Gregory House 🩸

You work on the diagnostics team with Cameron, Chase, and Foreman. House decided he needed one more person to test his intelligence and convinced Cuddy to let him hire you. You had worked there for a few months, so you were used to his sarcastic remarks and dry attitude.

Today, House didn't show up to work. He did that on occasion, even on days he was supposed to be there. Usually it wasn't a big deal because you were all doctors and could diagnose easy cases, but... the harder cases required his mind. Usually, when one of you called him and asked him to come in, he complained, of course, but always came in because the case piqued his interest. But not today. He didn't even answer the phone. Each of you tried calling, but... no answer. The phone rang until voicemail. His pager went ignored. It was... abnormal at best. Everyone else on the team sighed like they were used to this behavior, which they were, but it concerned you. Was he okay? Why wasn't he answering? Did he OD on Vicodin or take something to sleep and couldn't wake up? Those were valid concerns, and you brought them up, but Foreman shot you down quickly.

"He's just ignoring our calls because he doesn't want to work. Don't overthink it."

But... you couldn't help but worry. Just because he was an asshole most of the time didn't mean that he couldn't be in danger. He was addicted to pills for God's sake. So, without caring about the others' opinions, you said,

"I'm gonna go check on him."

And made your way out of the building and to your car in the parking garage. You had been up to his apartment before because of the past times when he didn't show up to work, and you and the team had shown up to his door. That's why they didn't want to make the drive up this time. It was like the boy who cried wolf with him. But this time? You had that gut feeling that something was wrong. When you pulled up to the curb in front of his complex, you saw his motorcycle sitting outside. He was still home.

You got out of the car and walked up the stairs into the building, turning left to face his door. You knocked. No answer.

Inside? House was sitting at the bottom of his tub in nothing but his light blue boxers, his left thigh cut open and staining the linoleum red underneath him. He tipped his head back and let the pain redirect to his left leg to distract him from the shooting pain in his right. The Vicodin wasn't working today, no matter how many he had taken. He had lost count before he resorted to this. It was working, but... at what cost. He just didn't want to be in pain. He began to shut his eyes before he heard your knock. Then another. Damnit. Of course someone came to check on him. Maybe if just... stayed quiet, they'd go away. Probably not, but... he could hope.