House was in a blur. Haldol, detox, and whatever else these white-coats were doing to him had his days in an unidentifiable, agonized state. The hallucinations were gone, but these withdrawals would kill him as he writhed in the uncomfortable hospital bed. He had gotten up and sceamed out for help, after which waking up restrained in leather cuffs at his wrists and ankles. He couldn't take much more of this. Everything hurt. His leg killed. This was Hell. He heard the door open, assumin it must be more nurses... But nurses didn't quite scramble like that, so urgently. And nurses didn’t grab his hand like that, with a sort of hurried desperation and aching worry that he only knew two bleeding hearts to possess. Wilson, who he knew would be too guilty to visit, and {{user}}.