"Of Pain and Placebos" by Lady Shada

Dr. Gregory House shoved an index finger against the middle of his brow, closing his eyes and fairly begging for the pounding headache he'd endured during that last clinical exam to go away. It wasn't letting up. It had no intention of letting up. And neither did the pain that radiated throughout his leg and the rest of his body.

But as he continued down the hallways of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, he knew that each tap of the cane against the floor brought him closer to sweet relief. The small collection of white Vicodin pills jostling together in his right jacket pocket reminded him of that. It also reminded him to thank Cuddy for making him "do his job" and contribute his hours to the clinic as required. Stupid patients with simple diagnoses equaled the aforementioned sweet relief if worked with the proper technique and to the right advantage.

The math didn't lie. Even if it wasn't numbers, it was still logical.

House pushed open the glass door of this office with the tip of his cane, limping over to his desk chair and swiveling it around to plop in it gratefully. He settled his cane on top of the desk before reaching into his pocket and scooping up the pills that had rested there since General Hospital. Withdrawing his hand, House settled the bottom of his fist against the desktop and, one by one, gently uncurled his long fingers. The tones of each tablet tapping against the smooth surface might as well have been a well-composed symphony.

His other hand withdrew a small prescription bottle from the drawer next to him and popped off the top with one flick of his thumb. Pressing a fingertip to each pill, he counted them, sliding them into the awaiting mouth of the bottle.

"Working late?"

House wasn't startled by the unexpected voice, and even if he had been surprised, he wouldn't have shown it. He glanced up once, took in the vision of Dr. James Wilson standing in his doorway and then turned back to their task. "What can I say? Cuddy's speech inspired me," he countered easily.

"Interesting point," Wilson said. He came into the room, hands in the pockets of the white physician's jacket he wore. "Considering you don't normally find her quite so inspiring."

"Au contraire." House let two more Vicodin hit the small mound that was piling up in the bottle before speaking again. "It's her words I normally don't find quite so inspiring. Those blouses she wears, however, whoo-" House shivered with sarcasm. "-quite the inspiration. I'm sure you've noticed."

Wilson half-rolled his eyes as he took a seat on the opposite side of House's desk. "Being as I'm married-"

"Never stopped you before." House looked up at him as three more Vicodin fell into the bottle.

"Right. Well..." Wilson's eyes dropped to the last pill that disappeared off the edge of the desk. "Profitable day, I take it."

"Thirty-five." House finished his count. "Wait, no..." Digging into his pocket, he pulled out one more. "You were hiding, weren't you?"

"Thirty-six?" Wilson sighed, folding his arms over his chest as he leaned back in the chair.

Flipping the pill into the air, House opened his mouth and caught it in mid-descent, swallowing. "Thirty-five," he corrected.

"Impressive." Wilson watched House close the lid on the container and stuff it back in his pocket. "You do realize the ethical dilemmas that you're raising with your Vicodin habit."

"It's not a habit," House corrected. "Habits are performed without thinking. I think before I pop."

Wilson gave a small, confined chuckle. "About what?"

House leaned over, locking his hands around his right leg and lifting it up to settle on the edge of his desk. It was later joined by his left one as he leaned back in his chair.

"Pain," House answered simply.

There was no sarcasm here. Wilson could detect that much from the tone of voice and the serious look in the startling blue eyes.

Wilson rubbed both hands over his face with a long sigh before leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "You can't keep doing this, House. You can't keep...sneaking pills from the clinic pharmacy with your clever charades and college scams."

"It's not a scam, and it's not a charade."

This defense was met by a raised eyebrow from Wilson. Shaking his head a little, House bowed his head before starting again. "It's a painfully obvious observation that the stupidity of others can be used to another's advantage. I use that to my advantage, yes. But it's not all about me. They get what they want; I get what I want. It all works out in everyone's favor."

"You gave the guy a bottle of Mentos," Wilson exclaimed, spreading his hands before him.

"Well, maybe he'll discover the cure for bad breath!" This wasn't working. This wasn't the plan. The plan was to be left alone with his Vicodin, to sit here in silence for a bit and then go home to more silence and possibly his piano. Not to be badgered by James Wilson in yet another battle of wits that House already knew he could win.

House sighed. "A patient comes in with their own symptoms and their own diagnosis. Their mind is already made up. There's nothing for me to do," he explained. "They don't listen to reason and they won't listen to logic because they already think that they're dying or that the world is ending or that their guts will fall out their ass because their eyeballs are shrinking. Whatever it is...they're morons."

"They're people," Wilson said simply.

"My point exactly," House said with a nod. "The guy wouldn't listen. I gave him what he wanted. A placebo. He's fine."

"You lied."

House tilted his head to one side. "I thought I told you - I don't lie." He shifted a little, folding his hands and resting them on his stomach. "And anyway, you were the one that lied first. Still haven't figured out why yet, exactly." He stared at the doctor sitting across from him.

Wilson shook his head, putting his hands up in the air to ward off the comment and the gaze. "No...no no. None of that."

"None of what?" House asked innocently.

"None of this...this...what this is. I don't like this."

House raised his eyebrows. "Well, of course not. Because you know I'm going to find the answer that I'm looking for and be right."

"Not always right," Wilson countered.

"Eventually right," House responded.

Wilson placed both hands on his knees, pushed up from the chair and started the short trek back toward the door. "Since there's little point in discussing-"

"She's obviously not family..." House muttered in the middle of Wilson's sentence.

"-this addiction of yours-"

House shrugged his shoulders. "...probably not even a friend, so maybe you..."

"-perhaps I should just-"

"...have another affair?"

Wilson stopped. One hand was splayed against the glass door, fingers barely gracing the mirrored letters that spelled out "Dr. Gregory House, M.D." He didn't turn around. He didn't need to. Part of him could already see the look on Houses' face.

Turning his dark head just slightly, Wilson kept his eyes on the ground. "You need help," he said simply. "You know that, right?"

"I'm right? Oh, good. I hoped I was getting warmer."

Wilson laughed outright now, but his reaction was anything but humorous. "Why do you do this?" he shouted. "Why do you...purposefully go around pushing peoples' buttons and hoping for reactions like this where they blow up and yell and then give you an excuse to yell and then run back here into your office and pop another pill to save you from the pestilence of society?"

"It makes me happy," House answered snappily.

"Well, it makes me miserable," Wilson said. He dropped his hands to his sides, sighing heavily in the silence.

Wilson was the first to speak. "It's not an affair. I didn't know her. Never saw her before in my life."

House was uncharacteristically silent.

"You...you're happier when you work. Though 'happy' isn't quite the term that I'd use to describe you." He watched House for a long moment. "You needed the distraction."

"I needed nothing." The blue eyes that had once been staring directly at him were not staring at the desktop. The feet had fallen to the floor, and House's hands were neatly folded in front of him.

"Five years, House."

"I know," was the only answer.

"You can't just-"

The sentence was interrupted by a slap of House's palm against the desk. "I know how long it's been! Did you think I couldn't do the math? That I didn't know? Think it all just...floated away on some magical fairy cloud of happiness?"

"It's never 'floated away.' It never will," Wilson countered. "Because you won't let it go. And despite all of our efforts to help you, you push everyone away. Anyone who gives a damn about what happened to you - what happens to you - you dismiss them. Cuddy and me and-"

"Stacy?" House finished for him. He nodded his head, reaching into his pocket. "Yeah, right. She gave a damn, didn't she?" The bottle was in hand again, the lid popping off silently. "You're right, Wilson. I'm truly grateful for all your help. Thank you." He raised his hand, letting another pill slide into its rightful place, and he swallowed.

Wilson sighed. There was no need to speak anymore; whatever he said wouldn't be heard, anyway. He turned his attention back toward the door, pushed it open gently and walked away.

House watched until the tails of his white coat disappeared out of sight.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk and the bottle of Vicodin placed before him. Dipping his chin, he stared at it calmly before reaching for the bottom desk drawer. He drew out a glass, placing it next to the pills. Next came the bottle, the alcohol swirling gently as he placed the lip of the bottle on the rim of the glass and poured a drink.

A drink to remember. A drink to forget.

And a toast to another year.