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System Failure: Part One
by phineyj and snarkbait
Prologue
"Sam, please don't go on, you're not well. The fans will understand, you can't help it if you're sick," Cathy said to her husband as he watched the support act wave their way off stage.
"They were great, don't you think? I'm glad we chose them now," Sam replied, as he hugged his stomach tightly. He was trying to hide how much discomfort his belly was really in, but it was getting harder, because the pain there seemed to be intensifying with each passing minute.
Sam looked at his wife, who was also his tour manager. She was wearing a pale pink vest top, with his band's motif on the front: a picture of a brown Coyote howling against a white moon backdrop.
`The Coyotes' was written in black just underneath that. There wasn't a short blonde hair out of place on her head, but the look of worry on her face was unhidden.
He turned away from her and they both peered out at the crowd from the side of the stage.
"Are you listening to me?" Cathy said. Sam glanced quickly at her, then watched as the roadies bounded out and started to set up the musical equipment for his band, who were on next.
"It's just my asthma," he wheezed out and began fumbling in his jeans pocket for his inhaler. His eyes were still trained on the crowd, who were quietening a little bit, now the stage held roadies instead of wannabe rock stars.
"I liked them, but I think the lead singer is a bit cocky, he cares way too much about his appearance," Sam mused. "He must have flicked his beautiful fringe out of his face at least ten times. He shouldn't have been thinking about his hair, he should have been thinking about his lyrics, then maybe he wouldn't have fluffed that line right at the start," he continued, trying to change the subject.
"Please listen to me for once; it's not your asthma, you can barely walk," Cathy said, worriedly, trying to drag his attention away from the stage and direct it toward his ill health.
"All I have to do is stand and play the guitar; I don't need to walk," he joked lightly, and looked over at her, shooting her a slight smile.
"I'm fine," he reassured her.
Sam stopped talking then and clutched his stomach; it really was killing him, but he didn't want Cathy to know how much.
She could hear his chest rattling even over the din of the crowd beyond the stage.
He pulled out his inhaler and took two hits.
"If it's still bad when we come off, we can go to a hospital and I'll get myself checked out," he wheezed.
"Sam..." Cathy said, but he was looking across at Peter, who had just appeared on the other side of the stage.
Peter was the front man of `The Coyotes' and Sam was the lead guitarist; they had been best friends since high school, and they were now grinning at each other, mutually nervous but psyched.
The way they always felt and looked before a gig.
Cathy knew at that point her husband's focus was fifteen minutes in the future. He was envisioning walking on stage. On this tour he went on first and played the opening chords to `Don't stop now."
It was the band's first hit in the US, and the first song to reach number one on the Billboard charts and it was still riding high in the top five.
Cathy knew there was going to be no convincing him. The fact that he'd agreed to go to the hospital after the gig was over was fairly amazing.
She knew how much he hated hospitals.
Fifteen minutes later, she could hear those familiar chords reverberating around the venue. It was a lot smaller than the ones they were used to playing back home in England, and throughout Europe, but the band was getting gradually more popular in the States.
She decided it was only a matter of time before the band saw the inside of a few stadiums.
Cathy watched Sam standing lonesome at the front of the stage as whistles and cheers echoed, almost ear-piercingly, around the building.
She could see he was sweating heavily as the harsh lights hit him.
His short dark hair was spiked up with gel, and he was wearing the tight black designer jeans she'd bought for him in Japan. His arse always looked great in those jeans, she decided.
He was also wearing a black tour shirt, bearing the motif of the support act that was touring America with them. He always did that; always wore his support act's tour shirt.
It was one of many things she loved about him; he would always try and help other people in any small way he could. He often reasoned if his fans thought he liked their support act, they might go out and buy their album. He would also, always name check them half way through the gig, and thank them for opening for them.
The opening chords to `Don't stop now' chugged out, and the crowd seemed to get louder every time his plectrum hit the guitar strings.
He'd written the song in their bedroom, back in London.
She remembered the first time he'd played it, on the acoustic guitar she'd bought him for Christmas; he'd sung it to her and then revealed he'd written it for her.
It had been hers then, but now it belonged to each and everyone else in the sea of people beyond the stage, and it probably meant something different to each one of them.
She'd almost forgotten about his breathing problems, when it happened.
A loud feedback suddenly began to grind out of the amplifiers; making most of the people in the crowd cover their ears.
Sam had stopped playing; he looked across at his wife, standing just off stage.
The stage lights were making his deep green eyes shine unnaturally.
The color in his face was completely gone; his skin was as pale as milk. She could almost hear his wheezing as she watched his chest heave violently up and down.
Then she watched as he hit the floor, and Peter and the drummer Steve, ran on.
Cathy darted on stage; as she pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911, the cheers and whistles in the auditorium turned into shocked gasps.
The grating squeal of Sam Bedford's guitar was still cutting into the air, as he fought desperately to get some oxygen into his lungs.
And the sound of Cathy's voice telling him everything would be all right was the last thing he heard before he passed out.
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Chapter 1: House
"Band guy, gimme," I say to Cuddy as I enter her office uninvited.
I let the door crash loudly into the wall behind me; sometimes a man needs to make an entrance, to get his boss's attention in the quickest possible time.
Judging from the look Cuddy shoots me as she glances away from her computer screen, I'd say it did the trick.
Her hand is paused above the computer keyboard whilst she questions me, first with her eyes - then:
"I changed my system password; how could you possibly know about, band guy?" she demands, dangerously, her eyes narrowing slightly as she tries to read me.
I shrug and stop midway between the door and her desk.
"I hear voices, all the time. Sometimes the voices tell me to spread wicked rumors about stuffy hospital administrators. Sometimes the voices tell me about patients I might like to treat," I say, deciding that annoying Cuddy is, quite possibly, my second favorite addiction.
She gives me a look you might give someone just after they ran your favorite pet over.
"I already assigned the case to Dr Roberts, House. Go away, and close the door carefully on your way out," Cuddy replies, making the word `carefully' sound louder than the rest for some reason.
Then she plays at completely ignoring me, as she starts typing on her computer keyboard.
I wonder how much time in a day we'd both save if we didn't have to do this dance every time I want something from her.
She loves pretending to hate me. It must take a lot of her energy putting up such a convincing act.
"Has Dr Roberts worked out what's wrong with band guy yet?" I say, moving closer to her desk, then tapping the butt of my cane on it to try and get her attention back on me, where it should be.
She looks at the cane unenthusiastically, and then shoots me an oppressive stare, that is supposed to encourage me to stop annoying her. But surely she knows by now, that just makes me want to annoy her more.
"Actually, yes; I think he's going to discharge him tomorrow. So you're not having it, because there is nothing to have. So you can just turn around, limp back out of here and go harass your staff instead of me. I'm busy," Cuddy says, and then waves her hand in a dismissive gesture that usually means she'd like me to leave her office. Wow, is that the best she's got? Her game is weak today.
"And if the inspiration hits you, which I'm ever hopeful it will, treat a few clinic patients on the way," she adds as an afterthought, briefly looking at me, then pretending to read her monitor again.
Okay I'll play lightly for a moment before I go for the jugular, because I suppose this is more entertaining than the clinic.
"Okay, but just so you know, I hear Roberts has a nasty little phet problem. And you've gone and put him in a room with a rock star."
She looks up at me as I look at my wristwatch.
"I can only imagine what sort of depraved things they're getting up to on the second floor. Drugs, parties, wild sex orgies..."
I make a powerful display of thinking about my own words, tilt my head, then smile and back up toward the door.
"Scrap everything I just said, I think I'll go and see how that's working out," I say, nodding my head as I raise my eyebrows.
Cuddy leans back in her chair and sighs lightly. She's becoming bored now, and her boredom will force her to give up soon just to get me out of here.
And I'd really like to steal this case without having to bargain for it with clinic hours.
"Dr Roberts does not have an amphetamine problem, but if you'd like to talk about drug addiction and this is your subtle way of trying to approach the subject, I've got five minutes, we can talk about it," Cuddy says, a smug smile curling her lips.
I fake laugh and smile at her, and then I ease myself back towards her desk again.
"I appreciate the offer, but I think I'm better off talking to my psychiatrist about that sort of stuff. We'll be getting to addiction, when we've completely covered my emotional problems due to being sexually harassed by my boss at work," I say and shake my head, in mock disgust.
She really wants me to leave her alone. She'll give in soon enough. Time to switch hit, and get her with some serious stuff.
"Band guy collapsed on stage, after complaining of a tight chest and difficulty walking. The word on the grapevine is, Roberts thinks it's asthma. If he sends him out of here with that diagnosis, and it's wrong, he could be killing one half of the best rock duo, since John and Paul," I say, seriously. Giving her a solemn look so she knows I actually mean it.
I know she finds it difficult to tell the difference sometimes, and I want to get out of here as much as she wants me gone, so I'll help her along.
Cuddy shakes her head at me, trying to pull off that dismissive school principal shit she thinks she does so well. It's not going to work, because rock stars don't collapse on stage due to asthma attacks.
Fat ten year olds in playgrounds perhaps, but not rock stars.
So therefore, I'm not leaving this room until the case is mine.
"That's why you want the case; because he's in a band," Cuddy says distastefully, and then she sits up and folds her arms. "You can't pick and choose the sick people you want to help, House; now go do your job."
That's what she says to me, as if I'm a stubborn retriever that won't go and fetch the ball she's just thrown.
I stay put; this isn't over yet, because it is not asthma.
"You make a good point Cuddy; rock stars are cool. But you know what's cooler? Rock stars who have symptoms dangerously manifesting as acute asthma, but which in all actuality could be the precursor to a very severe heart attack," I say, narrowing my eyes.
It could be; probably isn't, but that sounds drastic enough to -oh wait -there it is. Her eyes flit to the side in thought. I've got her on the ropes now.
She's thinking, `Has that superbly inferior Dr Roberts fucked up?' Yes, Cuddy, I'm about 99 percent sure he has.
"I'll bet his white count is through the roof. How about, you pick up the phone and check; if it is, band guy is not just having an asthma attack, he's having system failure, and Roberts will miss it," I say, feigning a guess.
But I know the white count's through the roof, because I got Cameron to call one of his employees before; she mentioned she knew a member of his team.
Spies are cool.
How is it I have an uncanny ability of switching off when people are talking crap, but somehow manage to remember the important stuff?
I must have some sort of bullshit filter, built into my brain.
Cuddy watches me for a few seconds; her facade of annoyance turns into mild doubt and then morphs into ever so slight intrigue as she picks up her phone.
Her hands hit the numbers quickly. I can't help but find it mildly amusing that this woman knows the number to every team on every floor.
You need to get out more, Cuddy.
At the very least, she's thinking I could be wrong and she'd like to gloat and throw me out if I am.
I smile inwardly as she chats to the chick on Dr Roberts's team; I smile openly as she verbally confirms the high white count and gives me an uncomfortable look.
She hangs up the phone. And I have to go for the kill now, whilst the doubt is fresh in her mind.
"If Roberts kicks him out with a painfully inept diagnosis of asthma, and then band guy dies at his next gig, you're going to have a hell of a lot of pissed Coyote fans in here crying and aiming to pop a cap in his cracked out ass," I say.
"Roberts is not on crack, and we're not in downtown LA, we're in a teaching hospital in Princeton. So, could you please try and sound like a doctor. I know it's hard," Cuddy says, in a distractedly stern voice.
She hates it when I'm right, which is funny really; you'd think she'd be used to it by now.
"Well he's acting like he is, with that diagnosis. I'm doing this for you really," I say, with fake sincerity.
"Sure you are," Cuddy says, skeptically, as she frowns at me.
But the worm is turning, I'm waiting for it.
Cuddy leans back in her seat, I narrow my eyes. C'mon Cuddy. If Roberts screws this up, you look bad, and the hospital looks bad.
I know that's what she's thinking.
"Fine, you can have band guy, but I want all of your clinic hours logged and completed by Thursday or he is going straight back to Dr Roberts. "Cuddy says, raising her eyebrows.
She has to say that, to make her think I have to earn it. But we both know that kid isn't going anywhere near Roberts again.
The reality is, she knows I've probably just taken one step in the direction of saving his life.
Roberts may as well be on crack, he's so useless. Why didn't she just give me the case in the first place? She likes seeing me grovel, that's why.
I play along. I nod, then salute. "Scout's honor, boss," I say, and then I get the hell out of her office before she thinks of some other hoops for me to jump through to keep my new case.
I head for the elevator. I need to go to my office, so I can dig out my debut `Coyotes' album. Chase can get it signed for me, when I send him to do another history.
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Chapter 2: Cuddy
I need another cup of coffee. Getting urgent pages at four a.m. is nothing new, but sometimes I feel like I'm getting a bit old for another night of disturbed sleep.
I've been in the office since six; there didn't seem much point going back to bed after coming over here while we admitted...I glance at the file; Sam Bedford. I always get paged when it's a celebrity; the night staff get nervous about getting chewed out for bad press.
No media calls so far though - music journalists aren't known as early risers, and the story obviously hasn't reached the news desks yet. Not that I'll mind when it does; publicity is good for donations and fellowship applications, especially when it concerns young, good looking rock stars.
As long as they're young, good looking, breathing, rock stars, that is.
Roberts was on call last night, and as it presented as a respiratory problem, I've had him running tests on Sam since early this morning.
However, the initial results he's just e-mailed me are confusing. There are cardiac issues as well, and a whole host of seemingly unrelated symptoms including a sky-high white count. I'm guessing Roberts is now out of his depth, because he's suggested we consult House. Clearly he's expecting me to actually do it though. Honestly, it beggars belief, the way everyone here tiptoes round that man.
I decide to go down and take a look at the patient myself.
He is resting but awake when I get there, and his wife is sitting anxiously by his side.
He looks pale and sweaty; his eyes are red-rimmed and he has both arms wrapped around his stomach. He looks very much younger than his 29 years.
"I'm Dr Cuddy; I admitted you this morning," I say, by way of general introduction; he was conscious, just about, but in considerable pain, and I doubt he remembers much of what happened.
"How are you feeling, Mr Bedford?" I ask him, having a quick look at his vitals, while I wait for his response.
"I can breathe a bit easier," he says, softly, "But my stomach still hurts," he glances over at his wife, "And my arms."
The woman - I take a quick look at the chart to remind myself - Cathy, her name is - turns to me, her face the very picture of worry, and asks, "This can't be just asthma, can it? It's never been this bad before."
"I'm going to put our top diagnostician on the case," I tell her, "Dr House; if he can't figure it out, no-one can."
"When will we meet him?" she asks. I try not to look amused, because it would be inappropriate. Anyway, House may just make an exception of his rule of not meeting patients, for the sake of a rock star.
"I'm going to go through all the information with him as soon as I can," I say, "His team will be down to see you both shortly."
"Thank you, Dr Cuddy," says Sam, from the bed, running a hand through his short dark hair, "I appreciate the trouble you're going to, and I'm sure this is nothing, really." Cathy looks unconvinced.
It's odd; I'd never heard of his band before the early hours of this morning, and I know I've never met this guy before I saw him arrive here on a gurney, but somehow he seems slightly familiar.
We talk some more; Cathy asks me what the tests were Dr Roberts' team ran earlier this morning, and I explain, and tell her what the results were, and why the high white count means we need to investigate other factors as well as the asthma. Sam's quiet, but very much present; although he lets the two of us do the talking.
I've met plenty of celebrities in my time - mostly in circumstances they'd rather not recall - and some of them have an aura of famous person about them; others, however, seem completely ordinary and you wouldn't give them a second glance if you met them in the street.
Sam is neither one nor the other; but he does have an intensity about his presence; a way of making you feel like you're the only person in the room with him; his green eyes lock onto you and he pays you complete attention. I can see how effectively that would work on an audience.
And as I leave them and walk briskly back to my office, I suddenly know who he reminds me of.
David.
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"Band guy, gimme," House says, as he storms into my office without knocking, flinging the door back in his haste. God, he is such a drama queen sometimes.
Oh, this will be fun. Why would I tell him now I was going to give him the case in a few minutes anyway?
I know damn well he hacks into the case management system; I get an alert when he does it; it's probably in my inbox right now. And I don't make my passwords that hard to crack. Not for him, anyway. It's all part of the game. Keeps him on his toes; makes him appreciate the good cases when he gets them.
But for the sake of appearances, I ask him how he knows about `Band guy'.
I inform him Dr Roberts has the case. Which is true! And then I tell him to go away, knowing that hell will freeze over before that happens.
I watch while he looms over me, considering his next move. I note the sparkle of intrigue in his expression, and I can see the young man that he was when I first met him at Michigan; I was a little afraid of him back then - I'm not now.
I turn back to my computer; I am very busy, actually; Pediatrics failed its Infection Control random check yesterday, and if I don't sort it out ASAP, we'll be in all manner of trouble with the authorities.
And I wait.
Soon enough, he's pressing me for details of the case. I tell him to go away again, and to call in at the clinic on the way. I will never tell him this, because who would give Greg House bargaining chips if they didn't have to, but he's the best clinic doctor I have.
I don't just make him do it for kicks. He can get through the patient load twice as fast as anyone else, when he deigns to turn up, that is, and he's caught some serious problems at an early stage on quite a few occasions. It more than makes up for the odd patient - and employee - who runs out of there in tears.
Oh, he's taken the nuclear option now, I hear Roberts has a nasty little phet problem. Mistake, House, big mistake. I tell him I'm here if he wants to talk about his own drug addiction. Score to me; but he smashes the ball back nicely with his, I'm better off talking to my psychiatrist about that sort of stuff. I very nearly lose it at the idea of him voluntarily going to a shrink, but I manage to keep my poker face. God knows, I've had plenty of practice.
And finally, we're discussing the case. He's obviously given it some thought, and you know, I agree with what he's saying. That was why I was giving it to him in the first place. But I get little enough fun these days, so I toss in one final barb, "That's why you want the case; because he's in a band," and I follow that up with a quick moral lecture about how we don't get to pick our patients; and why not? He's forever telling me what I ought to do.
I call Dr Roberts' office, because he won't have told his staff yet he's passing on the case to House; and they confirm the high white count. I don't really have much more time for this stringing House along, and besides, I want him working on the patient, not sparring with me. I do want him to feel like he's won, though, so I put on a show of reluctance while he lays out the worst case scenario for me.
Finally, grudgingly, I agree he can have the patient, making it conditional on him finishing this week's clinic hours. Which he agrees to - yes! And with that, he's closed the door behind him, presumably off to round his team up for a differential.
I'm smiling at the typical House discussion; gratuitous mention of sex, drugs and rock `n' roll; well, admittedly, perhaps the rock `n' roll mention was valid in this particular case. All that was missing was a crack about my breasts. I look down at the top I'm wearing today; nope, still there; this case must really be intriguing him. He's like a dog with a bone when he gets an interesting puzzle.
And then I remember the first time I saw his diagnosis skills in action, all those years ago at Michigan. I told him David's history, pretending it was some random patient I had to do a case report on, and straight away he spotted what all the other doctors had missed. He didn't know the `patient' had been decomposing in a Baltimore graveyard for more than ten years. That night was the first time I ever slept with House, and to this day, I don't think he knows those two events are connected.
Continues in Part 2
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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