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Inner Demons	By : pixala Category: G through L > House Views: 2436 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own House, MD or the original story. Nor do I make any profit from my fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 1-Inner Demons
- 1
A/N: Oh God. Please don't kill me. It probably jumps around all over the place since I've been working on it during the wee hours of the morning.
Most of the story codes don't apply just yet, since this is a WIP. I'm planning on actually making a decent fic out of this, so give it a chapter or two. xD

Deciding that it was finally time to do some 'spring cleaning' (although in this case it was more like a 'once a decade clean'), House had somehow managed to get down on the floor to clean out his hallway closet. Rummaging through the boxes that hadn't been touched in years, the diagnostician had discovered quite a bit about himself that he'd forgotten about; like the fact that he was once able-bodied enough to be able to play the sports he now watched on TV. It also revealed that he wasn't completely over Stacy, even though he thought he had been for a few years now.
Staring at an old photo of him and Stacy, House popped a Vicodin. It had just hit him as to why they'd broken up in the first place. Sure, it hadn't helped that he hated Stacy over what she'd done to his leg, but he was to blame as well. He used to be nice at one stage (well, a lot more pleasant than he was now), but as his attitude slowly changed, it'd put a lot of strain on their relationship. Just how he'd gone from being a semi-mild mannered man to... Something. But he did know one thing, and that was that he wasn't the man he used to be. At all. He even doubted his former self was buried away somewhere.
Running a hand through his greying hair, House let out a few choice words directed at himself. He despised the man he'd changed into, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Once someone was set in their ways, that was it. House knew he'd never been a particularly pleasant person to be around, but he'd gotten a lot worse in the past decade or so. Sure, he'd always been perverted, stubborn and sarcastic. But now he'd gone from being relatively 'normal' into being, well, whatever the hell he was now.
This... Thing he'd become didn't even seem remotely human to him. Whatever it was, it'd managed to damage every friendship and relationship he'd ever had. Honestly, he had no idea why anyone even bothered with him any more, especially Wilson. The oncologist would sell the shirt off his back to help his friend if he had to, but House... Well, he couldn't think of one good thing he'd ever done for Wilson. He purposely avoided any sort of personal conversation, even when Wilson needed to talk. He helped break up two of his marriages... Not to mention what happened to Amber. If there was one thing about himself that pissed him off the most, it was the fact that he really was the one to blame for Amber's death. If only he hadn't been so damn stupid...
With a sudden wave of anger rushing over him, House grabbed the box of photos in front of him and hurled it down the hallway. The box had been thrown with so much force that it'd taken out a side table before the photographs scattered in every direction imaginable. Within minutes a few more boxes had been sent flying down the hall, leaving it littered in an assortment of papers, books, photographs and other bits and pieces House had acquired over the years.
It didn't take long for House's anger to subside, but instead it'd been replaced by something much worse. The damn awful feeling of being dragged into the deepest, darkest pits of depression. Slumping against the wall, the diagnostician ran a hand through his greying hair. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he'd done wrong by pretty much everyone. While he wasn't exactly a people person, it didn't help his mood in the slightest. Staring at the orange pill bottle lying on the floor next to him, House had the right mind to take the whole damn lot; maybe things would be better without him.
With a shaky hand, House snatched the pill bottle and tipped out the bottle's remaining pills. He had only taken around five since Wilson had reluctantly refilled his prescription just yesterday. Wilson... The one person that made Greg feel insanely guilty for wanting to go through with knocking himself off. But then, the oncologist played a part in House's problems; for the past few years House had felt something for Wilson, but could never bring himself to act upon it. The diagnostician wasn't exactly social and he didn't want to ruin the one real friendship he had, but the longer he waited, the harder it got. Now living with that fact was becoming intolerable.
Between thinking about his friendships, being miserable, constantly being in pain and Wilson, the Vicodin in the diagnostician's fist eventually found their way down his throat. House didn't realize he'd taken them all until it was too late to save himself.
�House?� The diagnostician could feel someone shaking him, he could hear them talking but nothing really registered. He tried opening his eyes, but his eyelids felt like they were made of lead. His entire body felt like it was made out of lead, he soon noticed. �House!� Feeling a particularly strong shake at his shoulder, the doctor suddenly jolted awake... Well, it felt like it, seeing as he was still currently coming out of his stoned stupor.
�... What?� While he felt like he was waking up fast, House's voice told him otherwise. He sounded weak and tired. His body told him otherwise, too. Suddenly feeling nauseous, House lurched forward and vomited into his lap.
�... Greg...�
Picking up on the concern in the voice that was talking to him, House slowly lifted his head and opened his eyes groggily. Wilson. He should have guessed. Stiffly raising his arm, the diagnostician wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his sweater before turning his head to face the other doctor completely.
�What do you want?� House snapped before closing his eyes again. Fuck. Why did Wilson need to turn on every light in the whole damn apartment?
�... Just... How many pills did you take?� Wilson questioned, reaching for the now empty pill bottle next to House. �I gave you these yesterday and the bottle's already empty.�
�I'm... Sorry.� House had trouble mumbling those two little words. Partly because his pride tried getting in the way and partly because it was becoming increasingly harder to stay awake.
When House didn't get a response, he started to black out again. Wilson seemed to be talking, but he couldn't make anything out through the haze the Vicodin had brought on. House also knew Wilson wasn't talking to him, not that the conversation made much sense at all. The younger doctor might as well have been speaking in a different language.
�Greg! Wake up!�
- 1
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Inner Demons