Now that December had taken full hold of Princeton, Dr. House had traded
the Honda for his gifted Corvette, Dr. Cameron had continued to cross off
her days in red ink, Dr. Foreman had taken charge of the Diagnostics wing,
Dr. Chase was habitually forgetting his coat, and Dr. Wilson had just had
his third set of divorce papers served to him. All seemed fairly well.
 
 But there was a tension between all of them, an underlying current that
lit each of them with a charge that was biting and rough around the edges.
 
 House arrived at the Diagnostics office uncharacteristically early.
 
 Foreman was next, his eyes heavy and full from lack of sleep.
 
 "Why didn't you get to sleep last night? Did someone go black and not
want to go back?" Forman glared. House feigned hurt.
 
 Chase arrived a few minutes later, barely on time, and he wasn't wearing
his overcoat.
 
 "As soon as you get a cold, you get my clinic duty," House paused, "The
red nose is fitting, though."
 
 Cameron arrived last, late. House was reminded of the morning she had
arrived still high off meth and good sex and tried to hide her shaking
fingers and dilated pupils with motion and misdirection.
 
 "You're late, Allison." Dr. Cameron balked at the use of her first name
in front of her co-workers.
 
 "I'm sorry, Dr. House." She didn't continue. She wasn't going to offer an
excuse. She wasn't going to admit that she hadn't slept because her HIV
test was in six days. She wasn't going to tell House and her co-workers
that she was late because the pharmacy had been slow with her meds. And
she certainly wasn't going to tell House that when he used her first name
it reminded her of the night after their date when they had made love for
the first (and most likely last) time.
 
 After a moment, House picked up a black marker and made his way to the
white board, and made his way to the white board, limping just a bit more
than normal.
 
 "Alright, our patient is HIV-, but it presenting with PJP. What are we
looking at here?"
 
 "Sit down, House. It's not your place anymore."
 
 House turned and looked at Foreman, eyes wide and flashing. A beat, and
he tossed the marker at the other man and made his way to a free chair,
 
 "Have fun playing doctor, Foreman." After a pause and a nefarious glance
from Foreman directed at House, Chase offered: "Immunosuppression due to
drugs?"
 
 "No transplant history, Chase." The Australian's cheeks turned the same
shade as his nose; being wrong had developed and grown, and at times, it
seemed he had a phobia of it.
 
 "What about cancer?" Foreman offered.
 
 "Sure, bring Dr. Wilson into this." House moved to the phone, noting
Cameron's silence. Picking up the receiver, he punched in Wilson's 4
number extension. "Dr. Wilson, Happy Hanukkah. I need you--excuse me, Dr.
Foreman needs you in the Diagnostics office. Kisses to you too. Okay
then."
 
 Dr. Cameron adjusted her glasses so that they perched at the bridge of
her nose.
 
 "What about non-Hodgkin's lymphoma?"
 
 "His white count is low enough," Chase supplied.
 
 "That would explain the lowered immune system as well," Foreman said. He
proceeded to assign each member of the team lab work--including House.
 
 As House followed Cameron out the glass doors of the office, Dr. Wilson
arrived.
 
 "Jimmy, be in my office as soon as Foreman's finished with you." Dr.
Wilson paused, a look of confusion in his eyes. Then he nodded his
consent.
 
 House was out the door, and he clasped Dr. Cameron's wrist.
 
 "Allison. . ." he paused, and she turned to him, her eyes wide open and
too bloodshot for him to look at her straight because he wanted to tell
her that he knew she was hurting and he was worried about her but it all
just wouldn't fit inside his mouth-- "Your diagnosis will be correct."
 
 She looked at him, nonplussed.
 
 "I'm confident it's correct as well, Dr. House," (she wasn't going to
call him by his first name because it reminded her too much of the time
they had slept together and the sighing ease with which he and his
fingers--the ones that could so easily belong to a surgeon--had made her
say his name Greg with such full and open sounds) "But that isn't what you
were going to say. I have lab work to attend to, if you don't mind."
 
 Her hands were shaking like she was on meth again, but it was lack of
sleep and lack of food and lack of energy and the desperate needwant for
Dr. Gregory House that spurred it on now. She turned from him and made her
way toward the elevator.
 
 House stood still, leaning on his cane for support.
 
 He wished he could tell her all the things that were in his head, all of
the good things he could see in her. He had never been too skilled at
that--the question of why had kept him up a few nights, but not too many,
a good doctor needed his sleep and the Vicodin would always help if taken
in the right dosage--but he knew no way to do so.
 
 After a moment, Dr. House turned on his heel, making his way toward his
office.
 
 When he arrived, Dr. Wilson was already there waiting for him.
 
 "Jimmy. Happy Hanukkah. Number 3 is down, huh?"
 
 Wilson stared for a moment, trying to grasp Dr. House's meaning.
 
 "Oh. The divorce. Yes, thank you for reminding me."
 
 "It just makes more room for you and me."
 
 Wilson didn't want to admit he was smiling. Didn't want to admit that his
last wife had served his papers because she thought (rightly) that he had
been spending more than enough time at the office. She had thought he was
with a nurse. What she didn't know was that his standards were higher and
he'd been with a doctor on the side.
 
 Wilson hadn't had the heart to tell the soon to be ex-Mrs. Wilson that
Dr. House was actually better in bed (or on the desk, on the floor, on the
couch, in a hospital room) than she was.
 
 And in the time it had taken to think all of this--a few short, flashing
seconds--Dr. Wilson had smiled and looked at House, almost unbelieving,
abut still driven by a maddening lust for the man.
 
 "You're impossible."
 
 "I know, and that's why the sex is so much better." And then House
winked.
 
 He had the audacity to wink. Wilson supposed he had the right (he was
correct, anyway) but still--he had winked. His hand went to the back of
his neck, and he felt himself flush. He knew they would spend tonight
together, because they did every year, every holiday season. Through the
past two of his wives.
 
 "House, I'm going to go look at your patient. I'll see you tonight."
 
 House smiled and let Wilson go.
 
 About two minutes after Wilson had left, Dr. Cameron passed his office in
a rush, two folders in her thin arms, her cheeks far too pale.
 
 House wondered how he could feel an emotion so similar for the two
doctors and yet handle it completely differently.
 
 It was the silences that made all the difference, he decided. They were
too long and pregnant with unspoken thought with Allison, and they were
short and clipped with James. And he wasn't sure which was worse.