WHO: House and OPEN WHAT: House needs pills WHERE In the lobby, if someone wants to encounter him there WHEN: Sunday morning WARNINGS: Will update if necessary
House had a legitimate pain problem. He wasn't making it up. He was missing a chunk of his thigh, including muscle and nerve. He didn't need the vicodin because he was addicted, he needed it because his leg was compromised. He walked with a cane, though he could manage a few steps without aide, his leg hurt like a bitch all the time.
Back home, he'd had ways to get the pills he needed. He'd had a stock pile of pills to ensue he'd never run out. He kept full bottles in coat pockets, in his sock drawer, in his desk, in the kitchen, in a hollowed out book on his bookshelf. He had security, he had no fear of ever running out.
He'd arrived in fake Vegas with enough pills to get him through two weeks, if he took them in a timely manner like he was supposed to. Yeah right. He hadn't taken his pills 'every six hours as needed for pain' ever. He took his pills whenever he felt like it, when the mood struck, when he was bored and wanted something to do. That hardly meant he was addicted, it just meant he took his pills when he wanted.
And when he woke up Sunday morning, he rolled one of five remaining pills into his hand. Four left, which was enough to get him through the day if he was responsible about taking them. And even he knew that was a joke. He needed to find a clinic and get a new batch of pills.
He rolled out of bed, took a shower. He found his cleanest dirty clothes and left his hair uncombed. If he presented the haphazard look about himself, maybe he'd earn sympathy points. It wasn't his usual M.O. but he'd do what he had to do to get his pills. Cuddy and Wilson weren't here. He didn't have his medical records, though the pocked and puckered scar on his leg ought to be proof enough, he knew he'd be subjected to X-rays and an exam. He was not looking forward to that.
He sighed and headed out, reaching the lobby with a scowl on his face.