officers sounding loud on the tiers. Every time it happens the other prisoners make a noise, some scream, some bang on their doors, some yell abuse at the guards. After the first couple of times House joined them, it's good to let out his frustration and anger, knowing that there's safety in numbers, they can't take down everyone who makes some noise. The uproar never changes anything, the prisoners are still taken, and nothing ever changes. He usually hears them returning hours later when the inmate is put back in his cell.
Every day he lies on his bunk and waits for the rattle of the food slot, where his food will be delivered as if he were an animal in a cage. This is one of the highlights of his day now, the delivery of his breakfast, his lunch and his dinner. He knows it won't be good food, but it's something, it's a break, it's something to do. It’s a way to mark the passage of time.
When his breakfast comes on the twenty seventh day he’s been incarcerated here he goes over and picks up the tray, limping back with it to his bunk. He examines the meal; it's the normal prison slop. There is some sort of egg dish, he thinks the eggs are supposed to be scrambled, but really they resemble nothing more than a gluey pile of yellowness on the tray. Next to them is a spoonful of baked beans, next to that are two anaemic looking hash browns that even the greasy spoon diner near his old apartment would have thrown out. A piece of cold toast completes the feast. He has a plastic spork to eat with, and that has to be returned on the food tray when he shoves it back through the slot. He looks at the pitiful plastic implement and wonders what they think he's going to do with it. Then he remembers the sharpened pieces of plastic he's seen flashed in gen pop (and on one case he saw one being used to stab another inmate) and acknowledges that perhaps the paranoia is justified.
He starts to eat his meal, it's not good but it's all he's going to get, and the next meal is hours away and won't be any better. He eats his plastic food with his plastic spork and thinks of the breakfasts Wilson used to cook for him on the weekends, when House was still living with him, after Mayfield, and before Sam came along, before Hannah, before Cuddy, and before House wrecked his life again. His mouth waters as he thinks of the macadamia nut pancakes that Wilson used to make.
When he's finished breakfast he carefully places the utensil back on his tray and then shoves the whole thing through the food slot, watching the metal drop back into place behind his tray. He returns to his bunk, picks up his paper and pen and thinks that he should really do something constructive with his time. After a few minutes of idle doodling he lets the pen and paper drop and lies back, staring at the far wall, the one without the window in it. He starts to count the bricks again because he suddenly can't remember if there are 112 or 114.
Darryl Nolan is surprised when an Eric Foreman calls him. Foreman introduces himself as the Dean at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. He explains that he used to work for Greg House in diagnostics. Nolan is impressed that Foreman could make such a large jump up in responsibility – although he wonders what is happening with the diagnostics programme at PPTH. It would be a shame if it was abandoned due to Greg's legal difficulties.
He had heard the news about Greg driving his car into Cuddy's house a year ago. It had been the talk of medical circles for a while, but had also made some newspapers. Nolan had read the stories with interest; he'd had no contact with Greg since he'd stormed out of what became his last therapy session. Nolan hadn't wanted to let him go – Greg still had a lot of things to work out – but he couldn't hold him against his will. Nolan had replayed the tape of that fateful session a couple of times but despite the poor outcome he couldn't see what else he could have done. Sometimes, like any doctor, he lost a patient.
Foreman had wanted information from Nolan regarding Greg's mental state and his assessment of Greg's future working ability. He seemed to be under the impression that Nolan was still Greg's doctor. Nolan didn't disabuse him, his professional relationship with Greg was for he and Greg to know about, no-one else. Nor could he give Foreman a reassurance that he would see Greg after his release from prison. The decision to enter therapy again must be Greg's.
Nolan would, of course, welcome his difficult patient again, either for another in-patient stay, or for ongoing counselling. He hopes to have the opportunity.
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 27 Wednesday 2nd November 2011
Twenty seven days in this cell and he knows every nuance of it. He knows how many bricks are in each wall and how many cracks are in the ceiling. There are lines of dirt that he could reproduce from memory, and he knows exactly how many paces it takes from one end to the other. He knows every piece of scribbled graffiti and every rust mark on the pipe that runs down from the sink.
He knows that the cuff port is a little dented in one side, and the door sticks at that point, and that the dinner tray makes a certain rattle as it falls to the floor when it's shoved through its little hatch. He knows just how much he can see through that hatch, and how much of his hand he can allow in the outside world when he returns the tray without bringing down the ire of the guards.
He knows that, if he breaks the rules - if he fails to hand back his tray, if he disobeys any barked order, that he'll be dragged out of his cell and taken away.
He's not sure where they take the prisoners who break the rules, but he's heard the guards take them. He’s heard the guards yelling an inmate to step back, to lie on his bunk. Sometimes he hears the spray of the mace and the coughing of the person with a face full of poison. The officers shout clear warnings at every step but House suspects many of his fellow inmates have been driven crazy by their stay here, or reckless enough that they no longer care.
He hears them leaving, the booted feet of the officers sounding loud on the tiers. Every time it happens the other prisoners make a noise, some scream, some bang on their doors, some yell abuse at the guards. After the first couple of times House joined them, it's good to let out his frustration and anger, knowing that there's safety in numbers, they can't take down everyone who makes some noise. The uproar never changes anything, the prisoners are still taken, and nothing ever changes. He usually hears them returning hours later when the inmate is put back in his cell.
Every day he lies on his bunk and waits for the rattle of the food slot, where his food will be delivered as if he were an animal in a cage. This is one of the highlights of his day now, the delivery of his breakfast, his lunch and his dinner. He knows it won't be good food, but it's something, it's a break, it's something to do. It’s a way to mark the passage of time.
When his breakfast comes on the twenty seventh day he’s been incarcerated here he goes over and picks up the tray, limping back with it to his bunk. He examines the meal; it's the normal prison slop. There is some sort of egg dish, he thinks the eggs are supposed to be scrambled, but really they resemble nothing more than a gluey pile of yellowness on the tray. Next to them is a spoonful of baked beans, next to that are two anaemic looking hash browns that even the greasy spoon diner near his old apartment would have thrown out. A piece of cold toast completes the feast. He has a plastic spork to eat with, and that has to be returned on the food tray when he shoves it back through the slot. He looks at the pitiful plastic implement and wonders what they think he's going to do with it. Then he remembers the sharpened pieces of plastic he's seen flashed in gen pop (and on one case he saw one being used to stab another inmate) and acknowledges that perhaps the paranoia is justified.
He starts to eat his meal, it's not good but it's all he's going to get, and the next meal is hours away and won't be any better. He eats his plastic food with his plastic spork and thinks of the breakfasts Wilson used to cook for him on the weekends, when House was still living with him, after Mayfield, and before Sam came along, before Hannah, before Cuddy, and before House wrecked his life again. His mouth waters as he thinks of the macadamia nut pancakes that Wilson used to make.
When he's finished breakfast he carefully places the utensil back on his tray and then shoves the whole thing through the food slot, watching the metal drop back into place behind his tray. He returns to his bunk, picks up his paper and pen and thinks that he should really do something constructive with his time. After a few minutes of idle doodling he lets the pen and paper drop and lies back, staring at the far wall, the one without the window in it. He starts to count the bricks again because he suddenly can't remember if there are 112 or 114.
Darryl Nolan is surprised when an Eric Foreman calls him. Foreman introduces himself as the Dean at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. He explains that he used to work for Greg House in diagnostics. Nolan is impressed that Foreman could make such a large jump up in responsibility – although he wonders what is happening with the diagnostics programme at PPTH. It would be a shame if it was abandoned due to Greg's legal difficulties.
He had heard the news about Greg driving his car into Cuddy's house a year ago. It had been the talk of medical circles for a while, but had also made some newspapers. Nolan had read the stories with interest; he'd had no contact with Greg since he'd stormed out of what became his last therapy session. Nolan hadn't wanted to let him go – Greg still had a lot of things to work out – but he couldn't hold him against his will. Nolan had replayed the tape of that fateful session a couple of times but despite the poor outcome he couldn't see what else he could have done. Sometimes, like any doctor, he lost a patient.
Foreman had wanted information from Nolan regarding Greg's mental state and his assessment of Greg's future working ability. He seemed to be under the impression that Nolan was still Greg's doctor. Nolan didn't disabuse him, his professional relationship with Greg was for he and Greg to know about, no-one else. Nor could he give Foreman a reassurance that he would see Greg after his release from prison. The decision to enter therapy again must be Greg's.
Nolan would, of course, welcome his difficult patient again, either for another in-patient stay, or for ongoing counselling. He hopes to have the opportunity.
