bad signal

 Synopsis: House is unreachable. Set after S1E2 "Paternity".

Fingers drumming on the glass table, Foreman shook his head and sighed. He repeated this motion several times as Cameron frowned at a computer screen, probably valiantly fighting the urge to help the hundreds of pitiful, desperate patients begging for House's attention. 

"This virus also goes by the name rubeola," Chase read aloud, pen going to his temple and staying there, suspended in frustration. 

"Measles," Foreman replied, eyes still fixed on House's emails. "You'd think you'd know that, especially after that case--"

"Speaking of cases," Cameron interrupted, pushing back on House's desk chair, the wheels silent on the carpeted floor. "Where is House? I've got a case."

Arching a brow, Foreman said, "Spill."

"27-year-old man, just got a kyphoplasty, chest pain for--"

"Yeah, no," Foreman leaned back, hands crossing over his chest. He looked vaguely disappointed. "That's cement embolism. Schedule him for exploratory surgery." 

Chase, who hadn't stopped scrutinising the daily medical crossword, piped up. "Uhhh, bacterial infection leading to a pseudomembrane in the throat?"

Fingers stilling in concentration, a pause ticked by before Foreman said, "Diphtheria."

"That was a hard one," he added, cracking his knuckles in some smug display of satisfaction. 

Cameron rolled her eyes, chiding, "Did you even listen to my case?" The accusation was directed towards Chase.

"No." He replied, looking up from his crossword. "Because House doesn't want anything to do with patients who email him. At least not anymore." With that, his head swung back down, face ensconced by the yellow-grey pages. 

A sudden realisation dawned upon Foreman, prompting him to check his watch and ask, "Guys, it's 10. Should we call House?" The trio stared at each other, each waiting for one of the others to pick up the phone and ring. 

"Fine, I'll do it," Foreman relented, reaching across the table to dial his boss. "You owe me," he mouthed at his colleagues.

Familiar ringing, familiar stinging. House groaned, turning over in his dingy bed to relieve the pressure on his leg. Where was his vicodin? 

"I'm not home. Leave a message," sang his pre-recorded voice. The curt content made House cringe as he half-listened to the voicemail, partially occupied with struggling out of his blanket-shaped trap. 

"House, it's 10. Where are you?" Came Foreman's voice, worried and tense. "Call me back." The line cut off.

Disgustingly, his sheets were drenched with sweat, the fabric clinging to his bad leg like disintegrating playdoh. He was too lazy to reach back over and yank the damn thing off, so he decided to swing his legs in the hopes that the impediment would fall off. Stupid mistake.

Swears spilled through gritted teeth, good leg buckled as the remaining half of his body tumbled off the bed, sheets still attached. "Damn you," he cursed, clenched fist relaxing just enough to rid him of the offending object. 

Body now free of dangling scarves of sweat, he hobbled over to the bathroom, not bothering to get his cane. Upon entering the small tiled space, his eyes preyed upon the lovely orange bottle in the sink. But then his face fell, brows screwing up tight as he realised that it was empty. 

What? There's no way I finished them already, he thought to himself. After all, he had just spent $50 bribing Wilson for a prescription. If you ask Wilson, he'll just say that it was late payment for all those snatched sandwiches. 

His knuckles rapped against the stained porcelain of the sink, dried bloodstains from eons past visible in the hollow indentation. That's where water goes, he thought sadly, and also probably where my pills went. 

What had he been thinking? Exasperated, he leaned back until he felt cool marble pressing against his shoulderblades. Eyes peeling from the floor to the sink, he groaned inwardly and turned to go back to his bedroom, heading for that damn phone.

His fingers shook slightly, so slightly that he could ignore it, as he dialed Wilson's number. This wasn't withdrawal. He wasn't addicted. He was in pain. 

The phone buzzed in his hand, the electronic bzzt feeling way too strong. Hypersensitivity? 

"We're sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed."

House stared at his phone, which flaunted the fact that he had no connection with tiny pixelated words. Frustrated, he tossed his phone across the room and sat down beside his bed, cradling his bad leg and thinking: what a shit day.

"No response." Foreman reported, face scrunched up in concern. "I left a voicemail though."

"Yeah, we heard." Chase muttered, eyes fixed on his next crossword puzzle. The other one still had a few gaps, but he wasn't going to ask Foreman for any more help.

"Knowing House, if we don't have a case he's not going to call back," said Cameron, who was pacing around the office, her heels softly thudding on the grey carpet. 

"Like you know House that well," Foreman commented, the words freely rolling off his tongue until it was too late. Cameron, eyes reeking of hurt, padded over to him.

"I did my research," she said, staring down at him, "unlike you, I wasn't hired because I was a gangster--"

"Hey, look, I'm sorry," hands put up defensively, Foreman sighed out his apology. "I don't know why I said that. But, if it helps, I was gonna suggest we break into his house."

"What?" Chase immediately looked up, eyes wide and expression a mix of incredulity and horror. "Are you serious?" He continued, australian accent thick, like it always was when he was caught off guard. 

"Yes," Foreman nodded gravely, hands clasped, as if condemning himself to the death penalty. In a way, he was. "He asks us to search the patients' homes, so why can't we search his?"

"For what?" Chase asked, tone still on the precipice of disbelief. He would fall down to reality soon enough.

"Uh, missing boss?" Foreman ventured. "Seems like a good enough reason."

Cameron shook her head, saying, "He's causing us to waste time while patients die!"

Her colleagues stared at her, confused by her sudden outburst.

"Um," she cleared her throat. "Yes. Let's break into his house."

"Alright," Foreman said, voice marginally giddy with excitement. Okay, not marginally, but he tried to hide it. He got up and made a beeline for the exit.

"Wait, you're actually going to--"

Chase groaned, got up and followed them, his shoulders hunched over in sulking non-compliance the whole way.

Outside the green oak door, the awkward trio stumbled around, two of which watched in tense anticipation while Foreman got to work. Chase had his hands shoved into the deep recesses of his jacket pockets, the pose stretching the black leather taut.

"Still think this is a bad idea," Chase mumbled, his voice clanging against the sound of metal scraping inside the lock.

Foreman huffed, glanced briefly at his two companions, and turned the knob. The door opened, its hinges mostly silent, much like the house lying behind it.

"This is it," Foreman conceded, tone more frightened than excited now. He carefully stepped into the house, scanning the living room for evidence. Aside from a bottle of unfinished whiskey sitting on the piano, the place looked fine.

"House?" Cameron called out, her soft voice loudly proclaiming her concern in the homey place. The interior decor wasn't half bad, Chase thought, as he brushed his fingers over the rustic couch. The smooth plushness that greeted him brought to mind imagined scenes of House in the sofa, lean body sinking into the cushions. It was strangely domestic.

"Oh god," Foreman muttered, bringing Chase back to reality. Cameron and Chase both hurried over to House's bedroom, where their boss lay, clutching his leg while tremors racked his body.

"You're sweating." Cameron rushed to the bathroom to get a towel, her hurried steps pattering on the wooden floor. When she returned, she manoeuvred past Foreman, who was checking House's pulse and temperature, to wipe up House's sweat.

"Stop," he swatted them all away, panting afterwards from the effort. "Did you..." he started, eyes drifting from the floor to his employees, "Do you have vicodin?" 

The fellows glanced at each other, but before they could make a decision, Cameron blurted, "No, but we--"

"Then get out, and go get me some vicodin," House managed, his voice low in an effort to minimize the wavering shakiness in his tone. 

"Is the leg worse--"

"Get out!" House snarled, voice raised just enough to elicit a flinch from the usually composed Foreman. House turned his head to the other side, head lolling in utter exhaustion. "Just get out," he continued, tone still laced with aggression. 

Cameron remained kneeling beside the bed for a moment longer, towel slack in her hand. Her face was creased with disappointment and overflowing concern, her expression practically begging House to let her help. 

Like she could make it better, House thought with unfounded bitterness. That's what pain does to people.

“Come on,” Foreman muttered, placing a hand on her shoulder, which sagged with what House labelled as relief. She lingered for a moment longer, but eventually got up, placed the towel on his nightstand so that House could reach it if needed, and left with her colleagues.

As they made their exit, House shut his eyes tightly, as if doing so would erase the scene, the shame, the weakness. He grabbed his bad leg tighter, hoping that that would ease the pain. 

The door clicking shut drowned out the corridor lights, leaving House in the blanketed darkness of his room. Dangerous as it was, House found himself pondering whether his pain got worse after they left.

It didn't matter.

Outside, the late morning sun stabbed at their eyes. Heads down in defeat, brows scrunched in frustration, the trio sulked all the way down the steps. None of them spoke until they reached Cameron's car.

“So what now?” Chase asked, leaning against the hood.

“We need to get him something,” Cameron said, tone soft as ever. “He’s going through withdrawal, and his leg’s probably killing him.”

“You want to enable him?” Foreman crossed his arms, head tilted up in a complete show of disapproval. 

“I want him alive,” she snapped, but there was no anger to it. Just concern. Like always.

Chase’s face shifted from frustration to contemplation. “We can’t prescribe it.”

“No, but Wilson can,” Cameron replied.

Foreman blinked, taking a second to process the logic behind that decision. “Wait, you think Wilson’ll just hand it over because we, what, say House is miserable?”

Cameron shook her head, already pulling out her phone. “No. But if we tell him House is spiraling? That might work.”

"It's our best shot," Chase conceded. The three fellows looked at each other, and after a beat Foreman sucked in a breath, nodding to show that he was ultimately on board. Even if this plan sucked.

Wilson answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Wilson, it’s Cameron. House is--" Her breath caught, but she quickly composed herself. "He’s sweating, trembling, possibly withdrawing. And he’s… not himself.”

A pause. Then: “Did he ask for Vicodin?”

“Yes.”

Another pause. This one longer.

“I’ll be there in ten,” Wilson said. The line went dead.

Back at the apartment, House hadn’t moved much. He had managed to drag himself upright against the bedframe, head tipped back, arm over his eyes. The towel Cameron had left on the nightstand was now bound tightly around his bad thigh, the pressure a pathetic but not useless effort to numb the pain.

Internally, he scoffed to himself. Seems like she actually could help. 

He heard the front door creak open again. The car was still parked outside, so that means they didn't go back to the hospital.

“Didn’t I say--” he began, voice strained in exasperation.

“It’s me,” came Wilson’s voice, softer than usual.

House groaned. Here it came, the damn lecture about drug abuse and the like. 

Wilson entered the room slowly, a brown paper bag in hand. He knelt beside House and offered a water bottle and two pills.

House stared. He hadn't been expecting this.

“I’m not enabling you,” Wilson said quickly, his eyes lingering on House's makeshift compression band. “You look like hell. This is to get you stable. After that, we’re talking. No excuses, no--"

“I don’t make excuses,” House muttered, taking the pills anyway. His fingers brushed Wilson’s, and Wilson could feel how cold they were.

They sat in silence for a long moment after that. Wilson watched the way House’s face eased as the pain began to dull. In truth, it made his heart ache, how much pain his best friend had to live with. He wanted to help, but he didn't know how. Nobody knew how when it came to Gregory House.

“You scared them,” Wilson said finally. On the way there, Wilson had seen how shaken the three fellows were. House must've snapped at them, an experience Wilson only knew too well. 

He could be scary when he was angry, but they mostly ever fought over pills. It was always about pills.

House cracked one eye open. “They broke into my house.”

“You trained them well," Wilson replied, delivering the compliment with his eyes averted. He shouldn't be complimenting House. After a case, yes. Now? No. 

Wilson’s expression turned serious. “You can’t keep doing this. Ignoring calls, pushing everyone away, trying to fix this on your own.”

House didn’t reply. He reached for the water instead, despite not feeling thirsty. Wilson didn’t press him. That would come later.

Outside, the car idled in the driveway. Cameron gripped the steering wheel, eyes trained on the window looking into House's ground-level apartment. She could see the faint outline of Wilson, hunched over on the floor in the dark lighting. Foreman and Chase both watched the scene with her. It was like watching a really disturbing silent movie.

“So, now what?” Chase finally asked, his voice gruff, eyes never leaving the body that was largely blocked by Wilson. The tremors were almost entirely gone now, and he was no longer clutching his leg. 

The three fellows sat in silence, the car's engine humming incessantly. The answer nobody dared to say was:

I don't know.