misanthrope_md: (Default)
TRIGGER WARNING: Attempted suicide.

It was House's father that showed up first, as if he didn't hate this enough already.

"You've done a lot of selfish things in your life, son," the ex-marine said gruffly, standing rod straight in front of House's bed. "But this is a new record."

"Shut the fuck up, dad," he muttered, as he folded paper. "You're not even my real father anyway. You didn't bring me into this world, you have nothing to do with the way I choose to go out of it."

A shrug, almost imperceptible, from the old man. "You could be right about that. On second thought, you're probably doing them all a favor. I didn't like hearing your whining for eighteen years, I don't know how anyone could handle you now."

That was more like it. House wrote something on the back of the folded paper, not looking up at his father. "You're not really here," he said.

"Good thing. I doubt I could stand the shame of my only son taking the easy way out because his leg hurts a little."

"Fuck you, dad."

When House looked up a few seconds later, he was gone.

Next, it was Wilson. For the most fleeting of seconds House entertained the idea that he might be real, but then that was gone.

"There's a reason you haven't touched the belladonna painkiller in so long," he said, looking down at House on the bed. "You're losing your mind."

"I think at this point hallucinations are the least of my problems, Jimmy," House muttered. He stacked the pieces of folded paper on his nightstand and slid his legs over the edge of the bed, beginning to unbutton his long-sleeved shirt.

"Maybe you wanted to say goodbye," Wilson said. "To me, at least. Since you don't have the guts to do it for anyone who really matters."

"I don't need a lecture from you right now. If you really wanted to help me you would be here. You wouldn't have left. Twice." Bitterness dripped from House's voice. He didn't particularly even care that it was obviously all in his head.

"Were you hoping you'd just be able to overdose on it?" Wilson asked, ignoring him.

"Poisoning is an ugly way to die," said House, and realized his fingers were shaking a little on the buttons.

"Oh yeah, blood is so much prettier. Greg..."

"Don't call me that. You don't get to be my friend. Not when you're not here." And then for good measure, added, "Fuck you." He didn't have to look up this time to know that James was gone.

A few minutes later, he actually thought that he felt eyes on him when he sat down on the bed, back against the headboard, turning a razor over in his hands. "So what are you, the ghost of suicide future?"

"I'm pretty sure that's an oxymoron," said Chase. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a lab coat, his hair back to how it had been when House had first hired him.

"This isn't about you, you know," House said.

"I know."

"And it has nothing to do with the people in those letters, either." He looked down at the razor, and muttered, "That was a bad idea. I should burn them."

"Don't."

"You think I'm taking the easy way out, too?"

"I don't think there's anything easy about this."

"I suppose you're going to tell me there's people here who care about me."

"You don't need me to tell you that."

"You're in my head, I don't need you to fucking tell me anything." Though even as House said it, something flickered in his head - an image of Jack near tears, saying he couldn't stand to lose anyone else. And as if that wasn't bad enough, the stack of letters reminded him that other people would care, too. But Phedre, Helen, Magnus... they'd be fine. And so would Jack and Logan. If the world could keep spinning without Chase and the Doctor and countless others who had disappeared, then it could sure as hell keep spinning without him.

"He loves you," said Chase.

"Shut the fuck up," said House.

There were other ways to do this. Better ways. But here on the island? He wished he had a bathtub here. This was going to take longer. It's why he'd taken the belladonna first. Still, it wouldn't be very long. He knew what he was doing.

He looked up, and Chase was still there.

"I don't want you to see this," House said, feeling stupid, to a hallucination.

"Be neat about it," said Chase. "Someone is going to have to find you."

House waited until he didn't feel anymore like there were eyes on him. It wasn't Vicodin and hookers he was after. It was just... away. Anything but the island. Anything but more of this. Anything but growing old, just more useless and more in pain.

He was a doctor, he knew how to slit his wrists.

It was excruciatingly painful, and he was almost grateful for that.

for Phedre

Mar. 26th, 2012 11:48 am
misanthrope_md: (hand/eyes/smile)
Phedre often shadowed House during his clinic hours - handy, since he'd taught her how to do much of the trivial stuff straight away, like cleaning a wound or pulling out a splinter. But that wasn't really an environment for the heavy learning, considering that they were constantly being interrupted. For the most part House's teaching style consisted of giving her a massive amount of reading material and then quizzing her mercilessly on it.

It was time for the latter now, with Phedre seated at the desk in his hut and House laying back on his bed (why get out of bed, even for teaching, if you don't have to) with his eyes closed. He was grilling her on one of his favorite topics, infectious disease, having given her a textbook a couple of weeks ago.

"What is the term for animal diseases that can be transmitted to humans?"

for Phedre

Jan. 7th, 2012 10:27 am
misanthrope_md: (rubbing leg)
House was starting to wish that Phedre wouldn't come. It was a terrible idea, suggesting that she look after him while he was detoxing. He didn't know what he'd been thinking... oh, right, he was stoned at the time. All he had to do was suck it up for a few days. If he could get through the worst of it, then he could at least make his way to the compound for food.

He'd told her that it would start when the island changed back, but in reality it had been a couple of days before that since the last time he'd been to the opium den. He'd woken up itching for a fix, only to realize that he was in his own bed again. He'd felt like sobbing.

Now, a day later, he could tick off the symptoms, the ones that he'd told Phedre to look up: watery eyes, runny nose, dilated pupils, loss of appetite, panic attacks, chills, nausea, muscle cramps, insomnia, stomach cramps, vomiting, shaking, sweating. And of course, the normal pain in his leg was magnified by about five, maybe ten times. He could barely move.

He was dreading that she would come. Praying that she would. No, no, she didn't need to see this, no one should see this. It was his own goddamn fault. Clad in pajama pants and a tshirt, he sprawled on the bed with the sheets tangled around him. Fucker was barking at the door. Oh right, House had left him outside. That was better.

for Gwen

Nov. 8th, 2011 04:05 pm
misanthrope_md: (the sex)
[continued from here]

House plucked the joint out of Gwen's fingers and tossed it into a glass of water on the nightstand. Then he slid a hand onto her leg and kissed her.

He wasn't doing this because it could annoy the hell out of Jack, but it was a nice potential bonus.

for Saffron

Nov. 5th, 2011 01:53 pm
misanthrope_md: (doctor)
House may have been spending more time in the clinic the past few days. It may have been because Helen was there. There wasn't much he could actually do for her, and he knew that she was going to be fine, but he was there anyway. Though Xander was too much of the time, so House was as far as anyone else could tell, just doing his normal doctorly things. It was only when Xander was gone that he would actually sit by her bed for a bit.

This time, when he saw her crack an eye open, he said, "Hey, so I don't know how you manage to still look hot laid up in here. Whatever that is, you should bottle it."
misanthrope_md: (glove)
House had almost forgotten that he'd told Logan he could come to his clinic hours on Sunday. So when he arrived, it was with a book in hand as usual, entirely prepared to be bored out of his skull. If he was lucky he might get a runny nose or - excitement of excitements! - stitches.

He slid into a chair by one of the exam tables and kicked his feet up, twirling his cane in one hand.
misanthrope_md: (hey there)
If any of Violet's pups are long overdue for a tag, please comment here to let her know, because she is scatterbrained like woah. Those would be:

[livejournal.com profile] misanthrope_md (Dr. Greg House)
[livejournal.com profile] drama_maureen (Maureen Johnson)
[livejournal.com profile] will_you_see (Alcuin no Delaunay)
[livejournal.com profile] priorlives (Prior Walter)
[livejournal.com profile] song_n_dance (Cole Porter)

Also feel free to inquire about plotty things, or whatever, or just say hi...
misanthrope_md: (scarf)
It was a few days after New Years and House had spent some time in the clinic that afternoon. Mostly he was waiting for the damn snow to melt; based on past experience, it should be any day now. Sure, it was new and different for a while, but after a month of his cane skidding on ice he was about ready to shoot Frosty the Snowman in the head.

About to head back to his hut, he ducked into the bathroom first - but before he could step up to the urinal, he heard someone retching from one of the stalls. Ugh. He ignored it and went ahead and pissed, though after zipping up his jeans and turning around, he caught sight of the figure in the partially open stall.

It was Dodge.

Guilt slammed into House's chest - which was not a feeling he liked. But it had been building up ever since he'd woken up sober (and hungover as hell) on New Year's day and found the kid gone, and stubbornly refused to think about what had happened the night before.

He sighed, and stepped over, pushing he stall open the rest of the way with the head of his cane.

"You're going to get dehydrated if you're not careful," he said.

for McCoy

Apr. 21st, 2010 09:26 pm
misanthrope_md: (beer!)
House didn't stay in the bathhouse much longer after Jack left. While he sat there in the water with nothing to keep him company but his own thoughts and the throbbing, insistent pain in his leg, it seemed like anything would be preferable. So finally he climbed out and dressed, his clothes now damp since he hadn't brought a towel to dry off with.

He walked outside then and woke Padfoot, who yawned and allowed House to take his leash again. He started to trot off back towards home, but House turned them both in the direction of the Hub. It didn't occur to him until they were nearly there that it was late, and the place was probably closed. He idly wondered if he could just go in and get some booze anyway, but just as he got there, he noticed a familiar face exiting.

"Hey, doc," he said to McCoy. "Want to get shitfaced?"

for Jack

Apr. 13th, 2010 08:22 pm
misanthrope_md: (glasses naked)
It wasn't exactly a bad pain day. It was a bad pain month.

There were two things that helped with the pain, that had once been in House's life and no longer were: the first was drugs, and the second was sex. He blamed the island for both. No pharmacies and no prostitutes.

He wouldn't blame Pam for the second, since he knew she was a hell of a lot better off without him, especially since she'd gone back on the wagon. He'd been a bad influence on her, and though he didn't want to admit to himself that he was actually doing a selfless act, making himself scarce after what had happened on New Years was probably the best thing he could have done for her. After all, he hadn't had sex sober since before he'd gone off the heroin, and he had no intention of starting now.

Of course, that would presume that he was having sex with anyone. Well, anyone besides his right hand. Besides, he'd seen Pam with that guy. He should have known she was a cougar at heart.

So. Bad pain month. But it was the middle of the night and he couldn't sleep and it was the last fucking straw. "Come on, Fucker," he muttered, slipping into his shoes and watching the big dog run in a circle in the hut and then taking him outside into the night air.

It was one of those nights when it seemed like walking was better than being still, if only because the movement in his muscles distracted him from the aching in them. He didn't really have a destination in mind, so he just let Padfoot lead him. It wasn't until they were halfway up the path toward it that he realized the dog was leading him straight to Bohemia.

"Traiter," he muttered to the dog, and started to yank on his leash and turn them back around, but his eye caught sight of the bathhouse. The one he hadn't been in because, well fuck, because Jack built it.

But it was the middle of the damned night and if walking didn't help his leg, maybe hot water would. So he walked over and tied Padfoot's leash to a skinny tree. The dog immediately lay down, looking as if he were just as happy to go back to sleep.

House slipped into the bathhouse then. It was empty, obviously, and so he turned on the water and watched the tub fill and heat. He had to hand it to Jack, really. Okay, no he didn't. But that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy it.

He slipped out of his clothes and sank into the water then, trying to force his body to relax. All he wanted was to be something other than one big knot of pain.

Mailbox

Jan. 20th, 2010 07:02 pm
misanthrope_md: (too sexy for his labcoat)
DR. GREG HOUSE'S MAILBOX

for Pamela

Aug. 2nd, 2009 03:50 pm
misanthrope_md: (the sex)
It was a short walk to House's hut (previously Cameron's hut) as he certainly hadn't been about to park his bike somewhere far away. He'd been right, he wasn't having trouble walking - in fact, being high made it a bit easier since his leg wasn't throbbing like usual. He and Pamela kept up their usual banter on the way, but mostly it was him making blind jokes and innuendos - she didn't seem to mind.

When they got there, he said, "Home sweet home. Here's the tour: bed is five paces straight in front of you."

for Pamela

Jul. 13th, 2009 11:29 pm
misanthrope_md: (dark and closed)
There are some things you should just never involve yourself in. Near the top of that list is an ex's current relationship, especially when that relationship is falling apart. Because whatever you do, it's going to make you feel like shit. In House's case, he'd taken the higher ground, if you can call it that. No, worse than that, he'd probably patched the thing back together single-handedly - or at least, that's how it felt from his point of view. And now he'd just left Jack in the clinic, where he and Logan were probably kissing and making up, and he felt like he wanted to vomit on his own shoes.

His leg hurt, which didn't surprise him, though at least this time he acknowledged that it was probably partially psychosomatic.

It was pathetic, maybe, but he suddenly felt compelled to just stop right there. So he did. Jack had just disappeared into the clinic, the door was closed so he blessedly didn't have to witness a thing, so he dropped to the ground by the door, leaning against the wall, his legs and his cane splayed out in front of him.

He let his head fall back against the wall with a thump.
misanthrope_md: (house/cameron)
As if it wasn't bad enough that his leg hurt like a bitch, he was out of drugs, and pretty much hated his life, House also hadn't had sex since before he'd detoxed. Sure, he'd moved back in with Cameron, and sure, they were sharing a bed, but there had been no bed-appropriate activities (besides sleeping) - not even during the three days of temporary insanity in which she'd rebuffed his attempts to coax her into deep, meaningful love-making.

True, aside from those three days, House hadn't made so much as a move. But she was the one who'd kicked him out, and he was pretty sure that a big part of her was still pissed off at him. And frankly, he thought that if he came onto her she might kick him out. Which would be a very bad thing considering he had no idea what he'd do if he ended up homeless right now. He couldn't go back to Phedre's, she'd done enough. And... oh, yup, that pretty much exhausted his friend base.

... plus he wouldn't give Jack the satisfaction of getting his dog back if House ended up on the streets, so to speak.

So here he was, still in pain, extremely horny, and as he lay in bed with Cameron next to him reading a book, he was pretty sure he could see the outline of her nipples through her shirt.
misanthrope_md: (rubbing leg)
House couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a serious, all-out fight. Sure, a punch thrown here or there, but after his encounter with Logan on the beach, it was fairly accurate to say that he'd gotten the crap beat out of him - not that Logan had come away from it great either. House would have liked to have thought that if he hadn't been a day out of two weeks of withdrawal he would have made a better showing, but... he was feeling every bit of his age, instead.

He'd somehow managed to drag himself off of the beach, and made it all the way to the tree line before his leg was hurting so badly that he just couldn't make it any farther. He sank down to the ground against a tree and took a deep breath. He brought his finger up to his mouth and found that he had a split lip, which should go nicely with what he highly suspected was a black eye.

He let his head loll back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes.

For Phedre

Apr. 3rd, 2009 04:38 pm
misanthrope_md: (detox)
When House had finally returned to the hut after the blow-up with Mark and Cameron, he had done so under the presumption that he was going to be kicked out. So he was surprised to find when he got there that it was Cameron who had left. Though not all of her things were gone, there was enough missing to make it obvious that she had cleared out. He wasn’t sure whether to feel guilty that she apparently hated him enough to leave her own home to avoid him and yet still wouldn’t turn him out, or just think she was an idiot for not insisting he leave instead.

His pride was nearly enough to make him go anyway. But at this point, said pride was so pounded down that another blow seemed redundant. And considering the decision he’d just made, it was more important to him to not be (a) homeless, or (b) stuck in the clinic.

The decision was that he was going cold turkey on the heroin. Whether this was wise was debateable, but he also knew that if he tried to wean himself off of it he might lose his nerve. House was the type of person that would prefer to be near-death for two weeks than increasingly miserable for two months.

He’d thought about bringing what was left of the brick to Mark. But he didn’t want to deal with him, and moreover, he didn’t really want anyone to know what he was doing. Even though the cat was out of the bag to Cameron now, House had a feeling that Mark wouldn’t go around blabbing to everyone what House had been doing--but if he knew he was detoxing, he probably would tell someone (and probably Chase, god forbid).

But he also didn’t want the temptation. He made this decision even before he’d left the compound that day after leaving the clinic, and so he went down to the basement and grabbed some laundry detergent. Then he made his way to tree by his motorcycle were the stash was hidden. He poured the detergent into the box with the remaining heroin, then brought it back to the hut and set it on the dresser. Useless now. What a waste.

Was he sorry for what he’d done? No. Absolutely not. No matter what Mark thought about his motivations, Mark didn’t fucking understand. He’d never have done heroin if he’d had Vicodin. And he wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been in pain--at least not habitually. Mark might not believe it, might think he was just another junkie, but House knew it was true. He’d done the junkie thing, to some degree. Most of his disposable income in med school had gone up his nose. And he’d quit when he’d realized that it was affecting his performance as a doctor. If House didn’t have his intellect, he had nothing. Being able to solve a puzzle that no one else could solve was more important to him that getting high, certainly. And… it was more important than not being in pain, too.

Which was exactly why he was doing this now. Pernicious anemia. Jesus. When was the last time he’d performed a diagnostic without thinking to, oh, look in a patient’s mouth? Of course, Mark was wrong about something else, too; it wasn’t because he was high, it was because he’d already started detoxing. The thing was, the addiction was so much worse than with Vicodin that the point inevitably came where he physically couldn’t use enough of it (without guaranteeing an overdose) to keep up with his body’s demand. He’d known the day would come, the moment he’d taken the brick from Mark’s room. And he’d made the calculated decision that the months of relief would be worth the weeks of hell later. Wasn’t it Mark that was always spouting all that “no day but today” shit? He should understand that. Of course, the problem now was whether the months of relief were also worth completely alienating the few people left here who cared about him.

The bottom line was, it didn’t matter now. He’d made the decision, he’d done it, and now he’d made a decision to end it, evidenced by the detergent-heroin blob sitting on the dresser. But now that it was nearly two days in and he was alone, his decision-making months ago seemed fundamentally flawed in retrospect.

This was far worse than when he’d done it with Jack taking care of him, worse than when he’d done it with James taking care of him, and even worse than when he’d done it on his own. Because apparently heroin withdrawal was a hell of a lot worse than Vicodin withdrawal.

He could tick off the symptoms, a running list in his head, and he was experiencing all of them: watery eyes, runny nose, dilated pupils, loss of appetite, panic attacks, chills, nausea, muscle cramps, insomnia, stomach cramps, vomiting, shaking, sweating. Add to that the fact that the normal amount of pain in his leg was magnified by about five times (more like ten if you took into account the fact that it had been so much less while he'd been on the drugs), and he could barely move.

In the next 24-48 hours the symptoms would be at their peak, and after that should start to subside, to the point where he could at least make it to the compound to get some food. But in the meantime, he'd just lie here, staring at the ceiling and feeling like he wanted to die. He'd give his right nut for some methodone.
misanthrope_md: (beer!)
For the Meme.

I think it's fairly realistic to say that most people who have been on the island for a while have at least heard of House, and if they've been there more than a year, they definitely have since he was on the Council.

I would actually love it if some people want to assume that they've met and he was rude to them, especially if it was in the clinic. Since I assume that the clinic doctors have more to do than actually shows up IG. :)

for Jack

Aug. 2nd, 2008 09:04 pm
misanthrope_md: (mad)
[continued from here]

It happened so quickly that House was surprised to find himself suddenly inside an unfamiliar room... and then almost as quickly, pinned up against another wall. "Afraid someone's going to rescue me?" he growled at Jack, even as he started feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

for Mark

Jul. 7th, 2008 09:37 pm
misanthrope_md: (reading)
It was about time for House to be heading back to the hut before it got to be pitch black outside, but he'd been sitting in the rec room with the Sherlock Holmes book and had to finish the last story before he put it aside for the night.

He was so engrossed that he didn't notice anyone else walk into the room.

for Cameron

Jul. 4th, 2008 07:39 pm
misanthrope_md: (in bed)
House wanted to prescribe the increase in the pain in his leg to a lot of things - the increased distance from Cameron's hut to the Compound, the missing endorphins that he'd been used to getting from regular sex, hell, even just any of the random physiological reasons. He didn't want to admit that it could be even partially psychosomatic... because in the end did it even matter? Whatever the cause, it still fucking hurt. Wasn't as if he could do an MRI, or even self-medicate. Honestly? The first thing he'd do if he decided it was psychological would be to hunt down some drugs. Because there's nothing like treating fake pain with fake pleasure.

In any case, right now he had no answers and no drugs and he'd just woken from another fucking dream about Jack. He couldn't even remember what the dream was about, he just woke up with his heart pounding, equal parts infuriated and aroused, with the image of Jack's face prominent in his mind.

That combined with the blinding pain in his leg was enough to make him sit up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and breathing heavily. He looked over his shoulder at Cameron. She was curled up on the other side of the bed, so close to the edge. It was still surreal to be sharing a bed with her, even if they hardly touched.

He turned back, dropping his head. Trying to think happy thoughts. Anything but pain or sex or Jack.

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October 2012

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