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It seems simple in theory, no?
Just stop taking it.
Get clean.
How hard could it be?
All he needs to do is stop.
But he can't.
Every time House has even attempted to quit, it's ended with him hurting himself or others—whether intentionally or not. He's cut himself to try and distract himself. He's broken his hand. He's taken other drugs to try and numb the pain. But nothing helps like a handful of Vicodin.
Part of him wonders what would've happened if he had just let the doctors take his leg. That wouldn't have gotten rid of the pain. The suffering. He would still be miserable. He wonders if maybe—just maybe—he would somehow have stayed with Stacy. Maybe if she had made a different decision.
Instead, he's curled up on his bathroom floor, mouth still watering from vomiting sporadically over the past few hours. Withdrawals. He may not be able to stand, but his mind is somehow still running. He knows what he signed up for when he made the irrational decision to try and quit.
Again.
He's lost track of the amount of times he's tried to quit by now. More than five, less then fifty. That's as good of a range as he's managed to narrow down over the years.
And honestly? He couldn't care less.
Deep down, he knows he'll never get clean. Even after rehab, the countless times Cuddy threatened to fire him if he didn't get better. If he didn't at least cut back on the number of pills he was popping at one time.
A shiver runs down his spine, landing in his twitching thigh, the muscle—or lack thereof—dancing under the bathroom light that's suddenly too bright. His trembling hand moves to the area, but he lets out a sharp, pained sound despite barely grazing the skin.
Do it.
He opens his eyes to find the orange bottle carelessly discarded on the tiled floor near him. Within arms reach, even. He could shake out a handful right now and all of it would go away. The pain, withdrawals....
No, he thinks.
But his body reacts before his mind. He reaches a shaking hand out for the bottle, but it clatters to the floor with a piercing sound and rolls away. Tears prick at his eyes from the mere effort. He's so, so tired.
Do it.
He tries to crawl towards the bottle, but some invisible force seems to knock him down. His arms don't catch him this time. He wants to give up. At this point, he doesn't know whether giving up is relapsing or succumbing to the exhaustion of seemingly everything.
Then, the door to his apartment opens. He can't move. He doesn't care who it is, at this point. Cuddy, Cameron, Chase, Foreman.... It doesn't matter. They've seen him like this before, and it's never a pretty sight.
Through the crack in the bathroom door, House can make out shoes being removed and a coat being hung on the wall. Wilson. That's right. He'd almost forgotten the two of them moved in together just weeks earlier.
"House?" He hears the familiar voice call out. He wants to call back, but nothing comes out when he opens his mouth. God, he's pathetic. The sound of feet shuffling travels quicker than he'd expected, despite still being on the floor.
Wilson's humming moves around their shared apartment, quiet then loud as he gets closer. When the bathroom door finally pushes open, House doesn't expect a big reaction. Doesn't expect much, really.
"Oh my God—" Wilson's hand flies to his mouth as he stares down at the disheveled man on the floor. "House, what the hell happened?"
He doesn't say anything. He's so tired. His leg is going through a cycle of burning, throbbing, aching, and stabbing. His eyes stare blankly at nothing, the only telltale sign of life being the still trembling hands.
Wilson picks up the Vicodin bottle, putting it on the sink counter. "You're trying to quit," He says it quietly, laced with something like disbelief mixed with pity. "Again."
House knows what comes next. The sigh, the lecture, and the irony of the scenario that keeps repeating because he can't learn that he can't truly quit. And being dragged to the couch, maybe. The endless pity until he gets to a temporary state of "clean" or relapses.
Not this time.
Not next time.
Not any time.
Wilson kneels down next to House, grabbing his wrist to check his pulse. Then watches his breathing for a bit. "Your eyes are bloodshot," He comments. "And your pulse is racing. Unsurprisingly."
The other man stays still, as any movement would just make the pain worse.
Wilson sighs, checking his watch. "How long have you been like this? An hour? Two?"
"Three." House finally mutters. "And a half."
Wilson's eyebrows furrow slightly "Maybe I should take you to—"
"I'm not going to the fucking hospital." He says sharply. "I would rather lie here and go through the pain for the next week than let Foreman or Chase or Cuddy or whoever try and tell me how to manage my pain. It's my leg."
The air seems to thicken.
"Okay then." Wilson stands up abruptly. "You know what? Deal with this yourself. It's your leg."
And just like that, he's alone.
Again.
The bathroom door clicks shut, and he can hear Wilson padding around their apartment, settling down for the night.
His eyes dart around the bathroom until they land on the sink. The orange bottle sits there, stationed almost precariously. There's no point in trying anymore.
After another forty-five minutes of attempting to crawl and reach up to the sink from the lowest possible position, the bottle falls to the floor. His hands seem to steady slightly just from holding it. He shakes out two pills, then second-guesses himself and pours a third.
In one swift motion, the cycle continues.
He's not clean.
He'll never be clean.
He'll never stop.