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Leaving the green of the golf course behind, House had his golf partner drive him to the clinic. Of course, the doctor there was a moron until he reached for the Demerol. That had been the only smart thing he'd done.
At home, Stacy was wringing her hands and pacing. When he walked in, he spent the next hour convincing her he was okay. It didn't make her stop fussing over him all night.
Three days later they were making a return trip to the hospital so Greg could tell all of the doctors they were idiots for missing the muscle death. From that point he didn't care what the doctors said, he just wanted them to fix it.
The pain was unbearable even with the morphine. He asked for the chemically-induced coma and that he got, but he woke up missing a sizable chunk of his right thigh - which he did not ask for.
Pissed off doesn't even begin to express his feelings on the situation. He'd already driven Stacy out of the room. His doctor stopped coming in unless it was absolutely necessary and she never stopped apologizing.
He wanted everyone to go the hell away and leave him alone. But once they all left and he had no one to rail at, he was bored and depressed.
He wanted Stacy to come back and sit with him, stubbornly holding his hand and brushing his hair out of his face. Her presence was more soothing than he let on, but he didn't know how to tell her that, so he stared at the stark bland ceiling of the stark bland room, in the stark bland hospital – alone.