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"Out of Dust and Blood" (House MD fanfic.)
Aug. 1st, 2026 03:37 pm
ᴼᵘᵗ ᵒᶠ ᵈᵘˢᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵇˡᵒᵒᵈ
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Notes: Inspired by One Day, One Room (Season 3, Episode 12) and Help Me (Season 6, Episode 22). Character name changed from Eve to Lydia. Cuddy does not get involved with House. Wilson is never the same toward House after Amber's death.
04-19-2023.
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On the floor, he wipes away the dust and blood from his face as the weight of the choice he is about to make weighs on him—a weight so heavy it would turn your blood cold.
You know you shouldn't go back, but it's too damn easy, especially when you're alone in this sick world.
Nobody would bat an eye at his return to pain medication.
It's like she said; everyone is moving on.
Racing thoughts.
His eyes scatter about the room. A broken mirror lies in the bathtub, hundreds of little pieces. Seven years of bad luck, or so they say. But here is a man who has lived years in pain—how much worse could it get?
A jagged, hollowed-out hole remains in the wall where the mirror used to be, and two bottles of Vicodin rest in his hand.
An open door looks out into the living room. A broken clock. A reminder of a life lost today—a daughter, a wife, someone's friend.
A woman who should have had her whole life ahead of her instead lies in the morgue somewhere.
The last thing House wanted was to cut off her leg. He knew the risks better than anybody.
He also knew the pain, and having to subject Hannah to that was too much.
All the blood, sweat, and tears, and she dies anyway.
"If they had just done it my way," he utters, slamming his fists into the floor tile.
Maybe... maybe she would still be alive, but there was no way to know now.
The thoughts run wild—like never telling her he was sorry. It's not like it would have changed anything, but at least it wouldn't be bottled up inside him.
Glancing down at his hands, he now notices the gashes across his knuckles and the blood dripping onto the floor. At some point between walking into that bathroom and pulling the mirror off the wall, he must have punched it.
He was bleeding through his bandage as well.
How lucky that it didn't nick an artery, he thought sarcastically while staring at the two bottles of Vicodin next to him on the floor.
There was a choice to be made: a life forever altered under the influence, living bottle to bottle, depending on the pills to drown out everything and everyone else until he ends up in liver failure or overdosing somewhere.
Or a life fighting it—and the pain—for what?
What did it matter now anyway?
The woman he loves is getting married.
How great for her, he thought sarcastically.
His best friend now has other friends.
Thanks, support groups.
His team is fine without him.
They will all move on anyway.
What did he really have in his life?
One thing was sure.
The pills were always there.
He pops the lid off a bottle and dumps some into his hand, not really counting—just habit, like he always has. Just as he is about to pop 'em into his mouth, a familiar face walks in.
"House?"
A soft voice echoes.
A sweet smell fills the apartment, a perfume somewhere between honeysuckle and jasmine.
A flash of blonde hair appears in the bathroom doorway before she does.
"Lydia?" House asks, shocked. He usually doesn't see his patients arrive at his apartment.
"Yeah," she replies.
"How?
Why?" he utters while looking at the Vicodin in his hand.
"Long story. I wanted to see you."
"I miss our conversations."
"I don't do house calls, least of all to my house," he replies in his usual sarcastic way.
"What happened to you?"
Lydia asks as she notices the blood on the floor and rushes to grab some hand towels from the storage cabinet above the toilet.
"Oh, nothing. I'm bloodletting. Red cell count's too high and all that jazz."
House answers with a half-cocked smile.
"I'm sure that's not the case, and you don't have to do that, you know," she says while cleaning the blood from his hands, pressing the warm, wet cloth against his dry, dusty, bloodied skin.
"Do what?"
He asks, focusing now on her appearance. Her clothes are bright and colorful. She sports a bob haircut. She looks healthy, and he wonders for a moment if she has anyone special in her life.
"Joke," she replies, now noticing his bandage.
Lydia looks through the cabinets under the sink for a first aid kit.
"If you're looking for a first aid kit, it's in the kitchen." House pauses as his voice becomes hoarse, the fatigue from the day setting in.
"First cabinet on the left."
She leaves and returns seconds later.
"So, are you going to tell me what happened?"
"You first," House fires back.
"I lost my best friend today. We met at my support group. She got me through a lot of hard times since you saw me last."
Lydia says, trying to hold back tears. Her voice begins to break.
House takes off his black leather jacket and stares at the woman as she removes bandages from the kit.
"So you took my advice."
"Yeah," she replies. "But I did miss talking to you."
His T-shirt is covered in sweat and dust, and blood is seeping through it. Lydia tries to work around his shirt, but eventually gives him a look that says, I can't work with this on, silently beckoning him to remove it.
"Sorry," she says softly.
"For what? It's an old shirt," he replies while removing it.
"Look, it even has holes in it," he points out.
"No... for whatever happened to you today," she says while looking at the rugged man.
He notices the pills are now scattered across the floor, a tipped-over bottle with doses spilled about.
"You lose a best friend today, and you're more worried about me?"
"I'm flattered, but really... I'm fine."
He utters it with an almost convincing expression on his face.
Still, after all the conversations they'd had, Lydia knew this was anything but fine.
She looks at him more intently now as she cleans and re-bandages his wound.
"You know, I've said that too many times. If I had a dollar for every time I said I was fine, I wouldn't be taking the bus, that's for sure," Lydia says as she throws the dirty items into the trash bin and places the kit on the counter.
"I lost a patient today," House mumbles.
"She shouldn't have died."
He looks noticeably pained, and the man's eyes fill with tears—tears he, too, tries to hold back.
Lydia takes another hand towel from the shelf, wets it with warm water, and begins wiping the dust and blood from his face.
She studies his deep blue eyes, his rough skin, and the downturn of his lips.
He stares back at her just as intensely, as though he were looking into a mirror.
Wanting to break the intimacy, Lydia asks, "Want to see a picture?"
"What?" House responds, breaking his stare.
Lydia pulls a small wallet from her purse and unfolds a miniature photo album.
Three of the pictures are group photos, including one of her and another young woman.
House looks at them in disbelief.
"That was her. My best friend, Hannah."
"You knew her?" House asks, the words barely escaping his lips.
Lydia looks at his expression in confusion.
"She..." House pauses. "She was my patient."
"Wait... you were there?" Lydia replies.
"It was all over the news. I..."
House interrupts her.
"I tried to save her. I tried..."
His voice breaks as he rubs his leg. The pain is too great to ignore now. He reaches for the pills scattered across the floor, picks up three or four, and knocks them back like they were shots of alcohol.
"I'm glad she had you there."
Lydia sobs, wiping away the tears almost as quickly as they fall.
House grabs two more pills. When Lydia asks if he needs water, he points to a whiskey bottle sitting on top of a nightstand in the living room beside a crooked lamp.
Lydia brings him the bottle while picking up a cup from the bathroom counter.
"Oh, I won't need a cup," House says as he unscrews the bottle.
"Why drink alone?" the young woman remarks as she takes the bottle from his hands and pours herself a generous amount before handing it back to him. Both trying to hide the pain.
"I'm not in the habit of turning my patients into alcoholics."
He remarks wryly as he washes down the Vicodin with a hit of the good brown stuff.
"Guess I'll have to risk it. Cheers!" Lydia says as she takes a shot herself before asking,
"What is that? And can I have one?"
"Vicodin."
House hands her a pill.
"Well, you're already drinking.
Might as well add drugs."
"If you're going to get wet, might as well go swimming," Lydia fires back.
The two share a broken smile of sorts and make small talk about things like the weather before she asks,
"So, what happened to the mirror?"
"It got what was coming to it," House replies.
"Never liked looking at myself anyway."
"Me either," she answers as the Vicodin starts to kick in.
"Wow... I feel so much calmer. Do you want to stay in the bathroom all night?"
"No, but I should probably take a shower," he replies.
"That's gonna be a little hard with all that mirror in the way."
Just then, Lydia springs up and walks out of the bathroom.
"Do you have a broom or something?" she yells from the kitchen.
House is lost in thought for a moment. Taking a shower with her would feel so damn good. Then he thinks about everything else he'd like to do.
A moment of imagination runs through him. Things he knows he shouldn't act on.
Yeah... that's what he needed. Another complicated relationship with someone who probably needs help as much as he does. They'd both just end up falling into a ditch.
"Found it," Lydia says as she returns to the bathroom and begins sweeping up the glass.
House eases himself to his feet, picks up his cane, and walks into the living room. He stops beside an old-looking table. Sitting on top of it is a record player.
A track begins to play at the push of a button.
Lydia walks into the kitchen to throw away the broken pieces of the mirror.
When she returns, she hands House the bottle of whiskey.
He sets it down next to the record player before turning to her, a new kind of hurt in his eyes.
"I don't want to use you."
He utters it almost under his breath, the weight of the words too heavy even for him. Knowing well that they're both too raw and vulnerable right now for any of his thoughts to become actions.
She looks at him as he places his hands on her shoulders, slowly running them down to hold her hands in an almost soothing manner, as if he is desperately trying to comfort her without thinking about his own selfishness for a moment.
"What if I want you to use me?"
The words escape her lips without any thought beforehand, as if the mirror wasn't broken and she was looking at herself. A kindred spirit, perhaps.
"I...
I don't want to hurt you," he says as he relaxes into her, leaning forehead to forehead while looking down at the ugly gray carpet.
"Like I've hurt everyone else."
As their eyes meet again, he utters, "I don't want to need you."
Lydia embraces the rugged man and kisses him.
A sudden rush of warmth. A blissful pressure. A flush of heat across the skin of his face.
If life is a series of rooms, then what are the chances they'll end up in another one again?
House pulls away and grabs a towel and a change of clothes from the closet. He walks to the bathroom to take a shower, unable to say anything to her, let alone process the kiss.
In the kitchen, Lydia looks through the refrigerator and decides to make something to eat.
When House returns to the living room, Lydia brings him a plate of eggs and toast.
They both sit on the couch and eat while listening to music, saying nothing more.
Afterward, Lydia washes the dishes, and when she walks back into the living room, their eyes meet once again.
She moves his legs into a stretched-out position and lies beside him on the couch, wrapping her arms around him in a comforting embrace.
A soft moan escapes his lips as he places his arms around her. She lays her head on his shoulder as the two drift off to sleep, an easing of pain for a small moment.
Still knowing there can never be more than this, but also knowing there doesn't need to be.
