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Household Gods
by echoes mourn
Disclaimer: House is owned by people other than me. I do own a house, but that isn't at
all the same thing.
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"Tell me again why we're here?"
Foreman knew this was a rhetorical question, but he had a vague hope that if he answered
it patiently, Chase might shut up for a while. "We're here because our delirious patient
insists that her house is making her sick. And since everyone except people suffering
from fever hallucinations lies, House sent us here."
"I still think Cameron should have gotten this job."
"You know House never sends Cameron to search houses. Not unless he's going along."
"Yeah, because he likes her." Chase gave the verb an exaggerated emphasis, managing to
imply several kinds of unsavory liking.
"Better than he likes us, anyway." Foreman's patience with the subject was wearing thin,
and he opened the kitchen cabinet nearby and looked inside as though fascinated by its
contents.
Chase's only reply was to slam in the drawer he'd been searching and yank open the
next.
"Watch it. Break your own stuff if you want to work off your anger."
"Sorry." There was no hint of actual apology in the muttered word, but he did close the
second drawer much more gently.
Foreman sighed. "All right, what's bothering you?"
"I told you, I--"
"No, what's really bothering you?"
"More than two years working with House. Isn't that enough?"
Normally, Foreman would have accepted this unquestioningly, but right now he
hesitated. "That's a good start," he admitted.
He started to say something else, but Chase had already turned and headed for the
bathroom down the hall to continue his search. Shaking his head, the neurologist finished
the fruitless check of the kitchen, then turned to open the door to the basement.
A draft of cold air greeted him, and when he reached for the light switch, something
brushed against his hand, something smooth and cool that seemed to wrap around his
fingers and tug briefly before slipping away. He grunted in faint surprise and couldn't
quite repress a shudder. With the lights on, he looked for whatever it was that had
touched him, but there was nothing there.
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Cameron was not enjoying her assigned task any more than Chase was enjoying his. She
was in a dusty back room of the county courthouse, wrestling with boxes of old, faded
documents, lighting that left it too dark to read in most parts of the room, and an ancient
microfiche machine that seemed to amuse itself (or perhaps get its revenge) by fighting
her every step of the way as she sifted through the endless microfilms.
Then there was the city employee `helping' her. All he'd done so far was ask her out to
dinner twice, and three times express his disbelief that her boss had sent her on such an
errand. "What could doctors possibly need to know about the architecture of old houses,
anyway?" he'd asked, and she could think of no reply other than to mutter something
about never knowing which clue might be the vital one to provide the diagnosis.
Now, alone with the dust and the shadows, this made even less sense to her. Searching
the house itself, yes, but what was the point of knowing what year the house was built
and by whom? Well, Estelle does seem to think her house is haunted. Maybe House
believed her.
She only just stifled a laugh at the thought of House blaming ghosts for an illness. Being
down here was obviously making her punchy.
There was even a cold draft down here, she discovered to her annoyance, and shivered as
she moved to grab some papers that were shifting in the sudden air movement. She stared
at the paper in her hands for a moment, slowly making sense of it. Then she reached for
her cell, shaking her head. I guess you really do never know where you'll find the vital
clue...
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"This is pleasant."
Foreman pointedly ignored this unhelpful comment, as he had nearly all of Chase's
comments since they'd arrived. Though there had been some effort to keep it clean and
organized, the basement was old, dark, damp, and generally inhospitable as far as they
were concerned, but it was just the place for a few tough bacteria.
They'd both covered their mouths and noses with the disposable surgical masks that
Foreman had brought, something he'd unsurprisingly developed a habit of doing while on
search detail. But now what bothered him the most was not the possible diseases, but
rather just the feel of the place.
It felt like this basement had been waiting for them.
He shook his head at this idea, imagining the abuse he'd take from Chase if he let on
what he was thinking. It was only that strange cobwebby touch he'd imagined earlier that
was bothering him. "You look left, I'll look right," was all he said.
Chase rolled his eyes at Foreman's back, but followed the suggestion. It was annoyingly
cold and drafty down here, and he didn't want to hang around arguing. Something moved
out of the corner of his eye, and he spun quickly to look, almost overbalancing. But as
hard as he looked, there was nothing there to be seen. The walls were old and stained, but
completely clear of anything that might have moved, even cobwebs. It was necessarily
far from spotless, but Estelle obviously did like to keep as clean a house as possible.
Then he did see something, near the outside wall. There was a slightly sunken area there,
only a few feet square. He would have said it was a trap door, except there was no sign of
hinges or handles. Frowning, and still reluctant to approach the spot, he tried to examine
it more closely from where he stood.
Then his cell phone buzzed, and he only just stopped himself from bolting at the sound.
Heart pounding, he scrambled to hit the button and answer the call as Foreman came
over.
"Yeah?"
"Chase, I found something," Allison's voice said urgently. Then a sharp sneeze came
over the line, and she sighed. "Besides dust, I mean."
"Bless you. What have you got?"
"The house was built over the town's old cistern. And I'm guessing they didn't have
much in the way of health codes back then, so they probably didn't bother draining it out
properly--"
"So there's probably a lot of stagnant water right under our feet," Chase finished, looking
over at Foreman. Then his eyes tracked back down to the sunken spot. "And I think I
know exactly where it is."
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It took some city intervention and a few tests, but a correct diagnosis was inevitable after
that. Paratyphoid fever wasn't found much in the U.S. anymore, so it was often
misdiagnosed as brucellosis, mono, or even appendicitis if the patient lacked the
distinctive rose-colored rash, which theirs had. And Estelle had been handed all those
diagnoses and then some before landing in House's care.
Cameron was there to say goodbye to Estelle when she was released, and so, much to her
surprise, was House. He lurked in the background as though trying not to be seen, but
Estelle went straight to him. She was seventy, according to her medical records, but she
might have been fifty, judging by her brisk movements and her alert gaze.
"I wanted to thank you, young man," she said briskly. House looked faintly relieved at
not having to deal with old-lady sentiment. "Somehow I knew you and your doctors were
the ones who could help me, and I'm glad to say my instincts haven't failed me."
She paused, then added in a conspiratorial whisper, "It was my house making me ill, in a
way. But it was also my house that saved me." Turning back to Cameron, she squeezed
the young woman's hand and gave her a peck on the cheek. "Thank you, too, my dear.
You've been so kind." And then she was around the corner and on her way, her steps
turning unerringly towards her beloved home.
"Swapping secrets?" Cameron asked, one eyebrow raised as she stepped closer.
"She said Chase was making goo-goo eyes at her. I mean, at least he's moving on from
the nine-year-olds, but we'd still better have a talk with him, don't you think?"
"Just as long as she didn't tell you about Cuddy's secret plan to get you to do your clinic
hours by cornering the Reuben supply. I'd like to see how that works out."
House cringed and made a show of looking around. "Don't give the she-devil any more
ideas. She has spies everywhere," he said out of the corner of his mouth.
He seemed to think he was off the hook, so Cameron decided to pounce. "So what lead
you to actually say goodbye to a patient? You hardly spoke to her while she was here."
Oddly, House hesitated before answering, and Cameron's eyebrow climbed higher. "I
was hoping she'd put me in her will. I hear she has a really great house."
And no matter how much Cameron pushed, that was all he would say on the subject.
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A/N: Paratyphoid fever is a real disease, and the facts presented here about it are true to
the best of my knowledge. However, since my degree is in English literature and not
medicine, these facts still shouldn't be taken too seriously.
The concept of household gods is an ancient one, perhaps dating back to Neolithic times,
and appears in cultures throughout the world. When treated properly and given small gifts
or other signs of respect, it was believed that these gods would protect all those who lived
within a house. It seemed to me only appropriate that such a deity might turn to a fellow
House when a little extra help was needed... and yes, I'm afraid I couldn't resist the pun
angle, either
Please post a comment on this story.
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 Fox Television, 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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