This was hell. House had never been forcibly taken off of his meds. The not-so-simple action of detoxing was deeply effecting him, no matter how much House wanted to ignore the throbbing in his leg— his mind.

He wanted nothing more than to down his Vicodin and feel the pain leave his body. He had already made many attempts to force his body to give him the endorphins he needed. The red streaks on his arm were proof of that.

He wasn’t typically a dramatic person when it came to feelings or his actions, but now, as the thought of a darker release from his pain wracked through his body, he felt helpless. He felt completely and utterly helpless— that wasn’t like him. He hated the feeling of being weak— he hated the feeling of being vulnerable.

He sat upon the ground, his cane resting on the ground, as he visibly sweat and shook. Detoxing was not necessarily something he wanted to do. He was aware that he was an addict— and he didn’t care. Or at least he displayed that he didn’t care.

But his lack of want to detox was what made the pain useless.

All he wanted was to let go.