Hey Guys! This is the second fanfic I've written, this time about Gregory House. It's pretty heavy and may contain triggers for some people, so be careful guys. But I'm pretty proud of it so far. Hope you enjoy, I own none of the characters and this is purely fictional.

Please Read and Review, it means a lot! Thanks and enjoy! x

What a drug.

The record crackled as the needle scratched on the middle of the plastic. Sighing, Gregory House opened his eyes and took the needle back to the edge, letting the gentle music wash over him for the tenth time that evening. He let his neck drop once again to the floor, the wooden boards cool against the back of his head. Relishing the sounds that trickled in and out of his ears for the last time.

House was by no means a coward. He said what he thought, and acted the way he wanted to. It was his greatest asset and his greatest flaw. People either loved or hated him for it. But for some reason, this decision lacked his usual confidence and self-assurance. He had sat, debating with himself, aided by a bottle of scotch, until he had finally reached the decision to put on a record and think with the help of music. The letters had been written in his usual minimalist style, one to Wilson, one to Cuddy, one to his mother and one addressed to his team; Chase, Cameron and Foreman. In the scrawly pen marks of a slightly drunken man, House thanked each of them for their company and gave individual goodbyes. The four letters glared at him from the top of the piano, the white envelopes reflecting off of the smooth black of the piano lid.

Twirling his cane, House sighed again, swigged from his glass, and tried to muster up the courage to kill himself.

James Wilson had been worried about his friend Gregory House recently. The man had been acting strangely. Well, more strangely than usual. He seemed so, distant… and unconnected. He wouldn't even respond to playful taunts and jokes anymore. Just stare into the air with glazed eyes, thinking. About what Wilson had no idea, but he was pretty sure it wasn't medical. His diagnoses on patients had been getting worse, more lives were lost than saved, and House didn't seem to bat an eyelid. All of which was out of character, even for somebody as complex and spontaneous as House.

So, Wilson had made the decision to go over to 221B and talk to House about what was bothering him, at the very least he hoped to get a few jokes out. He picked up a takeaway and a 6 pack of beer to lessen the awkward atmosphere, knowing that house couldn't resist Chicken Chow Mein. The bag stank up his car as he drove over to House's apartment, humming quietly, Wilson planned roughly what he intended to say to his best friend. Something along the lines of "Are you okay?" and "How much Vicodin are you taking at the moment?" He made a mental note to begin by showing House the food, before diving into the deep end of conversation.

House took in a deep breath before using the sofa as leverage to get onto his feet. He pulled the cane off the floor and let his hand grip the familiar groove. He moved to the bathroom, picking the scotch up on his way, and rifled through the medicine cupboard until he found his stash.

Vicodin. Vicodin. Vicodin. What a drug.

Instant pain relief in a tiny pill. He knew he was an addict, but he couldn't quite be bothered to care. It was the perfect way to end him. Predictable, yes, but perfect. He swigged at the scotch and turned over the bottle in his hand, staring at the stash in the cupboard. One bottle would do, but should he take two just to make sure? He couldn't deny it added dramatic effect to the whole situation, and that was never a bad thing. He gently took out two full bottles of Vicodin and closed the cupboard. His reflection stared at him emptily in the cupboard front mirror. His eyes were bluer than ever and the salt and pepper hair sat at unnatural angles on his head. There were more wrinkles scratched into his skin than before, and as he looked at himself, he sighed. There was nothing left for him, the look of loss in his own eyes confirmed that. He turned away, disgusted, and limped back into the sitting room.

The traffic lights were taking ages to change, and the smell of the takeaway was wafting into Wilson's nose. His stomach rumbled hungrily and he tapped the steering wheel with impatient fingers. "Come on…Come on…" He muttered to himself. The red light finally changed to amber and he put his foot on the gas, lurching the car forwards, and causing the bag of Chinese to fall off the passenger seat. Wilson glanced over at the open plastic tubs on the floor and sighed, deciding to deal with it when he got to House's. He focused on the road and tried not to think about the mess of mashed noodles and sauce covered rice on the carpet of his car.

He changed the record, letting the smooth jazz fill the room. Massaging his bad leg, he sat on the sofa. Glancing at the piano, Gregory House poured the scotch into a glass, raised a goodbye toast alone, and reached for the Vicodin. He tipped the contents into the palm of his hand, moving his fingers to feel the small white pills. Lifting his hand to his mouth, he tipped the pills onto his tongue, and with the other hand, downed the glass of scotch and the tablets. He clumsily poured himself another one, and picked up the second pre-opened bottle of pain relief. He followed the same routine, the whole bottle of Vicodin, followed by what was left of the bottle of scotch. And then he lay back against the sofa, closed his eyes, and waited.

Scraping the last of the egg rice off the floor, Wilson put the tub in the bag and tied it, tightly. He got out of the car and moved to the passenger's side to get the food and the beer, and then locked the car and made his way towards the door of House's flat. He still had the key House had given him, so let himself in to the main entrance. He started making his way up the stairs, juggling with the food and the keys whilst trying to hold the handrail. Cursing as he dropped his keys.

The edge of his vision was darkening. Dots of black seeped in as he slipped slowly into unconsciousness and he smiled as the world slowed down around him. The music faded as he listened to the roar of blood in his ears. Air blew past him softly, and something cold hit his cheek. He opened his eyes to see the hardwood floor, and lay with the realisation that he had fallen off the sofa. And it hadn't hurt.

Vicodin. What a blessing.

He closed his eyes again and grimaced slightly as he felt something acidic crawl up with throat. But it was okay, because the darkness was getting stronger and with it came numbness. Beautiful numbness that crept up from the bottom of his toes, spreading into his legs, blessing his bad thigh, and slowly the cold and quiet made its way to his head. A burst of happiness sparked in his head, and he laughed, gagging on the foam and vomit that had gone unnoticed in his state of limbo. He was shaking. He couldn't feel it, but he could see through blurred, wet vision the tremors breaking through his fingers, causing his arm to hit the floor repeatedly. He knew that if pain was available, that would hurt. He could taste salt on his tongue, and realised that he was crying. What a way to go… what a drug…

The last thing that Gregory thought before his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and the darkness claimed him was "fuck."

He put the bags down on the floor and put his key in the lock. He didn't bother to knock, knowing after years of experience that House would ignore him completely. He'd learnt to just let himself in. The door to flat B creaked open, and Wilson called out to his best friend. When he got no reply, he just carried on talking, used to the silence, and confident that with enough wafting of food, House would appear. He busied himself rifling through the bags and talking to air,

"Hey House, I brought beer, and Chicken Chow Mein… I know we didn't plan this, but I thought we could, I dunno, chat? House? House?"

Wilson frowned and looked around the flat. Usually by this point there would be the familiar sound of a cane followed by footsteps and the unmistakeably grumbling of Gregory House. So where was he? His car was outside… And walking long distances by choice just didn't happen due to the bad leg… He couldn't be at Cuddy's, or any of the team's, because they would have paged…


Wilson called with more uncertainty than before. He put the food down and stepped forward hesitantly, looking around for his friend. He saw a flash of white, and cautiously made his way over to the piano. In a line were four envelopes… and one had his name on it.

Oh shit.

"House?! HOUSE!"

Wilson clutched the letter in his hand, unopened as he moved quickly around the flat. Something sticky came underfoot, and he looked down to see a liquid that was frothy, a mixture of yellows greens, reds and whites. Small chunks floating around inside the concoction. Sick.

Wilson's eyes followed the trail back to the source and he saw something brown and grey. Hair.


He ran towards the hair and puke and found House, unconscious and on his back beside the bottom of the sofa. His face was slick with sweat and his mouth covered in the vomit Wilson had seen earlier. Pills were scattered everywhere and the stench of alcohol was strong.


He grabbed his friend and pulled on his shoulders until he was lying on his side in the recovery position. Slapping his face and pleading for him to open his eyes. To let Wilson see his reflection in those garishly blue, beautiful, alive eyes. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Cuddy, demanding that she send the best paramedics to 221B NOW.

"House?! House you… House why?! You stupid bastard!" He pushed House back on the position he was found in, stomach facing the ceiling, and began CPR compressions.

"Come on…Come on…Come on…" Wilson whispered the words like a mantra, tears falling down his face as he pushed on his best friend's chest in a desperate attempt to revive him. The envelope crackling and crumpling as he pushed over and over until his arms ached. Blue and red lights flashed in the window lighting up House's face and contorting it. Wilson barely noticed as the men entered the room, the door left open from his entrance earlier. One man pushed him out the way and took over the CPR, another grabbed Wilson by the shoulders, steering him away from the scene to join Cuddy. Who stood in the doorway with her hand over her mouth and eyes wide and tear filled with shock.

To be continued…Hope you guys enjoyed it, bit dark but angst is easiest to write in my opinion! Please read and review. It would mean a lot. Will put the next part up soon!