House MD Fanfiction

Detox

Hilson, kisses, 941 words
By: chaostheoryy

One week. All he had to do was go one week without his pills and Gregory House would receive one of the greatest gifts a doctor could get: a whole month off from clinic duty and the right to brag to Cuddy that she was wrong about him being an addict.

            House knew exactly who and what he was. And he wasn't an addict. He was a man in pain.

            From day one of the challenge, House had imprinted that claim in his mind. I'm not an addict. I'm in pain.

            And he stuck to that claim, even as the effects began taking a toll on him. He could feel himself growing more and more exhausted with each passing hour. His eyelids were getting heavy and his body was refusing to simply allow him to stand. The pain in his leg had intensified, his hands had started shaking, and he was feeling inexplicably irritable. He was losing passion for the case and a boy was dying because of it.

            Everyone around him was talking, pointing out his lethargic behavior and asserting that it was evident that House was going through withdrawal. But he wasn't. He couldn't be. I'm not an addict, he continued to drill in his mind, I'm in pain.

            By the fifth day, the pain in House's leg had become too much. It was tearing him apart, forcing him to draw his attention from the case and onto the constant ache and burning in his lower body. It was agony. It was torture. He wanted it to stop. Hell, heneeded it to stop. But without his Vicodin, House had no way to make it stop.

            The doctor slouched over his desk, his breathing labored and his eyes red from exhaustion. He had dealt with the pain for too long, struggling to keep up with the case despite the agony walking around the hospital forced upon him. Now he couldn't go on. Not like this. Not when the only thing he could think about was his damn leg.

            House's eyes slowly scanned the items in his vicinity until he came across the mortar and pestle sitting beside his right elbow. For a long moment, he just gazed at it. That is until realization settled over him like a warm blanket. There wasn't away to make the pain go away, but there was a way to make his body forget about it.

            And that way was to create a new source of pain.

            House reached over and grabbed the heavy, club-shaped pestle from its resting place in the mortar and stared at it. This was it. This was the only way he could make the pain in his leg go away.

            He began banging the pestle against the metal desk top, watching as it came down harder and faster with each strike. As he slammed the dense ceramic object against the desk for the fifth time, he began counting.

            One... Two... Th-

            Just as he was going to count off the third strike and force the pestle down upon his left hand, something seized him by the wrist, preventing him from moving the object any further. House's eyes locked on the hand that was now wrapped around his wrist before following the white-sleeved arm up to the very familiar face of James Wilson.

            The expression on Wilson's face was gentle yet full of worry, his brow furrowed and his jaw clenched as he gazed down at House. "Don't," Wilson murmured.

            House's electric-blue eyes remained plastered on Wilson's face as the oncologist took the pestle from his grasp and placed it back in the mortar before bringing his hand up to gently cup it along House's scruffy jaw. Wilson knew. He knew exactly what House was willing to do and why he was willing to do it. House wasn't just a man in pain. He was an addict. And without Wilson, he was an addict destined to suffer on his own through the agonies of withdrawal.

            But Wilson wasn't willing to let him suffer alone.

            "You don't have to hurt yourself to make it stop," Wilson said as his thumb soothingly rubbed House's cheek.

            House was surprised by the sudden caress, but he wasn't at all put-off. In fact, if there was one word that could describe how he felt having Wilson's warm, gentle hand caressing his face, it would have to be relieved.

            "What other choice do I have?"  House murmured, his voice as rough as ever. But his tone wasn't aggressive or demeaning like it usually was. For once in his life, Gregory House sounded scared and confused.

            Wilson let out a soft breath and leaned down so that he and House were at eye-level, his blue tie dangling above House's lap. The thumb on House's cheek continued to stroke through the rough, gray hairs along his jaw, even as Wilson's other hand found its way to the right side of House's neck. "Do you trust me?" Wilson whispered, his sultry breath ghosting over House's slightly parted lips.

            House's once droopy, weary eyes were now wide and gleaming with curiosity and longing as they flashed repeatedly between Wilson's chestnut eyes and pink lips. One question. Wilson had one simple question for him. And House had one simple answer.

            "Yes."

            Relief and determination filled Wilson's eyes upon hearing House's response. As a doctor, that response was permission. As a friend, that response was reciprocation.

            "Then let me show you how to forget about it," Wilson whispered before closing the gap between their eager lips.

            From the moment the kiss began, there was only one thing House could think about: Wilson.