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Lend Your Hands
by echoes mourn
Dreams say what they mean, but they don't say it in daytime language. --Gail Godwin
Usually, you don't even so much as remember your dreams. But right now, you're dreaming and you know it, something you've never experienced before. It's a disconcerting feeling, but the worry is distant and removed, as is the way of dreams.
What bothers you most is when you get a better look at your hazy surroundings, and realize that you're in the corridors of the hospital. You sigh, and wonder vaguely if your sleeping body sighs as well. It seems terribly unfair that you have to dream about the place where you spend most of your waking hours. But being aware that one is dreaming is apparently not the key to controlling one's dreams, as all your efforts to move yourself to a sunny beach or quiet woods or even your own home come to nothing.
Then someone says your name, and you turn, and it is with some surprise that you realize that it is House speaking to you. His voice is quiet, even gentle, in a way that you have only rarely heard in the waking world. If you needed more proof that you were dreaming, here it is.
"So I trust my team," House said, sounding as though he was concluding a previous conversation.
"That's... good," you reply awkwardly.
"Isn't it, though? I only mention it because it's easy to forget, even for me. It's easy to underestimate the people you see every day."
"You don't underestimate yourself," you shoot back. This, you reason, is the perfect chance to say absolutely anything to House without consequences.
"Ah, but I don t really look at myself. I find that works better for me."
"I'm sure it does," you mutter.
"How many times have I told you - all of you - to stand by your diagnosis?"
"Dozens." You sigh, seeing where this is heading.
"So why don't you?"
"You don't make it easy." You're too defensive, and you know it just as well as he does. There is that half-smile on his face again, that isn't so much a smile as a taunt. It doesn't bother you in the real world anymore - well, not nearly as much as it used to - but here, it sends an unaccountable little shiver down your spine.
"Why should I make it easy?"
This had to be the ultimate unfairness. House wouldn't even let you win an argument with him in your own subconscious. You almost say, "To be nice," but thankfully you stop yourself in time.
"Sometimes people learn better from support than from ridicule."
"I don't do support. That's for parents and shrinks."
"And here I thought the great Dr. House could do anything."
He raised an eyebrow. "Not bad. Let's call that a stalemate."
"But--"
He interrupted firmly, but much of the usual sharp edge in his voice was missing. Was that fond impatience? Bemused annoyance? "You already know what you need to know. I'm just here to remind you of that."
"Was that a compliment?" you ask, somewhere between amazed and suspicious. Even allowing for this being all in your head, a compliment from House is still something to be wary of.
"Lend your hands." He spoke the words clearly, without seeming to notice how senseless they were.
"What?"
"Just remember what I said."
And then you were awake.
House was at the whiteboard, crouching uncomfortably as he added the last in a depressingly long list of symptoms. He looked up to see Chase shaking his head. "What? Did I spell something wrong?" He made a show of straightening up and shaking out his hand as he mock-glared at the Australian. "You've gotta stop bringing in files like this. I'll get carpal tunnel and then we'll all have to put up with Cameron's girly writing."
"There's just no one disease that could explain all this," Chase said, still shaking his head at the whiteboard.
"He's only ten months old. That doesn't even seem like enough time to get this sick," Cameron said, frowning sadly at the file.
House flipped the marker up into the air and caught it a few times. "Come on, with all the great inherited syndromes there are out there? Plenty of time. Now let's play a little game and see who can fit the most symptoms into just one disease."
"It's cancer."
All eyes looked at Cameron, who seemed at least as startled as the other three people in the room.
"I mean--"
House cut her off. "That's a very bold pronouncement, Dr. Cameron. Care to place a little wager on that?"
"No, I--"
Now Foreman interrupted. "She won't bet. Can we just get on with the diagnosis, please?"
Cameron bristled at this, glaring first at Foreman and then at House. "Oh, yes, she will. Fifty bucks."
"Make it a hundred and you're on," was House's quick reply.
He caught the faint hesitation before she spoke, and the definite worry in her eyes, but Cameron's voice was firm. "Deal."
Foreman laughed. "Do you even have any idea what kind? Even paraneoplastic syndrome doesn't explain all this."
"Do you want in on the bet?" Cameron asked challengingly.
"Nope. Too easy."
She turned the challenging look on Chase, who only shook his head again and held up his hands in surrender.
"So we have the pretty immunologist going out on a limb and saying that this should actually be Wilson's case." House scrawled `cancer' as the first in what was sure to be a list of diagnoses just as long as the list of symptoms, if not worse.
"Scabies would explain the skin problems and the inflamed lymph nodes," Foreman suggested.
"How about septicemia? Or maybe pneumonia," Chase put in.
"None of those explain the vomiting or the weight loss," Cameron said.
"You already voted."
"Oh, come now, Foreman, this isn't a democracy, as I keep telling you people. She can vote more than once. She just can't bet more than once." House raised an eyebrow and gave Cameron just a hint of an evil smile.
Strangely, this almost seemed to reassure Cameron, who relaxed a fraction and settled into the diagnostic process. The right side of the board filled up as quickly as expected, causing House to call a halt.
"I wonder how long it would take to get another whiteboard in here?" he mused.
"You think all that won't keep us busy enough?" Chase demanded.
House had marked asterisks next to some of the choices, and was now adding in various colors to indicate which tests were checking for which disease. "Okay, so that's an MRI, chest X-rays, biopsy of the skin rash, and as many of these blood tests as we can manage." The board now resembled a new experimental piece by a trendy modern artist. He looked over at the others. "Anyone want fries with that?"
The two men pointedly ignored this last comment. But Cameron was studying the board intently, hardly seeming to notice anything else.
"Lend your hands," she murmured.
"What?" Chase asked, giving her a doubtful look.
Her eyes focused on House. "It's Langerhans cell histiocytosis."
His eyebrow quirked up and that hint of a grin reappeared as he glanced back at the whiteboard. "Which explains absolutely all the symptoms. And which would be cancer."
"That's not really cancer," Chase objected.
"An abnormal growth of cells, generally treated with chemotherapy under the guidance of an oncologist? Smells like cancer to me."
Foreman couldn't take it anymore. "Wait a minute. Are you saying that you just lost a bet? About something medical?"
"I'm honored that you seem to think that never happens, but even the great Dr. House can't be right all the time. At least, that's what Wilson keeps telling me. But wrap your mind around the concept later. Right now I need you to go get that biopsy. Chase, get some blood and run a Coombs test first. Then we'll know for sure if I lost."
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Wilson was just leaving House's office when Cameron arrived, lab coat discarded and hair now hanging loose. Her eye was drawn immediately towards an item she never thought she'd see in the office of the Head of Diagnostics: a huge yellow and white bouquet of roses, lilies, and carnations in a vase swirled with the same colors. It was an almost startling splash of color in the darkness of the after-hours.
She shot a bemused look at House, who refused to look back, then turned to Wilson, who was grinning. "As you can see, I just made a delivery," he said. "From the Zimmermans. Their little boy is already doing very well under the treatment, and this is their way of thanking the brilliant diagnostician who figured out what was wrong. Although I'm told that makes these actually your flowers," he added, giving Cameron an impressed look.
She hesitated, then shook her head. "It was a team effort," she said, glancing back at House, who was now scowling at her. "House was probably just trying to keep you from leaving these in his office," she added with a smile.
Wilson looked doubtful, but House spoke up before he could say anything. "Even if they weren't your flowers to begin with, they'd definitely be your flowers now," he said grouchily. "There's a reason I didn't become a florist."
"That's probably a good thing," Wilson remarked, straight-faced. "Studies suggest plants are emotionally sensitive. It's possible that you could kill an entire shop full of flowers with just one well-placed sarcastic comment."
Cameron only just bit back a giggle. House actually smiled, though wryly and briefly, and Wilson suspected the only reason he didn't laugh his dry laugh was because Cameron was there.
"And I wonder why none of my staff respects me anymore. Out. Go abuse some cancer kids."
Wilson relented and continued on his way out the door. "I'll see you both tomorrow. Nice work, Dr. Cameron," he added as the door swung shut behind him.
"You're pathetic," House said.
Cameron rolled her eyes, but she was still fighting back a smile as she approached his desk. "All right, why am I pathetic this time?"
"You stuck to your diagnosis, but you won't take any credit for it. I know you didn't learn false modesty from me."
Now she did smile. "No, but I learned to stick by my diagnosis. Doesn't that make it a team effort?"
"Only if you're planning on sharing your winnings with the rest of the team. Or better yet, letting me off the hook entirely." Reaching into the pocket of the button-down shirt he wore over his usual t-shirt, he produced a small pack of folded twenties and held them out to her with a questioning look.
She looked at him thoughtfully, then stepped closer and reached out to take the bills; but her hand stopped for a moment and simply rested on the money, her fingertips just brushing his. Like the last time this had happened, she was able to pretend that this slight, exhilarating touch didn't make her shiver inside. "Did you know what was wrong when you made the bet?" Her voice was quiet, but her eyes held his firmly.
"Are you saying I'd deliberately sacrifice a hundred dollars just to remind you to stick up for yourself, Dr. Cameron?"
"No, I'm asking if you would."
For an instant, something flickered faintly in those clear blue eyes, too quickly for Cameron to identify. "What have I ever done that could possibly make you think I'd be that supportive?"
Cameron just looked at him, one eyebrow raised.
"No, I didn't know," he sighed.
"But you suspected."
House tilted his head in what might have been a shrug. As though this was a signal, he relinquished his grip on the money just as Cameron tightened hers.
"Thanks," she murmured, and slipped the money into the tiny front pocket of her slacks. His eyes flickered again, half-following the gesture.
"Better not brag to Foreman too much. I don't think he could take it."
But his voice was quiet and thoughtful, and she only smiled at the comment. "Good night, House," she said, taking a slow step back.
He watched her walk, his eyes still thoughtful. "Don't forget your flowers. I mean it."
"I won't." She paused on her way to the door, carefully picking up the slightly awkward arrangement before turning back to look at him over her shoulder. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather I leave these here? You might get to like them."
"In your dreams."
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A/N: Langerhans cell histiocytosis is a real, very rare disease that afflicts young children and can have a huge variety of symptoms. Beyond that, the medical information here is only barely accurate enough for fiction.
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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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