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Altruism (A House/Saw crossover)
by Silver
Warnings: This is a dark story. It features some grisly, rather explicit violence which is not for the faint of heart.
Other Disclaimer: Even though I've tried my best to research as much as possible and probably half of the time it took me to write this was used for looking up stuff, and all I'm using is based on real facts, I probably still goofed in the medical bits. I'm not a medical professional, I have no authority in this subject and I've failed chemistry repeatedly. So please don't tar and feather me when you notice things that don't work out just the way they do in real life. But hey, we're all watching House after all, right?
Notes: The idea came to me while being particularly depressed and pondering the most horrible House scenario I could write. This is what I came up with. Unlike my usual writing patterns, this isn't a very happy story, obviously. But I'd like to think that it's still romantic in a very twisted sense.
This story is half-owned by my wonderful friend Kris, really. She's my muse, my keeper, my creative compass and if it wasn't for her endless encouragement and comments this story wouldn't be half as good. She also took it upon herself to painstakingly beta this thing which was quite a bit of work.
For a version with a couple of graphics, please see the entry in my writer's journal at http://www.livejournal.com/community/not_gold/7447.html.
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Altruism
by Silver
al-tru-ism n. the principle or practice of unselfish concern for or
devotion to the welfare of others (opposed to EGOISM).
The trickling of water drops echoing in the room was the first thing he heard when he woke up. It crept into his consciousness, naggingly, and wouldn't let him rest. With a slight twinge of annoyance he thought that Wilson probably had done dishes late again instead of just leaving them until tomorrow and had forgotten to close the faucet all the way.
The second thought crossing his mind was that Wilson never did dishes on a Tuesday, because he had to work late on Tuesdays as there were always department meetings then. It was only then that he realized that he was lying on a cold tiled floor.
Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, only to find himself wrapped in darkness. He groaned in annoyance, half expecting the first wave of hang-over nausea to wash through him as soon as he sat up. What had he gotten himself into again?
He reached up to investigate his head. Nothing out of the ordinary there. He would have liked to investigate the rest of his body as well, but it was so damn dark that he couldn't even see his own hands. Where the hell was he?
With a groan, he pulled his leg under his body, searching for things to hold onto so that he could drag himself up since apparently he had misplaced his cane as well. He waved with his arms around in the darkness, hoping for a chair, a table, anything that would help him get up. He found a wall which wasn't very helpful. Then his fingers found a pipe and he held onto it immediately. That would do.
Clinging to the pipe, he dragged himself to his feet, ignoring the usual pull of pain in his right thigh as he shook out his muscles which were all very sore. One thing he couldn't ignore however was the absolutely unusual pull around his right ankle. He moved the leg around tentatively and heard the rattle of chains dragging across the tiles.
He was back on his knees immediately, groaning as the pain shot through his thigh. He felt for his ankle blindly, his fingers touching the cold metal of a ring around his ankle. He moved his hands further down and got a hold of a thick iron chain that was attached to the ring. He tugged on the chain, but it barely moved. This was definitely getting weird.
There was nothing he could do in this blasted darkness. He pulled himself up on the pipe once more and started feeling along the tiled wall. Maybe he could find a light switch.
He touched something that was hanging from a hook. He felt almost ridiculously thrilled when his fingers closed around the familiar smooth surface of his cane. As if to reassure himself of the fact that this really was his cane, he ran his hand across the wooden surface. There, he brushed past something unusual.
He returned to it immediately and realized it was a little paper envelope and a small plastic tube tied to the end of his cane. Making sure not to lose anything in the darkness, he plucked both off. Instinctively, he opened the envelope first. He felt a small glossy card inside. With a slight feeling of apprehension, he pulled the card out of the envelope and opened it.
Something dropped out and fell to the floor. He stifled a curse and tried to feel around for it, but it was lost in the darkness. With a groan of frustration, he slid his fingers into the envelope again to see if he had forgotten anything else, but it was empty otherwise.
He turned his attention to the plastic object, rubbing his fingers across it. It appeared to be a small plastic stick, but there was tape wrapped around it. He peeled the tape off carefully to see if anything had been stuck there, but found nothing.
He rubbed over the stick once more. It was much smaller than a pen, made of plastic and flexible. Following a hunch, he bent the little stick a bit. Something cracked inside and soft green light spilled across his fingers. A glowstick! He shook it to help the chemicals mix. The light it created was barely enough to see his own hand, but at least he could see something with it.
He bowed down once more to search for the thing he had dropped. He found it next to his right foot which he could see now was very clearly shackled. This item turned out to be a small piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Frowning, he picked it up and turned it in the gleam of the glowstick. There was nothing else to it. He grabbed the card and opened it once more. Now he could read the message scribbled on it: You don't have to be alone in the dark. Your fate is in your hands.
Utterly confused, he sank back onto the floor, feeling at a loss. What was he doing here? He looked at the objects in his lap again, picking up the glowstick and turning it in his fingers. The tape was still stuck to the end of it. He peeled it off completely. Humming to himself, he looked at the tape sticking to his index finger now and the glowstick in the palm of his hand. He'd played enough point-and-click adventures to know that trying to combine things was always a good idea.
He grabbed his cane and held the glowstick to the end of it. Then he wrapped the tape around. Feeling triumphant, he held the cane out in front of him, pleased with the extra range this had given him.
He got up and used the glowing end of the cane to look at the area that was beyond where he had checked before. Sure enough, he soon found a light switch not far away from where he was standing. With his cane he had no problem reaching it and whacked it.
Bright light filled the room immediately and it stung in his eyes so much that he dropped the cane to cover them with both hands. It took him a while until he felt like he could face the brightness. Squinting carefully into the room, it took his eyes a moment to adjust and unblur.
The room was jarringly white, hurting his eyes which still needed to get used to the presence of light. Every wall was covered with shiny tiles. Right in front of him, a kennel dominated the room.
The metal bars of the cage ended about five inches above the ground and were an inch apart both vertically and horizontally, forming a tightly netted grid through which he could probably barely fit his thumb and index finger. Judged by the length of his chain he wasn't meant to anyway, as it appeared to be just out of his reach.
Slowly, he took a step closer to the kennel and peered inside. There was something lying on the floor. The sight made his blood run cold. On the floor, a person was lying curled up on the side, his back turned to him. But he would have recognized that back anywhere.
"Wilson!" he yelled at the still figure on the floor. No reaction came from the other man. For the first time since he had found himself in this predicament, he felt a tingle of concern creep up his spine. He wanted to take a step closer, but the painful tug on his ankle prevented him from doing so.
Grabbing his cane, he whacked the grid of the kennel repeatedly. "Hey, Wilson! Wake up call for Dr. Wilson! Move your lazy ass. Rise and shine!"
A ripple went through Wilson's body and he groaned, rolling on his back. House felt his knees weaken with relief. "Come on, Wilson, I need you over here. No time to lie around." He watched Wilson's eyelids flutter, then raise slowly. For a moment the other man's look was unfocussed and he blinked a few times. Then he reached up with a groan to rub his eyes. A second later, brown eyes locked with House's.
"House?" The voice was faint and broken, at if it needed to crack its way through layers of dust first.
"Glad you decided to join me," House mumbled, leaning against the wall to veil the fact that he felt like his knees were about to buckle.
"What's going on here?" Wilson said, his voice gaining strength the more he talked. He rolled to his stomach and pushed himself off the ground, looking around in confusion.
House took a moment to let his eyes examine his friend's body for any possible injury. Wilson looked as if he had spent the night in his clothes, which he probably had, a little roughed up and in disarray, but otherwise fine. He was still wearing the same clothes House had seen him in at the hospital yesterday.
Realizing he probably should be answering this question, as little as he felt able to, he said, "Wish I knew."
By now, Wilson had finished looking around and he directed his perplexed stare at him again. "House, if this is some kind of joke you've..."
Feeling annoyed at this accusation, House tapped the shackle around his foot with his cane. "You think I'm wearing this because it's all the rage with the hip crowd? I'm just as confused as you here."
Wilson's eyes darted to his leg. "Good Lord..." He reached into his hair, leaving it in a worse disorder than it already had been in. "This is insane." He turned around in his cage once. "But who...?"
"I know as much as you do," House interrupted him impatiently. Somehow it annoyed him to go through the entire 'Oh my God, what's going on here?' routine all over again. "I've found this note attached to my cane though." He held it up between two fingers and quoted it to Wilson.
"But... that makes no sense."
House shrugged. "Well, it clued me in to the fact that I wasn't alone in this room and that there was a light switch. Not that I actually thought about unraveling any clues in that particular moment since finding yourself in complete darkness, shackled and confused tends to mess with your sense of reason at times. That and I kinda had thought about switching on the light myself. You know, with it being all dark and stuff."
"Oh..." Wilson put his hands against his hips, assuming the pose that was so familiar to House. "So, whoever this is, he likes to play games, leaving hints."
House tilted his head. "What makes you think it's a 'he'?"
Wilson hesitated for a moment, then replied, "Well, I'd like to think that a woman wouldn't come up with such a sick idea of a joke. Or whatever this is supposed to be."
"I don't know, Jimmy. Pissed off any girlfriends lately?" House had meant to keep the edge out of his voice, but now that he had said it, it had sounded a lot more accusing than he had intended to.
"I? Why do you think it's me who's responsible for this? I'm not the one who's alienated almost every person he's ever met!"
"I'm not the one in the cage!"
"And I'm not the one who's chained to the wall!"
They fell silent. After a couple of seconds, House said quietly. "This isn't working. We need to work together on this to get out of here."
Wilson nodded. "Okay. So, this note. Do you recognize the handwriting?"
House hadn't thought of that. He pulled the card out of his breast pocket again and looked at it. He shook his head in disappointment. "No... it's written in print." He showed Wilson the card who shook his head as well.
"Is there anything else you got?"
"Just this." He showed Wilson the empty envelope and the glowstick still taped to the end of his cane. "Oh, and this." He reached into his pocket again and retrieved the puzzle piece. Having already dismissed it as inconclusive, he flicked it across the room towards Wilson. It got caught in the grid of the kennel and dropped to the floor in front of it.
Rolling his eyes, Wilson went to his knees at the grid and fished for the piece through the gap at the bottom. Then he turned it in his hand. "There's a picture of a house on it, did you notice that?"
House frowned. "No... do you think it means anything?"
Wilson shrugged. "I don't know, but it seems like our friend here doesn't do anything without a purpose." He rubbed his chin, looking around once more. "What about all this stuff here. Did you look at that for a clue yet?"
Feeling irritated by the fact that Wilson was pointing out something obvious once more that he hadn't thought about yet, House snapped back, "No, I didn't have the time to do that! Waking up in complete darkness kinda put a damper on my exploratory urges. Finding you unconscious on the floor of a cage didn't really help either."
Wilson raised his hands in an appeasing gesture. "Fine! Would you mind looking now though?" He reached up to his collar and loosened his tie a little. "You know, I'd do that myself but there isn't a lot of stuff in this damn cage!"
Biting back another acid reply, House chose to take a moment to finally look around properly instead. As it had been his initial impression, the entire room was covered with white tiles. What he had missed so far was the equipment trolley right next to him. He shook his head at himself as he limped over to it to inspect it.
"What's in it?" Wilson asked.
"I'm looking, okay?" House looked around it once and found nothing out of the ordinary. Then he reached for the first drawer and pulled at it. It didn't move. "It's locked," he said almost indifferently.
"Well, you can break into everything else, usually! Why can't you open a damn toolbox?"
House sent Wilson a sizing glance, attributing his friend's testiness to their situation. "I could open it, if I had my tools with me, which I don't," he said evenly, inspecting the trolley once more. He tried lifting the bottom to make the locking mechanism unhook, but that didn't work either. He heard metallic things slide around inside. "What do you have?" he asked over his shoulder.
"What I have? I've had it with this bullshit here!" Wilson started prancing around in the kennel restlessly. "There's a sink over there but I already checked it. Nothing in it."
"What about the other side of the kennel?" A spark of hope lit up in his chest. "Is that a door there?"
Wilson looked into the indicated direction. "Yes, it is..." he murmured and walked over to it. He grabbed the grid and rattled at it. "It's locked."
"Can you see how it's locked?" House asked.
Looking around the door, Wilson sighed in frustration. "I can't see anything. There's this plate welded to it. There's no way I can get to it from here."
"Not even if I slide my cane through the gap and you try to reach it somehow?"
Wilson sighed again. "No, the cane doesn't fit through the grid, in case you haven't noticed, and there's no gap at the bottom of this side. I think whoever built this cage knew exactly what he was doing."
Looking through the grid at the other side of the room, Wilson said, "There's a heavy looking door over there, but if I can't get out of this cage I can't get to that one either." He squinted. "And there's a fire extinguisher hanging at the wall next to it and... uh, an AED, it seems."
"Antiepileptic drug?"
Wilson rolled his eyes. "No. One of those automated defibrillators. Don't ask me." He ran his hands through his hair once more. "God, it's hot in here."
Frowning, House turned around to look at Wilson. "I think it's rather chilly here, actually."
"Oh, sure. I'm just imagining it. Just like I'm imagining sitting in this cage for no apparent reason."
"Geeze, Jimmy, if I had known that you were such a killjoy I would have asked for someone else to be locked up with by some insane stalker with a strange sense of humor. Calm down, okay? I'm trying to figure this out." He turned on his heels once, groaning when the pain shot through his leg.
"Is it your leg?" Wilson asked, immediately turning back into his old concerned self.
"Yeah, I'm fine," House said dismissively, reaching into his pocket for his Vicodin. He found the bottle and popped it open, opening his palm to shake a pill into it. Nothing came. House turned the Vicodin bottle to look into it and found that it was empty of pills. Instead, there was something else lodged inside of it. He pulled it out.
"What is it?" Wilson was standing right at the grid now, pressing his face against the cool metal.
"It's a cassette," House murmured in reply, not looking at the other man. He turned it in his hand.
"Great, now we only need a cassette player," Wilson said with a scoff.
"Check your pockets."
"What?"
"Check your pockets, now" House repeated his order.
Apparently impressed by the sternness of his tone, Wilson complied immediately. He turned the pockets of his pants inside out to no avail. Then he patted across the pockets of his lab coat, finding nothing.
"Your pocket protector. Check that one."
Wilson obeyed and pulled it out. "My pens are gone," he noted passively as he turned it upside down over his palm. Another DAT cassette slid out, together with a small key. Wilson looked at House expectantly.
"Give me the key!" House said urgently, walking towards the cage. The tug reminded him once more of the shackle. Groaning, he stretched his leg and extended his arm so he could reach the kennel. Once he had received the key from Wilson, he immediately used it on the equipment trolley, unlocking it. "All right!" he exclaimed triumphantly as he pulled the first drawer open.
"And? What's in it?" Wilson asked, pressing against the grid once more.
Curiously, House perused the content of the drawer. "Scalpels, syringes, a couple of needles..." he reported as he went through the different compartments. "Pincers, clamps, a flashlight, otoscope, stethoscope, sphygmomanometer, thermometer, tongue depressors, cotton swabs, bandages... basic doc equipment. And this..." He pulled out a nasty looking jagged blade as long as his forearm with a heavily decorated mahogany handle. "This looks vintage." He tested it with his fingertip. "But sharp."
"What is this? A saw? Can you try cutting the chain with it?"
Squinting, House inspected the blade further. "No... look at the teeth of the blade. This is a surgical saw. I think I'm more likely to cut through my leg than the..." He trailed off. A chill went down his spine. He dropped the saw back into the drawer as if he had been burnt.
Opening another drawer revealed a bag valve mask. "There's a bag in here," he reported back to Wilson.
"What the hell. Does he want us to perform surgery here?"
"Doubtful," House replied with a wink. "No anesthetics."
"Oh, that dispels my concerns instantly, of course!"
House opened the next drawer, revealing a small cassette player. "There you go!" Thrilled to finally have found something useful, he took it out and popped open the lid.
"Hey, why are we listening to your cassette first?" Wilson complained.
"Because I'm the one who found the player, duh," House replied.
"With my key!" Wilson interjected.
House rolled his eyes. "Fine, throw me your cassette then. I'm not going to do the limbo dance again to get over there." Wilson's cassette landed in front of him with a clattering sound and he picked it up, inserting it into the player. He pressed the play button.
The crackling of the tape whispered through the room, intensified by the tiled walls and the rapt attention of the two men. Then a man's dark voice cut through the silence.
"Dr. Wilson. Perhaps your only mistake was to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe it was getting involved with a man who was sure to get you into deep trouble one day. Or maybe it was your own doing. In your forty years of life you haven't managed to maintain a single working relationship, meandering from marriage to affaire, over and over again, carefree in your search for the one meaningful bond that will have made your quest worthwhile while blaming those left behind for your own insufficiencies.
"Perhaps this is why you've decided to become an oncologist. Every day you get to hand out death sentences to people who have planned their lives differently, and you use them to feed your sense of self-importance as you accompany them down the road to a future that frees you from all responsibility. But don't you ever wonder when you sink into the arms of yet another faceless lover whether at the end of the day you have made the right decision?"
When the recording ended, both men stared in silence at the player in House's hands. After a while, House cleared his throat and said, "Wow, that was deep. Does Sigmund's voice here sound familiar to you?"
Wilson just shook his head, obviously at a loss.
"Okay... time for my tape then, I guess." House exchanged the tapes and pressed play again.
"Dr. House, if you're listening to this you have unraveled some of my clues. That is a first step in the right direction. You'll be needing more of your deducting skills soon. For a man like you, finding yourself in such a state must be confusing. No longer in control of the situation, at the mercy of someone else. What does it feel like to no longer be the one giving the orders, but taking them instead?
"To you, disease is a puzzle and finding out which one it is, is the solution. Fatality is just the incentive to make the conundrum more interesting. The patients are merely the tools to cater to your need for challenges. You wander through life with the cocksure demeanor of someone who's never been wrong, yet you have never managed to cure the seeping, festering wound deep inside of you. Instead you've chosen to numb your mind with drugs to the boredom that is life. Dr. House, do you indulge in psychoactive drugs because it makes your life more bearable... or because you can't bear being yourself anymore?
"What would you do, if solving the mystery suddenly wasn't enough anymore? If suddenly so much more was at stake. Your best friend's life, for example. What if it took the one thing you're incapable of: altruism? At this moment, a powerful poison is coursing through Dr. Wilson's veins. Your job is to find out which one it is before it kills him. Dr. Wilson's job is it to not die before you succeed. Your time is limited. Don't waste it."
The silence in the room seemed to expand as both men stared at each other, both equally confused and at loss for words. Finally, Wilson managed to grind out, "This... this is a joke, right? This is just a prank, some sick trick someone is trying to pull on us and any minute now they'll come through that door and laugh at us for falling for it, right?" He pinched his nose and closed his eyes, like he usually did when he tried to force his thoughts back into the direction he wanted. "This can't be real."
House watched him for a long time, carefully weighing what to say next. "I don't think this is a joke."
Wilson looked up to him, a look of utter disbelief plastered across his face. "Oh, you don't think so? Care to enlighten me how you've reached that conclusion?" He started pacing through the cell again.
Opening his mouth and closing it again as he changed his mind, House just shrugged and said instead, "Call it a hunch."
"A hunch, huh? We both know you don't follow hunches, House. You know something, and you'd better tell me what it is before I blow a fuse." He tapped his toes impatiently.
House sighed. "Listen... calm down, okay? I know as much as you do about this. All I know right now is that I want to check you out and see if there's anything wrong with you."
Raising his face to the ceiling, Wilson was obviously debating what to do next. Then he just dropped his head in defeat and nodded. "Okay. I'm sorry. This is just... this is really strange for me."
"I bet it is." House walked as close to the kennel as he could. "Show me your arms."
"What?"
He groaned in exasperation. "Listen, I can't have you second-guess everything I say. I'm obviously going to try my damn hardest to make sure we both get out of this in one piece, so please, be a good boy and stop stalling all the time."
Wilson pressed his lips together in reply, obviously not happy with this. Yet he reached for his lab coat and shrugged out of it. He tossed it on the floor carelessly, then opened the buttons on his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. "There, arms." He stretched them out for House to see.
House strained his back to get a good look at Wilson's arms which he was holding close to the grid. He couldn't see anything obviously wrong with them. "Look at your arms yourself. Do you notice any punctures or other marks?"
"What, you think he might have injected me with something?"
"Well, he needed to get the poison into your system somehow, no? Maybe I can get a clue from the way it was administered."
Brushing across his exposed arms, Wilson inspected every inch of his skin closely. "I can't see anything. If he injected me with something, then he didn't put it into these veins." He dropped his arms. "But there are plenty of spots on my body that I can't check." He gave House a worried look.
"I know." House rubbed his eyes. "Okay, take off your shirt." When he saw Wilson get ready to say something again, he sighed. "Work with me, Jimmy, please."
Nodding hesitantly, Wilson reached for his shirt and began unbuttoning it. He pulled it off and kept it in his hands while he stood there, waiting for House's next idea.
House scanned the other man's body. With a sigh of defeat he had to acknowledge that he couldn't see anything. "Turn around for me." As Wilson turned slowly, his eyes fixed on a patch of skin. "Wait."
Wilson stopped instantly, peering over his shoulder to see what House was looking at. "What is it?"
"You've got a rash on your lower back. It's just a small one, but that might be a first symptom."
Wilson hesitated for a moment, then he said, "I don't know... this... this could be anything."
"Or it could be everything! Does it itch?"
Turning away, Wilson shook his head. "No, it doesn't. I didn't even notice it was there." He hesitated again. "Can I put on my shirt again? I'm cold."
Thrilled to have found something, House dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "Sure, do whatever you want." He paid no attention to Wilson getting dressed again while he limped over to the trolley and started rummaging through the drawers.
His fingers closed around a black marker and he held it up triumphantly. "Excellent!" He began looking around for something to write on. His glance fell on the largest white board he'd ever seen: the walls. Immediately, he went to work.
"Now let's see... toxins that can cause skin rash..." He started writing down everything that came to mind. "Arsenic, boric acid, insulin... DDT, bromates, procaine, brown recluse... cyanide, phenurone, bloodroot, lomotil... persantine, aldomet, chlordane..." He stopped and rubbed his eyes. Those were a lot already and how could he be sure he was covering it all? Most of them could be quite nasty as it was. He balled his fist and whacked the wall once. "Damn it! Focus! This is important!" he muttered to himself.
As if on cue, his leg began to throb and he found himself craving for a Vicodin more than ever. He reached down to rub his thigh absent-mindedly, trying to focus on the list.
"Brown recluse?" Wilson said behind him. "The spider? Wouldn't I have noticed a spider bite at least?"
"I'm just writing them down as they come to my mind. It's not like all of them are likely. Take this." He tipped cyanide with his marker. "You'd be dead already. So I can cross that one out." He did so. "Same with persantine." He crossed out another one.
"That's comforting," Wilson mumbled, shuffling around behind him.
House didn't reply but continued to work instead, crossing out more and more poisons as he went down the list. "Too fast-acting... absence of respiratory problems... no necrosis, no violent convulsions... yet, but you'd have them by now if it was this one..." He heard a strangled sound behind him and turned around to look at Wilson. "What is it?"
Wilson shook his head. "Nothing. It's just..." He buried his face in his hands for a moment. "This is really scary. It's like you're writing a timetable of what's coming for me. And I don't find that very encouraging."
House shrugged. "Don't worry, I'm not even writing down all symptoms. For instance, most poisons make you puke your guts out, so I don't think that's very helpful to list." At Wilson's stricken face, he sighed in exasperation. "Listen, I can work on this or I can hold your hand. I can't do both."
Wilson just brushed him off with a wave of his hand as he turned around, showing him his back. House groaned. He hated it when Wilson acted like that.
He turned his attention back to the list. After inspecting it for a couple of more minutes, he dropped his marker with a groan of frustration. Wilson turned back to him at the sound. "I just can't work with this," he said, rubbing his neck. "I need more data." He looked at Wilson. "How are you feeling?"
"Well, I'm a little worried..."
House interrupted him impatiently. "Not that. Physically."
Wilson's facial expression became withdrawn again. "Oh, I'm just peachy keen! Thanks for asking."
House gave him a stern look. "Wilson."
"I don't know! Oddly enough, I find it hard to separate my physical from my emotional well-being at the moment!"
House rolled his eyes. "Fine, then tell me how you feel."
Wilson started pacing around the cell again. "Upset. Nervous. Angry. Furious even! I feel like I want to smash this fucking cage! Scared. Shaking. A little nauseated. Lonely."
Looking at Wilson evenly, House asked, "Do you need a hug?"
Wilson cast him a burning look. "Fuck you."
"Why Jimmy. Didn't think you'd be in the mood. But I think we should try to solve that poison thing first. Besides, that grid between us kinda kills the mood." He reached into the drawer and took out the stethoscope. He walked as close to the kennel as his chain would allow and held it out on his outstretched arm. "Here, give me something I can work with instead."
Wilson stuck his fingers through the grid and caught the end of it. When he tried to pull it all the way in it got caught between the iron bars. "I can't. It won't fit through the grid. The tube isn't flexible enough. Besides, what's the point in listening to my own heartbeat with a stethoscope?"
House frowned. "How the fuck am I supposed to diagnose you when I can't do anything with you?" Wilson's shrug only increased his irritation. "Fine, sit on the floor. Just do it!"
He didn't wait to see if Wilson complied, but instead went to take a couple of instruments out of the drawer and put them on the floor in front of him. Then he let himself down onto his knees carefully, groaning when the pain shot through his thigh, now a lot more forcefully than usual as the Vicodin was slowly leaving his system. He let himself down on his stomach carefully, then pulled himself closer to the kennel until his face was very close to the grid and Wilson.
"There," he ground out between gritted teeth, trying to fight back the pain caused by him lying in this uncomfortable position. He slipped the bell of the stethoscope through the larger gap at the bottom. "Try to put this against your chest somehow."
Wilson did as he was told, opening his shirt a bit so he could press the bell against his chest.
Putting in the earpieces, House listened to Wilson's heartbeat. "God, your heart is racing! How could you not have noticed that?"
Wilson shrugged. "I told you I was nervous. I think it's natural to a certain extent to have a racing heart when you're in a situation like this."
House sat up with a groan. "Yeah, but it's also natural to have an elevated heart rate when you're going through acute poisoning!"
"You think it could be related?"
"Gee, let me think... Yes!" He reached for the blood pressure meter and stuffed the cuff through the gap. "Put this on and put the stethoscope against your arm. You've been to med school, too, you know how to do that." Once Wilson was finished, he squeezed the pump to blow up the cuff. Then he opened the valve.
"Blood pressure normal..." he commented, looking at the dial. "That's not really helpful."
"I think it's great that at least something is normal here," Wilson replied dryly, lying on his back to allow the measuring to take place.
"Normal is bad. Normal is no new information." House pulled off the stethoscope. "Okay, show me your fingers."
No longer up for questioning his every move, Wilson stuck his arm through the gap for House to inspect.
"No cyanosis there... And your lips." Wilson turned his head and their faces were very close for a moment while House stuck his thumb through the gap, rubbing it across Wilson's lips gently. He swallowed thickly as he pulled back. "You're good."
Not moving away, he reached for the flashlight and switched it on. He flashed into Wilson's eyes a couple of times, watching the brown pupils closely. "Pupils dilated," he murmured. Then he sat up and grabbed the thermometer. He handed it to Wilson once he was done removing the cuff and sat up as well.
"Take your temperature," House ordered gruffly while he dragged himself over to the pipes so he could pull himself up again. For a moment, the room seemed to sway as a wave of pain threatened to overpower him. Once it was over, his jaws were hurting from gritting his teeth so hard. "And?" he gasped, breathless from the pain.
"Thtill meathuring," Wilson said with the thermometer in his mouth.
While Wilson did that, House went over to the wall to look at his list once more. With a feeling of frustration, he realized that the previous list of poisons was completely useless now. Somehow the elevated heart rate and lack of cyanosis ruled out most of them right there and then. He struck out the entire list with an impatient strike of his marker.
"This isn't making any sense..." he mumbled to himself as he limped over to the next wall piece, starting a new list. He wrote down all the symptoms he had found so far. The list was soberingly short. "Rash, elevated heart rate, dilated pupils..." He rubbed his forehead against the cool tiles. "How's your temperature?"
Wilson took the thermometer out of his mouth and looked at it. He hesitated for a moment, then he said, "It's fine." He put the thermometer into his breast pocket.
"Damn it!" House whacked the wall with his fist.
"Is... is that bad?" Wilson asked hesitantly behind him.
House turned around to him, leaning against the wall for support. "It's just... it would have made diagnosing a lot easier. It's not that many toxins that cause your body to run a fever."
"So, it's actually rather unlikely to happen anyway."
Debating it for a second, House shrugged. "I guess. Back to work." He turned back to the wall.
"Well, maybe I'll break out into a fever later?"
"Unlikely." House started writing a list of all other poisons he could remotely think of on the side. "Fever is the first thing your body would react with. It's now or never. So we can cross that one off our list for sure."
"Okay..."
Growing increasingly aggravated with the list, House sat down on the floor despite the pain that rampaged through his thigh as he did so. He let the marker bounce between his fingers, tapping it on the floor casually.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Wilson asked, pressing against the grid once more.
"I'm waiting." He sliced Wilson an unnerved look. "I can't work without any data."
Wilson frowned. "So..."
"So I'm going to wait until you display a new symptom."
"Hopefully one that doesn't debilitate me right away."
"Yes, preferably."
To House's surprise, Wilson reacted to this with a smile. "Okay! Sounds like a decent plan." He turned around and sauntered across the kennel.
House watched him inquisitively. "What, no complaining about my lack of involvement? No forceful demands that I do something right now?"
Turning on his heels, Wilson just lifted his arms in a carefree gesture. "I'm not one of your patients, House. I won't bug you to fuss over my case 24-7."
Tossing the marker into the air and catching it again, House replied casually, "That's good to know." He watched Wilson shuffle around the cage. House groaned inwardly. That man just couldn't sit still it seemed. "Can't you just sit down? I'm trying to think."
Wilson stopped and looked at him. "No, you're not. You're waiting for me to turn green, or sprout mushrooms out of my ears, or grow an extra leg or something." He chuckled.
House glowered. "Fine, then you're just annoying me and I'd prefer it if you stopped pacing around like Jim Carrey on a sugar rush."
That made Wilson laugh. "Sugar rush, that's a good one."
Rubbing across his stubble, House sized Wilson up once more. "Yeah, I'm just sparking with wit, ain't I."
Wilson put his arms against his hips and took a deep breath. "Yeah, you can be funny sometimes."
"Okay, I liked you better when you were pissy and ranting. That kind of positive attitude may work well with your cancer kids, but I find it rather annoying and not really productive."
Shrugging, Wilson said simply, "Then I guess you just have to think unhappy thoughts now to get you off that cloud of happiness I caused."
With a scowl, House decided to ignore Wilson for now. He reached for his cane and used that to play with while he let his thoughts wander. Suddenly it occurred to him that he didn't have the slightest idea how he'd gotten here. He frowned and tried to get a hold of a memory, but it seemed to slip away from him.
He recalled going home. The day had been long and boring with nothing to do but paperwork, dodging Cuddy and seeing a seemingly endless string of irritating clinic patients who had been bent on pissing him off with their continuous whining and obvious diagnoses. He remembered... he remembered thinking something was wrong when he had closed the door to the apartment. But what?
They had been fighting in the morning. He remembered that now. What had been the reason? He rubbed his eyes as if that would help brush away the cobwebs of oblivion, but no matter how much he tried, it didn't work.
He remembered... something had been wrong. He had walked into the living room and somehow it hadn't seemed right. As if he hadn't been alone even though he knew that it was impossible. And then... a sound in the bedroom... the tingling sensation in his guts as he had opened the door...
The brief window of clarity was gone. House shook his head to bring it back, but to no avail. He looked over at Wilson who was wandering around again. "What happened last night when you were taken?" he asked.
Wilson stopped and turned to look at him. "I..." He frowned. "I don't know." He rubbed his neck, his face twisted into a thoughtful expression. "I remember locking my office... it was pretty late already. I walked by the night desk... I wanted to buy the evening paper at the kiosk but it was already closed. I went to the garage... That's all I remember." He gave House a nervous look. Then he laughed. "Hah, this is weird."
Ignoring that last comment, House dug deeper. "So you were at the hospital?"
Wilson nodded in reply. "What about you?"
"I remember returning to the apartment. But somehow..." He tried to recall the moment when he had stepped into the bedroom. What the bedroom usually looked like... his clothes, scattered on the floor on the right side of the bed. Medical journals and dime novels heaped on top of the right nightstand. Just a novel and a magazine on the left nightstand, no clothes around anywhere. Just the discarded nightclothes neatly folded over a clothes rack...
Nothing too unusual and yet... He knew he had cleaned up his mess in the morning before work. Or rather, he had gathered it all up and stuffed it into the closet so that it looked like he had cleaned up. Or maybe he had just meant to do it and the instance he recalled where he had been stuffing clothes into the closet was just one of the countless other times he had done it before.
He had bunched up all his clothes once more and walked over to the closet and then...
"He was hiding in the closet..." House murmured.
"He? The guy who did this to us?" Wilson asked from all the way across the room.
House just nodded. He was trying to recall what he had seen. But it was all so faded... or maybe he just hadn't seen the guy at all.
The sound of retching interrupted his train of thought. Using the cane for leverage, he struggled to his feet and walked as far as the chain would allow it. He saw Wilson leaning over the sink, vomiting into it violently.
He came up for air several times, only to bend down once more for another wet heave. Finally, he sank to the floor, his face glistening with sweat as he wiped his sleeve across his face. There were tears streaking his cheeks and House felt a twinge of sympathy until he realized with a shock that they were tears of laughter. Wilson was laughing.
"What's so funny?" House asked slowly, watching the other man closely.
It took Wilson a moment to reply, because he didn't seem to be able to stop laughing. "It's just..." he took a deep breath. "It's just that you said that most poisons make you puke your guts out and here I am! Puking my guts out!" He laughed some more. A second later he was bending over the sink again to empty the contents of his stomach into it. He was still laughing.
Picking up the pen, House walked over to the wall and wrote down another symptom, nausea, and revised his list accordingly, adding a couple of more poisons. Then he tipped the end of the marker against his chin thoughtfully. Behind him, Wilson had finally stopped laughing and puking at the same time and was just leaning against the wall tiredly.
"How many cancer kids does it take to screw in a light bulb?" House asked across his shoulder. When he got no reply, he turned to look at Wilson and repeated the question. Then he added, "Just one, but it takes a support group to cheer him on, and there's a lot of grieving afterwards."
Wilson blinked a couple of times. "What?"
"I'm telling you a joke."
"I know, but that wasn't very funny."
"Okay, how about this one: Why do cancer kids have such poor dental hygiene?"
Wilson shrugged. "Don't know."
"Because buying dental floss in rolls of 100 yards seems like such a waste."
That made Wilson grin briefly.
House walked closer to the kennel. "A mommy is buying a new toy for her cancer kid. She looks at the box and it reads 'Lifetime Guarantee', so she walks up to the clerk and says 'Excuse me, Sir, but do you have anything that will last the rest of the year?'"
A chuckle went through Wilson's body as House continued. "The oncologist sees his cancer kid and her mother to discuss the results of the tests. 'I'm sorry to have to tell you, but your daughter has a very rare form of cancer for which there are no treatments and I'm afraid that she only has six months to live.' The mother sobs into her handkerchief and asks, 'What do you suggest we should do?' The doctor replies, 'Take your kid out of school, get rid of the TV and visit your relatives often.' The mother frowns. 'And how will that make my daughter live longer?' - 'It won't. But the six months will seem a hell of a lot longer.'
Wilson was literally toppling over with laughter. "Hell of a lot longer! That's hilarious!"
Somehow it didn't give House the usual feeling of satisfaction to see that he managed to make Wilson laugh. "You know, I've told you that joke once before. You said I was sick and didn't speak to me for the rest of the night."
Between snickering, Wilson asked, "I did? Well, I suppose I must have gotten the joke wrong then, because I think it's just side-splitting." He laughed again.
Without another word, House walked over to the wall and added another symptom.
"Euphoria?" Wilson read out loud. He had gotten up and walked over to the grid again. "I'm not euphoric!"
"No, you're just laughing about the stupidest things and suddenly finding jokes funny that would have made me sleep on the couch before. For someone who usually only laughs on special occasions that's pretty significant."
Wilson shrugged. "Fine, suit yourself."
Amending the list some more, House rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he inspected it, trying to find some connection, anything he could get a hold of that would help him break the case. But this list was just too extensive still. Nausea wasn't really the ultimate dead give-away to the solution and neither was the euphoria. And even if he managed to find the poison, what could he do?
He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the tiles. He forced the knot of apprehension in his stomach to dissolve. He had to treat this just like any other case. If he didn't, he'd end up screwing up and Wilson would die. This thought alone made panic surge up inside his chest briefly, but he forced it down firmly.
The sounds of gagging caught his attention once more. He watched Wilson tiredly as he emptied his stomach into the sink again. Once he was finished, House said to him, "You have to try and stay hydrated."
Wilson nodded weakly, sweat making his flushed cheeks glisten. "I know... I know..." He leaned over the sink and opened the faucet. After an initial splutter, clean water poured out of it. He let it run for a bit, probably to flush out the vomit, then he started splashing water into his face. He gave a sound of relief as he rubbed his wet hands across the nape of his neck with closed eyes.
House watched him from the other side of the room. "And you're sure you're not running a fever?"
Casting him a sidelong glance, Wilson nodded curtly. "Of course. That's just from the vomiting. You know what that does to a body, with all the adrenaline pumping through the veins..."
"Yes sure..." House wasn't convinced. "I want you to check again though."
"Okay, fine!" Wilson said irritably and reached for the thermometer in his breast pocket. He stuck it between his lips while he continued rubbing the cooling water across his body.
Waiting for the result, House stood around, feeling a little useless. If this had been the hospital, he already would have run a bunch of tests and administered a dozen prophylactic shots with any kind of substance he could think of. If anything bad happened and the patient crashed he could always start over again once the emergency team was done patching him back up. But he couldn't risk that here. Not that he had anything to administer in the first place.
The thought made him frown. It really didn't make a lot of sense that he'd be given such a task and then nothing to complete it with. Not after he'd already been provided with so much other equipment.
He turned around, looking for an irregularity in the room that he might have missed before. He tapped against the tiles with his cane, searching for hollow parts. He went through the trolley once more, searching for hidden compartments and false bottoms he might have missed before.
"Normal," Wilson announced from the cage.
"What?" House asked absent-mindedly, still searching.
"Temperature's normal."
Frowning passively at that, House replied, "Are you sure?"
Wilson groaned. "Yes, I'm very sure. I can read numbers, you know. Want to check for me, in case I mixed up a 6 and a 9?"
House waved disparagingly. "Nah, that'll do." There had to be something he had missed. He turned around and looked into the center of the room which was completely bare, except for the drain. Narrowing his eyes to slits, House looked at the drain more closely. He could hear the water that was being flushed through from Wilson's sink. But he could also hear something else... something was rattling.
He went down on his knees, completely disregarding the pain as he dragged himself over to it. He ran his fingers across the iron grid, feeling for an indentation he could reach into. When he found it he tried to lift the cover off, but it didn't move. Stifling a curse, House strained to look at the drain up close. He noticed the screws keeping it shut. Screws that looked surprisingly new and shiny...
Grabbing his cane, he used it to whack the trolley a couple of times until the pair of scissors he had placed on top earlier dropped to the floor. He pulled them closer with the cane and then used them to loosen the screws. He slipped a couple of times, but eventually he managed to unscrew them and take off the cover.
A box came into view. Feeling his heart thump in his chest with excitement, he lifted it out of the drain. It was dripping wet, but the content was still good. It was at least two dozen little ampoules. He closed his eyes for a second as relief washed through him. Then he scrambled into a sitting position and began inspecting the vials.
"Oh my God, is that what I think it is?" Wilson asked excitedly from beyond the grid.
"If you're thinking you're finally going to get that cold Heineken you've been yearning for, then no. These brews here are courtesy of our courtesy-challenged host," House said, looking at each vial against the light.
"Great!" Wilson exclaimed, rolling up a sleeve.
House looked at his friend warily. "Slow down, Jimmy boy."
With an impatient shake of his head, Wilson said, "You've got treatment now! Shoot me up with it!"
Frowning to himself, House examined the bottles further. "I haven't nailed the poison yet. I don't know which one of these charming little chemicals would actually cure you and..."
Wilson shrugged. "So give me all of them."
"... which ones are likely to finish you off." House shot Wilson a disbelieving look. "Are you serious?"
Another shrug. "Sure!"
"You know, if you're already not helping me with the differential you could at least try to not aggravate it! For someone who's constantly agonizing over the right drug combinations for his patients you're being incredibly eager to play Russian roulette with prescription meds. This kind of careless behavior is highly unusual for you."
"Well, I'd say this is a highly unusual situation, don't you think?"
House regarded him for a moment. Then he said, "You know, this is probably why I don't like you slowly wasting away from some mystery poison. Being a reckless genius with disregard for authority is no fun if you actually approve of everything I do. Where's the cheerful debunking of my mad theories, the ever so merry commenting on my complete lack of ethics and sanity? I miss my moral compass. If this keeps up I'll have to start training Cameron to be your replacement." Pulling himself up, House shook his head slowly. "Anyway, forget it."
Wilson gave him an incredulous stare. "What? Why?"
Sighing softly, House rubbed his thigh that seemed to be getting hot from the constant throbbing and hurting. He closed his eyes for a second, battling for the strength to walk the few steps over to the wall. "Because," he ground out, "there is no way to tell how you're going to react to all of them. Not in this state. There are side effects, counter reactions, contraindications..." He hissed as a wave of pain racked through him. "Paradoxical reactions. Or did you miss that class in med school?"
"So?" Wilson looked at him with burning eyes. "I don't care! It's better than slowly dying from whatever's inside of me. It's my body and I'm willing to take the risk!"
"Well, I'm not!" House yelled back. He felt angry. With his pain, with Wilson and most of all with himself.
Wilson fell silent, just staring at him for a while. Then he said, very softly, "You're willing to do this every day for random strangers fate has led into your department, but you're not willing to do it for me?"
House didn't reply as the crushing realization seemed to overpower him.
"Why?" Wilson demanded.
"Because you're not them!" House shouted, shocked to hear the anguish in his own voice. "When they collapse and crash, I don't care! I just go back to my whiteboard and try to find a treatment that works better. If it fails and they die, it's just another one for the statistics. But with you..." His voice broke and he looked down on the floor, hating himself for his lack of detachment.
The silence seemed to expand between them. After a long while, Wilson just said, "House..."
Drawing a strengthening breath, House leveled his eyes with him evenly, hoping to pretend that this outburst had never happened. "Listen, you need to give me time so I can figure out which of the drugs I can give you without causing more damage than benefit. Then you can yell at me for not caring enough all you want. But now I need time to think."
Wilson just nodded and turned around, retreating to the other side of the kennel.
Forcing all his attention onto his notes, House began another list, this time writing down all the drugs he had been given, how they could affect some of the possible poisons he had listed and how they could interact with each other. With a slight feeling of triumph, he registered that these drugs covered treatment for most of the poisons on the wall. That meant he wasn't completely off track.
As he was looking through the ampoules, the thought crossed his mind that perhaps there might be something in there for him that would help him with the pain, but he dismissed that idea almost instantly. Whatever was in this box he had to reserve for Wilson in case things got worse. His leg could wait.
After a couple of minutes that were interrupted by intervals of sickness and retching echoing through the room, House had managed to narrow it down to three drugs he could use without putting any further diagnosis at risk.
"Okay," he said firmly, closing the marker and putting it down on the trolley. "I've got a couple of drugs I can give you now."
"Yes?" Groaning, Wilson dragged himself to his feet and walked slowly across the kennel. His hair was sticking to his head and he was soaked in sweat. "Which ones are they?"
"Just a couple of..."
Wilson gave him a weary look, his flushed face pressed against the grid. "Please... I'm used to handling chemicals every day. Give me some credit."
Sighing, House nodded. "Dimercaprol to rule out arsenic and other heavy metals. Atropine to cover some of the pesticides and a possible nicotine poisoning. Some carbamazepine for the euphoric spells, and boy, do you ever need that. I'm excluding MAO inhibitors for several reasons, so I can give you that safely."
"Okay, sounds good..." Wilson let himself slide down the grid. When he plopped on the floor, he began rolling his sleeve up once more. His fingers were shaking.
House had been busy preparing the syringes for the injection. When he turned around, he noticed the shivering. "Are you still cold?" he asked as he placed the tourniquet, the syringes and the bottles on the floor.
Wilson shook his head lightly. "No, not really."
"Your hands are shivering."
Lifting his hands, Wilson looked at them. "Oh... you're right. Maybe it's exhaustion from the constant vomiting."
"Yes, maybe." House let himself down to the ground carefully, grinding his teeth to counteract the pain that was now reaching a near unbearable level. By the time he had managed to get down on the floor, his heart was thudding in his chest, seemingly pumping scaldingly hot blood down his spine with every beat. He had to sit there for a minute, panting and waiting for the red haze to leave his eyes. When he finally managed to see straight again, he saw Wilson looking at him with a worried expression on his face.
"Is your leg very bad?"
Almost against his will, House nodded, licking his dry lips to even be able to speak. "God, I just... I just hope this works. I don't know how many more times I can do that."
With the help of his cane, he pulled the syringes closer. He took the ampoule of carbamazepine and snapped off the top, then he filled the syringe with the drug. He did the same with a second syringe, filling it with atropine.
"Okay, push your arm through..." he started, but saw that Wilson was already lying flat on his back, the bared arm pushed through the gap on the bottom.
On a whim, House reached for Wilson's hand and entwined their fingers as he pulled himself closer. He held the hand longer than he probably should, simply enjoying the contact. He passively registered the heat of the other man's palm and the layer of sweat that covered every inch of the skin while he ran his fingers across Wilson's wrist, feeling for the pulse. It was still racing.
Softly, he moved his hand up Wilson's arm, feeling for a vein to use. He grabbed the tourniquet and wrapped it around Wilson's arm tightly. "I'm going to give you the carbamazepine first." He felt Wilson nod. Checking the syringe one last time for air, House aligned the point of the cannula with the vein he had chosen, then he carefully broke the skin, pushing the drug into Wilson's system.
"Don't move," he murmured as he loosened the tourniquet to allow the drug to spread. He quickly removed the syringe from the cannula and replaced it with the second one. "Atropine now," he said and pulled the tourniquet tight once more before pushing the second drug in.
After he had pulled the needle out, he pressed his fingers tightly against the spot where it had punctured the skin. He undid the tourniquet and helped Wilson bend his arm while his finger was still in place and let them rest like that for a moment.
"Do you think this will help?" Wilson asked quietly, his fingers curling under House's chin passively, running across the growing stubble.
House turned his face and pressed a kiss into Wilson's palm. "We'll see. If anything, it'll make you drowsy and calm which will finally put an end to your constant prowling. Maybe it'll alleviate some of the symptoms and make it easier to see the others." He reached for the blood pressure meter and pushed the cuff through the gap. "Here, let's take your vitals once more."
When they were finished, House pulled off the stethoscope and commented, "Your BP is through the roof now." He tapped Wilson's arm lightly. "Okay, now give me your ass."
Wilson raised an eyebrow at him. "Excuse me?"
House flashed Wilson a grin. "I need to inject the dimercaprol deeply intramuscularly, so you better give me one of your admittedly rather nicely rounded cheeks for that. I don't think you'd appreciate it if I rammed the needle into your arm like that."
He laughed at the slightly embarrassed impression on Wilson's face as he sat up on his knees to open his pants. In the meantime, House prepared the next injection. Once Wilson's behind was pressed against the grid, he stabbed the needle in without much ado and ignored the surprised yelp from the other man as he pushed the dimercaprol in.
"There, all done," he said, pulling back. "I'd give you a lollipop now, but I'm afraid our considerate host has forgotten to provide us with them."
House dragged himself into a sitting position. For a moment, he considered getting up again to adjust his notes once more, but the pain in his leg suggested otherwise. Instead, he angled for the marker with the end of the cane and started taking notes on the floor where he sat. It was probably a good thing that this was covered from Wilson's view, too, since it was a lot easier for him to analyze his notes if he didn't need to justify every little thing he wrote down.
He recapitulated the symptoms that had presented themselves. 'Rash, tachycardia, dilated pupils, nausea, euphoria, tremors, hypertension...' He added the blood pressure he had measured next to that. Casting Wilson another glance, he added 'agitation' and then with a bit of hesitation, he wrote down 'personality change'.
With a sigh, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. All in all he already had quite a bunch of symptoms to work with. Only problem was that most of them were rather common in a lot of poisons. Epinephrine was still a prime candidate, as was benzene and nicotine. Amphetamines were high up, too. Endrin, dieldrin, aldrin and vacor were possible as well, as was arsenic and procaine. But somehow it all didn't seem to make sense with the presence of a rash.
He considered Wilson's suggestion that the rash might be unrelated. Of course that was entirely possible. A lot of things could cause a rash. But how would that knowledge affect his list? He sighed. Not much. It was still too extensive.
He knew he should probably go through the list all over again, but he felt so tired all of a sudden. The increasingly more frequent attacks of pain caused his vision to blur every time they surged up and he felt his stomach curl in an onset of nausea from the Vicodin withdrawal. Perhaps he could just close his eyes for a second. It would give his body a chance to replenish at least some of the power reserves he had depleted over the past couple of hours...
He was standing in the kitchen pouring himself some coffee. His fingers were tightening around the mug and his hand was shaking a little. He put down the coffee pot before Wilson could see it.
"Look," Wilson said behind him, his voice taking on that impatient drawl he was using so often recently when talking to him. "I know you hate these kind of things. But..."
"You're damn right I do!" he interrupted the other man and turned around, no longer trying to hide his annoyance. "I don't know why we need to go through this every goddamn time one of your orphaned cancer kids kicks the bucket!"
Wilson put down his briefcase on the table forcefully. "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps the reason is simply because it's important to me and because I expect you, my best friend, to share it with me?"
House knew he was scowling like a defiant child, but he couldn't help it. "You shouldn't have unrealistic expectations in me. I've been telling you that from the start."
The look Wilson cast him made his heart ache. "Listen, House. I'm not naive. I didn't come into this relationship expecting you to change completely, to suddenly turn into the thoughtful, considerate person you never managed to be even before we were sleeping together." He sighed. "All I'm asking from you is that you go to one damn funeral with me. Just one. I'm not asking you to be understanding or sympathetic or even care about what's important to me, but if I tell you something is important to me, if I specifically ask you to come with me, then yes, I expect you to respect that and invest two fucking hours of your precious schedule into this relationship. Do you think you can do that?"
To delay needing to answer right away, House took a sip from the coffee. He grimaced and before he could stop himself he said, "You made the coffee too weak again."
Before he had had a chance to say anything else, Wilson had made a strangled sound that sounded like mix between a roar and a sob, grabbed his briefcase, yanked his coat off the chair and stormed out of the kitchen.
For a second, House debated calling after him, realizing that trying to catch him before he was out the door was a somewhat futile task. But then he dismissed the idea and continued drinking his coffee instead. On second thought, it wasn't even that bad...
His glance fell on the tiled kitchen floor. He noticed a folded piece of paper lying there. It must have dropped out of Wilson's pocket when he had pulled the coat off the chair. As he bent down to pick it up, he noticed that it was a newspaper clipping. He unfolded it. The letters were jumbled, thrown about the paper without any apparent pattern or reason. With a frown, he folded the clipping back up again and put it into his breast pocket.
House woke with a start. He felt immediately wide awake from the sense of dread that overcame him when he realized he had fallen asleep. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain screaming in his thigh as he limped over to the kennel. His heart was beating in his chest rapidly while he looked around for Wilson.
"You fell asleep..."
House leaned against the wall as a sense of relief washed through him upon hearing Wilson's voice. "You should have woken me up!" he said reproachfully, hoping Wilson would understand it as the apology he had meant to say.
Wilson stepped out in front of him and shrugged. "You looked like you needed the rest." A shiver went through his body.
Trying to replace his feeling of guilt with anger, House said, "Damn it, Wilson. I can sleep when we're out of this place!" He took a deep breath. "Okay, how are you doing now?"
"I'm still getting sick occasionally. My heart is beating so fast that it hurts inside my chest. I feel like I can't breathe from it. I'm sweating like a pig. I get these shivers every now and then. I'm not really in the mood for laughing anymore, though." He rolled his head to the side. "Oh... and I'm hallucinating now."
"What? How?"
"I'm seeing colors..." Wilson trailed off.
"What colors? Where?" When Wilson didn't reply, House whacked the cage with his cane. "Hey, stay with me!"
When Wilson looked at him again, his eyes seemed almost black. "Hm?"
House groaned in frustration. "What about the hallucinations?"
"What are you talking about?"
Carefully, House replied, "The colors you mentioned about thirty seconds ago."
"Don't be ridiculous," Wilson said testily.
Lifting his hands in an appeasing gesture, House decided to drop the issue. "Okay, fine. I must have heard it wrong." He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to ignore the knot that was forming in his stomach again. He didn't like this at all. Wilson wasn't doing better in the least. In fact, it seemed like he was getting worse.
"You said you've still got tachycardia?" At Wilson's nod, he stifled a curse. He reached for the trolley and went through the vials once more, picking out a couple that he stuffed into the pocket of his jacket. Then he let himself down on his knees slowly, taking a deep breath as to counteract the pain. "I'd like to take your blood pressure again, " he said breathlessly as he was sitting.
Rolling his eyes, Wilson plopped down in front of him. "Again? This is getting annoying."
"Tell me about it," House bit back, nudging the blood pressure meter that was still lying on the floor between them. He waited until Wilson had finished putting the cuff around his arm and was pressing the bell of the stethoscope against his skin, before he let himself down on his stomach to start measuring.
Ignoring the painful throbbing in his thigh, he listened closely to Wilson's heartbeat that seemed to have picked up yet again. He pumped up the cuff until he couldn't hear it anymore, then released the valve to listen for the thudding to set back in. A look on the dial confirmed his fear. "Your BP is even higher now. None of the stuff I've given you seems to work. Damn!"
He held Wilson's arm down when the other man tried to move again. "Wait, I'm going to give you something for the tachycardia. I can't risk your heart giving out under the strain. I don't care if it makes everything more complicated to diagnose, but it's the safer route."
House moved around with a groan, reaching into his pocket to find the right ampoule and prepare the injection. As he did so, he felt Wilson's hand in his hair, caressing his scalp softly. He looked up to meet the gentle look out of glassy brown eyes.
"Thank you," Wilson said softly.
House swallowed thickly. "Don't thank me until I've managed to save you."
"It doesn't matter," Wilson said, barely audible.
This made House's breath hitch in his chest for a second. He forced on a smile and said, "Hey, you don't think I'm going to let you die on me, do you? You're way too good a lay to go to waste like that."
Wilson laughed softly.
"Besides, who's going to make me pancakes on the weekends then? And who's going to watch American Idol with me and make fun of the contestants? No way, Jimmy, we're not finished yet." He caught Wilson's hand and pressed his cheek into it briefly before releasing it again.
House used the cuff of the blood pressure meter as a makeshift tourniquet and injected Wilson with the drug. Then he released him and dragged himself across the floor to lean against the wall and catch his breath.
"What's happening now?" Wilson asked, curling up on the side.
Bouncing the rubber tip of his cane on the floor, House replied, "And now we play the waiting game again."
"Oh goody, my favorite," Wilson mumbled sarcastically as he got up again. He froze, then muttered a weak "Oh God..." before running to the sink and retching into it once more. When he was done, he washed his mouth and face and said with a dispassionate laugh, "Waiting is good. I'm in no rush to make it to my own funeral."
Suddenly, House recalled his dream again. He realized now that it hadn't been so much a dream as his dozing mind recalling the events of yesterday morning. Intuitively, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the folded newspaper clipping. The letters were perfectly clear to read now.
It was from the Princeton Packet's real estate section. It advertised a three room apartment in one of the new complexes down south. Next to it, something was written in the nearly illegible scrawl he knew so well. 'Call Mike on Monday'.
With an odd sense of premonition, he slipped the clipping back into his breast pocket.
Feeling the sudden need to do something, House struggled to his feet and limped over to the wall, picking up the pen once more. He added 'hallucinations', 'excessive perspiration' and 'confusion' to the list of symptoms. After a bit of consideration, he struck out a couple of poisons. The list was slimming down, which was good.
"House!" Wilson sounded alarmed.
He replaced the cap of the marker and turned towards Wilson. "What?"
"My... my fingers! Look at them!" He lifted up his hands. "They're turning blue!"
"Show them to me!" House said urgently, as he approached the kennel as much as his chain allowed. When Wilson stuck his fingers through the grid, he could see the slightly blue tinge showing at the very end of them. "Cyanosis..." he breathed out.
He spun around in spite of his leg sending out a jolt of searing pain and stared at the list. It was as if the words were slowly crumbling away from the wall, only leaving room for the few poisons that made sense now. Only, it didn't! "It makes no sense!" he exclaimed in frustration, whacking the wall with his fist.
"Why... what's wrong?" Wilson asked behind him.
Ignoring him, House started striking out all the poisons that didn't fit anymore. Insulin, gone. Benzene, gone. Vacor, gone. He watched the list slim down to just a handful. He felt his heartbeat accelerate at the usual thrill of another case about to be broken. And yet the sense of triumph wouldn't quite set in yet.
Tapping the marker against his chin, House perused the list. Something just didn't compute. Only three of the poisons he had left to consider actually caused a cyanosis. Procaine was one of them, but it didn't cause tachycardia and hypertension. If anything, it caused the opposite. Nicotine fit everything perfectly, but the cyanosis just wouldn't match. He was so close, he just needed a little bit more...
He tried to imagine what his team would say now. Cameron would insist on running more tests. Foreman would consider an underlying cause. And Chase would suggest that perhaps there were two separate conditions working at the same time.
Biting his lip, House considered the options. So many substances, but none of them caused skin rashes. It just didn't fit. A thought crossed his mind. What if Wilson had been right and the rash really wasn't related? He cast Wilson a guarded look. The other man was roaming around again, more agitated than ever. His shirt was half-way open and House could see the way it was clinging to his body which was soaking wet. His face was flushed and his pupils were wide and glassy.
"I want you to check your temperature again," he said casually, watching Wilson closely. He saw how the other man hesitated for a second, then reached into his pocket and stuck the thermometer into his mouth.
When Wilson turned his back at him, House added to the list of symptoms, 'No fever. WHY?' When a couple of minutes later Wilson announced once more that the temperature was normal, he did his best to just wave at him dismissively, pretending to not really care.
He waited a bit longer before he said to Wilson casually, "I think we can quit the constant monitoring now. I doubt your values are going to change much more." He watched Wilson nod. "Would you mind pushing the sphygmomanometer over to me so I don't need to move around so much? Leg's hurting and all. And put the thermometer on top, too. Gonna put it all away."
House had to force himself to suppress a whoop of triumph when he saw Wilson comply, his drugged out mind obviously failing to let him see through this rather thinly veiled ruse. As soon as the bundle was pushed into his direction, he leaned down quickly and snatched the thermometer.
His sense of accomplishment was immediately drowned out by the feeling of having his guts crushed with an iron fist when he looked at the temperature indicator. "105?" he said incredulously.
Wilson's head whipped up, panic written all over his face. "I... I can..."
"How high was it when you were measuring it? Tell me!" House yelled.
Flinching at the sound of his voice, Wilson took a step back. Then he dropped his head and buried his face in his hands, taking a shuddering breath before looking at House again unevenly. "It was 107.5."
The stunned silence only lasted the fragment of a second before House roared, "107.5?" The thermometer cracked in his hands and he dropped the glass shards, shaking them off with an impatient flick. "Are you completely and utterly out of your mind?" For a moment he felt so furious he thought he needed to pick up the trolley and toss it at the goddamn kennel. He opted to whack it with his cane instead.
Turning to Wilson again, he said with barely contained anger, "What the fuck were you thinking, Jimmy? Why on earth would you hide this from me?" This thought poured over him like a bucket of ice water. "Yes, indeed. Why would you?" His eyes narrowed to slits.
Wilson stepped up to the grid, pressing his face into it. "Listen, House, I can explain this..." he said feebly and with little insistence.
"Yes, I bet you can. But I'd rather not take my chances, if you don't mind," House replied irritably, turning away from Wilson so he could think properly. He ignored Wilson's attempts to get his attention as he looked at his list again. So the fever had been there all along. What else hadn't fit into the equation. His eyes zoned in on the rash. Suddenly it was all clear to him.
Slowly, he turned around to face Wilson. "You've been having these symptoms before, haven't you."
Wilson hesitated for a second, but then he nodded defeatedly.
"Now that begs the question, why would you hide something like an extreme fever and a rash from me?"
"It wasn't that high before... just a bit over 101..." Wilson replied meekly.
"How long have you been running a fever then?" When Wilson opened his mouth to reply, House shut him up with a curt gesture. "Don't answer me. I think I know. I'm guessing... for about a week." He saw the truth in Wilson's eyes and felt himself turn cold.
House turned around and folded his hands behind his back. "I remember this case we got in about three weeks ago. This woman who had come in during clinic hours and been misdiagnosed as suffering from a common cold, just because the attending hadn't even bothered to have her undress and check out her rashes. A few days later, she collapsed with severe stomach pains and was brought into our ER. It turns out," House paused for dramatic effect, "that her spleen had ruptured."
He cast Wilson a probing glance. "She was a hot little baggage. Blonde, petite figure, doll-like face... Too bad she was unconscious most of the time. I bet she had a voice like Jessica Simpson. Anyway, Cuddy had felt so guilty about her employees screwing up that she made me take the case, even though I thought it was pretty obvious it was just a case of mononucleosis."
He paused, letting the silence become unbearable for the man he knew was listening intently now. "I also remember that you, Jimmy, were really upset about it. You were ranting in my office for half an hour about how this was a waste of my resources, and how I shouldn't be forced to deal with such inferior and obvious cases. I told you inferior and obvious wasn't usually a problem for you in your line of work, unless the patient wasn't actually dying. I remember asking you why you were taking such a keen interest in this particular case, and I remember you denying it flat out. We never mentioned it again."
He clicked his tongue. "I guess I should have realized right then that it meant something, since you never drop issues this easily. And I can also see now that it would have been, oh, so inconvenient if you had suddenly come down with a case of mono yourself." He turned back to Wilson. "They don't call it the kissing disease for nothing, do they."
It didn't even take a reply from the other man. The look of utter despair on Wilson's face was enough to confirm it. "You knew I'd remember the very prominent case of mono I had dealt with just recently. You knew I'd immediately draw connections and you knew I'd start digging. And I probably would have found something, wouldn't I."
"House, I..."
"Shut up, Wilson. I don't want to hear it if it's just going to be another lie." It surprised him how cold he felt. He thought he'd be upset by now, screaming and raging. Instead, he just felt numb. "So tell me. How long has this been going on? Don't lie to me, we both know the incubation period for mono is five weeks, at least."
Dropping his head in defeat, Wilson whispered, "Two months."
Hearing Wilson admit it, no matter how prepared he was for it, still felt like a punch straight into the guts. Gripping his cane more tightly to keep himself from toppling over from the blow, House ground out, "How."
"What do you m..."
"How did you do it?" Finally he felt a bit of anger flare up. "How did you manage to have a little girlfriend on the side without me growing suspicious in the least? I'd really like to know!"
Defeated, Wilson sank to the ground. "Department meetings on Tuesdays," he said quietly. "Usually they're over by seven and then I drive over to her place for an hour or two. Some Sundays I tell you I'm going out golfing and spend the day with her instead. That's usually when you're on a case and not paying any attention to me anyway."
Clenching his jaw, House said, "That means you lied to me just two days ago."
A nod. "Yes."
"And you weren't on your way back home when you were captured."
Looking to the side, Wilson nodded again.
House felt his stomach cramp. "How did you meet her?"
Wilson sighed. "She was the sister of a patient I treated for small cell lung cancer, stage IV. It was a pretty grueling time for everyone and she spent a lot of time at the hospital. When her sister died, she was out of her mind with grief and I offered to take her out for a drink to take her mind off of things. Later, she called me at my office and asked if I could come around some time, help her put away her sister's stuff. All the things that had accumulated at her place while she was caring for her."
He looked away. "When we were done, she made me dinner... and then things just happened. I didn't think much about it. I thought it was just going to be a bit of sex until she had gotten used to the idea of being alone. But then this thing just... developed a life of its own."
House snorted. "Yeah, I bet the complication made her even sexier. Persistent tiredness, loss of appetite, soreness... Super Jimmy to the rescue! What did you do? Go shopping for her? Give her back rubs?" He tilted his head so he could look Wilson in the eyes. "Make sweet, therapeutic love? I bet you're such a gentle and considerate lover when your partner is just recovering from surgery. Did you get a kick out of it? The reassurance, the soft, delicate touches, making sure you're not putting pressure on her surgical scar..."
Wilson winced and looked to the side.
Shooting him a piercing glance, House said cruelly, "Does she know you like to suck cock?"
The flush on Wilson's cheeks seemed to intensify. "House..."
"Come on, tell me. Does she know you're living and sleeping with a dude? I wonder if that actually increases or decreases your chances of getting laid."
Wilson rubbed his eyes tiredly. "She knows I'm seeing someone else. She doesn't know it's a guy."
A cold smile spread on House's face. "Interesting."
Wilson laughed without humor. "Oh, you want to rat me out to her? Provided we ever make it out of here, of course. Go ahead, knock yourself out. I've grown tired of her anyway."
"Of course you have. She's getting better." House twirled his cane in his hand. "Does she suck your cock? Is she as good at it as I am? Do you cuddle with her after sex? Do you tell her lies of everlasting love and faithfulness?"
Sighing softly, Wilson replied. "Yes. No. Yes. And no!" He raked his shivering fingers through his hair. "Are you done tormenting me now? I'm kind of busy dying here, you know."
For a moment House felt pity for the other man. But he recovered from that feeling quickly when he reminded himself of what they were discussing. "Just one more question." He took a deep breath. Part of him didn't even want to hear it, but the other, much louder part was dying to know. "Why?"
Wilson didn't say anything for a long time. Then a jerk went through his body and he rose to his feet in one fluent movement. Suddenly, all the defeat, all the remorse and guilt seemed to have been wiped off his face and replaced by blazing fury. "You want to know why? Oh-hoh, that must be a first! The great Gregory House is actually paying the least bit of attention to what's going on inside of me!"
Taken aback by the sudden outburst of anger, House took an involuntary step backwards.
"You want to know why I've gone out and jeopardized this relationship? I'll tell you why! I was at the end of my rope! You were crushing me. After sacrificing so much of myself, I felt that if I didn't do something about it, I'd stop being 'me' at some point!"
House had never seen Wilson so angry before. The way he was clutching the grid of the kennel, his knuckles turning white, he looked as if he was about the bend it.
"Everything about this relationship centers around you," he continued heatedly. "You decide what we're watching on TV, what we're having for dinner, provided you care at all when that'll happen. You decide when you feel like spending time with me, or having a conversation, when we're going out, hell, even when we're having sex! If you don't feel up for something, it's not happening, and if you want something it has to be right now! Waiting has never been the strong point of Gregory House, oh no!"
Wilson lifted a shivering hand and ran it through his hair. "You know what the funny thing is? I was fine with the things most people would have considered a number one cause for the failure of a relationship. I could deal with you not paying attention to me for hours on end. That's just the way you are, and I knew what I was getting into when I moved in with you. I could deal with the teasing, the lunch stealing, the public humiliation for your amusement, the pranking, the poking on things that were really uncomfortable for me to talk about, but that you for some reason wouldn't let go, the joking about my dying patients and my pain over it..."
He shrugged. "All of that I could deal with because that's how you've always been, and as much as this outs me as a screwed up, masochistic loon, I've always felt like it was part of what made us special. The fact that we could act like buddies around each other one moment and be lovers the next."
Wilson seemed to talk himself into a frenzy and it was annoying House, so he snapped, "I don't need the Cliff Notes version of our relationship, Jimmy. I was there for the most part of it."
Completely ignoring him, Wilson carried on, "But then there were things that I just didn't anticipate. Like the way you treat me as if I don't mean anything to you. How you can never say a word of thank you for anything I do for you, never say a word of appreciation. That you will never help out with anything, but instead expect me to manage everything. Even more so, instead of helping me out you do your best to actually aggravate things for me. Like when you told the maid not to come by anymore, because she almost surprised us in bed once!"
He laughed, but the sound gave House a chill down his spine. "Between arranging appointments, forcing you to do your share of cleaning or put your dirty clothes in the hamper so I could take it to the laundry, only to be tricked into doing it myself again, between you paging me when I was with patients for a quick romp in your office, finding myself locked out of our apartment again so you could play poker with your buddies... between all of that I just lost myself at some point."
Wilson fell silent suddenly, staring at a distant spot ahead of him. Then he mumbled softly, "I probably should have expected this when we got together, but somehow the thing I didn't anticipate most of all was that one day I just wouldn't be able to stand it anymore."
It was as if now that Wilson had said all of this there was nothing left inside of him to keep him upright. He turned around and leaned against the grid weakly, his fingers intertwined with it to keep him from sliding down. "When I met this woman, it wasn't love at first sight, it wasn't even love at all. It wasn't much more than just enough attraction for me to want to bed her," he said quietly.
"You'll laugh, but it wasn't even the sex that made it so gratifying for me. It was the fact that when I opened to door to her apartment, her face would light up and she'd walk up to me, kiss me on the cheek and tell me how happy she was to see me. That was all it took to win me over. I just needed to feel important again. I want to be missed when I'm gone and not in the sense that you'll go to work with creased shirts if I'm not there to iron them."
By now, he was talking so softly that House had a hard time even making out the words he was saying. Involuntarily, he took a step forward, but the rattling of his chain prevented him from getting any closer. It was as if the sound went through Wilson and made him tilt his head toward House some, speaking with more strength in his voice now.
"I've sacrificed so much for us, House."
Not realizing at first that he had been specifically addressed instead of just being ranted at, House took a moment to reply. He had to clear his throat first which was feeling oddly constricted all of a sudden. "What kind of sacrifices are you talking about?"
Wilson shrugged. "Emotional, social, professional... I've given up being an individual because of you. Most of my friends have run off by now. Either because they refuse to come over while you're around or because you don't want to come along when we're invited and so I end up not going at all."
"Oh, come on, leave the martyrdom to the Catholics," House threw in testily. "We're not joined at the hip. You could have just gone on your own."
Wilson laughed blandly in reply. "Did you know I was offered a position as the head of the new research program at the National Oncology Institute of Vancouver?"
House raised his eyebrows. "That program's received a lot of funding."
"I turned it down."
Unable to hide his surprise, House missed a beat. "Why didn't you mention this to me?"
Again, just a shrug. "Because it was irrelevant. There was no way I was going to accept the position."
House felt himself bow under the load of new information he'd been given. "We could have talked about it... I could have taken a position in Vancouver, too."
"No, you couldn't have!" Wilson said sharply. "We both know that nobody in their right mind would hire you. If it wasn't for Cuddy you would have gotten the pink slip long ago."
"I could have commuted," House insisted defiantly.
"To Canada? You're on the no-fly list, House." Wilson sighed. "Let's face it, you're stuck in Princeton, and so am I."
No matter how much truth there was in this statement, it still felt like a slap in the face, and it gave House the necessary motivation to muster up enough anger to continue this conversation. "Fine, so I am a negligent bastard who deserves to be cheated on," he said acidly.
Wilson groaned. "You know that's not it!"
"Is that the reason for this?" House pulled the newspaper clipping out his pocket and let it drift to the ground.
Wilson turned and just took a brief glance at it, recognizing it instantly.
"You were looking at apartments," House declared.
"Yes," Wilson said calmly.
"You were going to leave me." He stated it as a fact and yet it surprised him how much the thought hurt.
Wilson shook his head slowly. "House..."
"You were going to leave me!" He repeated, this time more forcefully, more indicting.
"No, I wasn't! I was going to move out! That's not the same thing!"
"Oh, and how is it not?"
Wilson attached himself to the grid, looking at House with urgent eyes. "I thought a bit of distance would do us some good. I thought it'd finally stop me from feeling more like a maid than a mate. I thought maybe it would make me feel more enthusiastic about coming to your place. I could swing by after work, instead of coming home to a mess and a load of dirty dishes that I had told you to clear two days ago."
House swallowed thickly. "And for how long have you been looking?"
"For a while."
Shooting Wilson a surprised glance, he asked, "And you've never found a place to your liking?"
Wilson shrugged with a faint smile. "They all had one distinct flaw. You weren't there."
House frowned. "But I thought this was why you..."
"I was only looking," Wilson interrupted him. "It made me feel a bit more in control, to know that if push came to shove I could just pack my bags and move to my own place."
House just nodded and turned around. He didn't know what to think. He felt like his world had been turned upside down and he didn't know where to hold on to keep himself from falling.
"You know..." Wilson said softly behind him. "This would be the right time to reassure me, to tell me that I'm so much more than just a better housekeeper."
He knew Wilson was right. He knew he probably should say something, but no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't come up with the right words. He felt his fingers tighten over the cane, felt as if he could break it now if he only pressed a little harder.
"Are you okay?" Wilson asked faintly.
House waved his hand in front of his face as if to brush away the flimsy veil that was obscuring his thoughts. Then he said firmly, "Of course I'm fine. Why shouldn't I be. This only proves what I've been saying the entire time."
"And that would be?"
Turning back to Wilson, he said with a tired smile. "Everybody lies. The very world we live in is shrouded in lies, or do you believe that crap about it having been created in just seven days? Just look at how long it took you to assemble that squeak-free bed, and I think you had a much better incentive to get it done quickly. God, Clinton, Nixon, Pinocchio... You're in good company there, Jimmy. I'm sure, even our..." He stopped, the thought cracking through his mind like a whiplash. "But of course..." he whispered.
"What, did you just figure out who killed Kennedy?"
"Better." He looked around in the room. "Don't you think we've been fools to trust anything this guy has told us?"
"Who, God?"
"No, you idiot! Our considerate host, of course. What has he done for us to earn this kind of trust? He's robbed us from the safety of our home... well, me, anyway, he's screwed with our heads, he's poisoned you and he's chained me to a wall. I don't think those are the best conditions to start out on a trusting relationship with."
Wilson looked at him, confusion written all over this face. "What are you saying?"
"He's been lying to us the entire time."
"Lying about what?"
"Hell, if I knew. Maybe it's not the poison that's making you sick after all, maybe the antidote is right there in your cage, maybe we're not supposed to be solving this at all." Feeling frustration rise inside of him, House ground out. "I don't know, but obviously I was never meant to cure you just like this!"
The feeling of helplessness began to gnaw on his patience until he felt like he was going to explode. With a roar, he whacked the trolley once more, hearing the satisfying bang as it was driven into the wall. The tray with the instruments slid down and clattered onto the floor. And then, as if in slow motion, he saw the box with the ampoules fall as well. It hit the ground, sending the bottles skidding across the tiles. The sound of glass breaking cut through the silence.
They both stared at the mess of broken ampoules for a long time in silent shock. Then Wilson said resignedly, "I suppose that's an answer too."
Ignoring the pain, House went down on his knees to inspect the damage. His heart was drumming in his chest while his mind raced with thoughts of what the consequences of this outbreak could be. All he had tried before had proven to be useless anyway, but now he had deprived them of their only chance.
With shaking hands, he picked up one of the broken vials, placing it on his palm. Dreading to see which one it was he had destroyed, he turned it around to look at the label. A frown appeared on his face as he noticed that the label had moved a little on the bottle, revealing a second label underneath. He peeled it off carefully.
When he looked at the label underneath he felt his blood freeze. "Oh God..." he whispered.
The sheer horror in House's voice must have alerted Wilson because he was next to him, pressed against the grid, in an instant. "What?"
House clenched his hand into a fist, crushing the remains of the vial and pressing the shards of glass into his flesh. He didn't care that he cut himself, his mind was racing to process everything. He dropped the crushed bottle and grabbed the next one, pulling off the label, then another, and another. A laugh shook his shoulders.
"That bastard..." he ground out.
"House... you're scaring me," Wilson said, looking at him with a frown.
With another bitter laugh, House showed Wilson the original label of the ampoule. "He changed the labels. They're all moclobemide."
Wilson blinked. "So he wanted you to give me an antidepressant instead? Why? What's the idea?"
"The idea is..." House got up clumsily, steadying himself against the wall for a moment until the pain washed over. Then he picked up the marker and began writing. "The idea is that with the cyanosis and the extreme fever, the tremors, the elevated heart rate and blood pressure, the giddiness flipping over to irritability and back again, the nausea and the confusion, the hallucinations and the sweating the answer to this mystery is in fact quite simple." He circled the word on the wall that was the answer to all of this and turned to Wilson. "He's given you amphetamines."
Wilson's face lit up. "So, you've solved it!"
"Yes, I have," House replied gravely.
"Then... why aren't you all smug and gloating because you've nailed it?"
House closed the marker and put it down on the trolley in an almost serene gesture. "Moclobemide is a monoamine oxidase inhibitor. Monoamine oxidase is an enzyme responsible for breaking down serotonin. Amphetamines on the other hand are serotonin releasers. A combination of the two leads to excess serotonin in the central nervous system which can reach toxic levels. In other words, I have just poisoned you, Jimmy."
Wilson simply stared at him for a while, processing what he had just been told. Then he cleared his throat and said, "Okay... and what can we do about that?"
House gave another bitter laugh. "Oh, that's the real kicker. Absolutely nothing. Not with any of the tools I've been given. I can discontinue administration of the offending drug, but that should be a given. Other than that... there's just waiting."
"Waiting for what?" Wilson asked quietly.
House sighed deeply. "For your heart to give out."
"Oh..." Wilson swayed on his feet for a second. "That's... a rather bleak outlook on the future."
The only reply House could muster up was a faint nod. He didn't know what else to say.
"You know, somehow I'd appreciate a bit more involvement from you," Wilson said irritably.
Running his hand through his hair, House replied, "What do you want me to do? I'm stuck here, just like you. The mystery is solved. There's nothing else I can do."
"But I'm still dying!" Wilson exclaimed. "There may be no more mystery to it, but it's still pretty damn scary, I'm telling you." He walked around the cell for a couple of steps, then he returned to the grid, his eyes still glittering with accusal. "Maybe it's because of my infidelity that you no longer feel the need to do something. I'm tainted goods."
For a moment, House was actually speechless. "What the fuck?" He didn't give Wilson the chance to elaborate his point, but continued right away. "You think I'm going to let you die on purpose because my wounded heart can't take the humiliation of you being a philandering bastard? Do you really think that low of me?"
Wilson faltered. "No, of course not..."
"Well, thanks a lot for that mark of confidence!" Once more, House was cursing his bum leg, because he really felt the need to pace around and rage right now. "Guess I am inattentive and uncaring. After all, this sadist here seems to know you better than I do! He was probably having a grand time imagining the look on my face when I found out about all this. How was it? Did I look distraught enough to make it worth his while?"
House laughed without humor. "But he knows me quite well too. I really gotta hand it to him, he knows how to push all my buttons. And most of all, he knows that despite all of this I'm not going to abandon you, he made sure of that with the chain, but by God it's not just the one on this wall that's keeping me, and the thought that there's nothing more I can do is fucking killing me!"
After this outburst, he suddenly felt all empty inside. He cast a glance at Wilson who was watching him with somber eyes.
"There's one more thing you can do, though," Wilson said softly.
House didn't ask what, just jerked his head as a silent invitation.
Slowly, Wilson sank down on the floor. Pushing his arms through the gap, he whispered, "You've solved the case. It's time to hold my hand now."
For a moment, House had to press his teeth together to keep his eyes from tearing up. Then he nodded and let himself down on the floor very carefully. He moved as close to Wilson as the chain would allow, then went down further on his stomach to take the other man's hand gently, entwining their fingers.
They stayed like that for a while with Wilson's thumb rubbing across the back of his hand. It made his heart ache.
"Your fingers are trembling too," Wilson pointed out.
"I know, it's the lack of Vicodin." They fell silent again.
"How are you feeling?" House asked after a while.
"Physically, you mean?"
"No..." He pressed Wilson's hand. "Emotionally."
Wilson smiled weakly. "Stupid, most of all."
"Why stupid? I mean, I know that you are, but why are you feeling that way?"
Wilson laughed softly. Then he sobered again. "Because I made all the wrong choices, didn't I? From starting that stupid affair to lying to you about the fever. I guess I'm getting exactly what I deserve."
"Nobody deserves this, Jimmy," House choked out.
Wilson laughed softly. "You're just nice to me because I'm dying."
House wanted to protest, wanted to insist that it wasn't true, but somehow the lie didn't want to leave his mouth.
"Hey, be fair. You wouldn't lie to me now, would you?" Wilson said teasingly, his voice losing strength. "What would you have done if you had found out about this under normal circumstances?"
Thinking about it for a moment, House then replied honestly, "I would have walked out on you."
Wilson nodded calmly. "And this is exactly why I was so afraid of you finding out. The thought of you no longer wanting me..." He trailed off, closing his eyes for a moment.
When he didn't open them again, House felt panic surge up and he squeezed Wilson's hand tightly. "Hey Wilson! Wake up! You can't be a slacker now!"
To his endless relief, Wilson opened his eyes again, albeit very slowly. "What? Oh..." He dragged his hand through his hair. "I'm not feeling so good..." he mumbled.
"It's okay," House said softly, his heart thumping in his chest. "Just lie down, okay? Preserve your strength." He released Wilson's hand so that he could lower himself onto his back.
"So this is what it feels like..." Wilson said weakly once he had settled down. "Knowing you're about to die. I've always wondered what my patients felt like when their time was drawing near. What goes through their heads, what's important to them, what things there are left for them to say. For all that I've tried to be sympathetic, I have never really been able to relate. Now I am..."
House felt as if the pain inside of his chest was becoming unbearable. He dropped his head as the feelings began to overwhelm him. Before he could stop himself, a sob escaped from his mouth and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, fighting to keep his composure.
Gently, Wilson's hand brushed through his hair. "It's okay," he murmured. "I'm ready to go."
Ignoring the fact that Wilson would see the pain in his eyes, House looked up and said heatedly, "But I'm not ready yet, damn it!" He wiped the back of his hand across his cheeks impatiently, feeling the traitorous wetness on them. "I'm a bad boyfriend, no shocker there, but I refuse to be a bad doctor to you."
"It really is okay," Wilson whispered, offering House his hand once more to hold. "You've done your best."
House grabbed the offered hand and pressed a lingering kiss into the palm. "Then my best wasn't good enough..." he choked out, feeling the weight of this realization crush him.
"It was good enough," Wilson said firmly. He ran his hand across House's cheek. "It's not your fault..." His voice faded and his eyelids fluttered shut.
"Wilson!" House said, alarmed, pulling at the other man's arm.
"Why won't you let me sleep, House," Wilson complained weakly.
"Because I'm a selfish bastard, don't you know that? I'm gonna be bored without you," he replied, but the joke just wouldn't come out right. He stifled another sob.
"You were right," Wilson whispered. "When you die, it's suddenly so clear which things are important." He squeezed House's hand tightly. "I lo..."
"Don't," House interrupted Wilson sharply. "Tell me again when you're not dying." Then he said more softly, "You can give me the best blowjob of my life and tell me then, but not now."
Wilson laughed barely audibly. "How can someone as bitter as you be such an optimist?"
"One of us has to be."
Wilson smiled and closed his eyes. His grasp slackened in House's hand.
"Wilson?" he asked with dread, patting the other man's hand. "Wilson!" he said more forcefully, pinching the soft flesh between Wilson's thumb and forefinger. Again, no reaction. With shivering fingers, he searched for a pulse and felt as if all life was drained out of him the instant he realized that there was none.
"Oh God..." he whispered, pressing Wilson's lax hand into his face. The sense of grief was overwhelming. His hands got a hold of the trolley and he slammed it into the wall, the pain this motion caused in his leg only a fragment of what he felt inside. The room was agonizingly quiet now but for his own sobs echoing across the tiles. If only he could reach Wilson and the AED, then he might be able to perform CPR and keep Wilson alive. He screamed and pulled at his shackled leg, trying to somehow loosen the iron clasp, but every jerk just dug the unyielding band deeper into his flesh.
And then there was the hard clang of something falling onto the ground. He looked at it through the blur of pain and grief and realized that it was the saw. He scooted over to it. The decorated handle pressed into his skin as he clutched it. His eyes darted back and forth between the saw and the tortured flesh of his ankle. Then he looked at the still figure of Wilson and hesitated no more.
He grabbed the tourniquet, carelessly discarded earlier, and tied it around his leg, just below his knee. When the blade made a first contact with his skin, breaking it just at the surface, a surge of panic overcame him and he pulled back. He watched the small trickle of blood run down his ankle and thought he'd never felt such disgust at the sight of blood before. He looked at the jagged teeth of the blade and tried to imagine how they'd tear into his flesh, slashing sinews, splitting veins, snapping tendons, destroying tissue, and he felt a wave of sickness roll over him.
His time was limited, he knew that, and yet he couldn't bring himself to finish that thought. He cast Wilson another look. The sight of his best friend, lying there, motionless, was enough for him to be filled with grim resolve.
He reached for the drawer clumsily, not caring that he pulled it out all the way, pouring its content onto the floor. His hands closed around the scalpel with a steady grasp. Something sharp and straight was bound to be less painful than the ripping teeth of a saw. Without debating it a second longer, he plunged the tip of the scalpel into his flesh.
He hadn't been prepared for the intense, searing pain. Perhaps it was amplified by the lack of painkillers and the stress, but for a moment he felt like he couldn't stand it. He cursed inwardly, telling himself that he'd withstood much worse pain than that.
As if this had given him an idea, he let go of the scalpel, leaving it sticking out of his foot like a grotesque check mark, and reached for his cane. He hesitated for just a second, then he brought the handle of the cane down onto his right thigh, brutally connecting it with his tormented muscle. He howled in agony, feeling as if he was about to pass out from the hot, burning pain. But instead of stopping, he hit again and again until tears sprung to his eyes and the pain was radiating out into his entire body, dominating his every thought. This was good. This was the pain he was used to.
Taking a deep breath, he rolled up his pant leg. Then he took off his jacket and stuffed the sleeve between his teeth, partly to muffle his screams, partly to give himself something to dig his teeth into. And then he started cutting.
At first, the pain was still there, but it was mostly drowned out by the hot, relentless throbbing in his thigh. He tried to imagine that it was just a patient he was working on and the warm blood that was trickling over his skin was really someone else's. He tried not to stop, slicing through his flesh in quick and precise moves just as he had learnt to do in med school. Try to focus on the work, not the person. Then cutting into a living being is easy.
When he lost sensation in his foot, he wasn't sure whether it was from his body finally shutting down the pain receptors or because he had severed the right nerve cords, but he welcomed it either way. His vision began to blur, but he kept cutting, slicing, slitting until his fingers lost grip on the scalpel, slick from his own blood.
It fell onto the floor with a thud, the sound of the impact muffled by the pool of blood beneath him. House looked at it for a second, his mind no longer comprehending what he had done. Then he reached for the saw.
His stomach made another churning leap when the teeth of the saw connected with his bone, the vibration crawling all the way up to his core. Gritting his teeth into the fabric of his jacket, he closed his eyes and started sawing.
He didn't know how long it took until the crunching sounds finally stopped and his hand slipped, the saw sliding past his flesh and onto the floor. He fell forward, his entire body out of balance all of a sudden, and he thought he heard the sickening sound of dead meat hitting the floor, slippery, wet and disgusting.
He didn't look, didn't want to see it. He blindly reached for the tourniquet still wrapped around his calf and pulled it even tighter. He knew it wouldn't keep him from bleeding to death, most likely, but at least it wasn't going to be so soon. He'd still have enough time...
Closing his eyes tightly, he ran his hands down his leg slowly, carefully, until they reached the cuff. With trembling fingers, he slid his leg out of the iron ring. The metallic clang echoed through the room as it dropped to the floor. He reached for his jacket and wrapped it around his leg, tying the sleeves around it into a knot.
Willing down the blissful insentience that was threatening to take over his consciousness, House crawled across the floor. Using the pipes to pull himself up, he yanked the defibrillator off the wall and tugged it under his arm, then let himself slide back on the floor and moved towards the door of the kennel. When he finally got there, he had to drag himself up on the grid in order to reach the bolt and slide it back.
The door gave in, spilling him onto the floor of the cage. A gasp escaped his lips as his entire body revolted in pain. Focused entirely on the man lying in front of him, House edged forward, fighting for every inch that brought him closer to Wilson.
As soon as he had reached the still body of his best friend, he pulled him around, spreading him out flat on his back. A quick check confirmed his fears and he tilted Wilson's head back, covering his mouth with his own. He breathed slowly into Wilson's mouth, watching the other man's chest rise and fall as he did so. After a couple of exhalations, he moved down to the chest and ripped the shirt open. Searching for the tip of the sternum, House interlaced his fingers above it and started compressing Wilson's chest, groaning under the effort it took him to balance himself above the other man's body.
He repeated the cycle of giving breath and compressing a couple of times before he dared to interrupt it and reach for the AED. He yanked open the lid impatiently and took out the adhesive pads while he pressed the button to initiate the defibrillator.
His blood-crusted fingers were shaking so badly that he was barely able to peel the wax paper off the pads. When he finally managed, he pressed them onto Wilson's chest. A quick glance to the device told him that it was ready as it had started analyzing Wilson's heart rhythm.
Wiping his hands across his face, House waited for the machine to finally give him the okay to shock, but it was taking its sweet time analyzing, the display taunting him with the little pictogram that advised him to be patient. How could he be patient now when he had to rely on a little box to save his friend's life?
After a seemingly endless time which had House close to tearing the damn pads off again and restart CPR, the machine finally blinked and prompted him with 'shock advised' to push the button which he had tried pressing before but wouldn't work. The defibrillator gave a loud warning beep, then it set off a shock, making Wilson's body twitch. House found the sight unbearable.
A little unsure what to do next with this automated thing, House looked at the monitor, noting that the ECG was still showing pulseless ventricular tachycardia. He cursed and restarted CPR as the machine indicated. As he was pushing down on the chest, the room seemed to sag around him and he faltered in his administrations. House felt his own heart thud in his chest, the blood loss starting to affect him.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to continue to perform, even though his body was screaming for a rest. He was getting so dizzy that he toppled over when he turned around to the defibrillator once more, pushing the button for another shock.
Again, Wilson jerked and again the AED began analyzing. Fighting himself through the fog of pain that dominated his mind, he began to wonder whether this was just another sadistic game his capturer was playing with him, forcing him to rely on such a device with its own idle pacing when he could have worked much faster with a regular defibrillator. He repeated CPR when the analysis showed no change.
"Damn it, Jimmy, you're not bailing out on me like that..." House ground out. Sweat was pouring down his back from the exertion and he had to fight off another swooning attack as he sat back again to check the monitor once more. "Come on, Jimmy," he murmured, pushing the button.
He watched Wilson's body lift off the floor under the shock and felt desperate all of a sudden. "I fucking need you!" Wilson's body relaxed again and suddenly House had no strength to stay upright anymore. He fell forward onto his hands, a violent tremble going through him. The blackness was closing in on him.
With the last bit of strength he had, he turned his head and looked at the display. It was blinking wildly and some text lit up. He squinted to read it. 'Pulse detected'.
He released his breath in an endless sigh of relief which ended with him collapsing on top of Wilson. Groaning from the effort, he moved to the side to avoid crushing him. His fingers moved up to the other man's throat, finding the faint throb of a pulse. A peaceful smile appeared on his lips as darkness engulfed him.
Epilogue
The steady beep was the first thing he heard when he woke up. It crept into his consciousness, naggingly, and wouldn't let him rest. With a slight twinge of annoyance he thought that the microwave must have finished a long time ago and wondered why Wilson hadn't gotten his ass into the kitchen yet.
The second thought crossing his mind was... His eyes flew open. Something was stuck in his throat, preventing him from speaking. Looking around the room frantically, he realized that he was at the hospital. The nagging beep picked up in speed as the memory returned.
Cuddy appeared in his field of vision, looking every bit the worried Chief of Medicine she should be, but there was a distinct air of exhaustion about her that he couldn't quite place yet.
"Calm down, House," she said appeasingly, putting a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder and keeping him from struggling. "You're still intubated. Hold on." She disconnected the tube and pulled it out of his throat with one fluent, well-practiced movement.
The gag reflex set in with full force. House started coughing and retching, tears springing to his eyes. He drew a shuddering breath, filling his lungs with air. When he tried to speak, it wouldn't come out right at first, the pathetic croak he managed only adding to his feeling of helplessness. "W..." was all he managed.
"Ssssh..." Cuddy cooed, her motherly behavior both annoying and comforting him at the same time. She offered him a drink from a feeding cup. House took it gratefully, the water soothing his throat.
"We don't know what happened yet," Cuddy explained while he was drinking. "I assume you'll be able to tell us a few more things in due time, but right now I just want you to relax and give yourself time to recover. The police is checking in daily to see if you're awake, but I'm keeping them off your back for now."
Finishing his drink, House waved the cup away impatiently, her useless drivel on banalities annoying him. "Wilson," he finally managed to say.
The brave smile Cuddy put on made his stomach clench for a second, but her next words washed over him like a calming breeze. "He's going to be okay, House. We're keeping him subdued for now to aid the detoxing process. His body will need some time to recover, but there are no lasting damages to be expected. You saved his life."
House closed his eyes for a moment, feeling overwhelmed by all the information. Then he said hoarsely, "How... did we get here? What happened?"
"An anonymous 911 call led the emergency response team to your location, an abandoned warehouse near the university campus. They had been informed about your... your condition and were able to react swiftly. You were both unconscious. Wilson crashed again on the ride to the hospital, but the paramedics were able to stabilize him and he's through the worst part now. You were delirious and unresponsive from the blood loss and we probably pushed enough blood into you to feed an entire army of vampires, but here you are."
House nodded. His glance inevitably wandered down to the foot of the bed where his leg was resting in a tunnel underneath the blanket. "What about my foot?" he asked quietly.
A quiet, pained expression hushed across Cuddy's face. He had seen that expression once before. She didn't even need to say it, he already knew. "You did a good job amputating it yourself. Even Dr. Johansson would have been impressed by that job, I'm sure. And yet... they were unable to reattach it." She took his hand and to his own surprise he let her. "I'm sorry, House."
House considered the idea for a moment, then he said, "It's okay. It was dead meat anyway."
The confusion was apparent on her face, yet she nodded guardedly.
"I want to see him," he said evenly, his tone allowing no objection.
Cuddy tried anyhow. "House... you should focus on your own recovery first. There are things we need to talk about. We need to decide on a course and..."
House interrupted her. "Look, we both know how this is going to turn out. Either you're helping me with this or I'll be out of this bed the second you leave the room, probably leaving a not so ornamental trail of blood on the linoleum. Your call."
Cuddy sighed deeply, but then she nodded, motioning for a nurse to help her. She removed the pads for the heart monitor while the nurse took the IV bag and put it next to him. Then they both released the brakes on the bed and wheeled him out of his room.
"I can take it from here," Cuddy said to the nurse, then continued to push him down the corridor in silence. House just stared at the ceiling, hating every minute of the bumpy ride. When the bed finally stopped moving, he tried to sit but realized that he was too weak for that.
Cuddy was by his side instantly and helped him sit up. He could read on her face that she was dying to point out the fact that he was at her mercy completely, something she'd been wanting to happen for years now, but inexplicably to him, she stayed quiet.
He was facing the glass cubicle of the ICU. Inside of it, he could see Wilson lying between the white sheets, connected to various machines, still, almost peaceful. The monitors produced a soothing soundtrack, calming his fears. Wilson was going to be okay.
"He'll be fine," Cuddy repeated his thought, her voice having adopted a certain tremble as she had joined him in his observation. For a moment he wondered if she was just trying to appease herself.
"I know he will," he said firmly. Without another word, he lay back on the bed, waiting for Cuddy to take him back.
"Tell me how the department is doing," he said when they were back in his room and Cuddy was busying herself with hooking him back up to everything.
"It's just been three days since you left your office, House. Even though you clocked out an hour early, if I may add. Regardless, it's doing fine. No amazing cases waiting anyway, so your team is just doing clinic duty and catching up on the paperwork that you've been neglecting," Cuddy said, adjusting the flow of the IV drip.
House nodded. "If this... takes a lot longer I want you to put Foreman in charge again."
Cuddy didn't really look surprised when she asked, "Why him?"
A shrug. "I've got my money on him turning into a mini-version of me any time now, spreading my reign of terror across the land."
"Right. I'll keep you posted when that happens," Cuddy commented dryly. "Oh, before I forget, your parents are on the way here." She looked contrite. "I'm sorry, but when I called them we just didn't know yet... It just seemed like the right thing to do. I can tell them that you need rest and they can't see you, if you..."
House lifted a dismissing hand. "No, it's okay. It'd be nice to see them."
If Cuddy was surprised, she did a good job hiding it as she just nodded.
"Now, what was it you wanted to talk about? It's about my foot, isn't it?"
Cuddy nodded. "We should decide on the course of action soon. We can do reconstructive surgery on the... the stump, making sure the nerve ends scar properly, you know the drill. You can get a transtibial prosthesis then, but I have to warn you. With your already existing impairment trying to walk is going to be very difficult for you."
She hesitated, falling out of her professional drivel for a moment. "Dr. Johansson expects that you might need to learn to use an underarm crutch now. But we can still preserve some of your mobility." She gave him a carefully measured look. "You'd best talk to Dr. Johansson about all your options. I can send him over right now, if you want."
House listened to her talk, but somehow he didn't pay attention at all. When she was finished but lingered behind he gave her a sizing look. "Is there anything else?"
She hesitated, biting her lip. Then she said reluctantly, "I know it's too soon to talk about this, but this is driving me crazy. This call... why would anyone do this? Put you through all this and then call an ambulance?"
Looking out of the window, House thought about this for a long time. Then he shrugged dispassionately and said, "He got what he wanted." Slowly, he turned back to her. "Lisa, I need you to do me a favor."
*******************************
The following days went by in such a haze that House could hardly distinguish them from one another. After seeing his parents he asked Cuddy to make sure nobody else was let through to him, especially not Wilson. It was another decision that was met with a worried look, but she just pressed her lips together and nodded. So he spent his days lying in bed, watching TV or staring at the ceiling, waiting for his recovery.
Yet, whenever Cuddy came to his room to check on him, he'd inevitably maneuver the conversation to the subject of Wilson, asking about his progress, which medication he was taking, how he was doing, and she would patiently answer all his questions even though her look suggested that he should just talk to Wilson himself. But she never actually said it.
At some point Wilson appeared outside of his room, peering through the glass wall that separated it from the hall. He was just standing there quietly, not attempting to come inside. House watched the expression on his face when Cuddy approached to talk to him, probably informing him of House's decision. Brown eyes met with his then, combining hurt, anger and confusion. House just turned his head and looked away.
But Wilson kept returning to his sentinel, watching him quietly, bidingly. At first he was looking pale and withdrawn, with hollow eyes and deep lines around his mouth as he sat there on a chair, lost in his white fleece robe, his fingers playing absent-mindedly with his IV-drip. But slowly, he started changing back into the old, familiar Wilson who was charming and flirted with the nurses as they walked past him, probably in an attempt to circumvent the gag order House had put on all of them regarding his case.
Sometimes House did his best to ignore him, going as far as asking a nurse to draw the blinds. Sometimes he pretended to be asleep so he could glance at Wilson through half-closed eyes, wondering when he would grow tired of waiting.
Wilson was still on his sentry when Dr. Johansson came by to do the usual post-op checks on him, and House could see his friend's eyes narrow in suspicion as he observed their conversation. Abruptly, Wilson got up and left, and House couldn't help but feel a pang of regret.
"So, how are you doing today, Dr. House?" Dr. Johansson asked, writing something down on his clipboard. The surgeon had a proficient way about him which House found slightly unnerving, but at the same time he was grateful that he didn't need to deal with eyes full of compassion and understanding.
"Same as yesterday," House replied boredly. He suffered through the rest of the standard questions and let the surgeon lift the covers and remove the tunnel to inspect the healing of the stump.
"I think you've made the right call," he said matter-of-factly, without a smile of reassurance as he pulled up the blanket again. "With your preexisting condition a life in a wheelchair would have been quite likely. Now you've got a realistic chance of learning to walk again and relatively pain free, too. I will make sure that you get the right prosthetic to aid you in that cause."
House nodded. "Thank you, doctor."
*******************************
Soon, the rush of life-changing decisions faded and boredom set in. Predictably, the police appeared in his room to question him about the details of his ordeal and he helped them as much as he could, but the lengthy interviews were exhausting and did nothing to fill his day with excitement. So House asked to see his team, hoping they'd provide him with some form of entertainment.
They filed into his room, looking uncertain and eyeing him warily. Cameron shot him exactly the look of sympathy he didn't want and he felt himself grow a little annoyed and reassured in his former decision to not see anyone.
When no one spoke, House said loudly, "Dr. Cottage, so good to see you!"
Foreman raised one eyebrow and commented, "They weren't mentioning any memory lapses when I was asking how you were doing."
House gave an apologetic smile. "You know, cottage... small house, Cuddy telling me you've turned into me..." Looking into three bewildered faces, House waved with his hand defeatedly. "Never mind. I suppose I've lost my snark somewhere along the road during my exciting adventure. I guess it's directly proportional to my body mass and since I've had quite a bit lopped off it must have suffered."
His team exchanged a glance, then Chase stepped forward and said with a grin, "You forget you're talking to Foreman here. He goes into a closet to laugh."
"Yeah, I bet you know all about closets, don't you, Dr. Chase," House blurted out in reply. The stunned look on his team's faces made him laugh. "Hah, I've still got it! What a relief. Now I just need to come up with a crack on Cuddy's boobs, Foreman's criminal past and Cameron's ill-fortuned crush on me and we're all set. Come to think of it, just imagine the appropriate comment... now. There, saves a lot of time."
It felt as if the room was literally deflating with the tension that had been palpable just a moment ago as a chuckle went through his team.
"It's good to have you back," Cameron said gently.
"Well, not quite yet and not quite all of me, but yes, I appreciate the notion," House said benevolently. Then he slapped his hands together and rubbed them. "Sooo, any interesting cases you've been working on while I was out?"
Foreman gave him a short summary of what they had been working on over the past three weeks, but House soon realized that Cuddy had been right and he really hadn't missed anything. It seemed as if all the mystery diseases had decided to take a break until he was back on track.
After his team left, House lay back in his bed and looked out of the window, taking note of the first leaves turning yellow as they were swaying softly in the late summer breeze. He heard the click of the door as it was opened and turned his head. Wilson was standing at the door, his back pressed against it, looking at him with penetrating eyes.
"You're meeting with your team, but you refuse to see me?" he said hoarsely.
"How did you get in here?" House asked softly, not really surprised or upset by the fact.
Wilson walked over to the window and pulled down the blinds. "I knew that my intimate knowledge of the nurses' schedule would come in handy some day. They're so inattentive when they're busy changing shifts. A little bit of sweet talking to the girl at the desk was all it took."
With the blinds lowered and the sun already starting to set, the room was wrapped in semi-darkness now. House reached for the switch to turn on the light, but was halted by Wilson who was suddenly by his side, covering his hand with his own. "Why won't you see me?" he whispered.
"I would, but you won't let me turn on the light!"
Ignoring the quip, Wilson said, "You've been avoiding me for weeks."
Resigning to not being able to read Wilson's face during the conversation, House relaxed and said, "Because I didn't want to be another one of your hopeless cases. I don't want to feed your craving for neediness."
He heard Wilson breathe in sharply. "You think that is all that's drawing me to your side?"
"Well, there's a good portion of guilt thrown in for good measure, too, I'm sure."
There was silence for a while. Then Wilson said, "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I needed to see you, too, needed to know you're okay?"
House shrugged into the darkness. "That wasn't my top priority." He saw Wilson reach up to his face, probably to pinch the root of his nose like he usually did when he was struggling for patience.
"Do you have any idea," Wilson said slowly, clearly losing the battle, "how it felt to wake up from all this, not knowing what happened, not seeing you anywhere? Then there's Cuddy with her cataclysmic mannerism, telling me that you've... that you've sawed off your own foot to free yourself from the cuff and perform CPR on me!"
He let out an exasperated sigh. "It's a nightmare, but somehow I'm not waking from it! And even worse then is finding out that I'm not allowed to see you, not even allowed to know how you're doing unless I'm sneaking my way into confidential patient files!"
House listened to his friend's heated speech and then he suddenly found himself saying something he thought he never would. "I'm sorry."
An extensive silence followed. House thought he saw Wilson's hand move up to his face once more, wiping across it.
"I'm coming by here tomorrow and we will talk," Wilson said quietly, not allowing any objection. Then he got up and left the room.
*******************************
True to his word, Wilson appeared in the door the next day. "Let's go," he said, leaning against the jamb.
Casting him a sour look, House motioned into the general direction of his right leg and said, "I'm a little indisposed, in case you haven't noticed."
"Oh, don't worry, I have." Wilson reached to the side and pulled out a wheelchair, pushing it across the room until it came to a halt right in front of House's bed. "Hop in."
Not willing to show any insecurity at Wilson's challenge, House tossed back the blanket, grabbed the overhead trapeze and swung his body around. He could feel Wilson's eyes resting on him, no doubt staring at his right pant leg, but he didn't care as he tried to maneuver himself over to the wheelchair, balancing on his left leg.
The wheelchair moved and House almost fell back on the bed. Wilson was by his side in an instant, grabbing him firmly around the waist.
"I can do that myself," House snapped irritatedly.
"I know," Wilson replied, unfazed, as he helped House into the wheelchair. "But it gives me a good excuse to feel you up some."
Despite himself, House found himself laughing at the comment while Wilson helped him into his robe.
They pushed along quietly, not talking until they had reached the narrow paths that wound their way through the nearby park. Wilson halted the wheelchair at a picturesque spot where they could glance at a small pond.
"You're not going to break out the pieces of dry bread now, are you?" House commented as he watched a duck swim by expectantly.
Wilson laughed. "No, don't worry."
Silence spread out again. The duck got disheartened and swam off.
"Why the entire leg?" Wilson suddenly asked.
House cut him a sidelong glance. "Do you really need to ask me that? If I recall, you were the one who tried to convince me for weeks after the infarction that I should have the amputation after all."
"Yes, but I also recall that you were rather adamant about keeping it. So why now?"
Considering the question for a couple of moments, House then simply replied, "It was time. Call it a priority shift, call it detachment... But I just realized I had to let go."
Wilson nodded. Then he said quietly, "So... why cutting me off along with it?" He gave House a firm look, the need to know so present in his face.
House hesitated. Then he answered truthfully, "Because I don't need you anymore. I'm going to be fine now. I'll be a little wonky on my feet for a bit, but I'm going to hire a nurse to help me through the rough start and once I get my prosthetic leg fitted I'll be doing just fine."
Drawing a shuddering breath, Wilson said, "Is that the only reason why you were with me? Because you needed me?"
"No..." House shook his head softly. "But I thought that was the reason why you were with me."
Wilson made a strange sound and buried his face in his hands. A shudder went through him and for a terrible second House thought he was crying. But then he recognized the short, ragged sobs of laughter that shook the other man's shoulders.
"Well, I'm glad you find that amusing," House said grumpily, not sure how to take this. "Either way, I don't want you to stay with me out of an ill begotten feeling of guilt."
"Oh, House," Wilson said finally, still chuckling. "You know what they say, right? 'There is no greater misery in life than the one that man inflicts upon himself.' Here I am, worrying about all sorts of reasons you might come up with why we can't be together anymore and then this is the best you've got?"
In an attempt to hide his confusion, House glared at Wilson from under heavy-lidded eyes, but the other man didn't seem to care.
"Why should I feel the slightest bit of guilt over you losing this leg when I'm so fucking glad it's gone? You think I was with you because of your leg when in fact I was with you in spite of it! Sometimes I felt as if I was living in a threesome which involved you, me and 'The Leg'. It was dominating our life and every day it seemed to steal a bigger part of you away from me, demanding more of your time, more of your peace of mind. I'm so glad you've finally hacked the damn thing off!"
House just stared at Wilson in disbelief. "Wow. Nobody else has dared to say this to me."
Laughing softly, Wilson put his hands on his hips and stepped in front of House. "But I bet that's what they were all thinking!" He sank down on his knees in front of House until their eyes where on level. "So you don't want any special treatment because of your leg? No problem. I'll ignore your attempts to get out of bed one-legged while fishing for your prosthesis without as much as raising an eyebrow. I'll put my car on your disability parking space every day and let you walk to the hospital from mine. I'll google for all the peg leg jokes I can come up with and tell them to you until you can't stand them anymore. I'll even sprinkle itching powder on the socket of your prosthetic leg when you're not looking."
Wilson reached for House's hands and entwined their fingers. "You want me to move out? Fine, I'll do that, too. I'll give you all the space you need. Just don't break us up for reasons that don't exist."
Looking into Wilson's face, so full of hope and confidence, House's heart was thudding in his chest so painfully that he thought it was about to burst. He squeezed Wilson's hands tightly. "What about 'Jessica Simpson'?"
"She's no longer an issue. Her records have permanently left the charts. She's been dropped by her label and embarked on a farewell tour through Siberia."
House let his glance wander across the pond. He saw that the duck had been joined by a second one and they swam along, quacking happily. He took a deep breath and looked Wilson straight in the eyes. "I want you to go ahead and call Mike."
He saw a spark of defiance in Wilson's eyes for a second, but then he slumped his shoulders and nodded.
"I want you to call him and tell him he can take you off his business contacts. You've already got a place."
Wilson looked up again, his face lighting up as a bright smile spread across it. "I'll do that right away." He got up and leaned forward, but was halted by House's hand against his chest.
"Remember what I told you about public displays of affection?"
"Yes," Wilson replied and kissed him anyhow. Then he walked off.
"Hey, where are you going?" House called after him.
"I've got a phone call to make!" Wilson called out over his shoulder.
"And how do I get back to my room?"
Wilson turned on his heels. "You'll figure something out."
"You jerk!"
With a laugh, Wilson lifted his arms in a carefree gesture, spun around and walked off.
*******************************
Sitting in his wheelchair looking across the pond, House let the past couple of weeks go through his mind.
As soon as he had made it back to his room that day Wilson had stranded him - snapping at various helpful people on the way who had tried to assist him - he had called Cuddy and asked her to set him up with a prosthesist as soon as possible. He had had a preliminary prosthesis fitted the next day and gotten started on physiotherapy right away. Not because he had thought it necessary, but because the prosthesist, or 'Gimp Pimp' as House liked to call him, had insisted on it and House had been forced to grudgingly comply with gentle pressure from Cuddy.
True to his promise, Wilson had refrained from fussing over him and had limited his support to accompanying House on his way to recovery, smuggling junk food past the nurse desk and providing various ways of relaxation when House felt particularly tense and stressed out.
He had been discharged soon after receiving his preliminary prosthesis to recover at home while returning to the hospital every other day as an outpatient for physiotherapy. All the while he'd been milking his admittedly very generous sick leave for all that it was worth, using the 'Vicodin withdrawal' excuse whenever it was convenient such as when there had been a General Hospital marathon.
Eventually, Chase and Foreman had taken on the habit of carrying the whiteboard into the training room whenever he was doing his exercises under protest, hoping for his input. Soon they had started working on cases again with House sending his team around, ordering unnecessary tests, insulting surgeons by proxy and driving Cuddy up the wall while brilliantly solving the medical mysteries. In a way, it was as if nothing had ever changed. And yet his entire life had changed and he had to thank it all to the machinations of an insane mind.
Casually, his hand wandered to his breast pocket where a card was resting safely tucked away from everyone's view, close to his heart. It had arrived together with a bunch of flowers shortly after he'd regained consciousness. He had ignored it for a while until curiosity had gotten the better of him and he had plucked the card off the wilting bouquet.
By now he had read it so many times that he had memorized it. Still, he took out the glossy white card that had the shape of a jigsaw puzzle embossed into it. He rubbed across it with his fingers thoughtfully as he recited the message in his mind.
'So you are capable of altruism after all. Congratulations, you've won the game. Enjoy the prize.'
Thinking about these words filled him with anger and confusion. Part of him wanted to see whoever had done this to them brought to justice. He wanted to look that man in the eyes and demand the answers he knew he'd never get. The police hadn't been very encouraging in their prognosis. The thought that he'd never know the truth made him want to scream in frustration. This man had almost ended both their lives, and he was going to get away with it. And yet, in some odd and twisted way he couldn't help feeling a bit grateful too.
"What's that?" Wilson's voice rang out behind him and he slipped the card back into his pocket quickly.
"It's nothing," he said in a bored tone that would rouse no suspicion. He smiled when Wilson put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. They both looked across the park, appreciating the way autumn had reached out for the trees completely, dipping their leaves in bold hues of orange and red.
"How did the appointment with the Gimp Pimp go?" Wilson asked behind him.
"Okay. Won't be needing to go back there for a while now. This one's final now."
His little duck friend swam by, hardly glancing in his direction as he had unsuccessfully tried to coax food out of House many times before. Now, House reached into his pocket and produced a cracker he had saved from dinner the other day. He broke it into pieces and tossed it into the pond. The duck quacked excitedly and plunged for floating chunks. Wilson laughed.
Without really noticing it at first, House's hand moved down to his thigh, rubbing it in the way he had been used to doing for so many years. It was only when he felt Wilson's eyes on him that he realized what he was doing and he thought once more how odd it was to feel the mix of silicone and titanium steel where his crippled muscle had once been.
"That was my leg," he said softly, wistfully. "I wanted it to be with me till the day I die."
"I know." Wilson leaned in and kissed him gently. "But you've gotten something better in return." He patted his shoulder softly. "Are you ready?" At House's nod, he stepped behind the wheelchair and put his hands on the grips, holding them tightly.
Taking a deep breath, House put his hands against the armrests of the wheelchair and pushed himself out of it. He stood a little wobbly on his feet for a moment, not quite used to the sensation. Then he turned to Wilson and said, "I feel no pain."
With a sigh of relief, Wilson smiled at him and handed him his cane.
House looked at it for a moment, rubbing his fingers across the polished wood. Then he grabbed the handle and put the rubber tip down on the paved path. He felt its support instantly. "Let's go!" he said to Wilson. "Race you to the entrance."
Laughing softly, Wilson walked up next to him and took his hand. "I think I've chased you long enough. Let's walk side by side now." He looked over his shoulder, eyeing the wheelchair. "What about the chair?"
House shrugged. "We'll tell one of the nurses at the entrance to get it."
"Somebody will think a patient has drowned himself in the pond."
A devious grin spread on House's face. "Come to think of it, let's just leave it there."
They walked up the path slowly.
"You know... I'm sorry about the job," House said softly, keeping his eyes trained on the path ahead of him.
Wilson cut him a sidelong glance. "That's okay. I don't mind that so much, really. I wouldn't have wanted to move to Vancouver anyway... tell me a reason for not moving to Vancouver."
"It's Jason Priestley's hometown?"
Wilson laughed. "That works." He stopped and turned to look at House. "I'm sorry about Jessica Simpson."
Returning the serious look, House waited a moment before he replied. "Yeah, me too. I wonder who the hell told her that she could act. What the fuck was that with The Dukes of Hazzard?"
The look of relief that spread on Wilson's face spoke volumes.
"Well, I'm sorry about not wanting to go to that funeral with you," House continued. "I promise to make it up to you some day."
"Oh, don't worry," Wilson said with a dismissive shrug. "I think I've had my share of brush with death for now." Burying his hands in his pockets, he added, "I'm sorry about lying to you about the fever."
"That's okay, all my patients lie. And the next time you get an offer for a fantastic job away from me, we'll talk about it, okay?"
"Deal."
They started moving up the path again.
"I'm sorry for showering all my love and affection on Steve instead of you."
"That's okay, rats have bigger needs than oncologists. I'm sorry for shaving his fur when you weren't looking. "
House stopped abruptly. "What? And I believed you when you said that biotin deficiency often causes rats to lose their fur! I spoon-fed him vitamins for weeks!"
With a slightly guilty look, Wilson turned to him. "What was I supposed to do? You were playing the piano for him when he was upset, for crying out loud!"
House returned Wilson's look thoughtfully. "Well... like I said, I'm sorry. I'll try to be more attentive from now on. I'll probably still try to bail out of having dinner with your folks and I'll never learn to pick after myself, but I'll try to be better."
Wilson gave him a smile. "I'm sorry I never told you how I felt. I probably should have tried that first before looking for an apartment..."
"How about," House interrupted Wilson gently, "we just stop this 'Who's sorry most' poker and get right to the part where get started on a new, improved relationship based on mutual love, respect and understanding?"
Wilson cast him a guarded glance. "Love?" He asked softly.
Feeling a slight blush crawl up his cheeks, House nodded curtly. "Yeah... that too."
With a playful look, Wilson said, "This reminds me when I was supposed to tell you this..."
"Now there's a good way to start!"
"I've got nothing else to be sorry about anyway," he said with a soft laugh.
"Oh really?" House replied softly, stepping closer. "In that case I guess I need to spend the rest of my days making you very, very sorry." He pulled Wilson into a deep kiss.
They were interrupted when Cuddy charged past them.
"Hey, careful! Gimps crossing!" House shouted after her.
Cuddy turned around, a stressed out look on her face. "There's been a call that there's an abandoned wheelchair at the pond."
Wilson gave House a reproachful look who just grinned in return.
"Oh of course, I should have known," Cuddy said resignedly, putting one hand against her hip.
"Hey, if you're changing into your skimpy bathing suit, can I watch?"
Rolling her eyes, Cuddy said, "Very funny, House."
"You know, I could help you bathe. I bet my peg leg makes for a great floating device."
Cuddy shot him an annoyed look. "Go back to work, House. You've been lying around in bed long enough. You're way behind on your clinic duty."
House put on a shocked face. "What? You'd make a traumatized cripple like me do clinic duty?"
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. "If you're strong enough to stroll in the park, kissing and holding hands, you're strong enough to work. Wilson's been back to work for three weeks now." House threw Wilson a look that said 'traitor'. She continued. "But now that you mention it, you could use this opportunity to get counseling like I told you weeks ago.
Biting back a curse, House said quickly, "Oh dear, I think I just remembered a couple of very important cases that have been piling up on my desk. I should better go check them out right now." With that he grabbed Wilson's hand and pulled him along the path, ignoring Cuddy's attempts to continue the conversation.
"You know... this reminds me of the joke I read on my ampulove community this morning," Wilson said casually as they walked through the main entrance.
House groaned. "Oh God, please stop. I've really heard all the bad jokes I can take." They entered the elevator. "I take back everything I said earlier. I'd rather have you coddle and fuss over me than this." The door closed.
"I wish you had told me this before you left me alone with your leg this morning..." Wilson cast him an innocent look. "Is it itching yet? Just kidding."
They parted in front of House's office. Fingering his cane absent-mindedly, House asked, "What time are we going home?"
Wilson shrugged. "Around five. I'll knock on your door. We'll pick something up at Wendy's, I guess?"
House reached for Wilson's hand awkwardly, brushing across his fingers discreetly. "Sounds good." He pulled his hand back quickly as he became aware of their surroundings. Wilson's chuckle made the corners of his mouth twitch.
When House closed the door behind him he felt as if he'd just left his office the other day. Everything looked exactly as he'd left it. Except perhaps for that large pile of file folders that was indeed lying on his desk.
With a sigh, he walked over to it and sat down. His eyes brushed across the folder at the top of the pile. It caught his attention because it didn't look like the usual hospital files. Curious, he picked it up and opened it. His blood ran cold when he recognized the handwriting on the plain sheet of paper.
'Dr. House,
Apparently you have decided to be a better person, doctor and mate to Dr. Wilson, and that is why I have allowed the both of you to live. Middle grounds have never been your strong point, but in this case you've made a wise choice. If anything causes you this much pain, it's time to get rid of it.
Good luck with your new life, but know that I will be watching. If you ever fall into your old patterns again I might just take my prize back.'
There was something attached to the back of the sheet with a paperclip. House pulled it out. It was a Polaroid picture of his doorstep. He stared at it for a moment, then a grim smile spread on his face as he closed the file and stuck it into the deepest end of his drawer.
~ The End ~
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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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