The funny thing about drugs is that eventually they wear off.
Except for House's stash of Vicodin, which seemed to be infinite. He always had some of those lovely little pills in his pockets. Stashed away at home. Hidden in boxes under his bed. In his underwear drawer. His book on lupus. It's never lupus.
But hallucinogens? Acid? That wears off after some time. Eventually. And by his third night at the Motel 6, House felt reasonably reassured that he was no longer imagining all of this business about Los Angeles. Even he couldn't remain in a drug induced state that long. He wished he could, but he wasn't that fortunate. So how did Dr. Gregory House determine that all of this was nonsense? Or not nonsense? Whichever the case might be.
He called Wilson. Good ol' Wilson wouldn't let him down. Wilson was like his lap dog. He'd do anything for House. Why? House wasn't sure. He'd never been much of a friend to Wilson. Sure, he'd bought him coffee once or twice, but he laced it with amphetamines. And he did apologize on occasion. But only when it suited his own motives. He'd even helped to destroy one or two of Wilson's marriages. But they were already heading for destruction. House just tipped them over the edge. Yes, Wilson was a loyal friend. Maybe too loyal. But he would help him out.
Only he didn't.
He didn't even answer the phone when House called!
The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please hang up and dial again.
"Not in service?! That jerk. Trying to teach me a lesson. I won't fall for it. I'll call Cuddy."
Only Cuddy didn't answer either. House even tried calling the late night janitor who wore his pants on backwards. Still no answer. He was completely cut off from the outside world! Or, at least, the world outside of Los Angeles. Which, on a normal day, wouldn't bother House. Except that now he had to presume that some of this was actually real. Including his meeting with that Poison Ivy chick.
There was only one cure for this dilemma.
"Scotch."
"Comin' right up," the bartender said.
House leaned up against the bar, tapping his cane on the linoleum floor. Funny sort of floor for a bar. Funny sort of name for a bar. The cane made an odd thumping noise against the ground.
He was antsy. Anxious. He didn't like vacations. He got a thrill out of being at work. Solving cases. Not so much about the saving patients, although that was a bonus. He liked solving the puzzles that no one else could solve. He stood out that way. What was there for him to solve now? Well, he did bring the case files that the woman had left for him at his motel. He hadn't opened either one yet. But it would be something for his mind to ponder during his drink. Maybe he'd even write a differential on a napkin.