I'm not a doctor! How did you find my village?
Who: House and Martha Jones. Possibly not closed. Ask to toss a character onto us.
Where: Infirmary
When: His first infirmary shift, which he is late for.
Warning: House isn't SFW.
Eleven came and went the next morning. House didn't want to go to the infirmary.
He lay in his bed as though he had fallen there from some great height, finally in a position that didn't upset his leg, and stared at the ceiling. He was awake now, yes. His leg was keeping him from getting up. New places, new arrangement of his room, and he didn't like change. That, and he had gotten to sleep last night even later than usual after wandering around too much, playing with the scanner. He had scanned a few people he passed, who had not taken it well. He scanned the shark, which had been interesting.
But alone, he had scanned himself. His leg, the dead flesh of his thigh. He had been up late, looking deep into the withered muscle, into the dead cells.
By the time he finally got his ass into the infirmary, it was twelve fifteen and he looked half dead; pale, drawn, and utterly wrecked. What had also happened, but which no longer registered on his list of things he'd done, was a night of serious binge drinking. The only reason he'd gotten to sleep at all was because first, he'd gotten to the bottom of a bottle, and a good part of how wretched he looked today was hangover. He didn't reek of it, though. A shower and clothes change, and he was a functioning alcoholic; just barely. Shades hid the fact that his eyes were bloodshot.
Where: Infirmary
When: His first infirmary shift, which he is late for.
Warning: House isn't SFW.
Eleven came and went the next morning. House didn't want to go to the infirmary.
He lay in his bed as though he had fallen there from some great height, finally in a position that didn't upset his leg, and stared at the ceiling. He was awake now, yes. His leg was keeping him from getting up. New places, new arrangement of his room, and he didn't like change. That, and he had gotten to sleep last night even later than usual after wandering around too much, playing with the scanner. He had scanned a few people he passed, who had not taken it well. He scanned the shark, which had been interesting.
But alone, he had scanned himself. His leg, the dead flesh of his thigh. He had been up late, looking deep into the withered muscle, into the dead cells.
By the time he finally got his ass into the infirmary, it was twelve fifteen and he looked half dead; pale, drawn, and utterly wrecked. What had also happened, but which no longer registered on his list of things he'd done, was a night of serious binge drinking. The only reason he'd gotten to sleep at all was because first, he'd gotten to the bottom of a bottle, and a good part of how wretched he looked today was hangover. He didn't reek of it, though. A shower and clothes change, and he was a functioning alcoholic; just barely. Shades hid the fact that his eyes were bloodshot.