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System Failure: Part Two
by phineyj and snarkbait
Chapter 3: House
I'm almost about to catch up on some much needed sleep. My feet are up on the desk, my head is back, and my arms are comfortably folded in front of me, when an idiot nurse outside the office drops a tray holding a collection of sample pots as she's passing by.
The combined aural assault of plastic clattering, liquid spilling and glass smashing brings me very much back into reality with a jerk.
The nurse, or `hippo lady' as I'm about to rename her - because my lord, she needs to lay off the Twinkies - stares worriedly in at me; I shoot her a filthy look to let her know I think she's a bumbling hippo, on the off chance she doesn't know this to be fact already.
I pat myself down until I find my Vicodin. I fish them out of my jeans pocket and tap out two pills, dry swallow them, and then wipe a tired hand down my face, stopping to give my chin a good scratch.
Then, I glance at my watch and wonder where the hell Chase is. It's taken him over an hour to get a simple patient history.
Either the celebrity has blinded him with his superior hair conditioning, or he's chatting up one of the nurses on Roberts' reception.
I turn on my PC, aiming to have a quick scan through the patient system before Cuddy changes her password again.
Crap, too late.
I wonder what brilliant and cryptic word we've got this time.
I type in `partypants' all one word, lower case.
Nope, that's old school, don't think I'll be seeing that one again.
I try all of her sisters' names, with various capitalizations and arrangements. I found them out, purposely pretending to give a crap when we had a tipsy conversation at a fundraiser one time, for this very purpose.
It's served me well before - today? Nada.
Although, I am sort of glad when that turns up nothing, because how cloyingly sentimental would that be?
What about - ha, she hasn't used this one for a while, but every now and then she rotates an old one; bingo.
`David' with a capital D, the rest in lower case.
She probably hasn't had time to think of a better one yet; poor Cuddy, so overworked.
Not got time to take five minutes and excavate the bug from her ass - in case the world grinds to a jerky, shuddering halt.
I wonder who David is?
I'm thinking boyfriend or childhood pet.
But then again, is Cuddy really feeble enough to let a dead family pet hold the key to all of her systematic secrets?
Maybe.
I notice the nurse outside, retreating away after cleaning up the mess she's made. Leaving a hell of a lot quieter than the way she arrived.
I yawn loudly and wonder who the hell David is.
I don't think she's dating anyone at the moment. People who are getting some - regularly - aren't that uptight.
Then there is the simple observation that people who become contentedly coupled up, tend to let themselves go a bit.
Every spare minute she gets, she's playing squash or in the gym.
So, maybe it's an ex-boyfriend? But that's even worse than a dead pet; how pathetic.
I hope it's not, Cuddy; that's so desperate I wouldn't even know where to start with the mocking.
How about ex-girlfriend? Lesbians might like to give each other pet names; maybe Cuddy had a girlfriend called David.
That's a really good thought; I'm coming back to that one, when I'm not in full on hacker mode.
I have a quick scan for any other potential cases, on the slim to no chance whatsoever that band guy is just having a really sucky asthma attack.
But on that very slim chance, I'd need a back up case ready, so not to end up imprisoned in the clinic all week.
I glance at my watch again, out of habit, even though I only just looked at it. It's just gone ten; where the hell is Foreman?
I get up and head into the main office; Cameron is sitting at her desk in the corner, typing studiously away on her laptop. I wonder if it's work related, or if she's doing something as daring and frivolous as checking her personal emails in work time?
Probably work related; stealing hospital time would rack her with far too much guilt. I couldn't give a crap if she was searching for porn.
Actually, that would be really cool.
She shoots me a quick, curious stare, as I enter the room, then eyes her PC again.
Why aren't dumb and dumber here yet? I want to get going on this. The later we start the differential, the more screwed up my calendar gets.
I need to be done in here by eleven so I can get up to Pediatrics to catch General Hospital, swing by here when that finishes to get a patient update, and then go to lunch with Wilson.
Then, I suppose I'll need to go and meet band guy myself, so I can work out exactly what lies he's told Chase.
I reach the coffee machine and fix myself a drink, glancing over at Cameron as I do, just to check she can see I've had to get up, and limp all the way in here to refill my mug, when she could have done it for me, instead of searching for porn.
She's not looking at me.
I should probably lay off the caffeine really; I'm already feeling a bit jittery from having two cans of Red Bull this morning.
I tap my cane impatiently on the floor, and stare at the whiteboard; a mixture of doctors, patients and nurses pass by outside, but none of them happen to be the rest of my team.
I don't like waiting for them when I'm eager to get going on a case, it frustrates me. Foreman must be purposely trying to piss me off, because I paged him at least forty minutes ago.
I head over to the whiteboard, place my coffee on the conference table, and then pick up a black marker.
I'll write up what I already know, then page the wombat, and encourage him to leave the shark story for another day.
And if that doesn't work, I'll have to head down there myself and puppeteer him back here with my cane shoved up his ass.
I start writing.
Difficulty breathing.
The squeak of the pen against the board piques Cameron's interest and she looks over at me.
"What are you doing?" she asks, glancing curiously over the top of her glasses, hands paused mid flutter on the keys of her computer.
What does it look like I'm doing?
"Wrestling alligators," I reply, jadedly.
I'm beat; my sleep patterns have been seriously messed up since Wilson moved in. He may be gone now, but my brain still seems to think it can hear the feminine sound of a hair-dryer at 6am every morning.
I stifle another yawn with the back of my hand, and stare at the board again.
Breathing problems could mean a chest infection, which could suggest something viral.
If guitar boy has a viral infection, singer, drummer and bass boy would be sick too, surely.
I don't think it's viral, although I'll bet we're not even five minutes into the differential before Foreman suggests it is.
I add abdominal pain.
Difficulty breathing combined with stomach pain; could be the warning sign of a heart attack. And a heart attack in a 29-year-old rock star, to me, suggests drugs.
Lots of drugs.
Although I'm pretty sure Cameron will argue it isn't, because she'll want to believe this guy is somehow different, an individual, a law-abiding and compassionate husband. Or some other immature non-logic that encourages her to challenge my less naive take on reality.
I tap the marker against my chin.
Even a doctor as incompetent as Roberts would probably have figured out this could be the warning symptoms of a heart attack.
Okay, band guy, if you did take something to pick yourself up, odds are you like to bring yourself down too. Most rock stars are control freaks; why should you be any different?
If you did, what was it, pot? No probably something stronger, some sort of barbiturate.
Coke gets the heart racing; barbs slam you into comatose when you want to stop talking fifty five miles an hour about something no one else on the planet wants to hear.
I'll get Cameron to do a tox screen; I suppose I could send her to go do it now, considering the other two have gone AWOL.
I glance over at her; she seems engrossed in what she's doing. Whatever it is, I doubt it's as important as doing this for me.
I almost suggest that she go and take some blood and run some tests, including a tox screen, when the wombat and Dr Bling finally decide to show their faces.
I take a very obvious glance at my watch and shoot Foreman a shitty look.
"Thank you so much for fitting me into your busy schedule; I'm deeply honored," I say moodily, but I'm relieved they're finally here, so we can get on with this.
`What?" he replies defensively, "I went with Chase to get the history."
Christ on a bike, Chase, are you so scared of fucking up nowadays you can't even get a history without Foreman holding your hand whilst you do it?
I hold out my arm and Chase hands me the file.
You need pushing into the deep end of something, to wake you up a bit Blondie; but we'll get to that when we have time.
I pick up the marker again and start writing out the important stuff.
Already have breathing problems, so I'll skip that.
I make a note of the sky high white count, then turn to look at Chase.
"Did he complain of feeling light headed when he got the breathing problems?" I ask, as he sits down next to Foreman at the conference table.
"No, he said it felt like a regular asthma attack, but his breathing is much better now," he replies.
It was a regular asthma attack, when flying pigs with blow-torches fly past my window; I have a quick glance and check.
No airborne pork yet.
"The white count is still through the roof, and the abdominal pain is getting increasingly worse," Foreman says.
Chase places something down on the table and Cameron picks it up, clearly deciding that tending to the maintenance of her puppy rescue website is slightly less interesting, now we have the history.
She turns over the CD I asked Chase to get signed, and raises an eyebrow.
"Couldn't you have waited to go autograph hunting until we cured him?" she says, because she's so goddamn above that sort of thing.
"Yeah, I could have; House on the other hand," Chase, says, looking at me, raising his eyebrows and then letting his words trail off.
Stupid little wombat, now she's giving me the look, ooh I get a head tilt and the placing of hands on hips.
Scary, I'm getting chills; stop.
"He might croak before we cure him; it makes sense to me to get his John Hancock on the CD, before he dies, rather than after, I haven't got that curing death thing down, just yet."
She gives me a mildly outraged look, but her outraged looks have become softer than those of a year ago.
"If the breathing problems are just asthma, the abdominal pain could be something as simple as an ulcer," Cameron says, helpfully.
Like no one else in the room went to medical school.
"Has the breathing problem gone completely?" I ask Chase.
"It seems that way," he replies.
"He been sucking on his inhaler every five seconds?" I ask, raising my eyebrows, and glancing from Chase to Foreman.
"No, they left it at the concert by accident; he asked for another though," Chase replies.
"Did you give him one?" I ask.
"Not yet," Foreman replies. What is this, why are they finishing each other's sentences?
I'm going to have to split them up, if they insist on becoming one bland, interchangeable diagnostician, instead of the separate neurologist and intensivist I hired.
"Good; don't give him one," I say and turn back to the board.
"Don't give an asthma sufferer his inhaler, genius," Cameron says, in a dubiously sarcastic tone.
I fake smile and roll my eyes. "I'm not a genius, silly. It just seems that way because you three are almost always wrong, whereas I'm normally right."
Cameron shakes her head, and sits down, but refrains from biting back, as I pass her the history.
"It's not asthma. Granted, he has asthma and sometimes it affects his breathing, but the problem at the concert wasn't his asthma," I say eyeing the whiteboard again.
"Why not?" Foreman says.
"Because it went away, therefore it's a symptom of something else and so is the stomach pain," I reply.
Wait for it.
"It could be a chest infection; how about something viral?" Foreman says, glancing at Chase and Cameron for support.
"Any of his band mates sick?" I ask. I hate days when this lot are so mind numbingly predictable.
"No; according to his wife, the other members of the band are fine," Chase informs me.
Of course they are.
"Then it's probably not a virus," I reply. "What starts with breathing difficulty and belly pain?"
I look at the history again, over Cameron's shoulder and wonder why I never knew Chase was dyslexic before now. Only a dyslexic person could have written these notes. This is bad, even for a doctor.
I move over to the board then, and add what I can only assume to be, `constipation' and `joint pain' to the board.
"Followed by these symptoms, after the breathing became normal again?"
`He was in Bolivia three weeks ago, could easily have picked up an infection out there," Cameron says, as she's scanning the history.
"Yeah, he mentioned he and his wife took a short break, before moving on to tour America," Chase says.
"To Bolivia," I say distastefully. Who goes to Bolivia for a short break?
"He could have picked up a parasite, some sort of worm infestation maybe?" Foreman says.
"Looks like he saw more than he bargained for," Cameron says in that enigmatic tone she likes to use to make herself sound smarter sometimes. "He was involved in a bus crash," she finishes, and then glances at me.
Chase shakes his head dismissively.
"He said it was a minor accident; a few cuts and bruises. They didn't even go to a hospital," Chase says, playing it down. That probably means band guy played it down to him.
Could be something in that; can't tell until I speak to him myself.
"Who would? They were in Bolivia, I don't blame them," I say.
"He had a simple asthma attack, and the rest of the symptoms can easily be explained by an infection from something he picked up in Bolivia, probably a parasite of some sort, more than likely a worm," Foreman says, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. "Which leads me to ask, why the hell are we on this case? If this were any regular guy, you wouldn't go near him. You just want to treat him because he's in a band," he finishes smugly.
"Of course. I can see it now. Rock star collapses at gig; brilliant Princeton diagnostician saves the new face of rock and roll. How else am I going to get in Rolling Stone?" I say, and then shake my head mildly.
"If the symptoms are connected, this could also be his body's way of saying he's about to have a heart attack," Chase says. Finally something an intensivist should say.
"Heart attack in a 29 year old is possible, but acute asthma attack in an asthma sufferer is way more likely," Cameron replies; she's really in a perky smack-down mood today.
"True," I say, dragging the word out, and then tilting my head and looking past her. "Unless that 29 year old did copious amounts of drugs, before they went on stage, then I'd say heart failure is way more likely," I finish, and stare at her.
And that red rag is flapping; I'm surprised she doesn't hoof the floor before saying:
"Just because he's in a band, doesn't mean he's on drugs."
I laugh quickly, because she really is hilariously predictable sometimes.
"Did you hear the words that just came out of your mouth? Rock stars take coke, super models shoot up heroin, and politicians sleep with their secretaries, because they can, so they do, that's the whole point. That's why the stereotypes exist."
"Judgmental much?" she says, shaking her head and folding her arms across her chest.
"You say judgmental, I say logical deduction, but let's let science do the talking, because I can feel an ethics lecture coming on, and I have a thing, later, don't want to miss it."
It's obvious we need to do a collection of tests. The symptoms are too vague to pin down
"Cameron, go do a blood test; have a look for Foreman's parasites; Chase can follow that with an endoscopy to confirm or deny your theory of an ulcer, and throw in an electrocardiogram, to rule out heart failure," I instruct them.
Go minions, be free.
Cameron pushes herself away from the desk and gets up.
"And if you're not too bogged down with all that, humor me and throw in a tox screen for my over-reaching theory of drugs."
`What about me?" Foreman asks.
"You check out his place," I reply.
Foreman frowns at me. "He's British; his place is thousands of miles away; how can I check out his place?"
"I know I'm not exactly down with the kids like you," I say and throw him a gang sign. "But they still have tour buses, don't they?"
Foreman nods, and the kids leave the room.
That was quick; I may even have time to annoy Wilson for five minutes before watching my show.
Chapter 4: Wilson
It's mid-morning, and I'm having a conversation with Trisha, a patient of mine, about some of the unpleasant side effects she may experience when she starts her chemotherapy next week.
It probably won't cure her; the cancer is very advanced. She knows this, but she's optimistic.
I feel guilty when I realize my full attention is not where it should be.
She is explaining how supportive her family has been, and how they've rallied around to make sure someone is with her 24/7.
I can't help but start thinking about some of my other patients; the ones who aren't as fortunate.
The ones who don't have anyone. Cancer isn't picky; it affects the popular and the lonely, equally.
This line of thought leads me to one person in particular.
And before I know it, a small part of me is in Florence with Grace.
I can only imagine how lovely it must be there at this time of year. I can almost see the purple clouds in the sky as the sun sets on one of the most beautiful places in the world.
I went with my parents, when I was a teenager. I couldn't appreciate its magnificence at that age, except maybe the stunning olive-skinned women, but the mysterious beauty of the place has always stayed with me.
I've always wanted to go back.
I told her I wished I could have gone with her, and I meant it. But we both knew Florence was an ending, in many ways.
Maybe I'll go again one day, and take the memory of what could have been between us and lay it to rest there.
I don't want to think about her, but she's been on my mind a lot since she left to go to Italy.
It's not just the connection that we had that has been hard to stop thinking about.
It's also the risk I took, and the fact that House knows - everything.
I wasn't aiming to tell anyone, ever.
Least of all him.
It's not that I don't trust him; it's that I know he can't help himself sometimes.
The speech for Volger last year is the perfect example of that.
All he had to do was give one lousy speech; it would have hurt no one, but he couldn't do it.
I'm more worried about it now than I was when I was living with her. It's like I'm waiting for him to say something.
Part of me is unsure what the hell I thought I was playing at.
It wasn't love, not even close, and it didn't happen because of some vampire-like thirst on my part to be needed, despite House's deeply warped take on things.
We both wanted somebody to go home to; we needed each other.
That part, I don't feel bad about. I'm only human.
It was risky, but I don't regret it.
Granted, she probably needed me more than I needed her, but who measures that sort of thing? People like House, and what would he know?
He's the loneliest person I've ever met.
We both got something out of it; she had someone to comfort her through the bad days and at the very least, her illness helped me to put my own problems into perspective.
Relationships don't always have to be about love, or sex. Sometimes it can be as simple as not wanting to be alone.
If House is too detached and cynical to see that, it really is his loss.
He could do with someone to share the ins and outs of his shitty days, seeing as he has so many of them.
Trisha is still talking, and I feel bad, because I have no idea what she's just said.
I try and apply myself, fully and completely, to what she is saying, when something catches my eye outside.
Great, think of the Devil and he shall appear.
Hitching his bum leg over the wall on the balcony, then limping with purpose toward the door.
I shake my head and raise my eyebrows to try and stop him from - too late.
He raps loudly on the glass, and makes my patient jump out of her skin.
"I'm terribly sorry," I apologize, as she turns around to face House, who stares in at me, yanks his head in a `come hither' jerk, then backs off again.
He really needs to stop doing this, but I know if I vocalize my unhappiness at his interruptions, he'll only do it more, to annoy me when he's bored.
I get up and excuse myself.
"This won't take long," I add, truthfully.
I slide the door open, step outside, and make sure it's shut again before I say "What?" in a hostile tone.
"You looked bored; thought I'd come cheer you up," he replies.
I breathe out loudly, and shake my head, mildly angered at his rudeness.
"Those people you see hanging out in my office from time to time are called patients. And chances are, if I haven't just told them they have cancer, I'm about to, so could you wait until I'm alone in the future - please?" I say, and place my hand on the door.
He squints his eyes and looks at me as if I'm his whiteboard.
"Who's David?" he says, tone light, as if he hasn't listened to a word I just said.
I close my eyes briefly and shake my head again before placing my hands firmly on my hips.
"I think there are probably a few million; you might need to narrow it down for me," I reply.
"The David Cuddy uses as a password for her system," he says and leans on the wall, looking out over the hospital grounds.
"You've been hacking into her files again?" I question wearily. "Stop it; it's none of your business."
"Gee, you're a ray of sunshine today," he says, giving me a quick glance. "Debbie from Accounting is none of your business, yet you seem to know an awful lot about her. Even though she has a boyfriend," he continues.
I wish he'd stop harping on about Debbie; she's old news, and her boyfriend dumped her a month ago, so even if I was interested - which I'm not - I wouldn't be doing anything wrong.
"I have no idea who David is; why do you care?" I say.
"He's an anomaly. And anomalies interest me. He's the only other real person Cuddy uses as a password. There has got to be a reason," House muses.
"I have no idea who he is, but chances are, there is a reason we've never heard of him; it's called privacy. Leave it alone."
"I'm taking an interest; I'm curious about the facets of my friend's life," House says, defensively.
What a crock of shit.
"No, you're sticking your nose somewhere it doesn't belong," I counter. "Don't you have a case to obsess about instead; at least that's productive?"
"Yeah; heard of The Coyotes?"
I shake my head. I have no idea if that's a sports team, band or - something else entirely.
"The coke head lead guitarist did a face plant at a concert last night; the kids are off running the tests, so I've got time to kill," he informs me, lazily.
"Well I haven't, and neither does Trisha, my patient."
"You're in a meeting with Cuddy later, aren't you?"
"How do you know about that?"
"It's in your calendar; your public one, before you give me another privacy lecture."
"Oh, yeah, so?"
"So, find out who David is," House, suggests, turning to look at me.
I tilt my head and turn to leave. I'm really not in the mood for House's obsessions today.
"How the hell," I begin. But he's already giving me his gnomic stare. "Find out yourself," I say, and pull open the door.
------
A few hours later, I'm talking to Cuddy about hiring a new doctor on my team.
I'm sitting on the sofa in her office, and she's behind her desk.
She's noticeably quieter than usual, like she's here, but some of the lights aren't on.
She knows what sort of hire I'm looking for, and offers to sit in if I need her to, but she has a look in her eyes as though a tiny part of her mind is focused, not only on something else, but somewhere completely out of the building.
Which is strange, for Cuddy.
Her phone rings, and she excuses herself quickly as she scoops it up.
"Dr Cuddy," she says, by way of an answer.
"He's stable and comfortable - I'm afraid that's all I can tell you right now," she says and replaces the phone then looks at me.
"Sorry about that. That's got to be the fifth phone call I've had in the past hour concerning our famous patient."
"The guitarist," I say; she nods.
"House's new patient?"
She nods again.
And then I know she isn't quite herself, as House's name doesn't draw the string of abuse and complaints it usually does.
In fact the last time I remember her being this quiet and withdrawn was when her handyman fell from her roof.
"Is everything okay?" I ask.
I probably shouldn't, because even if she isn't, odds are she won't talk to me about it. I'm too close to House to confide in.
We often discuss him, and she knows what we talk about stays between us. But she never reveals very much about herself.
She's probably all too aware that any weakness she shows is heavy ammunition for someone like House.
I find that sad; for such a brilliant doctor, it's amazing how easily House can bring the worst out of people.
"I'm fine," she says, brushing away the idea that she could possibly be anything less than completely calm and in control whilst she's sat at her desk, being the stoical dean of medicine.
Like that somehow makes her impervious to human emotion.
She's not all right, but I've worked for her long enough to know pushing her is a bad idea.
I wonder if I should give her a heads up on House's newest obsession.
If she's seeing someone she doesn't want people to know about, she has the right to a little privacy, even if House can't get his mind around that.
But then, they tit-for-tat about everything, I should probably stay well away from it.
"I can sit in with you, Monday," she says, getting our conversation going again.
"Okay; I don't think I can make the morning, but I can clear my calendar for the afternoon," I reply.
She nods her head.
"The afternoon is better, actually. How many applications have you had so far?" she asks, distantly.
"About fifteen. Five of those are below standard though; the closing date is tomorrow, so it shouldn't be any more than ten or so interviews. I've got my eye on a couple anyway; some are more impressive than others," I inform her.
"Sounds like you've got it all covered then," she says, in an almost bored tone.
I nod, then reach over and take a sip of my coffee.
She's still not entirely present in this conversation. It seems the last thing she needs is House digging around in her private life today.
I'm going to give her the heads up; I'll probably regret it.
"This is probably not my place to say, but," I clear my throat, "House has got wind of something."
How do I do this, without dropping him completely in it?
"I just thought I should warn you; he's on a mission to find out who David is," I say.
I wait for a reaction.
Okay, she doesn't seem to care - oh, hang on.
She sits up, and her posture becomes rigid.
"I don't know anyone called David," she mutters, far too aggressively to be true.
And then she shakes her head, and she gets a look on her face very similar to the one she gets when House has done something completely outrageous and dangerous.
Her eyes are at complete odds with what she's saying.
Crap, why did I mention it.
"Are we done?" she says snappily
"Yeah," I say, and then get up.
"Thanks for offering to sit in on the interviews," I reply, but she's completely somewhere else by the time I'm at the door.
I don't know what information House thinks he's stumbled across, but I have a feeling he needs to be very careful.
Chapter 5: Cuddy
Apart from a brief meeting with Wilson, I spend most of the day talking to journalists. The first call is the editor from the local paper. I play tennis with him now and again, and I must have made the mistake of giving my direct line at some point. I gather he's a fan of The Coyotes, because normally he's only interested in writing about PPTH if we're being sued.
I confirm that we are treating Sam Bedford, give him a bland statement about the musician's symptoms and tell him we'll be issuing an update later today. When I hang up on him, I summon Keira from PR to my office and ask her to bring a list of any other people who want to talk to me. It's quite a long list: British and American papers, the BBC, plus a rabble of gossip mags and music sites, and it takes us half an hour or so to whittle them down to an order of priority.
I write her a prepared statement to email to most of them, and then call the ones she thinks I should talk to. It makes a change from the boring interviews I do with the trade press. I think it'll be the first time I get my name in Rolling Stone, even if it's just the website. I make sure to mention House in that one.
I'm talking to some British publication called NME, when House walks back in and starts fiddling with the papers on my desk in an annoying fashion. I finish the call - I can hardly understand the guy's accent anyway - and I check my watch; it's twenty past four. I reckon House is shirking the end of his clinic duty and is now on his way to annoy Wilson.
"Mine; paws off," I tell him, taking the list of outstanding legal cases from his large hand, "You're going to be in Rolling Stone," I inform him and he can't quite conceal a smile.
"I'd better not stuff this one up, then," he says, "I'm thinking of developing a specialty as doctor to the stars."
"How's the case?" I ask him.
"Curiouser and curiouser," he replies, leaning more of his weight on his cane; I nod toward the chair he's standing besides, but he shakes his head - he must be in a real hurry to bug Wilson.
"I had Cameron test for parasites," he says, "Zilch. Despite his suspect taste in holiday destinations, he appears to be clean. I thought we'd better rule out ulcers, so I had Chase do an endoscopy, which was also clean. An electrocardiogram showed no heart failure, despite the fact his cardiac symptoms are getting worse, and Dr Cameron's usual touching faith in the patient's probity has unfortunately been backed up with a pristine tox screen. She's going to be unbearable."
I digest this information.
"So he's not on drugs?" I ask.
"If he's not on drugs, I'm Paul McCartney," says House, grimacing, although whether at the tox screen results, or the thought of being responsible for the former Beatle's recent musical output, I'm not quite sure.
"But nothing that you can identify?" I confirm.
"Just means it's something weird, and if Foreman can't find freaky shit in a tour bus, I've definitely underestimated him," House says, grinning, then looks at his watch, and heads off in the direction of Wilson's office, not bothering to close the door behind him.
I decide I should talk to Sam again. I tell myself that if his condition really is drug-related, I'd better know, in case the press get on our case about it. But in my heart of hearts I know I really want to find out if I imagined that resemblance I thought I saw earlier. Before this morning, I hadn't even thought about David in a long time. I try to recall when the last time was, and I decide it must have been his birthday, because we always have to tiptoe around my mother.
Realizing it's been all that time since I've even thought of him makes me feel briefly guilty, because twenty years or so ago, I couldn't even imagine a time when the pain would have lessened to the point where I would actually forget him for months at a time. I suddenly panic that I can't remember what he looked like, and scrabble in the bottom drawer of my locked filing cabinet for the photo album. And how sad is it that my most important personal effects are at work, not at home, I muse, as I flip through the time-darkened plastic covered sheets.
------
I am in the kitchen of the house where I grew up. Everything is familiar; the photographs in their neat line on the oak dresser; my mother's yellow cotton apron hanging behind the door; the collection of shoes of various sizes lined up beside the worktop.
Ruth and Rachel are watching cartoons in the living room, and I can tell from the shrieks and giggles that they are playing their normal game of trying to push each other off the couch. Upstairs, Jenny is singing tonelessly to herself in the bath. It's gone seven o'clock; I ought to try to get her to go to bed soon.
David is standing by the back door, his expression angry. His brand new Fender Stratocaster - a present for his sixteenth birthday - is slung round his neck, and he's wearing his Queen t-shirt, the one he used to practically live in.
The remnants of dinner are on the table, and I ought to clear them up soon. My mother hates it when we leave dirty dishes lying around. David didn't eat anything; and I know he threw up this afternoon. He's flushed, and I want to ask him if he thinks he has a temperature, but I reckon he'll just scoff at me.
I'm holding the keys to my father's car. We're not supposed to know where he hides them, but an empty margarine tub in the fridge isn't the stealthiest place in a family of seven.
"Lisa, I'm going, and that's final. I'm not arguing about it," David says, looking determined.
I don't want to argue with him. I never do. But I'm remembering my mother's words to me, before they left this morning; she said "I'm counting on you, Lisa. David thinks he's in charge, but it's up to you to keep them all in line."
"Give those to me," he says, quietly, holding out his hand for the keys.
I shake my head, trying to control the trembling in my hands, "Mom said-"
"Oh, you are such a good little girl," he replies, his tone dripping with sarcasm, and this is so unlike my gentle brother, that I am shocked. "Mom's not here," he continues, "Give me those."
I take a step backwards. He lifts the guitar from around his neck, wincing slightly as the base drags across his stomach, and props it carefully against a chair. He moves around the table toward me. I think about making a run for it, and the thought must show in my eyes, because he dodges right, grabs my arm, and twists my hand until he has the keys. He shoves them in his pocket, picks the guitar back up off the table, and he's out of the door before I can even think of what I should do next.
And as I listen to the sound of him driving away, all I can think is that I've let my mother down.
------
When I get to Sam's room, he's lying down in bed, and Cameron is taking some blood from his arm. He doesn't look so great, even compared to how he looked earlier. He's the color of chalk and he's clutching at his stomach like it would fall off if he released his grip.
"Dr Cameron, do we need some more pain relief in here?" I ask her. She checks the display on the morphine drip, and looks over at Sam.
"Is the pain getting worse?" she asks, looking charmingly, genuinely concerned, and I know it is genuine. It was the main reason I was so pleased when House hired her. I figured his patients needed all the sympathy they could get.
"Yeah," he says shortly. She increases the dose a little, and looks worried; as well she might, because the last thing we want is to depress his respiration any more.
"I'm going to find House," she says, giving me a troubled glance.
"Try Wilson's office," I suggest.
"Dr Cameron?" Sam asks, weakly, "Would you find Cathy for me, please? She went downstairs to make some calls."
Cameron nods her head briskly, and scampers from the room, her dark ponytail flying out behind her.
"Ask me a question," Sam says, suddenly, "Anything. Take my mind off this stomach ache."
"When did you decide you were going to be a musician?" I ask him, genuinely interested. He's not how I imagined a rock star would be, at all.
"I knew when I first picked up a guitar," he says, and counters with, "When did you know you were going to be a doctor?"
"When I was twelve," I tell him. It's what I tell everyone. It's true. He doesn't say any more, just watches me with his cool green stare. The room is quiet and dim; Cameron must have pulled the blinds across earlier; I doubt the others would have thought of it. The cardiac monitor bleeps away to itself, and footsteps approach, pass and disappear into the distance in the corridor outside.
And for some reason, I tell Sam something no-one at PPTH knows.
"My brother was sick, really sick and my parents were out of town. I had to take him to the ER. There was this one doctor, a woman; she seemed pretty old to me, but she was probably only in her thirties. It was just like it is in any hospital; people rushing about all the time, no-one with any space in their schedule to explain things, especially to hysterical twelve year old girls. Anyway, she took the time to sit down with me and explain what was going on."
"And did your brother-" he starts to say, and trails off, falling back against the pillows, a line of drool coming from his mouth. The cardiac monitor starts to show arrhythmia, and a rattling sound comes from his chest as he struggles to breathe.
"Nurse!" I shout, dropping the bed flat and grabbing a breathing mask, "I need some help in here!"
Continues in Part 3
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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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