Despite the highs and lows House had in everyday life, this was most definitely a low. He had, simply, been holding up a bargain. Cuddy had bet him that if he didn’t take Vicodin for a week, he’d have an entire month off of clinic duty.

And so, here he was. Sitting on the ground, with broken fingers— self inflicted, of course, as he desperately wanted to relieve the pain from his leg— sweating heavily, with a hand against his forehead. He was slightly shaking, his breath heavy as he did anything to take his mind off of the utter pain he was in.

It was more of a… ‘House is being stubborn’ than a ‘House hates clinic duty.’ The latter was true, but in reality, he wanted to prove he didn’t have an addiction.

He did. And he knew goddamn well that he did. His eyes darted around his office, and the various ways with which he could take his pain away— whether that be morphine, or taking his goddamn Vicodin.