An Auspicious Adversary
nomad1328

Summary: A No Reason speculation fic. Occurs during and post No Reason. House and Co. struggle to find meaning and heal wounds. Sorry this comes late. I started this right after No Reason aired and it turned into a monster. Good news is that it is FINISHED and not a WIP. Installments will follow. If you're looking for straight up action sequences, fluff, or romance, this is not the place. Character study contained within.

HUGE thanks to Armchair Elvis for wreaking havoc on every creative cell in my thick head. This would’ve been half a story otherwise…

Oh- and Author accepts all constructive critiques/reviews/and shameless admiration (ha!).

T rating for language.

People stand in line
A premonition of the killers angel eyes
An Armageddon sky tell it like it is
It's like the old man says
We're dead in the water now


-David Gray

Dead in the Water

Chapter 1: A Glancing Blow

He never expected that Death would look like this: the half inch barrel of a solid black handgun, framed by the blurry image of its wielder. House had always thought death would either look like black asphalt, or maybe the side of a car. Or perhaps it looked like the last drink he’d had the night before, pale amber and burning on the way down. But it looked like a man with a gun. And it smelt like gunpowder. “Who would want to hurt you?” The question hung in the air, thick, sarcastic, and House had no good answer, even if he could think or speak. Instead, he stared, uncomprehendingly, down the muzzle of the black pistol held pointed at his head.

The man’s stance, his sudden swing of the gun towards them, had forced Foreman, Chase, and Cameron into immobility as House lay on the floor, motionless and silent. Time slowed, stretching like a rubber band between two fingers. Moments passed and all each could hear were their own heartbeats, their own breaths.

Medical training, even in the emergency room, didn't equip anyone with the ability to look down the barrel of a loaded gun. Chase could honestly say he’d never seen a handgun up close. Cameron had fired one when she was ten. But Foreman had almost bought one from his brother’s best friend.

Time stretched further until the thin veneer of continuum developed fissures. It wouldn’t last much longer. The tension was insurmountable.

As the gun went back to House and the shooter took aim, Foreman, unable to stand by anymore, perhaps still brain damaged and beyond rationality, or perhaps acting on the instinct he had gained at fifteen, decided to do something.

All it took was half a second and Foreman was dragging the shooter to the ground as the gun exploded the second time. Foreman threw himself on top, the man underneath struggling to maintain his hold on the gun. Time moved forward again. Their colleague’s actions igniting them, Cameron and Chase began moving as well. Cameron moved, instinctively, to her boss, accessing, theorizing.

House was unconscious and unmoving. The second bullet had clipped his neck and blood flowed from the wound, hinting at the damage done by the projectile.

Ninety five percent of penetrating wounds to the neck are caused by guns or knives. Cameron wasn't sure why the phrase, seemingly out of a textbook, had so easily come to her. She thought she'd read it years ago, as an intern but now it came to her as a string of phrases rotating behind her eyes. The neck is a hard target, compared to the rest of the body, its surface area limited and moreover, shaded by the jaw. Most of the gunshot wounds to the neck (some would guess that it’s close to 100) are by accident. A shooter aims for the head, a tricky, movable extension, and accidentally hits the neck. Or perhaps crossfire results in a lucky (or unlucky) wound. Between three and six percent of penetrating neck wounds are fatal and most of the victims die before they ever reach emergency care. Exsanguination and respiratory failure often result if prompt action is not taken to stop the bleeding and re-establish the airway. A zone 2 injury, the zone between mandible and clavicle, is not the most fatal of zones, but is still susceptible to extraordinary damage. The intricacies of the structures carrying blood to and from the face and brain require precision to correct, but skill to miss should the shot actually hit the unintended target. The internal jugular vein, carrying blood from the brain and face lies just centimeters below the surface of the skin. The carotid artery, carrying urgent life to the brain, lies close by. Hitting either of these results in significant blood loss, with carotid damage being deadliest. The blood loss or the body’s resulting attempts at clots can easily result in stroke or ischemia. And if the bullet hits the vertebrae and underlying spinal column, paralysis is inevitable.

House appeared lucky by Cameron’s first estimation. The wound was to the right side of his neck, apparently external to the larynx, esophagus, and the vertebrae. There was no way to tell exactly the extent of the damage, but House was breathing. Check: Airway, Breathing. But the rapid flow of blood and expanding bruise underneath told Cameron that it was a serious injury. House’s breathing, steady for the moment, would deteriorate due to the blood flowing into the surrounding structures, compacting the space intended for expansion.

Cameron was on her knees, pressing her hand to the neck, gently, but firmly, to avoid exacerbating the wound. Her medical training was kicking into gear and the patient’s identity shouldn’t have mattered, but she accidentally let her gaze slide to House’s face- his droopy eyes closed to her- unable to convey the emotion they so often easily portrayed. At the thought, his eyes popped open suddenly, before fluttering closed again. “get… hands off…” he muttered, his lips almost sneering.

Cameron’s training was misplaced by his words and she blanched, letting her hand fall slack for a moment, feeling the stickiness run between her fingers.

Medical treatment, by its very nature, is an intensely personal activity, which is completed in an intensely impersonal way. This intensity often falls into a false sense of security, belonging, and even undue attachment by the recipient. Someone who knows the inside of you can presumably see right through your lies and anticipate your desires.

Sex has a similar effect. Cameron thought of the single handshake that House had given her, how it had sent a shiver up her back. The only other time he’d actually touched her was to pull her arms around him when on the back of his bike. He’d threatened, stood in her personal space, touched her mouth with a cue-tip, but he’d never touched her otherwise. Most people touched each other in some way- a touch on the back, a pat on the shoulder. House never touched anyone and least of all, Cameron.

Doctors are taught to be scientific, impersonal. The more impersonal, the less the doctor will feel attached, the less the patient will need their attachment. But this was someone she knew. Someone she cared about. She was already attached and her focus was momentarily lost. Her free hand errantly, hesitantly, touched his forehead, feeling the clamminess there. “Oh god…”

She looked to her colleagues, seeing Chase running towards the desk. Foreman was sitting on top of the shooter, his knuckles shining and wet, his breath coming in gasps. The man appeared unconscious and Cameron couldn’t see where the gun had landed. Seeing Chase and Foreman acting, Dr. Cameron’s hands once again took it upon themselves to follow their example, and she found them putting more pressure on the neck wound, but also taking note of the abdomen. The hand on House’s forehead moved to the wound at the abdomen, pressuring again.

Chase, his face crinkled into disgust, took the gun by its barrel from the floor. The gun had dropped from the attacker’s hand once Foreman’s fist had impacted with his nose. Chase picked it up and half ran, half walked to the desk. The gun was warm to the touch and its appearance betrayed its heaviness. Chase, having had no experience except second hand glimpses through the eyes of a movie camera, was afraid of going anywhere near the trigger. He knew there was a safety, but was too hurried to look for it. Instead, he gripped the barrel and carried it, pointed to the ceiling, arm outstretched, to the desk. The metal hit the glass desk with a resounding thunk, despite his gentle placement. His call to security was quick and terse. “Dr. House has been shot. We need security and a gurney.” Chase was nearly shouting. “Stat,” he added automatically. “GSW to the abdomen and neck. Get the ER ready.” He hung up before a response was emitted.

His next movements took him to the cabinets above the sink, pulling every available material from its shelter. Forks, utensils, mugs, the miniature first aid kit all fell to the sink, clattering against the metal there. Chase grabbed the towels first. The gloves were secondary, as well as the scissors. He ran the three steps back to House and Cameron.

He threw two of the towels next to House’s head and tossed one to Cameron, kneeling by House’s waist, opposite of his colleague. His knees ached with the force that he had dropped to them, but adrenaline hid the pain away for later. He threw a pair of gloves at Cameron and watched as she struggled with them. She’d gotten some of the blood off with the towel, but the stickiness hadn’t left. “They’re coming,” he said, putting his gloves on with practiced ease and pressed his hands to House’s neck, staunching the rapid flow while Cameron worked on her gloves.

As soon as Cameron had gotten her gloves on and resumed her position at his neck, now using both hands, Chase released.

“They better get here fast, he’s going to bleed out,” Cameron muttered. “Check his stomach.” Chase was already at it, pulling apart House’s shirt, buttons flying, revealing the wound in his abdomen, seeping blood. Red on white. His hands went there immediately, pressing down.

House’s eyes fluttered open with a groan and he lifted his head from Cameron’s grasp. “No, House… you’re…”

“...stitches…” he muttered and was unconscious again. Cameron had a finger at the pulse at his neck.

Cameron spoke. “He’s already getting thready. Where’s that gurney?” Pinched, afraid, nervous.

Chase watched as Cameron wiped the blood from House’s neck, examining. There was one clear wound that appeared before the blood covered it again- a deep gouge extending for over an inch. The bullet appeared to have embedded itself in the carpet. By Chase’s estimation, it had more than likely impacted the internal jugular. The blood flowed, it didn’t pulse. The wounds were far enough away from the vertebrae that Chase knew a spinal injury was almost out of the question. But the damage to ligaments, peripheral nerves, and veins would be questionable until they got him into an OR. Chase shook his head, choosing to focus on the abdomen. An injury to the abdomen was equally serious. If the liver was punctured, if kidneys were lacerated, if the bowel spilled into the peritoneum, complications would ensue. And if the bullet had lodged somewhere, if it had bounced around… “I need to check for an exit wound.”

Cameron nodded and held fast as Chase put his hands on House’s bony hip and shoulder, rolling him onto his side and cutting the dark suit jacket up the back. He silently thanked House for snatching the scissors from the clinic for their office. Focused only the medical, Chase noted the lack of the blood on House’s back. It made things easier for the moment, but more complicated in the end. No telling how much the bullet had bounced around- where it was lodged, where it had hit.

Chase grasped House’s shoulder and hip to roll him back, his fingers inadvertently straying south to House’s thigh. Feeling the wasted leg and the hard scarring underneath the denim, Chase’s fingers immediately pulled back, repulsed, curling towards House’s hip again. The front of House’s jeans were soaked and the smell of urine seeped into the air and entwined itself with the lingering smell of gunpowder and blood. Cameron and Chase looked at each other, and then to Foreman, as two security guards and an EMT came through the glass doors. Security took over Foreman’s position, and he joined his co-workers at House’s side. Joined by the EMT, they worked on moving House to the gurney. As they lifted him, he began murmuring incoherently. The EMT dropped his prepped bag of saline between House’s legs, forgoing fluids for speed, and the doctors helped him lift the gurney to it’s standing position. As it was lifted, House flailed, his hand connecting with the EMT’s stomach, who was already working to fasten the belts to keep him secure.

The ride from the diagnostics office to the elevator was hurried, but seemed interminable for those intimately involved. Cameron held tight to the pressure on her boss’s neck while Chase kept the pressure on his stomach. Foreman pushed. The EMT pulled the gurney along, forcing a run from the three doctors following him. Time of the essence. Patient bleeding out. House seemed oblivious to everything, occasionally mumbling, eyes fluttering, occasionally blinking open, and the painful gasps made everyone cringe.

The blue cushion cradled House’s pale face, enhanced by the red-coated towel and gloves pressed urgently to his neck. They’d forgone immobilization after seeing that the wound on his neck was just a gouge. Clear of the vertebrae. Blood seemed to smear everything- from Cameron’s white coat, to Chase’s gloves, Foreman’s knuckles. Little smears here and there on House’s jeans, the cushions, the bag of saline dropped to House’s legs. Everything was contaminated.

Apart from his eyes, and an occasional twitch of his extremities, House didn’t move. Normally, Gregory House was too immense for most of the staff to comprehend. Despite the limp, the inadvertent grimaces when he stepped just a little too hard, his reputation, mental acuity, and over-the-top methods made him seem larger than life. His physical height only served to exaggerate his immensity. Hearing of his reputation, they inexplicably expected him to be big; forced to meet him, he became even more intimidating. His bony physique complimented the harshness of his interactions. And everyone was forced to look up to him- both in stature and in knowledge.

But lying on a gurney, covered in blood and urine, he appeared as a limp marionette. His arms and legs, strapped down and lying motionless, barely fit and seemed too long for his narrow body. His jeans, soaked to mid thigh, clung to the bony details of him and caved ever so slightly over his right thigh. Normally, no one could see the difference. Stiff jeans normally concealed the indentation. But now they were damp and there was a noticeable difference in the size of his thighs. His shirt, now ripped apart and bloodied, displayed his ribs too prominently and Cameron couldn’t help but notice that he had lost weight since she’d seen him stoned in the locker room six months prior.

Gregory House was no longer larger than life. He had suddenly and inexplicably become as small as the diabetic homeless woman waiting in a wheelchair outside the ER. Hardly anyone looked at her, but everyone was looking at him as he was rushed past. The staff members that had an occasion to look down at him were caught off guard and immediately a feeling of uneasiness settled upon them. If they’d hated Dr. House, looking down into the face of an unconscious and bleeding colleague made them feel unquestionably guilty. If they’d liked him (or at least respected him), their shock would be interminable.

Somehow, House’s sharp shoulders had seemed to shrink and soften. The hair that normally stood on end, giving the appearance of the mad scientist, was slicked with sweat and plastered to his head. While they stared, his normally piercing eyes were closed and no witticism emanated from his tight and caustic mouth. Without them, he was just a man- a bleeding, unconscious, direly injured patient. The blood was shocking, but not near as shocking as looking down at Dr. Gregory House.

Foreman nearly pushed the gurney through the other side of the elevator, the EMT pushing back just enough, jarring the cargo, as Chase pressed the button that would lead to the ER. As the doors closed, the echoing hospital sounds ceased and there was only the quiet “bing” as the elevator reached the subsequently lower floors. Heavy breathing mingled in between the doctors and the EMT.

Cameron’s hands held tight to House’s neck, watching him grow paler, sweatier, cooler, and felt the pulses that were proving his life, but killing him all the same. Chase’s hands pressed into House’s stomach, watching the movement underneath them. Ever shallower breaths, occasional hitches. And Foreman watched the lights on each of the floors as they flipped from one to the next. Cameron looked up for a moment and caught Chase's eyes, breathing hard, shocked. Why was this taking so long? Chase pursed his lips, shook his head slightly, and pressed harder on House's stomach.

The woman in the back corner, the daughter of a cancer patient, clutched her purse and the bag of books that her mother had already read, her mouth in a silent ‘o.’ She pressed further into the corner, her eyes frozen to the face on the gurney as it sweated, breathed, and gasped. And the blood, staunched by the doctors (three of them), which poured out anyway. Three doctors, an EMT, and going down instead of up. She wondered if the patient’s attacker wasn’t in the hospital somewhere. She would stay on the elevator afterwards and go to her mother’s room, seeking comfort in her frail arms and ravaged breast. Wilson would pass them, hardly seeing them, as he walked from the oncology ward on the way to the diagnostics office to grab House for lunch.

Great stuff, Nomad.

You're probably sick to death of my interminable comments, so I'll just say well done. Love the title(s).

The last paragraph - great. (What am I saying, it's all great!). Well worth the wait.


Cheers and very well done
AE.

Wow!
The descriptions and flow in this are very nice. The pace matches the pace of the events very well too.

Next chap. Appreciate reviews. It's dumping snow here! woo-hoo!!! Guess I won't work today... oh well...


Chapter 2 Hands: Bloody

The doors opened and the world opened to sound again. Alarms and telephones, a baby crying, running shoes. They burst through the doors and instinct took over for the three doctors. Foreman: “He was shot!” as nurses swooped in on them. “Twice,” Cameron added. Chase piped in: “Once in the abdomen, once in the neck.” House’s eyes opened fully, the first time since it happened. "Hello?" He said it like he was picking up the phone, greeting his mother, like nothing was wrong.

Cameron, still moving with the gurney, fingers still pressed into her boss’s neck, looked at him, making eye contact. She verbalized the only non-medical thought repeating in her head: “It’s going to be okay, you’re going to be okay.” Was she reassuring herself or him? She’d said the same thing to the first patient she’d ever seen come into the ER while she was working and her resident had given her hell. It was a basis for lawsuits and false hopes, but she said it anyway and was glad when House responded with a hoarse: “You don’t know that.” He was thinking again, coherent.

Ketamine was the only coherent thought for House. He could say it. He could get the point across. It could work. Passively, he realized that he’d been shot, but the main focus was that he knew he’d need some type of surgery judging by the way he felt. Dizzy, blurry, his head was ten feet below the surface. He’d need anesthesia. He wasn’t sure exactly where the bullet (bullets?) had hit. He remembered falling against the white board, hitting the carpet and lying on his back. He hadn’t felt any pain, just impact and fleeting images. He remembered seeing the man’s face, getting fuzzier in each passing second. And then the hallucination. Days in the course of minutes where his mind had taken the bits of information coming into his senses and transformed them into a web, mixing reality with fear and desire. It was gone now and the only thing House saw was the too bright fluorescent lights beating down on him and the panicked blurs of faces above.

It could bring him back. He could have meaning again- something beyond putting pieces of the puzzle together. Something beyond his screwed up relationships and his leg. He’d read about the Ketamine, researched it, watched it, decided it wouldn’t work. Nothing would work. But wasn’t it worth the try? He’d become so tied into the puzzles and the medicine, substituting real life emotion with his soaps and a video game. It was easier that way. It was easier to see everyone react to each other, to be separate from it, detached. Avoiding the interpersonal meant avoiding explanations, feelings, pain. But even attempts at escaping were beginning to be hard to come by. His pain had escalated to unbearable levels, taking with it most of his rationality and all of his attempts at pleasure. He hadn’t been on his bike in six weeks. He couldn’t sit still enough to watch his soaps or play the video games. Cases were distractions, but more often he found his team providing the answers. He wasn’t needed.

So he’d resorted to the morphine, but it was still no way to live. If anything, the morphine was a bore. He’d take it at night if he couldn’t sleep and on the weekends to get through. The morphine made him queasy, but he’d only thrown up once, as he’d gotten up in the middle of the night to relieve his bladder and the dizziness had put his head in the toilet instead. He’d plan his mealtimes to avoid the situation in the future- eating breakfast and lunch, but foregoing dinner in anticipation of the drug’s effects. He might’ve tried anti-emetics, but by the time he got home to the morphine, he was too tired and in too much pain to care if he lost his lunch. Ketamine had the potential to alleviate the pain. Alleviating the pain meant he could think again, function again, play again- even if it couldn’t take back the gaping chasm in his leg.

Time was running short. House felt his breath hitch and a lancet of pain shot down his side. The world swam for a moment. . Voices muffled as if his head was underwater. His eyes shifted, looking for someone he knew. The spin stopped for a moment and his eyes rested on the dark hair that he thought may be Cameron. She would pass the message: “Tell Cuddy… I want Ketamine.” Done. Said. No more time for an explanation. His head swam again, and he knew it was his blood pressure dropping further. But the task was complete and he didn’t fight the curling fingers of unconsciousness.

Cameron, stunned and confused, was pushed back, away from House, by a nurse taking her by the shoulders. Cameron’s gloves were bloody and she held them up, away from her white lab coat, nervous and afraid as she settled by Foreman’s side. She looked to him, silently, breathing hard. Ketamine?

As doctors, both Cameron and Foreman were familiar with Ketamine- the hallucinogenic drug sometimes used on animals and on humans when an anesthesiologist wasn’t available for an emergency surgery. It was easy and safe to administer compared to many drugs, but its use was often controversial and dissuaded in major surgeries for adults Foreman, in particular, was aware that Ketamine wouldn’t relax the muscles that the surgeons needed in order to do an abdominal surgery. The doses that House would need would far exceed safety, and potentially lead to tachycardia and respiratory suppression. Foreman shook his head, as if to re-evaluate what he had heard. But nothing more was forthcoming. House had said he wanted Ketamine.

Chase, too, had been pushed back out of the way and now stood next to Foreman. He hadn’t caught what House had said, but he saw that the reactions on his colleague’s faces were confused by it. Chase was confused by the whole situation. He’d reacted with the practiced ease of the intensivist he’d been trained to become, but once he was moved out of the way, the situation hit his conscience as if he’d been shot himself. His stomach was suddenly flipping and he swallowed the lump in his throat as he watched the emergency doctors and nurses take over their boss’s care.

They lifted House’s limp arms and legs and transferred him, now unconscious, to the emergency room bed. A nurse ran scissors up both legs of his pants, exposing him to the air. His shirt was cut off completely and he was naked. . The doctors were already accessing the wounds, one probing at the abdomen, while another alternating between peering at and holding the wound at his neck. Nurses reached for a multitude of tubes. Airway: A doctor was practically shoving the ET tube down House’s throat, leaving it protruding for a moment before a bag was placed over the end and air was being forced down House’s lungs, past the expanding hematoma in his neck.

Another nurse was starting a line in the crook of House’s elbow. Blood would temporarily be replaced with fluids until the type and crossmatch could be completed or records could be pulled. The nurse paused for a moment when she turned his elbow over. It was marked by punctures, a few of them bruised. Her look spanned up to the attending, who nodded and grimaced while holding the portable ultrasound to House’s abdomen. House was known to be radical; suspected of being a drug abuser. This was confirmation.

At the doctor’s instruction, another nurse prepared a Foley and started it, watching, expectant, as it first filled with yellow, and then red. The nurse moved to House’s head and pulled another tube, an NG, running it up through House’s nose and into his stomach. It, too, filled with blood. For a moment, things seemed out of control as blood leaked onto the sheets. White sheets, red blood, nurses in purple scrubs.

Cuddy suddenly appeared by Foreman’s side, hands on her hips. “What the hell happened?” Exasperated. Chase, Foreman, and Cameron remained silent, still watching as the ER worked in a flurry of activity. They could barely see House now, but still they stood- transfixed. Cuddy stalked over to the ER team, peering in between the movement and staying out of the way, seeing her best diagnostician bleeding, unconscious, blood pressure dangerously low.

She’d gotten the news from a security officer that she knew only as Rich, who had run into her office with the simple statement of “It’s under control. We’ve got him.” She’d stood immediately, the paperwork beneath her forgotten.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“It was Dr. House,” he’d said. “The guy shot him- in his office. It’s under control. We’ve called the police.”

“Where’s Dr. House?”

“Triage.”

“Was anyone else hurt?”

Rich shook his head as Cuddy rushed past him and walked with a professional, but concerned urgency to the ER. Once there, she’d taken in the sight, pushing back her emotion and focusing on the activities before her. Doctors and nurses had swarmed in on the newest patient, monitors beeped, doctors yelled. She didn’t hear House complaining, which meant that he was unconscious. She made out House’s shoes lying on top of his clothes next to the bed. His bare feet and a glimpse of his torso were the only skin she could make out- the rest was red and white. Despite all her arguments with him, despite all of his stares and comments, they shared a common history and a screwed up respect for each other. She may have hired him out of guilt over his leg, but never wanted or expected to see him this way again.

Knowing the ER had control, and needing to be in control herself, she went back to the three fellows, who were still staring. “You three, in my office, right now.” The commander in chief, dean of medicine, used her tone and the three doctors were shaken out of their shock and followed Cuddy to her office.

Cameron and Chase peeled the bloody gloves off their hands, throwing them in the biohazard bag at the exit of the ER. Three glass doors later, Cuddy strutted behind her desk, still standing, sighing as she watched the three doctors following her enter, faces drawn to the floor. Cameron’s arms were crossed and her fingers tapped on her biceps. “Sit,” Cuddy commanded. Cameron and Chase moved to the couch, while Foreman went to the chair in front of Cuddy’s desk. “Speak.” Cuddy commanded. “What happened?”

Silence claimed the room for a moment. Chase looked down, touching his bruised knees where they had hit the ground next to House, rubbing the tips of his fingers over them. He could feel the knots forming. He thought of Cuddy’s question, frowned, couldn’t think of an answer.

Cameron crossed her legs, put a hand to her mouth, removed it when she thought she smelled the lingering metallic blood and remembered where it had been. All of them had washed their hands on the way to Cuddy's office, scrubbing hastily to remove the blood from underneath their fingernails and from the creases in their skin. But Cameron could skill feel it. She bit her bottom lip, sighed, and sat up straighter. Why was her throat so dry?

Foreman spoke. He related the story seamlessly. He had been closest, had seen and attacked the attacker, and was distanced enough from House to have the least amount of blood splatters.

Street smarts, House had said. Foreman was there because of his street smarts.

As he finished, two police officers knocked on Cuddy’s door. The perpetrator was being treated, the officers would need interviews and statements. Cuddy nodded and allowed the team to follow the officers. Exiting, Cameron turned, suddenly remembering. “Ketamine,” she said, suddenly- the first words she had uttered since the ER. Cuddy looked up.

“What?”

“Ketamine,” Cameron said. “He said…” she paused as she saw Foreman shake his head, looking to her, telling her silently- it was just another crazy House idea. “House,” she decided. House had told her to pass the message and she’d do it. It was his life. “…he said to tell you he wanted Ketamine.”

Cuddy sighed and nodded, watching the team leave. It was left to her now. Ketamine. Cuddy ran the sound of the word over a whispered breath. Ketamine.

He’d never brought it up in front of her, but she knew he’d been interested. Two years before when he’d been going through another episode of breakthrough pain- he’d called into work for a week, claiming he had the flu, before she’d hassled Wilson (the informant) to bring him in for an MRI, which in the end had been a moot point. No further damage, no regeneration, no healing, and no other reason for the pain. House had spent the week clenched on his couch with his laptop and his Vicodin, reading journal after journal on pain management before stumbling across one in German about the Ketamine. It had just been attempted with relatively good results. Two patients, limited samples, unknown long-term effects. Both patients had come out with significantly reduced pain. The medical and scientific community was a hard sale, however. With the extraordinarily drastic methods implied by inducing a five-day coma (practically killing the patient), sample size and control methods were inherently limited. There would be no double blind studies with induced comas and sponsors were hesitant to associate themselves with what they considered to be radical medicine. And insurance coverage- forget it. Each participant had to round up enough money for the procedure and ICU care- which usually amounted to over $30,000.

Wilson had found House crashed out in front of the printed article, having taken one too many Vicodin and exhausted from the pain. Wilson handed the article to Cuddy after he’d managed to get the slightly stoned House into the MRI. Cuddy read it, researched the experiment, but kept her knowledge to herself. Cuddy knew that House would’ve kept close tabs on follow-up studies. To base his treatment off of one study was ludicrous- especially considering the risky and expensive nature of the treatment. Cudd also kept up with the research, hoping that this could provide an answer to her mistake.

To Stacy’s mistake. When results became mixed and patients began having to have more and more treatments- every six months, four, two… until they were in a Ketamine induced dissociative state half their lives just for a respite, suffering random hallucinations, and decreasing cognitive functioning. House didn’t talk about them. Cuddy didn’t mention that she’d kept up with them or even that she knew.

No less than four witnesses in the ER had heard House direct his wishes to Cuddy. It automtically put the decision into her hands. As his doctor, she would have advised against it. But she'd known him for years. She was more than just his doctor. If he wanted Ketamine, something had changed. She must’ve missed it. Caught up in her own personal issues and her attempts at a normal life, she’d missed House’s symptoms. The pacing, the increasing irritability. He was willing to risk his mind for a respite. It was a big jump for a man who only had his mind. Even with the Ketamine, he would still be limited. Ketamine couldn’t regrow a muscle. Wouldn’t allow him to beat Wilson in a footrace.

Wilson.

Cuddy picked up the phone, automatically dialing Wilson’s pager, inserting 911.


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I'm glued to this story..it rocks!!i LOVE the detail of everything!! :) you're doing a fantastic job :D

God and peace
Vanessa :)

Chapter 3: Thin Ice

Wilson had been heading towards House's office, having just passed the cancer stricken woman and her daughter, when the page came through. He’d stared at the number and looked down the hallway, confused for a moment. Security was coming out of House’s office, holding a gray-suited man between them, bleeding from his mouth and forehead. The man was silent as the guards led him, handcuffed, stumbling, towards the elevator. Wilson walked faster and was stopped by a third security officer standing at the door. A horrible sickening bubble had formed in the vicinity of his stomach.

“You can’t go in there.”

Wilson backed off, standing with his hands on his hips. The bubble was expanding to his throat. “What happened? I need…”

He looked over the shoulder of the guard, seeing a glistening red stain on the floor near the white board.

The guard put a hand on his shoulder. “One of the doctors was assaulted.”

“Which one? Where…?” his question trailed and he held tighter to the pager that he hadn’t had the opportunity to put back in its holster. There was only one answer for this and it couldn’t be answered by the guard standing in front of him.

Seeing that he would never get through to the office, which seemed empty save for security guards anyway, Wilson started the run downstairs. He took the stairs two at a time, nearly stumbling on the second floor, catching his balance against the railing before continuing down. He pushed through the doors to the ER, and stood, watching the melee in front of him. It was the ER. It was always traumatic. But this was House. Wilson watched from the doorway as the nurses and doctors began unhooking bags and tossing equipment between House's legs. Someone had unlocked the wheels on the gurney and it was turned, heading in Wilson's direction. A trauma doctor looked to the rest of his team and Wilson heard the standard exit strategy of any ER doctor. "Let's get him to the OR.”

Wilson had run next to the gurney as it was being pushed into the elevator, taking in House’s condition, asking the doctor questions as they moved. His hand went to House’s arm, squeezed, and received no response. Despite his questioning, Wilson couldn’t find out much and there hadn’t been room for him in the elevator. The trauma doctor was terse in his response, only indicating that House’s jugular appeared to have been severed and that House would need a laporatomy to assess and repair the damage to his abdomen. Wilson ran a hand through his own sweat slicked hair and turned back towards Cuddy’s office, half running.

When Cuddy saw Wilson burst through the office doors, she sighed and sat down, putting her hands in her face before relating what she knew of the events to him. He was incensed over the situation, disbelieving. When Cuddy ended the recount with the Ketamine request, he stopped pacing, sat, and breathed, his hands clutching first his knees, then his neck. This was a nightmare and he couldn’t wake up.

“What do we do?” Cuddy asked, afterwards.

Wilson sat still, rubbing a hand behind his neck. “We should get an MRI.”

“He wants the Ketamine.”

Wilson nodded. “When he’s out of the woods. He needs something else besides Ketamine for the abdominal surgery.”

When. “If” hung in the air for a moment.

Cuddy spoke again. “I totally missed it. He was coming to work, he did his clinic hours...”

“I caught him with Ingrid last week,” Wilson related. “Masseuse,” he added when Cuddy’s eyebrows lifted. “I thought it was… “ He trailed off, shaking his head, remembering the incident. Remembering the ensuing conversation a few days later and not wanting to go there.

Cuddy sighed, putting the reports she was signing off on into her top drawer and standing. She ran a hand over her skirt, flattening it. “Come on.”

Wilson followed Cuddy from her office to the parking lot, not saying a word until she motioned at him to get in her car. “We’re leaving? House is in surgery.”

“And there’s nothing we can do until he’s out. We probably have an hour until the media shows and wants answers. This won’t take long. Got your keys?”

Wilson nodded, suddenly understanding and not wanting to go. Reluctantly, he opened the passenger side door and sat, pursing his lips and sighing.

Cuddy wanted answers to House’s request. Wilson was now caught between a rock and a hard place. He had answers Cuddy didn’t have. Giving the answers forthright would betray House. On the other hand, his answers were limited to a one-time visit one week prior. He didn’t know the extent of House’s morphine use. And he was relatively sure that House had the capacity to clean up- to make sure things were put away. Maybe Cuddy wouldn’t see it. Maybe Wilson could be deft enough if there was something out. On the other hand…. Wilson’s mind drifted. Better that she should find it herself.

A visit to House’s home, both Cuddy and Wilson knew, could be all-telling. A year after House’s infarction, Stacy had left him. It’d been piecemeal. Stacy would take one thing after another from the apartment, saying it was in the way, that she wanted something new instead. Most of the furniture was House’s anyway. Stacy had put hers into storage and now she was beginning to put everything else there too- in preparation for a bigger move. Wilson didn’t know anything about it until he picked up House for work one day and House hadn’t been quite ready. He’d stepped into the apartment, immediately noting the difference, and asked House where everything had gone. All the domesticated decorations, a few of the paintings, the quilt that had been on the back of the leather couch. It was all gone and the place had been modified from mildly domesticated to bachelor pad. “House,” he’d said. “The place looks different.”

“Stacy,” House had muttered, sitting on the couch as he pulled on his sneakers. “Is trying to redecorate… or something.” He'd frowned, looking around again. “I miss that quilt though. Told her to leave it, but she said she was getting something new.”

Wilson had nodded, silently thinking back to all the half arguments he’d overheard during the course of the year. The fact that House was no longer beaming around her. The fact that most of the time Stacy was around, House was berating her, making a guilt trip out of every look or comment. Stacy never said anything about it and never gave him anything back for the remarks. She just sighed and pursed her lips while House marched all over her. It was so uncharacteristic in a relationship that seemed to thrive on witty comebacks. And the lack of her presence seen in the apartment had given Wilson the inclination that this would all end very soon. But House, evidently, had no idea. Seemed confused, in fact. In hindsight, Wilson reasoned that it was probably denial.

Wilson had gone directly to Stacy after he’d seen the status of the apartment, confronting her, challenging her. She’d only nodded and told him that she’d be out by the following month. She’d already signed a lease on an apartment a hundred miles north. She’d already taken another job and given her notice to the administration. “Why?” he’d asked, pleading. She’d only frowned, and responded. “He’s pushed me out. It’s not the same anymore.”

Wilson watched the traffic as they drove. It was mid morning, traffic was light and the roads were clear and dry. He foot tapped nervously on the floorboards until Cuddy stared at him at a stoplight and he’d stopped, self-conscious. He looked over at her half a dozen times, intending to say something, but not finding the words.

Wilson knew what they would find. The only uncertainty was the extent of the problem. How far had House gone? Would Cuddy be surprised? She broke into his thoughts.

“Is there anything that’s been bothering him? Anything at all?”

Wilson shook his head. “He’s… been a bit detached. He’s been in a lot of pain. I thought it was because of Crandall.”

“The guy he knew- with the sick daughter?”

“He wanted to run a paternity test. I thought he’d run it and hadn’t liked the results. He had some guilt over that guy though. Was trying to make it up to him.”

“What did House do? Put ex-lax in his coffee?” Cuddy smirked.

Wilson let a half grin come to his lips. “Slept with a girlfriend… or something.”

They were silent for a moment, Cuddy chewing on her lip, thinking of telling Wilson her own predicament and the fact that House had been helping her. She’d need someone else now. Wilson seemed a likely choice, especially considering that she’d nearly asked him to donate. She still might. “Is there anything else?” she asked. “Anything else that’s been bothering him?” God, she hoped that he had a physical issue. That it wasn’t conversional. That she hadn’t brought this on with her near admission to him. Wilson shook his head, suddenly curious. Before he had a chance to become more curious, Cuddy started speaking again.

“A few weeks ago,” she sighed. “I started hormone therapy.” Wilson frowned. “I’m trying to get pregnant.”

“But you…”

“House found out so I asked him to help me look for a donor. And he’s been helping me with the injections.”

Wilson smirked, suddenly understanding Cuddy’s concerned brow. “You think that has him twisted up?” Wilson paused, looking over at Cuddy, who remained focused on the road as she took the turn down House’s street. “No,” he said. “It’s not that.”

The car stopped in front of the apartment and Wilson got out, fumbling for the keys and in particular, House’s key, which he’d held onto. House hadn’t asked for it back and Wilson wasn’t going to volunteer. Cuddy and Wilson looked at each other as the key turned and the door opened. The sight before them was really no surprise. It wasn’t as bad as they’d feared. But worse than normal, worse than the week before when Wilson had made an impromptu visit.

Books littered the floor around the bookcase. Obviously fallen from the top shelf, where House had evidently climbed a ladder to reach for something. There were beer bottles on the coffee table and a half empty bottle of scotch. An empty prescription bottle. Two empty glasses and a metal box, its lid half open with rubber tubing preventing its full closure. The lamp in the corner was on. The place smelt like burnt toast. A stack of small plates littered with crumbs was the only evidence that House ever ate anything. Wilson avoided the coffee table, instead looking towards the bookcase, the desk, and House’s laptop. Stacks of articles sat next to it, all on chronic pain. He hadn’t noticed before. He’d been preoccupied. Cuddy went to the table and opened the box. Two vials of morphine, one nearly empty. And one apparently used syringe.

“He’s been using Morphine,” Cuddy said to Wilson, a bewildered, yet disappointed phrase, said more in a sigh than in a statement. Wilson looked over at the trashcan, empty save for the butt of a cigar and a few balled up kleenexes, and continued to look through the stack of articles without replying, without giving away that he’d known for a week. “Where’d he get this stuff?” Cuddy was still picking through the box, but the only other drug she found was an anti-emetic. House was nothing if not prepared. “Did you know he was using?”

Wilson shrugged, trying not to be surprised at House’s apparent disintegration. He didn’t want to lie. He didn’t want her to know. “I… yeah. I knew.”

“He can’t do this,” Cuddy said, serious. “As his boss, if he’s using Morphine- illegally- while at work, he is a serious liability.” Though guilt hung over her head, rampant and unforgiving, Cuddy still felt that her job was the first priority. Sure, she should’ve noticed. They should’ve done more to prevent House from stepping on the ledge. They should’ve gone after him after he’d initially admitted he was addicted to the Vicodin and she should’ve never agreed (even if it was a lie) to give him Morphine. But it had been House, she reasoned. He put out a lot of bullshit and she’d gotten used to taking it as just that- bullshit. Now it had turned to another, more grievous level. Illegal possession of Morphine was punishable by three to five in a New Jersey prison, not to mention the loss of a medical license. And if something happened and patients learned about House’s drug use, a lawsuit could cost the hospital millions. If her job was a choice between protecting the hospital and protecting House, she had to protect the hospital. House was one man. The hospital was hundreds.

“He’s a liability if he’s not on some type of pain management. This is why he has his team.”

Cuddy shut the box and picked it up. “Find anything interesting over there?”

Wilson shook his head. “Same old stuff.”

He moved to the kitchen and to Steve’s cage. The rat was running unabashedly and unknowingly on his exercise wheel, stopping when Wilson opened the cage to draw out his food dish. He sniffed the air, knowing from the hundred days before that food would be on its way soon, and he dismounted the wheel, standing on his hind legs. Wilson opened the cabinet drawer underneath the cage, drawing out the pellets and pouring them into the bowl, replacing it, watching the rat sniff the food and begin to nibble.

Steve’s cage would be okay for another few days and his water level looked good. Wilson wondered if he should plan to drop by or if he should just bring the rat to his place. He decided on the former: the hassle of moving everything was an annoyance with which he didn’t feel like dealing. Besides, someone would need to collect the newspaper, the mail, make sure the place didn’t burn down. Thinking ahead of the game, Wilson unplugged the toaster and the coffee maker, noting the unclean condition of both and suddenly thinking of all the other things that could become “unclean” in the course of a few weeks if left to their own devices.

He opened the refrigerator and sighed. It was more evidence that House was faltering. The beer, at least, would be okay for a few weeks. And ketchup lasted for years. The loaf of bread in the freezer was gathering freezer burn, but it too would survive. Checking around some more led Wilson to believe that House had pretty much stopped eating anything but toast and beer. He was even out of Ramen. The trash seemed to support this as it was completely devoid of take-out boxes.

Sighing, cursing himself, he left it and went towards the bedroom, flipping on lights. The bed was unmade, the sheets half off. A used syringe sat next to a half full glass of water and a stack of books ranging from infectious disease to Arabic. Wilson swiped the syringe, capped it, and put it back on the desk for a moment. Returning to the bedroom, he noticed again, the slightest state of disarray. The clothes shucked on the ground, near the closet. A dresser drawer open. House never had the cleanest apartment, but neither did he flaunt clutter and disorder. Most often, he preferred to shove things out of sight- putting dirty dishes in the oven, useless boxes piled in the closet underneath layers of jackets that he hadn’t worn in five years. Wilson instinctively picked the clothes up, tossed them into an overflowing hamper of other dirty clothes. The syringe on the desk was evidence that he was out of hand. Evidence of his reason why he was giving into a radical treatment. But House was still cognizant of his actions. He wouldn't have just shot up twice. There had to be other syringes and House wasn't an idiot.

“We should get rid of this stuff,” Wilson said of the Morphine, speaking louder so Cuddy could hear him. He imagined her poking through every nook and cranny in the apartment, scouring it for more evidence of drug abuse.

In reality, Cuddy was much more subtle. She was sorting through House’s mail and grimaced at Wilson's comment. Covering up evidence.

Wilson dug through House’s dresser, the cigar boxes on the desk, his closets. There were one or two empty Vicodin bottles, old t-shirts, golf balls, photos of better days stuffed in a bottom drawer. After shifting through the closet and not finding what he was looking for, Wilson happened upon a duffle and took it out. He packed a few of House’s things- some t-shirts, sweatpants, boxers. The bathroom was next. No drugs there either. No syringes in the trashcan there. A bottle of aspirin for the heart attack House swore he would have one day was the only thing besides Tums in the medicine cabinet. Peeking into the cabinet beneath the sink, Wilson found what he was looking for. It was small, red, and the biohazard label stood out on a black label. Picking up the box, he was more pleased than dismayed. At max, Wilson guessed there were six needles in there, making eight total. He'd been using maybe one a day. There was no evidence of any other containers, but Wilson didn't discount the notion that House had had more of them disposed.

Wilson grabbed the container and put it on the bathroom counter as he packed House’s toothbrush, paste, deodorant, and electric razor. When he emerged, Cuddy was raking through the articles. She picked them up when she saw Wilson emerge, threw them on top of the metal box, picking them both up. The box was heavy in her hands. Cuddy cradled it gently as to avoid the sound of glass rattling on metal, eying the red container in Wilson's hands, but saying nothing. Wilson gathered the trash from both the kitchen and the can next to the desk, and he took it with him as he and Cuddy left.

The ride back to the hospital was marred by silence, the box and the container silent passengers in Wilson’s lap. "How many?" she finally sighed, two minutes from the hospital's drive.

"Five or six?"

Cuddy took both boxes from his hands the moment they entered the hospital. He remained silent as he gave them over and followed her to her office.

Chase was tapping a foot, arms crossed in front of the office when they got back. Cuddy was annoyed by his disbelieving look as she and Wilson apparently returned from lunch. She listened anyway as he related House’s condition.

The neck wound, while appearing grievous, was less serious than they’d initially thought. The surgeon had managed to close the wound to the jugular vein by resecting and joining the damaged ends. As Chase spoke, the surgical team was stitching up House’s right kidney and resecting the bowel. The bullets had done considerable damage within his abdominal cavity and he’d lost more than enough blood to kill him. Wilson paced behind Chase as he narrated, occasionally stopping and standing with his arms crossed. The metal box was on Cuddy’s desk, closed, locked. Wilson kept staring at it and after Chase left, Cuddy shoved it into her bottom drawer. Wilson, pinching his lip between chewed nails, sighed and left.

edited... resection... resecting... i'm a medical and english language whiz kid... thanks to catlady and dictionary.com :)

wow...that was amazing!! I loved the detail you put into Wilson and Cuddy searching House' apartment..wonderful job! :)

God and peace
Vanessa :)

Thanks for the reviews people. Keep'em comin as I am a slut for feedback. As this is a first time for a big story- does anyone have any opinion on how fast I post sections? The thing is done and I'm doing quick read throughs before posting, but I could, conceivably, post this all over a few days provided that I avoid enough work. Whaddya think?

you can post as much as you want anytime :) would it kill you to post a chapter every day? I'm hooked! :)

God and peace
Vanessa :)

Great stuff, Nomad.

I love this paragraph:

:D B) :D

AE... glad you liked that little change ;)

Next 3 sections are falling right now because they're relatively short and they kind of go together. I need to get this thing entirely posted by next week (yay for vacation!). Thanks and enjoy :)


Chapter 4: Q&A

Chase’s keys were in his leather brief that hung over the back of one of the conference room chairs. He looked at them through the glass. He wanted to go home- but had refused the police officer’s offer to drop him there, instead going back to the hospital in search of his brief.

He’d come in that morning, steered by routine, hung the brief on the back of the chair, gone to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup from the pot that Cameron had made. He’d sat at the same chair that his brief hung on, turning and pulling out an oncology text. He flipped through it for a while, skimming for treatment regimes for appendix cancer- he’d been in the clinic the day before when a patient came in experiencing irritation over a recent incision. She’d been to see some friends in New Jersey, she’d said, in case she didn’t see them again.

“Appendix cancer,” she’d said, as he looked at the irritation, seeing that she’d probably just worn the wrong pants and they’d rubbed the wrong way.

He’d frowned then, seeing her outlook, and after he sent her home, he brought out the only oncology book he had and stuck it in his brief for the morning reading.

House had come in not much later, earlier than normal in fact. Chase found out he’d been in the clinic since nine, which was unusual, but not without precedent. He called them all in for their newest patient and they’d all been disgusted with his crass remarks. Foreman, having pulled a night shift, scoffed and made to leave. And then Jack Moriarty had walked into their office and shot their boss.

The event itself had been shocking. Once everything was moving again, it was pure training. And afterwards, when the police officers had driven them to the station to make their statements, he’d felt like a prisoner. He and Foreman had let Cameron sit in the front of the squad car and they had taken the backseat, separated from the driver and their colleague by a thick barrier. The officer had had to let them out of car himself- the doors didn’t open from the inside.

Chase had never been in trouble- not real trouble- when he was a kid. So when the officer led him, separately, to a detective’s desk, he’d been apprehensive. The apparent nervousness irritated the detective, who’d had a fight with his wife earlier that morning, and Chase had been at the receiving end of a cop’s bad day.

“So what happened?” The detective had asked, putting a cup of coffee down in front of Chase.

“I dunno,” Chase replied. “It was fast- really fast.” Chase fell silent. How could he explain it?

The cop, Detective O’Brian, had sighed heavily, tapping his pen on the notepad in front of him, his eyes squeezed tight. He motioned with his hands, impatient and urging, “And…”

Chase shrugged. “He just came into the office, asked which one of us was House.”

“House being…”

“My boss.” Chase picked up on the cop’s obvious boredom and anger began its slow swell into his chest.

“What time did this occur?”

Chase shrugged, frowning. Time. Right. He had to cooperate. The guy had shot House. “It was just past eleven.”

“Where were you at this time?”

“I was at the conference table with Cameron and Foreman.” Easy question. Location. “House was at the board- he was writing. His back was to the door.”

“What else did this guy say?”

“He asked which one of us was House.”

“What happened next?”

Chase leaned back. Would House’s sarcastic remarks be taken as a defense against a shooter? Chase considered the issue, considered Cameron and the fact that she was with another detective at the very same moment, and responded. “House turned around, told him to leave thank you gifts at the front desk.”

“And then…”

“The guy pulled out a gun and shot him.”

“Where?”

“In the gut,” Chase responded, his hand moving to a similar location that House had been shot, rubbing a spot there.

“Nothing else happened in between? Did he threaten anyone before he acted?”

Chase shook his head. “No- he pointed the gun at us, told us not to move and then he…” Chase paused and the detective breathed again, heavily, waiting. “He pointed the gun back at House.”

“Who was this guy?” Another shrug. “Any reason for him to come after Dr. House?” The detective’s eyes squinted again and he put a question mark in his notes as Chase’s face drew a blank. He outlined the question mark a few times, the ink making it darker and more noticeable. “No idea?”

“Never seen him,” Chase had responded.

“What happened next?”

“Dr. Foreman was closest and he… jumped. They fought. The gun went off the second time. The guy, he was so close to House that… it hit House in the neck. Foreman got the gun away. I picked it up. Once everything was under control-“

“Yeah yeah… Did the shooter say anything else? Did he say anything before or after shooting Dr. House the second time?”

Chase had had to think hard. His heart had been beating so hard in his chest by then that he’d barely been able to hear anything. “Uh,” Chase started. “Yeah, he said…” Chase paused, thinking.

The detective was used to victims being in shock and normally he was a compassionate guy, or at least a good impostor. But Chase was a doctor- high brow- and a foreigner at that. Couldn’t string two sentences together. Weren’t doctors trained to deal with emergencies? You’d think that they could relate a story, for god’s sake. That and his crazy wife. Jesus- he wished that he hadn’t gone to softball game the night before. Whole situation could’ve been avoided. The detective tapped his pen some more, then pushed back in his chair and swung his arms behind his head. The detective’s posture made Chase angry and his shock and emotion burst forth:

“If you don’t have time to do your job, then you can get the story from the others. They were there, too. Better yet- get it from House- if he wakes up.”

“Whoa, whoa,” O’Brian calmed, putting his hands back on his desk, pen back to the notepad. “Relax, kid. We need your statement- along with the others- so we can put this guy away.” O’Brian sighed, trying to focus on getting Chase’s statement again. “Now what else did he say?”

“I couldn’t hear him. Something about hurting him- House.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Chase peered at his leather brief, the book he’d been reading was sitting on the table, through the glass. Two forensic technicians were measuring the distance from the table to the blood stain, photographing, drawing.

There was a presence behind him and he turned, coming to face Wilson.

“How is he?” Chase asked, glancing behind him before turning back to the glass windows in front of him. One arm rested in the crook of the other elbow, a hand at his mouth, biting the skin on his thumb.

“Holding his own,” Wilson responded. “Surgery went well. He’ll be sore for a while.”

Chase nodded, then questioned, moving his hand to cross his arms. “Ketamine?”

“No,” Wilson responded. “Not yet.” He sighed and nodded at the technicians. “How long have they been in there?”

“About an hour.” Chase looked at his watch.

“You should go home.”

“Can’t,” Chase sighed. “Keys,” he nodded towards the conference table and the brief, hanging on the back of the chair.

Wilson’s head tilted back, understanding. His mouth twisted. “I could…”

Chase shook his head. “I’ll wait.”

“Listen,” Wilson started. “What you guys did…”

Chase was already nodding, accepting Wilson’s thank you, congratulations, or whatever positive commentary he was trying to bestow on their “heroic” actions. He hadn’t been a hero. He’d barely reacted to the incident. Was barely able to speak about it. Wilson’s words hung for a moment and Chase realized he’d stopped talking. “Yeah,” he murmured, quiet.

Wilson’s mouth twisted again and he stood on his toes for a moment, rocked back then blew out a breath.

“I need to get back.”

“Yeah.”

Chase didn’t turn as Wilson walked away. His gaze was fixed to the conference room: the blood on the floor, the whiteboard- askew, the cane beside it, Foreman’s briefcase. Chase’s eyes returned to his leather brief on the back of the chair. He wondered if blood spatters could travel that far.


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Chapter 5: Mute

Cameron crossed her arms on the desk across from Detective Cynthia Jones. Jones had offered her a cup of tea, which sat cooling in front of Cameron’s arms. Cameron’s eyes, red-streaked, lifted to the ceiling, tried to contain the emotion they wanted to leak. Jones pushed the box of tissues closer to the interviewee, relaxed and sympathetic.

“I’m sorry,” Cameron sighed, taking a breath. “It’s just…”

“It’s a traumatic event. You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“He’s an ass,” she stated into the table. “He treats everyone like crap.”

The detective crossed her legs, sat straighter in her chair. It wasn’t something that she particularly liked to hear coming from a prosecutor’s witness. But she maintained her silence and listened. Given Cameron’s eyes, she realized that there was probably more to the story. If Cameron really hated Dr. House, she’d have her statement down in five minutes. They’d already been there for ten.

“He’s the best doctor I’ve ever known.” Cameron sighed, sipped her tea. “He’s focused, brilliant… intense….”

The detective’s eyes narrowed for a half second and her chin tilted to the left, beginning to think that there was something more to this subordinate’s relationship with the doctor who had been shot. She looked down at the ad-hoc file again. Forty-six year old doctor, head of a department, and she had a “fellow” in front of her- obviously young. Cameron didn’t see the movement and continued. The detective began to take notes.

“We treated this guy’s wife- a year ago? A year and a half? His wife had had an aneurysm- in her brain. We thought, at first, that it had to be an infection, an illness. But it wasn’t in the end. She went home- healthy. But…”

“So why did this guy shoot Dr. House?”

“House- he’s confrontational. He doesn’t care if he’s right or wrong- he…” Cameron paused. “He confronts people with information he thinks is true and watches their reactions. If he’s right… he’s usually right, actually.” Cameron’s hand lifted, went back to the desk, resigned.

“So he confronted Moriarty.”

“Moriarty had had an affair with another woman. House was convinced that it was an STD that caused the aneurysm. It wasn’t. Moriarty didn’t have an STD. Neither did his wife. The aneurysm was a fluke.”

“But why did Moriarty hate House so much?”

Cameron’s eyes lifted to the ceiling again, a hint of a laugh emanated from her lips. “House told her… so she knew her husband cheated.”

“And?”

Cameron shrugged. “I guess she left him.”

“Did Dr. House do anything to provoke the attack?”

“He lives to provoke,” she scoffed. “He’s… bitter.”

“Why?” The detective probed.

Cameron frowned, taking her tea again, sipping it. “It’s just that he’s….” she paused, searching for a word. “It’s difficult for him… his disability…” she trailed.

“Yeah,” the detective murmured, shaking her head. So he was a bitter old guy. He lived to provoke. Jones figured that Dr. House provoked a lot of people in his time- so why did this guy take revenge? Was it something in particular that House did or was the guy an anomoly? “Listen,” she said, moving the conversation forward. “Did Dr. House ever threaten Moriarty?”

“No. House forgets patients as soon as they’re cured.”

“How about the other way around- did Moriarty in any way threaten Dr. House? Prior to the incident, I mean.”

Cameron shook her head. “I… answer Dr. House’s mail. So nothing came that way. He just showed up.”

The detective nodded again. “And it was the first you’d seen of him since originally treating his wife?”

“Yeah. Out of the blue.”

“Did he make demands?”

Cameron shook her head. “No. He asked which one of us was House. And then once he figured it out, he fired.”

“What.. exactly… is your relationship to Dr. House?” The question was blatant and intended to shock. Jones realized that even though the relationship (whatever it was) was probably insignificant, all the bases had to be covered. Sometimes, a single question could open a new avenue. For instance, Jones thought in a half second, Moriarty and Cameron had collaborated- the angry ex revenge plot. Jones doubted it, but every avenue needed to be covered.

Cameron’s eyes went wide for a moment and then calmed, huffing. “You think that’s significant?”

“Everything’s significant.”

Cameron’s eyes shot to the ceiling a third time, this time with her mouth open and disbelieving. She licked her lips.

“He’s… my boss,” she responded.

“But there was something else… before… right?”

“He… God…” she muttered. “This is hard to explain.” The statement was quiet and embarrassed.

“Take your time.”

After a few moments, Cameron continued. “We went on one date. I asked him. But he’s… difficult.”

“Who called it off?”

“He… no one called it off. It was one date and it didn’t go that well.”

“Awkward?”

Cameron laughed, an inconspicuous ‘ha.” She paused, looked at her tea again. “I… yeah,” Cameron stated, frowning.

Detective Jones made a note, nodded, put her hand on top of Cameron’s. Cameron’s fingers opened, squeezed, and her head nodded, eyes tearing again.


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Chapter 6: Flag Raising

The day after reminded him of the day he’d heard his mother had Alzheimer’s. Foreman got up late, the knowledge that he had the day off thick in his head. Sleeping in was a luxury, and he might as well take advantage of it. When he’d looked at the clock, he could barely believe the time: Noon.

The last time he had slept until noon had been when he was in undergrad- after finals week his junior year at Columbia . And then he’d had a girlfriend in his bed to explain his curious exhaustion.

This time, it was just him, lying in bed in his pajama bottoms and a tank, his hand on his forehead, pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger. Dammit.

His first instinct was to call the hospital- Cuddy or Wilson- to find out if House was still alive.

He’s fine. Foreman convinced himself. House had to be fine, or Foreman might be out of a job. Or he might have a better one. House would live, he decided.

Despite the inclination to have the opinion that House was a bastard, Foreman was the only one of the three fellows to realize that House was just a man. Foreman respected him, honored him as a superior doctor, but realized that he could make mistakes. And this, obviously, had been the mistake to cap them all.

Making someone so mad they shot you. Yep, big mistake.

Foreman threw the covers off, got to his feet, and headed for his kitchen. Even after he’d picked up his newspaper from the front door, made the coffee, and poured a bowl of cereal, he still couldn’t get the inclination to check up on House out of his mind. It pulled at him. He couldn’t focus on the newspaper, and stared blankly ahead, chewing, swallowing. Eric Foreman was neither impatient nor a worrier. If something needed to be done, he did it. If something was worth worrying about, he either got over it or acted to rectify it.

Folding the unread newspaper and slapping it back on the table, Foreman took the remainder of his coffee back to the bedroom.

After the rush of the previous day, the hospital seemed eerily quiet. Foreman vaguely wondered if news of the event had dissuaded potential patients from entering their grounds, preferring to treat their illnesses by other means. The admittance clerk looked at Foreman just a moment too long, though, and Foreman pretended not to notice, heading for the stairs and taking them two at a time. He had little doubt as to what he’d run into once he got there- but the scene still made him wince. Some things never changed.

Wilson was hovering at the ICU nursing station, the look of a worried friend hanging on his features. The nurse in front of him was smiling sympathetically, sucking up the need, occasionally placing a hand on top of Wilson’s. Cameron was by House’s bed, silently reading. At least she’d changed clothes- she wore scrubs. Her eyes kept blinking, as if there were something in them, or she had difficulty keeping them open. And House himself- unconscious, seemed the most peaceful Foreman had ever seen, with the exception that he was hooked into at least five different apparatuses and obviously unconscious.

Foreman gave a quiet knock on glass framing the door, announcing his presence to Cameron, who looked up and flipped the book facedown on her lap, sighing.He entered the room reluctantly, looking towards the monitors, his lips pinched. Everything seemed under control and his first urge, upon seeing that, was to berate Cameron for being there. House could probably care less. Do him a favor- call his hooker instead. The man was insufferable, why bother suffering for him?

But Foreman’s brush with death and Cameron’s subsequent aid, made him think twice about berating her. What would it serve? To anger her perhaps, make her more steadfast to stick around. He avoided the confrontation, but couldn’t think of much else to say except “How is he?”

Her response was typical, scientific. So far so good, no problems, no infection. But he was still unconscious. He’d been extubated that morning, but they’d left the NG tube as a precaution. He was holding his own and was expected to continue to do so.

Foreman nodded, silent, as he took in her appearance again from the corner of his eye. Her make-up gone, her hair pinched into a bun at the back of her head. There might've been the remnants of a crying spell in the space between her eyes and the lids. Just a tinge of redness. She hadn't slept. And she hadn't gone home.

“What did the cops tell you?” Cameron asked, quietly.

Foreman shrugged in response to her question. “Not much. The usual, I guess.” He was being honest. The interview had almost bored him. It was over in an hour and the detective had given him a card. “Call me if you think of anything else.”He had shaken the guy’s hand and gone home.

Again restraining himself, Foreman asked Cameron if she needed anything, to call him. Then he went to the diagnostic office, having the security guard bring out the briefcase that he had left the day before. Foreman noticed that the whole room was exactly the same as he’d left it- but the blood was drying. The security guard taped a sheet of paper to the floor where the briefcase had been laying. Foreman then walked into Cuddy’s office. He wasn’t sure why. He just knew he should check in- find out what they were supposed to do now that House would be laid up.

Cuddy was on the phone when he entered, a fist resting against her forehead. When she saw Foreman, she raised a finger, motioning at him to wait.

“…No, he’s doing fine for now, but he hasn’t woken up.”

She listened for a moment and Foreman heard the sound of a concerned female voice on the other end.

“It was major surgery and he lost a lot of blood. He’s going to be here for a while.”

Foreman sat in the chair across from Cuddy, his recovered briefcase going to the other chair. His legs crossed, feigning disinterest in the conversation. Cuddy’s tone was sympathetic. The options for the person on the other line were limited- could be Stacy, could be a relative. Foreman mentally bet on the latter.

Cuddy cracked her neck, picked up a pen and tapped it against her forehead. “You should try to come up…. Yes… Good… Okay. Take care.” She put the phone down, sighing, and looked to Foreman.

“His parents,” she said, “They'll probably be here day after tomorrow.”

“You want them to make the decision for you?” Foreman probed.

Cuddy scoffed. “Their son was just shot. If it were your son, wouldn’t you want to be there?”

Foreman, once again holding back a caustic statement about House and his parents, sighed. “Sure.” He believed that though House’s parents may want to be there, House most likely preferred them to stay away. Observing House try to duck out of his parents’ last visit made Foreman think that it was likely that the relationship was just as damaged as House. Maybe it was damaged because of House. Foreman shook himself out of his reverie and spoke: “House is out of commission for a while. Longer if you go through with this treatment.”

Cuddy nodded. “You’ll be in charge- temporarily. At least this time, you won’t have to deal with him. But just take the next few days off.”

Foreman nodded, accepting. It wasn’t that he wanted it- but he’d expected it. Life goes on. Foreman figured he should buy some groceries, grab some DVD’s.

edited... inpatient... impatient...ehhh... (thanks)

I really liked these past few chapters. It was interesting to see the p.o.v. from Cameron, Foreman and Chase :) You're doing a great job, keep up the hard work :)

God and peace
Vanessa :)

Not much to say other than I like it. I am reading with bated breath.

Although I believe the word you want in regard to the repair of the injuries is "resected" rather than "resectioned". I could be wrong, that and in the last entry in reference to Foreman you "inpatient" as in staying in the hospital rather than "impatient". Just minor nitpicks though. Everything else is great.

Like I said I'm really enjoying it.

Chapter 7: Emergent

Awareness crept slowly up through his fingers- first to the hard plastic shell encasing his left index finger, to the slight ache of the needle in the vein atop his hand. The blanket under them, soft, worn. He felt the slightest tinge of discomfort in his gut and neck, like he’d worked out too hard or maybe pulled a muscle. He breathed in- deeper, almost sighing and was suddenly aware of the cool flow of oxygen through his nostrils. And something else- something foreign, extending through his nostrils, further south, down his throat. He grimaced, lifted a heavy hand to his face. The now feeling fingers felt the course growth against his face, his awakening brain registering that he’d been shot, had surgery, been unconscious. His hand traveled south, to his neck, feeling the bandages there and reawakening the throbbing. He didn’t remember anything injuring him there- just the one in his stomach. His hand traveled south, reaching under the blankets, and felt the packing surrounding his torso.

He remembered this from before. He'd hallucinated this scenario- waking up. But this felt different. His body felt dulled, practically dead. His arms were weights. There was smell this time- sterility and cheap laundry detergent, the taste of blood in his mouth. Reality was much less fun.

“How do you feel?”

House’s eyes, dry and crusty, opened, blinking into the dim lights of the room, looking up into the slightly blurred face of his boss, who looked uncharacteristically disheveled, worry creeping into her eyes and her lips, melting it, but not quite to the grotesque. Her make-up was old, wiped away by the day. Her hair was pulled back, greasy, and loose strands hung around her brow. He could see recent sleep evident in her eyes.

He shifted a bit, still accessing himself. His tongue felt two sizes too big for his mouth. His lips were cracked, sore. The pain from his wounds, considering what he remembered, was expected. There was no burning, just the vague throb bouncing up through the medication. He was swathed in a cotton ball, the world was dampened.

“Why the NG?” he muttered, barely a whisper, referring to the tube extending to his stomach, grimacing as talking irritated his nose and throat. He shut his eyes against the irritations, lifted his chin a bit, swallowed.

“You’ve been pretty out of it. We weren’t sure when you were going to wake up. I can take it when you’re ready.”

“Ready now.” Irritated.

“How’s everything else?” Cuddy leaned in with her penlight, flashing it across his eyes.

House winced, blinking, and ignored the question. “What time is it?”

“Late,” Cuddy murmured, stepping back, going to the cabinets at the far side of the room and grabbing a pair of gloves, a basin, and a towel.

“Why are you here?” House asked as Cuddy draped the towel over his chest.

“Ready?”

House nodded and gagged as the tube was pulled out. His eyes reddened, watered and his nose immediately felt stuffy. Cuddy turned again and when she returned, she handed House the basin and a paper cup filled with green liquid . “Don’t swallow- spit.” He did as instructed and laid back, closing his eyes. And thus it was unexpected when a warm cloth was placed against his face, moving over his eyes and nose, down to his cheeks and mouth. Cuddy was rubbing a warm cloth against his face and he let her continue, but didn’t open his eyes. He was enjoying the feeling of the damp warmth that left him feeling twice as clean. It felt too good to be embarrased. He sighed, breathing, as she turned to put the cloth to the side. House opened his eyes to watch her as he focused on measuring the extent of the damage to his body. He felt the telling feeling of another tube next to his leg. God forbid Cuddy touch that one.

“Why are you here?” he repeated, less groggy.

“I drew the short straw,” she retorted. Then she sighed, putting her hands on the rail of the bed. “Cameron wouldn’t leave you alone. Wilson refused to sleep. I told them I’d take the watch. They smelled bad.”

House mulled this over in his head for a moment, thoughts tagging along behind the steady pull of what he assumed was morphine.

“What’s the damage?” It was more of a sigh than a question.

“What do you remember?”

“Got shot.”

“You had a magic bullet. It bounced off of a rib or two- lacerated your right kidney, nicked your bowel and stomach. Hence the NG. Second one nicked your jugular and lodged in the floor.” House’s eyebrows lifted and he fingered the padding on his gut again as Cuddy continued: “That was yesterday. You lost a lot of blood…” she trailed. House sighed, shut his eyes. The questions were pending, floating tension in the two feet that separated him from his boss. “You asked for Ketamine,” she paused. “In the ER…. Do you remember?”

House breathed, still fingering the gauze wrapping around his torso. If they knew about the Ketamine, he wondered if they knew about the morphine- like his hallucination. He barely remembered being in the ER and wasn’t exactly sure that it hadn’t been part of the hallucination. He couldn’t stalk off. Couldn’t even magically disappear to reappear in the stairwell, wondering where time went. Hazy thoughts searched for a retort, an off-topic remark to draw the attention away from the request, a remark on Cuddy’s blouse, a stabbing comment about her guilt, tell her kids were more trouble than they were worth, wasn’t the hospital enough?

“House.”

Her voice was stern, but somehow sympathetic and House realized that his eyes had shut and that he’d been drifting in a myriad of pre-sleep thoughts. Everything felt weighted. Seconds extended to minutes and hours.

“Tired.” It was a whisper, half-conscious.

Cuddy sighed, resigned. “You should get some rest.”

House turned his head, and let the exhaustion pull his eyes closed.


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It wasn’t that Wilson was a bad doctor, in fact he was exceedingly good. Terribly young for a department head- probably why his relationships failed. Work came first. Wives and friends came second. Often his emotions were confused- he treated his relationships like projects; his medicine like a relationship. When friends and medicine were paired, as they so often were when they dealt with House (whether professional or in the context of a medical problem- addiction, for instance), the two combined into a gangrenous pool of too much care. It was what House thought anyway- of Wilson’s prodding into his medical condition. So it was to his dismay that the next time he awoke, it was Wilson doing the prodding. House opened his eyes to find Wilson looking at something near his face and frowning. By the feel of it, he was checking the sutures on his neck, looking very closely, in fact. “How’s it looking?” Wilson jumped back, startled.

“Jesus, House…”

Wilson straightened up, recovered, grabbed a new gauze pad and tape from the cart next to the bed, and re-bandaged the wound before he spoke again.

“It’s healing,” Wilson answered House’s earlier question. “How’s…everything else?”

House shut his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“MRI was the same… again.” Wilson uttered, looking at a spot on the wall, absently crossing his arms. House’s mouth opened, shut again, sighed. After the initial infarction, he’d had yearly MRI’s, documenting the slow atrophy and wasting of his leg. Eventually, its degeneration had stabilized and nothing was ever normal, but it never changed either.

“Could’ve told you that.”

Wilson nodded, looking away again and keeping his arms crossed as he paced to the wall in front of the bed and leaned against it, his right leg crossing over his left as he stood. The thought of House’s request sprung to his mind, but he shook it off. It was crazy. It was radical. It was something House would do to a patient if there was no other choice but death. As he stared as his best friend, the gauntness and the growth of beard on his face, the i.v.’s, the cardiac leads, the bandages that peeked through the ‘v’ in the hospital gown, he wanted desperately to confront him- tell him it wasn’t real pain, that he was asking for this radical treatment for a perceived illness that didn’t exist in physical reality. But the very fact that House was asking for this treatment was a testament to its reality and that the radical measures were the last alternative.

Wilson had read over the procedure required for the experimental conditions. Patients were left completely dependent on medical care for five days- put on a ventilator, catheterized, with multiple i.v. lines for nutrition and monitoring. He’d be flat on his back for those five days, susceptible to lung and bladder infections, not to mention painful bedsores. He’d be unable to move for a few days afterwards, have difficulty for weeks, even if the pain in his leg was gone. He’d have to give up his fierce independence for complete reliance- something he hadn’t done since he’d allowed Cuddy and Stacy to put him into an induced coma after the infarction. Wilson knew that House was saying something by willing to go through with a procedure that put his trust in everyone else. Exactly what he was saying was incomprehensible.

Wilson stared at his friend a moment longer.

House, seemingly frustrated with Wilson’s silence, reached for the television remote and absently began flipping through channels, trying to ignore Wilson’s cautious silence.

If Wilson wanted to say something, House wished he’d say it. The silence was unnerving. So he’d been shot. So he’d asked for the one thing that could possibly make his life bearable again. House wasn’t sure of Wilson’s intentions just yet and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know them.

“Did you know the guy?” Wilson spoke, finally, breaking the moment of awkwardness with an easy question.

“Maybe,” House responded, seemingly despondent. “Don’t remember.”

Wilson paused for a moment, wanting to keep talking, but somehow unable to speak about anything meaningful. He’d hoped that mention of the shooter would bring House into a conversation, but it had fallen flat. He brought up the first thing that might make House reply with something more than a one or two word phrase, but didn’t broach the subject of Ketamine. “Stacy called. Your name wasn’t even mentioned, but she knew it was you…”

“What did you tell her?” House asked, his eyes flicking from the screen to Wilson, interested.

“I told her what happened.” Wilson stayed against the wall, tapping a finger against his bicep.

“Is she coming?” House asked.

Wilson shook his head. “I think you had the final say in that one. She was concerned...” The hurt flashed through House’s eyes and in another moment, before House had the opportunity to think about it more, Wilson switched the subject again. Keep talking. “Cleaned your apartment.”

House was back to silent nods. Screw up. He never should have poked at the wound.

“I’ve got Chase on rat duty,” Wilson lied, still trying to spark a reaction.

Another silent nod made Wilson frustrated. No witty remark, not even a glare.

House flipped the television off and put his head back on the pillow again. “I’m tired.”

Wilson nodded, knowingly. “I’ve got rounds in fifteen. Get some rest.”

Wilson strode out the door, beginning with a quick walk, then slowing once he reached the corner. He had an hour before rounds. It was obvious to him that either House was too uncomfortable to bother with conversation or was caught up in his own thoughts. Wilson didn’t want to push him in either circumstance. Let him mull it over. Let him heal. Even if House had been willing to talk it through, Wilson wasn’t sure what he wanted House to say, where the conversation should go. He did know, however, that he wasn’t ready to deal with the reality of House's situation.

The harsh reality was that House’s injuries and his prior condition made complete recovery questionable. It didn’t matter if the pain in his leg was real or not- if it existed, it was a problem. To get him on his feet was important, to restore circulation, to get him moving, but he had an eight inch incision running vertically down his abdomen, a resected bowel, and a stitched up half functioning kidney, a cracked a posterior rib. If walking was a bitch before, it would be impossible now. Wilson shook his head again and headed back to his desk.


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A physiotherapist by the name of Karl, who House compared to a Nazi by the same name, roused him just after noon, and convinced him to try to move. House was concrete. “If you don’t try to get some mobility back now, you’ll be even stiffer than before.” Karl worked with patients in all forms. He worked with patients that had been in a coma for three years. He worked on patients coming out of knee surgery and still anesthetized.

Karl had desperately hoped, when he heard that he was assigned Dr. House’s case, that Dr. House would stay unconscious for a few days. The pressure of working on a doctor, and a well-known asshole at that, made Karl stay in the cafeteria just a moment longer, gathering his reserves for what he knew would be a tough battle. The customer was awake. And the customer was terminally unsatisfied.

But Karl was a man of his word and a man who held his work ethic and commitment to the extreme, so he dragged himself up the stairs by his own collar, pushed himself into the ICU, and wandered into House’s room.

“Dr. House?” Karl said, quietly trying to rouse him. Karl tapped House’s face, lightly. “Dr. House, PT time. If aren’t awake now, you’ll be awake in a few minutes.” Despite House’s eventual accusation, Karl was not a Nazi. He loved kittens and puppies and he didn’t believe in waking up ICU patients by moving them into painful positions. Better that they had a warning.

House had grumbled an unintelligible response, tried to turn on his right side. Denied the movement by the pain in his gut, neck, and leg, House rolled back to center, opening his eyes and blinking. “Now?”

Karl nodded and turned to shut the blinds to the room, giving them some privacy. He pulled the blanket from House’s legs, began to work his ankles and calves, pushing and pulling, prodding the muscles into movement.

“Listen, I’m really tired right now,” House complained after two minutes.

“We have to do this until you’re up on your own again. If you want to try to walk, we can do that, too.”

“It hurts.” House stated simply “And I’m practically tied to this bed,” he said, pulling at the i.v. So either sedate me or leave.”

Karl shook his head, not taking the bait. He was a man who did his job. “I’ll call Dr. Cuddy, I’m sure she’ll have something to say.”

House frowned, rested his head back on the pillow and Karl grabbed his left knee, moving and bending it. He was gentler with the right, but House’s face was red and sweating by the time Cuddy walked in. He was gasping and seething with each movement.

“If this is your idea of torture, it’s working,” House grunted as Karl lowered his leg again and covered him.

Cuddy grabbed House’s chart and frowned, unresponsive to his remark. She looked it over and, satisfied, she put it back down as Karl moved to House’s arms. House relaxed again, his breathing coming slower and his face less red.

“Where are the kids?” House gasped, when his breathing was under control again.

Cuddy leaned over the morphine and tapped it up a bit, giving House a bit more relief. He was still gasping as Karl maneuvered his arms.

“I gave them a few days. They watched you get shot.”

“Didn’t die… yet,” House retorted as Karl stopped.

“We’ll get you on your feet tomorrow, Dr. House.”

“Yeah… you and what army?”

Karl, his eyebrows lifting, his lips turned down, nodded knowingly. Bastard. Thank god Chuck was next. Chuck hadn’t moved on his own in a year and wouldn’t last another two months.

House watched his tormenter leave and then looked to Cuddy as the extra morphine kicked into action. “Thanks,” he muttered, relaxing again. She rested her hands on the rail, spread them, and looked down at him.

“You should’ve told us what was going on, House. If anyone else finds out about your private stash…” Quick and dirty. Just how he liked it. So she did know. The next question was how she found out. Either Wilson said something, or he’d done a poor job sticking himself. He managed a quick glance towards his arms. When did he get sloppy?

With the tasty pull of the upped dosage, House’s witticism was back. “I only party after work and on the weekends.”

“You should have told us. We could’ve done something.”

“What? Tell me it’s in my head? Give me a shot of saline?”

“I’m sorry,” Cuddy, quietly, still looking at him. “If you still want the Ketamine once you’re out of ICU, we’ll discuss it then- after we’ve given every other option a chance. It’s an extreme treatment, House.”

House realized the irony of Cuddy’s words- the fact that seven years ago, he’d wanted every option to have a chance and every option had been reduced to one by an induced coma and a medical proxy. Cuddy left before House could say anymore, leaving him to stew alone.

After an hour, contemplation turned to boredom, and boredom to exhaustion as House’s injuries overtook him and he descended, once again, to sleep.

Chapter 8: Sour Pickles

Cameron’s treadmill began slowing once the red numbers said 45:00. As the tread slowed to a walking pace, she swiped the sweat from her forehead with the towel that had hung on the rail in front of her. Bits of her hair had fallen loose, and she pushed them back, much like the thoughts she was trying to erase. The run had taken her mind off things for just a moment- the concentration focused on getting past the next minute with her lungs and legs in tact. There was something to be said for physical pain- it was a distraction from emotions and concern.

But as soon as her breathing calmed and her legs slowed their trembling, Cameron’s thoughts returned to the events of the past week. She thought of House’s pacing- relentless and troubled. Agitated day in and out, eyes red in the morning and squinting through the night. And then she thought of his slightly unbelieving glance as a gun was pointed at his face. She thought of how she hadn’t really heard the second shot at all. After the loudness of the first, her ears rang. And then Foreman had jumped and she hadn’t been sure if she was still alive. Except for a moment of fleeting shock, instinct and training had been her guide- right up until House’s eyes had opened wide and he’d muttered “hello.” And the humanity of the situation made her more basic instincts takeover- to nurture, protect, comfort. “It’s going to be okay.” She’d been grateful and disappointed when the nurse and taken her hands, pushed her back to the foot of the bed. And then she’d stood and stared blankly at her inability to think or act. Despite the fact she was a doctor- trained, experienced in emergency situations. Doctoring instincts were compromised when a personal relationship was involved. No matter boss and subordinate, colleague, lover. His blood on her hands, on Chase’s hands. His life in her hands for just a few moments on the interminable desperate ride to the ER.

Letting her heart slow a bit more, Cameron wiped her head again and began shucking clothes as she headed for her shower. The hot water cleansed her body. The rest would take more than soap and water.

The phone rang as she wrapped the towel around her hair. She went to it, clasping her robe around her. It was Wilson on the other end, telling her that House was awake, lucid. Cameron wanted to see him. Wilson didn’t think it was a good idea. He was still sleeping most of the time, he’d said. Still dosed on morphine. Still in a lot of pain and letting everyone know it. Give him a day or two- let him get on his feet again and let go of some of the more embarrassing aspects of being in the ICU. She said she would. She’d send him some flowers. He’d scoff and grimace and be embarrassed all the same. Cameron would feel a little better for it.

House’s face soured when he saw the bouquet of flowers coming in from the nurse’s station. Had to be Cameron’s idea. Cuddy knew him better. Wilson wasn’t gay. And Stacy couldn’t. So when they were followed by Cuddy and a nurse, House blamed his boss for allowing them to be sent. Cuddy made no response, just peered at his monitors, taking note that his heart rate was higher than normal, and she watched as the nurse took notes off of the machinery onto House’s chart.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“That’s the fourth time you’ve asked me since…” House paused, trying to remember how many early morning rounds he’d seen pass. He couldn’t come up with a clear answer and continued: “Since whatever day it was when I woke up. Do we need to have a chat?” The attempt at a joke fell flat and Cuddy crossed her arms, going straight to business.

“What do you want to do with your team?”

Thinking of an answer, House turned his head when the nurse wanted his ear for the thermometer. The thermometer beeped and House didn’t miss the glance that the nurse gave Cuddy as she was writing. Cuddy motioned for the chart, glanced it over.

“Your temperature’s up, House.” She didn’t mention the flushed tone of his face.

“I can’t help myself... you’re…”

“It’s over 100.”

House shrugged, winced as the movement pulled on his abdomen.

Cuddy moved to him, tugging the flimsy gown to its side to reveal the swath of bandages surrounding House’s torso. The nurse was already ready with the scissors and handed to them to Cuddy when she held her hand out.

Cuddy might’ve said, when she was in her first year of residency, that it was really the patients that she loved. She enjoyed seeing them, interacting, solving their problems, and seeing them recover. Even as she’d said it, the emotional distance that she’d so carefully learned and respected as a matter of necessity in treating bodily ills, was maintained. As she’d moved through the medical setting, gaining on her peers, succeeding where others were stagnant, she’d distanced herself physically from most of her patients. Instead of seeing them face to face, she saw their paperwork, their blood tests, diagnosed their ills, recommended treatment, heard of their recovery.

She’d been forced into taking House’s case seven years beforehand. House didn’t make it a point of practicing what he preached and he didn’t have a primary care physician. The last doctor he’d seen had died of a stroke two years beforehand and House, despite Stacy’s urgings, had neglected to find another. So when he was misdiagnosed and mistreated in the hospital where she was considered “next in line,” Cuddy had taken his case. It hadn’t been much of a big deal then- she knew him as a co-worker, a former fellow student, and someone in need of expert medical care. Mostly, she oversaw, except for the one night where everything had stopped for a minute and she’d had to jolt his heart back to life. But afterwards, maybe because of it, she’d developed a tighter relationship with Stacy, resulting in even more guilt over House, and leading her to this:

Nervous over touching a patient.

Just tissue and blood and guts. No big deal. Just skin.

House, resigned and embarrassed, turned his head, unable to look at her. When the bandages were gone, his stomach was bare. Shaved. Still orange from the betadine and swollen. The incision was red at the edges, inflamed. Cuddy, her hands now gloved, touched the edges of it, wincing. She pushed down on it, noting that it was still supple.

“Feel sick at all, House? Have you been keeping anything down?”

“You mean that liquid diet they’ve been forcing on me?” Cuddy looked at him. It was a look House recognized: the one that said that it might be more important than a joke. “No. I didn’t notice anything different.”

Nodding, Cuddy peeled her gloves off and tossed them in the biohazard bag. She turned to the nurse, barking orders for antibiotics and blood tests. Cuddy turned back to House, this time pulling the dressings from his neck wound.

“If they left a sponge, I’ll sue. Who did my surgery?”

Cuddy ignored his question, taking the dressing on House’s neck off and disposing of it. “This one looks okay,” she said more to the nurse, “but I think you just bought yourself an extra day in ICU.”

House looked down at his stomach. The bullet wound was small, neat, compact. It was the surgical incision that told him that the bullet was more damaging than its appearance. It was ugly, the inflamed ridges marked by heavy black stitches, tied in a knot near his belly button. Like the bear that his dog had ripped all the stuffing out of when he was five. His mom had stitched it up, but she hadn’t been able to find any matching thread at the PX, so the stitches were neat, but grossly apparent. It also reminded him of the first time he’d seen his leg after the surgery- that had looked neat too. It had been swollen enough to look like there was still something there. He couldn’t see how much muscle was actually missing. He had seen the tubing coming out the side of his leg, but not the drainage bottle under the bed. It hadn’t been for a month afterward that the indentation began to cave his leg in, make it repulsive.

House began to feel the effects of the fever. Suddenly cold, and bared to the waist, his hand reached for the blanket. His arm was covered with goosebumps. Cuddy had hung an additional i.v. and she was straightening it, catching glances at him.

“I’ll get a nurse to wrap you back up. Try to get some rest.”

By afternoon, his fever was spiking. He shivered under the too thin hospital blankets. Nothing would’ve been thick enough. He yelled at Cuddy for allowing him to get shot. He yelled at Cameron when she ignored Wilson’s request to stay away. He was at his ugliest, and even her undying need to care couldn’t handle his fever-induced condescending tones. Angry, ill, he’d been embarrassed when he’d lost his liquid lunch on her shoes. The embarrassment had turned back to anger within seconds and if it hadn’t been for his weakness and his pain, he might have physically hurt her. Cameron had turned, called for a nurse, and left. House yelled at Wilson when he followed the nurse into the room. And Wilson yelled back, even as the nurse pushed the Compazine into the port.

Chapter 9: Beer and Buddies

Foreman and Chase never hung out. Occasional beers after work, usually accompanied by Cameron and sometimes a few of the nurses- the curious, naïve ones. Just across the street, and only for an hour or two. The bar was a deep dark brown, sparsely lighted, with unpolished wooden booths and a long bar of the same wood at the front. They’d sit at the bar, stare at their beers, and laugh at their job. They had nothing in common but the job. Foreman, the middle class black kid. Chase, the upper class foreigner with a world famous father. The boxer and the surfer. The guy who worked for everything he wanted, and the guy who got everything he didn’t want. Cameron had been the one to call them both, tell them both that she needed a drink and there was no one else she could think of calling. Foreman had sighed into the phone, knowing immediately that she’d been to see House and that it hadn’t gone well. Chase was more confused, but also more eager to meet with her.

Cameron held tight to her wine glass, swirling the red liquid within its confines as Foreman stared into his beer. Chase got the stool next to Cameron and ordered a beer for himself. Nothing had been said. It was Tuesday night. The bar was sparsely populated and the music playing, some pop song that someone had chosen from the jukebox, was almost too quiet to be heard. Chase noted that the bar looked cleaner than he’d ever seen it. He couldn’t even catch a whiff of a cigarette.

They started with niceties. The How are yous, Cuddy’s recommendation that they talk the hospital shrink, how long they were taking off of work and what they'd done with their day. Chase had seen the guy with the swollen tongue was taken care of by another doctor: allergy, he’d said. He’s fine.

“So, how’d it go?” Foreman asked, finally tired of the subtle tension that Cameron emanated. “How is he?”

Cameron scoffed, having never said she’d seen him. “He’s not well. He’s got an infection.”

Chase pursed his lips. Foreman drank from his beer.

“You could’ve told us this on the phone…” Chase said.

“I needed a drink.”

“What did he say to you?”

Cameron glared at Chase, the question seemingly too personal, yet it had been exactly what she wanted. She wanted the question, so she could answer it angrily. So she could tell them blatantly.

“He blamed me. He blamed us.”

Foreman smirked. Characteristic. “You said it yourself. He’s not well. And we didn’t piss off that guy. He did.”

“He blamed us for saving him.”

Foreman sobered, drank from his beer as the three fell silent. Chase looked around the rest of the bar, keeping his thoughts to himself. Of course he would’ve blamed them. The opportunity to get life over with. The opportunity to have it all pass away violently and suddenly- no agonizing painful demise, but a short, quick burst and unconsciousness dwindling to death. It would have been easier. Chase had his own questions about House’s state of mind. All three of them had their diagnoses of House’s mental health, ranging from depression (Cameron) to psychopath (Foreman). But House always had his reasons, his rationality. The rationality, the questions, and the one friendship he had with Wilson were probably the only reasons that House hadn’t hooked himself into a Kavorkian apparatus.

“He’s in pain…” Chase started.

“More than usual,” Foreman added, betraying his customary disapproval of Houses’s use of the term. It was more of an attempt to calm Cameron’s nerves.

Foreman and Chase never doubted that their boss was on edge. Cameron only saw that House needed someone to help him. Cameron would have accused Foreman and Chase of being pessimistic. They accused her of naïvity behind her back. Foreman spoke again, changing the subject to something less personal.

“Moriarty's grand jury hearing is on the 21st. We’ll have to testify.” Chase and Cameron nodded. “House too.”

“That’ll be fun,” Chase murmured.

“He won’t plead out. He’s claiming irresistible impulse. His wife died two days prior. Her funeral was that morning. Prosecutor says that its not a viable defense because House didn’t have anything to do with her death directly.”

“You’ve been talking to him?” Cameron asked.

“What else have we got to do?” The silence returned.

Chase pushed the last of his beer back with a grimace and put his hands flat on the bar. “Cameron, House will be fine,” he said, telling her what she wanted to hear. “Leave him alone,” he said, standing and putting a five dollar bill next to the empty bottle. “Cuddy gave us the week off, I’m going to get as far away from here as possible.”

Foreman lifted his chin to Chase in a customary nonverbal goodbye. And Cameron shook her head. “You don’t care our boss is suicidal?”

“If he were suicidal,” Chase started, “He’d have already done it. When does House not do anything he wants to do? He sleeps in exam rooms, wears t-shirts to work, and blatantly disregards every rule ever made. He probably just wanted you out.” Foreman’s eyes went to the side, thinking over Chase’s words before nodding his head. “See you guys next week.”

Cameron scoffed again and sipped from her glass. “You think he’s right?”

Foreman opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, the formulation of word and thought at a temporary mismatch. He sighed. “House is crazy. Shooting him didn’t change anything.” Thought said aloud. Ambiguity rampant, but words full enough to leave Cameron silent again. Foreman finished his beer. Cameron was still sipping her glass of wine. “Look, he’s going to be fine. Forget the whole thing happened. Chances are that he’ll forget too and everything will go back to normal. It’ll be fine.”

Cameron nodded as Foreman got to his feet and put down enough cash to cover his bill and her glass of wine.

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Cuddy’s desk was a mess. The new employee guide, still in draft loose leaf fluttered in multiple stacks. Errant piles of billing procedures cluttered her inbox and another stack of vendor pamphlets cluttered the second. GE was trying to sell them a second MRI. Cuddy signed off on a prepared letter, catching a brief glance of its contents- written by her assistant- the newest in a pool of moderately efficient lackeys.

Cuddy sighed, threw the letter in her outbox, and put her hands to her face in resignation. It had been two long hours since House had tossed his liquified cookies. The dose of Compazine pushed through the port had ended his feverish reign of terror. She picked up the phone, put it back down. Was she being overprotective? She picked it up again, dialed Wilson’s extension. His answer was quick, terse. “Wilson.”

Cuddy imagined him, perched at his desk much the same as she was at her’s. The paperwork surrounding him, pen in hand under the lone desk light. The computer screen flashing some journal article or maybe a patient’s most recent test results. He hadn’t looked at the phone’s digital display or he would’ve known it was her.

“Any change?”

“His temperature’s down a degree.”

The faintest of relief touched Cuddy’s stomach, quieting her nerves.

“I think he scared Cameron,” Wilson admitted, smirking a little, but not allowing it to move further than his lips.

“Not surprising.”

“He was pretty out of it…”

Cuddy wondered where this conversation was going and stood, the pen to her mouth. “He did a lot of yelling…”

“Reminds me of his first stint as a patient here,” Wilson trailed.

Cuddy nodded silently. “Yeah. So the old adage is true.”

Wilson’s sigh was expected and Cuddy stayed silent as Wilson got his thoughts together again.

“Things have to be different… this time. It won’t be easy…”

Cuddy nodded. Last time, eight years ago, they’d let him go home. “Recuperate,” they’d said. “Heal.” They’d given him as much time “as needed.” Cuddy and Wilson had seen the deterioration first hand. Six months later, House came back to work under quiet protest. His new primary care physician had made it his first intention to stop prescribing House opioids, instead resorting to high dose ibuprofen. The effect on House was obvious- he couldn’t sleep and his mobility was shot. His physician told him that he was probably addicted to the opioids, and prescribed him an antidepressant instead, claiming it would help both physically and psychologically. House told him that he probably wouldn’t see him anymore.

He came to work at noon unless Wilson dragged him out the door. He looked like he’d slept in his clothes and refused to wear the white jacket. They’d put him on half-days to accommodate him, but even the half days appeared difficult. He made an effort for a while and then Stacy had left. If it had been difficult at first, it became impossible once Stacy was gone. Even his half days were spent in front of a television or surfing the Internet.

House kept claiming that he was in too much physical pain to work. So Cuddy, taking over for House’s primary care physician, had prescribed him Oxycontin in the hopes that it would help. What she couldn’t predict was the severity of the side effects House might suffer. The Oxycontin would make House so dizzy he could barely stand up.

The drug took House by surprise as well. He knew the risks, the side effects. He’d had side effects from other medications, but usually they took a few days to manifest or they happened right away. House took the pill, waited for an hour, felt better, and went to work in the clinic. As he’d stood over the clinic patient, trying to insert an i.v. his vision swam and his hands started to shake. He’d pressed on, trying to shake it off, sure it was just low blood sugar. Dean Andrews had seen House struggle momentarily and shake his head, apparently confused. Andrews had stopped and watched, curious. When the patient jerked at a bad stick, her knee caught House’s thigh and he’d gone down in a heap on the floor with the Andrews watching. House had yelled at the patient, who burst into tears, then House yelled at Andrews for staring.

He’d already been on edge with the dean but after the incident, Andrews acted. House hadn’t even fought. He’d been dismissive about the whole thing. Wilson had followed him out of the hospital, taken him home, and collected his severance checks from his mailbox every week. House would give him the deposit slips and Wilson would go to the bank. House rarely left his home; he rarely left his couch.

He had worked occasionally, researching, writing, keeping up with current trends because he had nothing better to do. Mostly he got good at cajoling Wilson into another prescription. Cuddy wouldn’t touch a prescription pad for House ever again. Something different this time, he always said to Wilson. After filtering through NSAID's, antidepressants and anticonvulsants, he started back with the opioids- beginning small, working up the ladder. The Codeine wasn’t strong enough. The Darvon made gave him double vision. The Percodan made him lightheaded. He tried everything, finally settling on the Vicodin in ever increasing doses.

As soon as House didn’t ask for something different, Wilson encouraged him to apply for new jobs, telling him that it had been a year already, that all of his experience could be better used as a teaching tool. He wouldn’t have to touch a patient. By this time, Cuddy had become the dean and Wilson was more often than not seen having lunch with her in the cafeteria. But House seemed to be slipping further away. He gradually decreased the amount he was reading and increased the amount of time he was staring at the television, or just sleeping.

And then Wilson had gone on his third honeymoon. He was gone for two weeks- Mexico. By the time he’d gotten back, House had been out of his pain medication for three days and he’d resorted to the bottle of scotch mixed with ibuprofen. In doing so, he’d not only left a path of destruction through the apartment, but a path through his entire body. The place smelt of vomit and unwashed things. Wilson almost called 911 when he saw House’s condition. He was only stopped by House’s compellingly honest, yet drunken laugh that he was just bored. And that he needed to just get over it- the whole thing. “I gotta go back to work, Jimmy,” he’d muttered into the toilet bowl. “How’s Mexico? Maybe they’re desperate for doctors there...”

Wilson had pushed Cuddy into hiring him the following day- as a consultant- while they set up a new department. Cuddy hadn’t been a pushover initially, but Wilson had thrown her role in his disability into her face and she’d caved. And House started showing up again, reluctant, late, bitchy, but moving again. It was better than the alternative that both Cuddy and Wilson knew he was capable of sinking into once again if allowed.

“Who knows, maybe he’ll be reborn,” Wilson joked again, seeming to hear Cuddy’s thoughts about what House had been; what he'd become. “He’ll be overcome by the need to connect to humanity,” Wilson stated, wistful.

Cuddy couldn’t help but laugh a bit and put the pen on the desk again. “Right. Let me know when hell freezes over. In the meantime, I’m going down to the cafeteria for coffee. Do you want anything?”

Wilson was sure he’d make it another few hours without it, so he declined and let his eyes, after his fingers massaged them, settle back on the work in front of him.

I really really enjoyed these last few chapters. It was interesting to read about House' ever growing need for pain meds going from one to another. Wonderful job! :)

God and peace
Vanessa :)

Chapter 10: Alternative

House was sure that his eyes were on fire. They were burning, and tears sprung forth out of them in reaction, leaving a trail on his salted face. He tried lifting his hands to relieve his itching eyes. But the hands wouldn’t cooperate. There were bowling balls attached to his wrists. His whole body felt heavy, wasted. Grimacing, he opened his eyes, the dim lights pulling a groan from his lips. Through opened eyes, he could see his arms weren’t chained and he urged them, staring at them, to lift. They slowly obeyed and he swiped at his eyes to get the itch and fire out. Barely satisfied, he let his hands drop to the sheets again. Hot, sweaty, and his mouth tasted like he’d been eating from a litter box. His throat was parched. House shifted uncomfortably, trying to prolong the inevitable. He was either going to die of thirst, or he was going to call the damn nurse.

Just as he was about to give in, to urge his fingers towards the call button, the blinds shifted, clattered, and someone moved into the room. House sighed, louder than he meant, and lifted his head an inch. Wilson. Turning as soon as he realized House wasn’t asleep, Wilson, one hand on his hip, the other holding a coffee, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, looked down at House, searching for words.

“It’s not polite,” House rasped. “Do something productive, get me some water.”

Wilson moved to the stand and poured a cup of water with a straw in it, handing it to House. House struggled with steadying his grip, but managed. Wilson tried to look amused, but the only feeling he had was fear. Fear that his best friend wouldn’t get better. Fear that this would be the final straw, the downward spiral. It often happened that way. Like a healthy elderly man, running three times a week, suddenly falls down the stairs. First it’s the hip, then it’s the pneumonia, then it’s the heart and finally the will to live. House wasn’t elderly, but he already had problems and his will to live was questionable. House handed the cup back to Wilson, and his head went back to the pillow.

“I’d kill for a hot shower…”

“Pretty sure Brenda would give you a warm sponge bath.”

“She’s not coming near me.”

“You know what they say about tough-as-nails nurses…”

House frowned. “You’d know better than me.”

Wilson pulled a plastic chair near the bed, resting his elbows on his knees, still not sure what to say or how to say it. What do you say to the man you’re afraid will die? Do you tell him he’ll be okay? Do you tell him he’ll be better soon? Tell him he’s your bestest bud and that you don’t care if he’s an ass and addicted to the pain medication you prescribed to him? “Not polite to stare…”

“You mentioned that,” Wilson responded and settled on “How are you?” as a conversation starter.

House’s voice was better after the water and he shifted a bit. Comfort still eluded him. “Was that a rhetorical question?”

“Your temperature’s down.”

House nodded.

“Listen- I’m sorry…” Wilson started.

House shook his head. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Last week… I…”

Last week, House’s pain had gotten the best of him.

He’d woken on Saturday morning, everything from his knee to his groin on fire, burning, aching. He’d paced for four hours before he’d reached for the box. Cuddy’s call and the ensuing case had kept him occupied, but hadn’t kept the pain at bay and he’d been grateful when it was over and Crandall was gone. When he’d crept back to his couch after four days of hard work, he’d taken the box down again, sat down on the couch, and had had no guilt on injecting himself. He'd suffered long enough. He'd deserved relief.

It was the first time he'd had morphine in seven years and it slid into his veins like an egg through a snake’s throat- too big, stretching the skin, but satisfying the hungry pain. It had slipped further, deeper, and House snapped off the tourniquet, letting the drug move, letting it surge. His leg had been quaking from the effort of staying still, but then he lifted it, despite its protest, to rest on the couch in anticipation of the morphine’s lull. His left leg had followed as the morphine had hit House’s head in a blurry rush. His vision swam. Something had crinkled in his back pocket and he lifted to withdraw it. Test results.

Crandall.

Leona.

Negative.

It was a good deed, right? Crandall had wanted a daughter. Leona had wanted… needed a father. He’d done something decent, even if it was a lie. A white lie- like Wilson telling his wife she was beautiful when she had the flu and was hacking up last night’s pork chops. Made someone feel good. White lies. There was still guilt- just a bit. But as the morphine had spread through his system, the guilt began to dissipate with the pain and everything else. House had thr