Fire and Rain

Chapter 1

"Anytime, Dr. House, you want to talk. Give me a call: Night or day. Can be completely off the clock." He couldn't help it. The James Taylor lyrics drifted through his head. The stint in rehab was over. Twenty-eight days. It would take six months for the 'atta boy' platitudes to stop ringing in his ears.

"You just call out my name, and you know wherever I and I'll come runnin'…"

He had no doubt. Catherine Harrington had been a friend. And a wise doctor. At least in House's estimation. She'd found out two weeks into his rehab. Of course he should have realized that she'd find out, and maybe somewhere in the back reaches of his mind he did. A trip off campus for his court appearance; a night in jail for contempt: go directly to drug testing do not pass security guard before depositing a specimen. Then wait for the inevitable summons.

House had observed her as he entered Catherine's office. He anticipated the disappointment he would surely discover in her eyes.. Would serve her right, he rationalized to himself, for having too-high expectations. "My friends have no expectations of me. Makes it easier that way." He had been more honest than the group facilitator knew that first time.

"You should have come to me." She said it quietly, with no judgment in her tone. Just sadness, almost guilt. Like she had somehow failed him.

When it came right down to it, it was the morphine pump that triggered it. Two days and he knew it would not work. Yeah, he reasoned, it might take the pain's razor edge off to the same level as the Vicodin, but no better.

In truth, House could stand not one more outward reminder. The scar, the cane, the limp. They were more than enough. His life was more than enough out of his control. The thought of a lifetime tethered to mechanical device, no matter how small was more than his psyche could really handle.

"You would have insisted I try longer, and I couldn't do that."

"You don't know that." He grimaced at her. Yes. He did. "But the acetaminophen…"

"I'll be careful…more careful. Just for you. I'll check my eyes every morning and if they're yellow…I'll get myself listed for a new liver." She knew he was lying, of course. And he knew that she knew it. But she also couldn't say for sure that he was wrong.

"It's only a small pump."

"Yeah, well it'll screw with my sex life." She nodded. He smiled. "Well, it'll be one more thing that'll screw with my sex life. Don't want to scare off any more hookers than…" And then she understood. It wasn't the pump. It was what it said about him; what it did to him.

And now he sat in his discharge meeting, just he and Catherine. And then…freedom: from platitudes; from the McNeil Rehab Facility; from Tritter; from Catherine Harrington, whose understanding of him both unnerved him and intrigued him. Although he was pretty sure that the intrigued part was some sort of variation on the Stockholm syndrome.

"…I'll be writing your scrips."

"Why? You're a shrink. This is, if you hadn't noticed, a pain problem."

"Your pain doc is attached to Columbia, not Princeton. It would be inconvenient to have him write for you from New York."

"I have…"

"Had. It's not a good idea to have your best friend be your prescribing physician."

"It's worked so far!" A protest, slightly more than half-hearted. He knew he was going to lose this skirmish, at least. Catherine arched an eyebrow in disbelief.

"I can't believe you said that! Even you."

"Fine." White flag raised. She was all business this morning.

"If you begin to feel that you need to increase your dosage, call me before you do it on your own. Or call Kwan, if you'd prefer." She realized that it sounded like she was advising an alcoholic to call his mentor before taking that fateful first drink. It's not what she meant to say. Not really. "We'll need to do another liver panel. See if your liver can tolerate the increase…or whether we need to supplement the Vicodin with something not containing acetaminophen."

"Nice cover." She reddened.

"Also, we need to deal with breakthrough pain. Kwan sent over a rescue kit." She opened the nylon pouch. Syringes, three vials of morphine sulfate, alcohol swabs and tourniquet. House arched an eyebrow, smiling sardonically.

"What every junkie needs…" To say he was surprised would have been an understatement.

"Dr. House…"

"It was a joke." Uttered dry as a bone left out in the sun for 10 years.

A silence, awkward, permeated the small office. Catherine's deep brown eyes softened. "Here it comes…" The thought darted through House's mind in bleak anticipation.

"I'd like to keep on meeting with you. I think…"

"Rehab's over. I thought that's what this meeting was about." She saw that all the shutters were back up and iron bars installed around them.

"I think…" She sighed. "I believe that…Talking, like we have over the last month…"

"Please don't patronize me."

"Fine." Her voice sounded slightly indignant, exasperated. "Fine. I think that you'e benefited from our sessions. You've been able to talk about things, by your own admission, that you have never talked about. With anyone. But as you know. Four weeks of therapy isn't enough…" House held up a hand.

"I don't know if I can…I need to be able to…I need my mind clear of…" House groped for the right words to explain honestly what he was feeling. He couldn't focus on himself and be the brilliant diagnostician? He needed to separate his feelings from his job? And pushing his emotions to the far reaches of his psyche was his best ally, not his worst enemy—at least as far as his work was concerned? The sense of it was indistinct, and he was therefore having difficulty articulating his thoughts.

"Think about it. I'll schedule an appointment for you for this time next week." She wrote out a card. "I have another office on 7, where I see private patients. If you show up, great. If not, I'll take that as my answer. If you want to reschedule the appointment, call my secretary. The number is on the card. Continuing counseling with me is not a requirement to my writing scrips for you. It's separate. I do think it will help. I feel that you will continue to have a tendency to abuse the Vicodin—use it to help with your non-physical issues. That's not going to go away without therapy. With me or someone else. And someday, you might have a repeat of what happened Christmas Eve…" House been listening to her with some disdain. He was tired of the pitch. He simply wanted to leave and go back to his life (such as it was). At the reminder of Christmas eve, he sighed. Catherine observed him, stopping.

"It won't happen again because I won't be put in that position again and…"

"That's such bullshit, Dr. House. How do you know that? Or what if something else comes at you that you can't handle and all the defensive barriers and moats and iron bars you can erect won't stop the pain…or won't stop the hurting. And you're right back there, maybe not with Oxy; maybe with morphine and a syringe…" She glanced down at the rescue kit, now closed and sitting on House's lap. He voice had become impassioned and angry…and sad. Catherine handed House the card, which he tucked into his shirt pocket.

"Are we done?" Catherine sighed again, extending her hand, which House took.

"Thank you Dr. Harrington." House stood. Catherine watched as House left silently. She closed her eyes and uttered a silent prayer: "Please…heal his body; heal his soul; keep him safe…"