Personal
By Your Undoing
Summary: Doctor House solves cases no one else can because he thinks like no one else can; with full disregard to the patient. But when the life of one of the only people he cares about rests in his hands, can he still solve the impossible?
Author's Note: First of all, disclaimer; I don't own anything. Now to the important stuff; this takes place before any of House's staff left. I feel it works better with the formulaic episode structure that I plan on using for this story. Though I don't know how many chapters there will be, you can count on enough to entertain. No worries; I have the whole story planned. Let's see how long it takes to tell. :) As always, reviews are greatly appreciated.
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"The Spongebob movie is on and it comes back from commercials in like five seconds, make this fast or I shiv you."
"House!"
Wilson's voice suggested there was a problem. House rolled his eyes. Was there ever not a problem?
Sigh. He reluctantly tapped the MUTE button on the TV remote and adjusted the phone on his ear. He glanced at the clock; 10:25 PM.
"It's past your bedtime," he remarked. "What could possibly—"
Wilson interjected; "There's been an accident. You have to come to the hospital." His voice sounded strained.
"You're not gonna cry, are you?" House asked, slowly limping across the floor of his apartment to the coat rack. He pinned the phone to his right shoulder and used the newly free hand to unceremoniously yank his leather jacket off of a peg, dodging out of the way as the structure swayed dangerously.
After a moment of silence, House snickered. "Don't tell me you already are!"
"I am not," Wilson said, and this time House could clearly hear the familiar tone of exasperation in his voice. "House. I'm serious. Please."
"Who's the patient?"
"It's not really my place to tell you…" Wilson replied, reverting back to his previous tone of distress. "They should have a right to some privacy."
"The patient is a moron. Tell me."
"I can't do that."
"I won't tell."
"Just shut up," Wilson sighed.
"Oh, Wilson. Always so decent. Abiding by patient's wishes." House snorted. "Hah! Who are you kidding? Tell me tell me tell meeee!" he whined, his voice rising an impressive number of octaves on the last syllable.
He could hear Wilson taking a deep breath on the other end of the line. House cocked his head with interest as he pulled on his jacket and took a tentative step towards door.
"If you get over here, perhaps we can negotiate for you to look over the case," Wilson said with a sigh. "Then obviously you'll know. …Look, get over here. I swear to God, you'll regret it if you—"
House removed the phone from his ear and firmly pressed the END button. Click. The line immediately went dead.
Smiling faintly at the newly silent phone, he set it on top of the nearest pile of junk. Well, so much for that. If Wilson wouldn't tell him, it obviously wasn't that important.
He shrugged off the jacket and swung it to land haphazardly on the back of his couch. Still rather disconcerted yet definitely too stubborn to allow himself to think about it, he limped around the couch and sank down into the--
Ring.
"Oh for the love of God," House groaned. He shook his head, raising his eyes to the heavens, and turned them to looked purposely away from the phone as he picked up the remote.
Ring.
"Why hello Spongebob!" he cried loudly, pressing the MUTE button again and allowing the noise of the television to once more flood the apartment.
Ring.
He glared determinedly at the screen.
Ring.
"Ha," he said with a slight twitch of his head.
"I'm either not home or don't care-- probably both. Leave a message." his voice announced cheerily from the answering machine. House folded his hands in his lap and turned his ear towards the machine expectantly.
…Wilson's tone was purely pained now; "It's Cuddy." he hissed. "Please House. Pick up the phone. You should be here. I don't think--"
"You win," House grumbled to the empty apartment. He stumped over to the phone and raised it to his ear.
"I'll be there in five. I want full access to her charts when I get there."
A sigh. "Sure thing, House. Thank you."
But he had already hung up.
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"Tell me again how you found her."
Wilson rubbed the back of his head wearily; "I told you. She was forty minutes late for dinner, so I drove to her house and found her on bathroom floor wearing a bloody robe."
"Her door was unlocked?" House asked with a raised eyebrow.
"I found a key under a potted plant on her porch."
"You scoundrel."
"Whatever," Wilson muttered. He scuffed the sole of his loafer against the linoleum floor of the waiting room. After a pause, he spat; "I hate this."
"Now we know how it feels to be on the helpless-friend-or-relative side of things," House said with a grimace. "I finally understand how horrible it must have been for all of those poor people to-- Oh, wait. Just kidding. I still don't care."
Wilson massaged his temples. "Go to hell," he muttered.
"So remind me why you I was so desperately needed that you had to lie about getting me charts?" House asked, flipping open a bottle of Vicodin with his thumb and tossing a handful into his mouth.
"I was panicked and you're the best doctor I know. Not to mention it's sort of a thing that people do—you know, act like they care. You should give it a try."
"I care," House said, a genuine tone of defensiveness creeping into his voice.
"No you don't," Wilson groaned. "You just showed up hoping for a show. Well sorry to disappoint, she just cut herself shaving."
House chuckled. "Oh Cuddy, you are an idiot."
This earned him a cold silence in response. Wilson rested his forehead on his palms and stared dully at his shoes. House looked around awkwardly for a moment before settling back in his chair.
"You're boring," he grumbled.
He gazed around the room. He rarely ventured into this section of PPTH—the freaked-out family members of ER patients didn't exactly make for the best company. Tonight though, the room lay silent and slightly on the cool side; as though whoever was in charge of the heating had decided that air temperature probably wouldn't be the top priority for whoever would be waiting in this room. House shifted uncomfortably in his plastic gray seat and tugged his LED ZEPPELIN t-shirt down to cover an exposed centimeter of skin on his back. The pores on his arms prickled with goosebumps beneath his jacket. Perhaps it was the air; or perhaps it was the distinct aura of death that seemed to float around on it.
He knew all too well what happened to a large portion of people brought to the PPTH emergency room; they died. Often.
He gave an involuntary jerk as the double doors leading deeper into the hospital opened with a soft crick.
Some nurse that House felt he probably ought to have recognized stepped out holding a clipboard. A small jolt ran up his spine as he saw the small crimson stains dotting the front of her smock.
Wilson slipped from his seat comically before jumping to his feet. "Is she--?"
"Fine," the nurse replied with a thin smile. "It looks like she just clipped a blood vessel on the side of her knee. Not to say she didn't lose a lot of blood; it's no wonder she fainted. From the sound of it, she just had time to turn off the shower, get a robe on, and start walking to the medicine cabinet before she blacked out. We patched her up and she should make a full recovery. However, we want to keep her under observation for 24 hours"
"Thank you," Wilson said, his face flooding with relief.
House merely eyed the nurse curiously.
"So uh," she stammered under House's gaze, "you can come visit tomorrow before she goes home."
"Super," House said with a mockingly wide smile. He grabbed his cane and stood. "Well Wilson, I suppose that's all you needed me for. Now that our little pity party no longer serves any sort of purpose, I'm going to Taco Bell."
He wiggled his fingers in a little wave. Wilson remained sitting, shaking his head incredulously.
"You really don't care, do you?" he asked with a slightly pained expression.
House ignored him. "It's time for fourthmeal. I'll see you tomorrow; don't stay up too late being a freaked-out pussy."
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"Good morning my little minions!"
Doctors Chase, Cameron, and Foreman all jumped at the sound of the door being flung open. It appeared that they had been in the middle of a some sort of card game before he had interrupted. Cards lay strewn about the table—the majority of them clustered in a pile in front of Chase. Lab coats hung crumpled on the backs of their seats, giving the distinct impression that they had been there for a while. House beamed at their surprised faces.
"Did you miss me?" he asked, as he made his way to the far side of the room and poured himself a cup of coffee.
"Um, yeah…" Chase said hesitantly. "Its two in the afternoon."
"Oh my god, really?!" House directed his eyes towards the clock hanging on the wall and feigned horror. "I was wondering why the traffic was lighter this morning. Afternoon," he corrected with a flick of his index finger.
"What could possibly make you five hours late for work?" asked Foreman, crossing his arms.
"Nothing," House said, turning to flash a smile at Foreman before going back to stirring his coffee.
"So… why weren't you here five hours ago?"
"Because the establishment is currently unable to perform such duties as, say, reprimanding their employees for sleeping in."
House set his coffee down and pulled up a chair at the head of the table. He set his chin on his hands and grinned at the three uncomprehending faces staring back at him.
"What, you haven't heard?"
"Heard what?" Cameron demanded. Her bright eyes were wide with curiosity… and that other obnoxious, self-righteous desire to be involved that House so very much abhorred.
"Oho," House said, grinning wider. "Oho."
Chase rolled his eyes. "Are you going to tell us or not?"
"Nope," House said, his voice gleeful. "We don't' have any cases at the moment though, so unless you want to finish that game-" he gestured towards the cards on the table- "which, by the way Chase, you clearly suck at—then I suppose you could ask around. I'd imagine… perhaps… Wilson might be able to inform you on the matter."
Chase looked indignant; Cameron and Foreman, simply surprised.
"What about that woman with the rash?" Foreman asked.
"—Anna," Cameron corrected.
"What about her?" House said with a shrug. "She has skin cancer. Go tell her she's gonna need to have half her face chopped off if she wants to live to see Christmas."
Foreman raised his eyebrows. Chase opened his mouth as though to object, but House was already speaking again;
"Now we have no cases. Be gone, pests!"
He waggled his hands in a shooing motion; Chase and Foreman rose from their chairs looking slightly affronted. Cameron, however, remained seated. She fixed House with what she clearly thought was an intimidating look and waited for the other two to exit.
After a moment, she cleared her throat with a soft 'hem!' noise.
"I want you to tell me exactly what is going on."
"No can do sister," House said with a toothless smile. "Patient privacy, you know."
"Are you saying you can't get reprimanded for tardiness because Cuddy is a patient here?" Cameron's eyebrows shot up towards her hairline.
"I never said that," House said, raising a hand to his heart and looking affronted.
Cameron narrowed her eyes. "You're bothered by something. I see it in your face."
"Really?" House shrugged. "I'm not good at face-analyzing myself, but if I had to guess…" he leaned forward and stared into Cameron's face, causing her to shrink back slightly. "I'd say you're the most bothersome person I've ever met." He tapped her calf with his cane. "Now go do something with yourself. Save a cute baby. Bake a rainbow cake."
Cameron only stared for a moment. Then she rose and strode haughtily away, shooting House a furtive glance over her shoulder as she passed through the glass door.
House sank back in his chair with a contented sigh.
This was going to be interesting.