Title: Promethazine

Rating: PG-13

Fandom: House, MD

Pairing: House/Wilson

Word Count: 2,013

Disclaimer: Not mine, etc, etc... I do own some cookies though.

Warnings: Sick-House, detoxing and all the fun that entails. I was also a little drunk while writing it.

Summery: A cruel joke devised by nature. Or by God, if one happened to believe in mythical creatures.

A/N: I can personally vouch for the effects of promethazine. That was the best ER visit ever.

It was really something of a cruel joke. A cruel joke devised by nature. Or by God, if one happened to believe in mythical creatures. But the fact remained, it was a cruel, cruel joke. A hideous catch-22. He could almost appreciate the irony.

Almost.

He'd appreciate the irony later.

After an injection Promethazine.

After two or three Vicodin.

After he finally sleeps again.

All of which hopefully happening before he dies of dehydration and the pain. Well, maybe dying is a overstatement. Dying would be preferable. Unconsciousness would be preferable but that could kill him too. It started with a nasty strain of the stomach flu. Probably caught off some idiot somewhere. Probably caught from some idiot at the clinic. Probably caught from the clinic. Too much to hope for, a medical reason he can't preform clinic duty.

In typical cases of stomach flu, it lasts one or two days. In adults it's nothing but a minor inconvenience. In adults with vicodin habits it's the detox from hell.

Per the usual 'cruel joke' criteria: symptoms presented on his day off. No quick trip to Wilson then to the hospital pharmacy. Following the criteria, vomiting started not five minutes after his first vicodin of the day. This wasn't the first time he'd thrown up his pills. Other times due to being hung over. He downed two new pills as soon as he stopped vomiting.

The drowsiness started kick out of his system while he waited for the second vicodin to work. He gave a quick mental run through of symptoms. A hang-over was the first thing crossed off his mental white board. Well, no, actually pregnancy was the first thing, he'd only put it up there for his own amusement. Next was side effects or interactions from existing medication. He'd taken nothing new in the last year, let alone recently. Vicodin rarely caused him any nausea or vomiting. And he didn't take an unusual amount the night before. If anything, he'd taken less. Cross that off the mental white board. That left the next and most likely cause: Stomach flu.

Boring. His last bout with stomach flu lasted a day. No big deal.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed. He'd moved to the couch. Vicodin hadn't started to kick in yet. His leg still ached. He was a bit feverish but nothing he couldn't handle. The nausea had receded. Now to close his eyes and lay back--

The nausea returned like a punch to the stomach. Actually, more like a kick to the balls.

He never made it to the bathroom. He stumbled off the couch and landed on his hands in knees. He let out a groan of pain as the impact translated up his bad leg. The vomiting came in dry heaves of stomach fluid and the chalky mess of unabsorbed vicodin. As vomiting goes, dry heaves are the worst experience. Nothing left for the stomach to expel but it's own acids. This wet-dry burn that remains long after its finished.
He stared down at the chalky remains in the mess ruefully. This was not going to be a good day.

Out of reflex, he grabbed the nearest vicodin bottle. He painfully attempted to dry-swallow two. His acid burned throat protested violently. Gagging them back up almost as soon as he had put them in his mouth.

Not a good day at all.

The pills go down easy with the help of water.

Time passes.

By the third time he threw up. He'd kept track of the time. It had been fifteen minutes, not quite enough time to absorb enough to make a difference.

This was more than stomach flu now. These were withdrawal symptoms. Withdrawal symptoms brought on by the stomach flu which was brought on by clinic duty. So blaming Cuddy for this.

This kind of thing had happened before. He knew what to do.

He got everything ready and, “Damn it!”

It wasn't working.

In extreme circumstances, when he couldn't get vicodin in any other way, he'd chopped up the dosage and administered it nasally. Half of his nausea was the result of flu the other half was detox. He just needed to stop the detox half, the rest would be manageable.

But--

It. Wasn't. Working.

Dehydration. From the vomiting. Brought on by the stomach flu. He had emptied his stomach five times since he woke up... only an hour and half ago. And the dehydration kept his body from absorbing the vicodin nasally. At least not in a way that would make a difference.

He could almost appreciate the chain of events that led to this. Almost. He hobbled his way into the bathroom with is cell phone. He filled a glass of water in the sink then let himself slide to the floor next to the toilet. He stared down the glass of water. He knews he has to drink it. He knews he will vomit it up in the next fifteen minutes or less.

But in that time he might get himself hydrated enough to at least get enough vicodin in his system to stop throwing up.

He downed the glass of water then flipped open his phone.

“Wilson,” His own voice sounded hoarser than usual, dryer than usual, “I need some Promethazine.”

He heard his friend start to protest on the other end. Wilson was at work today. The last time he called Wilson and asked for an anti-nausea script he'd had the hang-over from hell. This was different. He closed the phone without another word.

Stomach flu had morphed itself into full withdrawal. The pain had been shooting up his leg relentlessly since he fell to the floor to throw up the second time. In actuality, he has a high tolerance for pain. It's something you develop with chronic pain. It'll never go away completely, it'll always come back and you know it. Sure, he popped pain pills like candy but that's what made it manageable. Vicodin brought it down to a nice manageable five or six.

The pain, untouched by pain killers, was and always had been a ten. How he wished that was an overstatement. When the pain got worse, it didn't get higher on the pain scale, it spread. It would spread until it wrapped itself around his entire thigh then slowly worked its way to both his knee and hip. Then seep its way steadily further around his body.

And in holding with the cruel joke criteria, extreme pain also causes nausea. He could do something else for the pain. All he had to do was get to his stash of morphine.

With effort he hauled himself up off the floor. He couldn't bare to put any weight to his leg. In the course of dragging the step ladder toward the book shelf he found himself keeled over in another bout of nausea and dry heaves. Despite the efforts he was making to keep hydrated his throat burned with the watery vomit.

He gripped the step ladder. He'd been reduced to being down on one knee. Breathing slow and even, he worked up the strength to stand again. The triple blow of illness, withdrawal and pain were starting to take their toll. Even the smallest effort required an internal convincing. Just keep breathing. A little further.

It was a strain. He got the ladder in place. Now to take the two steps up it. Even heavily favoring his good leg. A jolt of pain ripped through his right leg. He heard someone's distant scream. His mind slowly realized it was his own before darkness overtook his vision.

He woke with his leg throbbing. His entire right side in pain. He landed on it. Perfect. Just perfect. He looked up. It seemed impossibly high now.

He couldn't have been out long... no vomit. The most he could do was shift to his good side and literally drag himself across the floor until his back rested against the book shelf. Even through the pain he found himself running through his list of symptoms. Chills from the detox. Fever from the flu. Killer headache from the detox. Pain from his leg and detox and now, the fall. Nausea from the flu, detox and pain. Dehydration from the nausea caused by all of the above.

Mentally running over the cause of each symptom was oddly reassuring. It always had been. At least he knows why. Answers were always comforting.

He was startled out of his mental retreat by Wilson's voice.

“House! House!”

His head turned lazily in the direction of the voice. Vision blurred... from... dehydration. Not good. He was startled again by hands on his shoulders.

“House! What happened?!”

Darkness overtook his vision once more. Distantly he heard Wilson's voice again, something about the Promethazine.

Again, he found himself unaware of how much time has passed. His body felt heavy and warm. Except his right arm which felt cold. Something changed. When his eyes opened he found he was now in his room. A glint of metal and IV tubing.

Wilson's voice from the other room. Sounded like he was one the phone. He caught the tail end of the conversation, “Yeah... I think he caught it at clinic... Yeah, I know, I know... I'll keep an eye on him.... Thanks.”

A few seconds later Wilson entered the bedroom. When he saw he had regained consciousness, “You idiot.”

He opened his mouth to protest. It wasn't his fault he caught the plague from some clinic brat. Speaking proved to be harder than expected.

Wilson continued, “Even like this you were trying to get high.”

“M-morphine is for the--”

Wilson raised a hand to silence him, “I'm not talking about the morphine. The promethazine, you idiot. It's fine on is own for nausea, sure. But I shouldn't have to tell you, the type of interactions it has with opioids and other CNS pain-killers... like oh, say—Morphine! Or vicodin!” Wilson was angry, if the yelling wasn't enough, he always got very animated when angered especially when angered by House.

Great. Now he's sick and being self-righteously lectured to death. He really didn't have the strength to argue for once. He glanced up to the IV bag. He felt... drowsy... and good. Huh.

No pain means Wilson injected him with the morphine. He knew he could count on Wilson for that at least.

Wait... Wilson was still talking, wasn't he?

“What was I supposed to think when you asked for promethazine! You didn't even let on you were sick! I would have been here sooner if you—House? Are you listening?”

He rolled his head back to look at him. Everything felt... great. He felt great. He felt happy. Why would he... His mind was very slow like this, but he wasn't at work so it didn't matter. But it started to nag at him, morphine doesn't make him feel this good unless--

He tilted his head on his pillow and smiled, “You... gave me... morphine and the promathazine?”

Wilson sighed and rubbed his neck. He looked away before replying, “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” Wilson sat himself down on the edge of the bed with another sigh.

“...Didn't... have to do...” God, it was hard keep focused. No way in hell would he have tried this at work.

Wilson chuckled and ran a hand through his own hair before looking back to him, “Possible side effects include euphoria. In the state I found you in-- I figured--” He looked down at his hands clasped between his knees, “I figured... you could use it after that.”

“I love you.”