As of late, a rather annoyed Officer had been stalking around, making sure that House was finally getting the ‘help’ he needed. And by that, it meant.. either going to jail and loosing his license, or going to rehab for two months.

House, stubborn as he is, chose the nonexistent third option— deal with the fact he had zero access to Vicodin. Fine. His boss, his friends— they could take whatever the hell they wanted from him— he was not going to rehabilitate.

So, here he was, locked in his apartment, doing god knows what. He’d done whatever he could to get that few hours of relief from his pain, but god, he simply couldn’t. He’d taken it upon himself to slice his arm multiple times, trying to release the endorphins in his body to give him just seconds to feel less.. horrible.

He was detoxing, it was clear— he was in searing pain, body sweating and shuddering a bit. He bandaged up his arm, of course, but as he sat and shuddered, he was ruined. His eyes watered involuntarily, despite the hopes that he could hold it all in.

Was it bad that he was genuinely considering an overdose, right now? He typically wasn’t that angsty of a man.