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System Failure: Part Five
by phineyj and snarkbait
Chapter 13: Cameron
I look at my watch for the third time in as many minutes, and wonder just how much longer House is going to be. Across the table from me, Chase is openly dozing, leaning back in his chair, while the journal he was pretending to read hangs half off his lap.
Foreman has just gone back up to ICU to check Sam's stats again. He doesn't really need to do it; it is his turn, but I was only up there ten minutes ago. I note House's stash of Red Bull is missing a couple of cans and realize where Foreman's nervous energy is probably coming from.
I don't know why I'm so tired; it's not like one in the morning is particularly late for this job. It's probably because we've been running about all day, and now we can't do anything more for Sam until House gets here.
I'm thinking about resting my head on my arms just so I can close my eyes for a moment, when I hear a familiar step-limp in the corridor, and House comes in. He's wearing the same clothes he was earlier on, but the hair on the left side of his head is flattened down as though he's been sleeping on it. I suppose we must have got him out of bed, which would explain why it's taken him a while to get here.
"So, either of you figure out yet why band guy's gut is like Swiss cheese?" he asks, loudly, dropping his cane across the glass surface of the table. It makes a loud, resonating clatter and Chase wakes up so quickly he nearly falls over backwards out of his chair. I try not to laugh.
"Foreman is with the patient," I say, collecting myself, while Chase picks the journal up of the floor and pushes his hair out of his eyes, "Shall I page him down here, so we've got the latest stats for the differential?"
"What is it with Foreman today?" grumbles House, "Is he avoiding me?"
I take this as a yes, and I'm just about to page him, when he walks in the door.
"Sam's no worse, no better," Foreman reports, "He's sedated, intubated and we've given him IV steroids to reduce inflammation and antibiotics for infection."
He looks at House, who has uncapped a marker pen and is paused in front on the whiteboard, lost in thought.
"So we're thinking auto-immune now?" he asks, turning and looking round at me for confirmation. Which is odd. Why this sudden respect for my opinion? He seems a little off; like his mind's on something else.
"Yes. I think we should give him cyclophosphamide next; block any more cell growth while we work out what to do next," I say, looking at him closely and trying to figure out what might be bothering him.
"Have you got the video from the laparoscopy?" House asks.
Foreman throws it to him, and we all troop into the office to watch it. House winces when the camera pans over the diseased bowel, just like the rest of us did when we saw the real thing. It's not that any of us are squeamish; but it's upsetting to see a body system so obviously beyond repair; especially when we haven't worked out a diagnosis yet.
"Is Chen still here?" House asks, abruptly, hitting pause on the video. The image of matted, dead and dying bowel tissue hovers obscenely on the screen.
"He's gone to a hotel," I tell him, "He said he'd come back first thing tomorrow, to discuss surgery options."
I don't mention he asked me if I'd like to go to dinner with him, because why would I, and anyway, I said no.
"We've got to remove the dead bowel as soon as possible," says Chase, helpfully.
Foreman looks down at the printouts he brought down from Sam's room.
"Not tonight, we can't," he says, gloomily, "With stats like these, we could easily cause a spontaneous bowel perforation; he'll go into septic shock and die."
"Thank God you're here, Dr Foreman, that would never have occurred to me," House comments, but it lacks his normal bite.
"Chase, push cyclophosphamide and get some tissue samples so we can test for auto-immune disorders; Foreman, go see the OR clerk and get enough patients bumped off tomorrow's list so that Chen can operate first thing. Cameron, page him and tell him he's scrubbing in for eight; I take it you've got the number?" House glances over at me.
I'm nod, and I'm pretty sure I'm blushing, which is embarrassing. But to my surprise, he doesn't pick up on it.
"Right," he continues, "Then go and get consent from the wife. Then, I want all of you back down here with your thinking caps on so we can figure out our auto-immune ten most wanted."
As we leave the room, I glance back at House, who's still standing by the whiteboard, looking out of the window at the dark outline of the building opposite. I still don't know what's up with him, but there is one thing I've noticed. He smells of Cuddy's perfume.
Chapter 14: Cuddy
I can't even remember the last time I've woken up feeling this rested. I feel really good, and I can't think why; for a moment I think I must be on vacation, but the fact I'm in my own bed tends to suggest not.
Then, I wake up properly, realize I'm completely naked and the events of last night come flooding back to me with a terrible clarity. I must have been out of my mind to let that happen.
My sense of panic mounts as I shower, dress, and force down a bowl of muesli. I'm on autopilot. It's seven o'clock already; normally I would be at work by now. Somehow, it doesn't surprise me that I forgot to set my alarm, but it's annoying to be late on top of feeling...hysterical.
I slept with House. Of all the people I could have picked. I get a sudden, vivid sense memory of how it felt, kneeling over him, his cock in me, his tongue in my mouth, and if I had time to go and get under a cold shower I would. I do not have space in my head for this.
I'm ready, at last, but I can't find my car keys. As I turn the sitting room upside down looking for them, eventually spotting them down the side of the couch, something else catches my eye. David's file is still lying on the coffee table; House must have forgotten to take it when he left. I put it in my briefcase; I'm not sure why.
---
I spend the car journey trying to get some focus back, mainly by reminding myself of all the things I have to do today. That's if I get a break from the press calls. I suddenly remember, guiltily, that Sam is presumably still in ICU. Well, at least it's not likely he's dead, as that would have brought on the media onslaught for sure, and no-one's called me.
When I walk in the office, the red light on my phone is already flashing. Pretty soon, I'm dealing with the cracked soil pipe in Planned Investigation and the power failure in the lecture theatres, followed by a long and tedious conversation with a potential donor who probably needs to get out more if he's already thinking about giving away huge sums at eight in the morning.
I've just, finally, managed to get off the phone with him when I remember to check the patient records to see what's going on with Sam. Turns out he's scheduled for emergency surgery - I check my watch - starting five minutes ago. I get up, thinking I'll go up to the OR, but then it strikes me that if I do that there's a strong possibility I'll bump into House. A cold shiver goes through me at the very thought.
I'm hesitating on the threshold, trying to pull myself together, when a male figure approaches the outer door. I jump, but it's only Wilson.
"So, I hear our guitarist is in surgery," he says, conversationally, "I was just going up to take a look; are you coming?"
"No," I tell him, "I'm quite sure House has everything under control. I was just going to...check the power's back on in the lecture hall."
And with that deeply unconvincing lie, I walk off, as briskly as possible, and I'm sure Wilson's staring after me, but I don't care.
Chapter 15: Wilson
Something's up with House this morning. I can see he hasn't slept - none of his team seems to have; I just passed Cameron in the corridor and she looked like she'd stepped out of a heroin screws you up poster. However, if lack of sleep affected House that much normally, we'd all be dead - or he would be - never mind his patients.
He seems abstracted, which is fair enough, considering they still seem to have no idea which immune disease their patient has got; Cameron muttered something about running more tissue tests when I saw her and the whiteboard was covered with ideas from lupus to Wegener's granulomatosis. Although, let's face it, with the amount of bowel they've got to take out, getting a correct diagnosis is probably the least of that poor guy's problems right now.
Somehow, I don't think it's the patient's future welfare that's bugging House, though...Oh God. Stacy. He has his Stacy expression on. But I heard from her last week, and as far as I could tell, she had no intention of ever contacting him again. Anyway, if he's been here all night, he can't have seen her, and there's no way he'd have taken a call from her.
I wonder if Cuddy might know what's up? I would really appreciate a heads-up this time if he's going to go postal on me again; I've got so many patients at the moment I can barely keep up as it is, never mind all those interviews I've got to find time to do next week.
I head over to her office - it's on my way up to the OR anyway, and one of my own patients is in surgery this morning, so I figure I can check on House's case at the same time.
---
I watch Cuddy's back as she marches off down the corridor, after claiming she has no interest in Sam's case - the case that was preoccupying her all day yesterday, and which the press keep calling about - and I wonder what on earth's up with everyone today. Did they all get together and smoke crystal meth, and no-one thought to invite me? I try to pin down the expression that was on her face; it wasn't worry exactly; she looked hunted.
Now, why would that be?
Continues in Part 6
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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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