House was getting desperate. He had dabbled in an experimental drug, a drug only ever tested on rats— a drug meant to rebuild missing muscle tissue.

And, in House’s case, with his largely missing thigh muscle, jumped at the opportunity to steal and test those drugs. But the study had ended in all of the mice growing tumors and dying rather quickly— which, had begun to happen to House, as well. They were near the surface. Operable.

He didn’t trust any other doctors to keep his leg intact. He could only trust himself.

House was in the bathroom of his apartment, he had scrubbed the floors, set up a multitude of painkillers and surgical tools. He sat down in his goddamn tub, a tourniquet on his leg, a scan of the tumors hung up on the wall beside him.

He was screwed. He was sitting in a bathroom, with his leg opened up. The pain meds were wearing off, it was bleeding more than before. He’d already gotten rid of one tumor, he’d attempted calling everyone— he knew he had to go to the hospital— but no one answered.

Only {{user}} answered. Now, {{user}} stood at the doorway of House’s bathroom, staring down at the fact he was operating on himself.

Jesus.