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PRODIGAL PRODIGY

Summer House

Ground flies under long strides as House covers miles in a near flying sprint. The morning air is a cool breeze over him, tingling in heaving lungs, filling him with a sense of freedom.

His cell phone begins its frenzy tune of Baba O'Riley intro but the man ignores it. A dull ache begins radiating through his left quadriceps. The louder the music, the greater the pain, breaking into a paralyzing cramp at the percussions. House staggers on one foot, reaching for the stiff, sore muscle.

Hand meets thigh and his eyes flutter open to the bedroom ceiling, cell phone incessant on the nightstand. Writhing with pain, he barely manages to grab the thing and shut it up. Not a moment later it starts again.

House props up annoyed, fumbling with the device. "What?" He barks into the mike.

"Greg?" His father speaks from the other end.

Anger gives way to anxiety. "It's me."

"Did you just hang up on me?" The man is baffled more than anything.

"Accidentally." The response comes out meek.

"Oh. Well, I called to wish you a happy birthday son." Johns is friendly. "Your mother would really like to see you some time soon." The gravely voice accuses oh so subtly. "We haven't seen you in a year."

"Sorry. Patients. I'll try and come by for the weekend."

House can scarcely pick up the reply and greeting before shutting the phone on the dial tone. Anger returns with a vengeance as he flings the phone across the room, the device saved from shattering only by the pile of laundry in the corner.

Rolling over, he glances at the alarm clock, which reads 9 am.

"Too late for that dream." He blows a frustrated raspberry.

Dry-swallowing two pills he readies for the day ahead, literately dragging himself out of bed.

…

Squeak-thud, squeak-thud, squeak-thud.

House rolls his eyes in frustration. He hoped to breeze through maternity ward unnoticed, but limping is less than stealthy. Cane hung over one forearm he shuffles on, hoping no one would connect the unusual noise with him. Peeking round the corner, House glances in search of ...

The Dean, staring through glass walls of the nursery at all the annoying little tykes.

House grins, ready to pounce the latest quip on her pregnancy, when Cuddy grabs hold of her arms, rubbing at them in a self-comforting motion. Expressive eyes dim as the elation of impending mischief deflates. Something is very wrong. House fidgets for a moment, weighting the urge to walk over against the fear of turning things awkward. He opts for the elevator.

Doors ping open on the ground floor.

"House?" Wilson's greeting comes surprised. "Who died?"

House doesn't look up. "She lost it." He utters in a low tone.

The younger man needs no explaining. There is only one she, and his friend's posture makes clear that it wasn't her sanity.

"She…told you?" He tilts his head.

House steps out, passing Wilson without regard to pointless social niceties. "She didn't need to. Her internal ticker is so punctual it's predictable." He hobbles over to a coffee machine by the clinic waiting room. "A week of normal, followed by a hopeful, edgy, and sad." He adds a coin for each week.

"Except last month when she was happy." He huffs. "It's supposed to be barfing time, but she's upstairs bawling her eyes out at other people's bundles of responsibility - and not in a good way."

"Oh…"

Neither speak. The sound of hot liquid pouring into a plastic cup underlines their musings.

"So now she's riding you, huh?"

House sips at his first daily dose of caffeine. "Nope." The answered pops out.

Wilson's face takes on a thoughtful appearance. "You've walked in here on your own volition? Quick, somebody call Vatican – it's a miracle." He mockingly looks around in search of an idle nurse.

"A sad dean is a resigned dean. No fun forcing her to force me into clinic duty unless she bites back."

"Right..." Wilson smiles, knowing better. "I do believe you've grown a heart."

House looks to Wilson's left and right in search of something. "No toys?"

"John H Giles' new album."

"…isn't out yet." House concludes.

"Your copy is." Wilson is smug.

Elation inflates blue eyes to a comic size.

A finger rises in warning. "I demand to be fed and entertained or the disc gets microwave-ed."

"Birthday party." Hosue sighs, before a misfit smile graces his scruffy face "Pizza and porn it is!"

"See you tonight." Wilson boards the elevator.

House ignores the farewell, instead watching the fairly vacant waiting room studiously. The very small number of patients foretells a slow day. For his first patient, he chooses a teen dozing in the chair. The guy's head is flung back, eyes closed and expression achy. House towers over the unsuspecting prey and, to the surprise of other patients, sniffs. A predictable aroma of alcohol and acid invades his nose.

"BOO!"

Instead of jumping a foot, the guy merely pulls away groaning.

"Hangover." House states, not worried that his patient isn't all that attentive. "And contrary to popular belief, you don't fight fire with fire." He thumbs at the lobby. "Coffee's over there. You can't have mine."

A nice little old lady, seated two chairs away, eyes him with disbelief and disapproval. Annoyed, House glares daggers her way. "Your head hurts too?" He sounds like he would bite it off.

"Well, y-"

Before granny can blink, House is at her side, two fingers thrust in her forehead.

She pulls away wincing. "What-?"

"Sinuses." He cuts her off again. "You need inhalation. Cook yourself some chicken soup, that way you can drink it later - pharmaceutical two in none."

As she continues to stare bewildered, House turns around for his final patient. A pre-teen girl and her chubby but pale Mom sit on the other end of the room. Turning to the girl he moves for the kill.

"What's wrong with her?" He points the cane at mom.

"Um, when I gave her the report card she, ah…"

His brow shot up. "Fainted?"

The girl nods. Reaching for the pocket of his suit jacket, House pulls out the signature red lollypop, handing it to a befuddled mom.

"Low blood sugar. Never skip breakfast when on diet." He makes an exaggeratedly thoughtful face. "Actually, never skip breakfast, period. NEXT!"

House smiles from ear to ear, the silence music to his ears. Returning to the nurses' station he casually drops all three files form the in-box to the out-box without entertaining the thought of paperwork.

"You just prescribed food to three patients." Brenda notes without looking from the LCD screen.

"Let your food be your medicine." He pops a Vicodin.

"And your medicine your food." She finishes the quote.

House grins pleased with another verbal-sparing partner. "Page me in an hour. I'm going for a jog."

Limping toward the rear exit, House picks up the wail of a rapidly approaching siren. An ambulance careens round the corner at full speed, screeching to a halt at the emergency entrance. The siren dies abruptly as the cargo doors fling open, releasing two paramedics.

Automatic doors slid aside for the gurney as House backs off into a wood-tiled wall and out of its way. As they race past, he catches a glimpse of the boy lying unconscious; the thick compress on his scalp stained a deep shade of red.

"He's on steroids!" House shouts after them.

One medic turns back baffled just as the emergency room doors closed behind her. House rolls his eyes and limps inside, chin tipped at the kid.

"The oozing head wound made you overlook his red nose." He walks over to where resident staff takes over form the ambulance crew. "Since he's not a reindeer, its either booze, infection or allergy and judging by the season and school uniform - neither contagious nor alcoholic. You better not give him anything that won't play nice with other drugs." He helps himself to a pair of latex gloves on the way.

A short, blond nurse nods, starting the boy on O neg. and IV antibiotics. Dropping on a chair, House wheels it behind the bed head. Unfolding the sterile cloth form the suture kit, he proceeded with patching the third-grader.

"What happened?" He glances up at her ID clip between stitches. "…Gina."

"Tripped on recess." A young doctor replies in her stead as he plugs the boy to monitors.

"Says who?"

"Classmate told teacher, told medic, told us."

House snorts at the real-life version of a telephone game. "Check his arms and legs."

Rolling up his sleeves and pant legs, he finds them free of injuries.

"All clear, nothing 's wrong."

"Everything 's wrong." House stares him down. "Torso takes priority over limbs, head over torso. Kid almost cracked his skull yet has no scratch." He ties up the sutures. "Reflexes didn't kick in." Gloves snap off. "Something 's messing with his brain." He flings them into the waste bin. "Wake him."

Gina empties a syringe into the IV line. Moments after, the boy blinks awake, a bit confused but unafraid.

"You're in a hospital." House preempts any questions while taking a pen light form his chest pocket. "Don't blink." A moment later, he turns it over and moves the other end in front of the kid's face in a series of patterns. "How did you fall?"

"Must have tripped."

"Don't remember?" House moves around to check the ears.

"No." The boy shakes his head, the action telling House dizziness is out of equation.

House appears on the other side, tongue depressor in hand. "Open wide. … All clear."

Rolling back to the foot of the bed, he pulls the pen along one sole and it curls away in response. Pocketing the pen, House reaches for the boy's throat with both hands, feeling the tonsils and counting heart rate at once.

"Take your shirt off." House grabs a stethoscope.

"Can I keep the undershirt on?" The boy works down the buttons. "I'm cold."

"Feeling cold." House corrects, his knuckles pressed against the kid's forehead. "A little warm." Pouted lips jerk side to side as he mulls over. "Just tuck it in tight."

The boy obeys happily.

"Take one deep breath; cough once, than hold your breath. Got it?"

"Deep breath, cough, hold breath." He repeats before moving through the routine.

"Chest sounds fine." House removes the stethoscope. "You trip often?"

The kid looks confused.

"I noticed an old bruise on your side."

He shrugs. "I dunno."

Before House can make more inquiries, the door swooshes behind him.

"Hello Matt." Cuddy greets, receiving a small smile in return. "I'm Doctor Cuddy. I called your dad and told him about the accident." She approaches the bed.

Matt's carefree expression fades into sheepish reservation as the dean comes over, which she tries to ease by a light tussle on his hair.

"He'll come to pick you up after work."

"Okay." Matt replies quietly, eyes fixed on his hands.

"Not okay." House stands up. "Failed tripping reflex and memory loss."

"Temporary confusion is normal for a concussion." She explains the symptoms away.

House waves her wrong. "Chicken and egg. Sucking reflex caused the fall."

"Have you tested his responses?"

"Withdrawal reflexes are working." He admits. "Vitals are ambiguous."

"You have until six PM for observation and non-invasive tests only." She stepped up to him. "Got it?" Her authorative tone allows no quarrel.

"Fine." House mutters. "All right people, I want blood works, urine sample, throat and nose swabs for infections and head CT for structural damage." He orders without looking at the interns." Page me when it's done." He strides out, long legs carrying him to the rear exit.

Cuddy catches up in sprint. "Where are you going?"

"Breakfast." He pushes open the door, but turns around with a thoughtful squint. "Where's mom?"

"Died little over a year ago - car accident." She preempts his idea.

A nod and he is gone.

…

House walks from the hoagie stand zipping up, slim cane rocking from the crook of his arm. His eyes snap wide open to the sight of a short but massive cop chaining his bike.

"Hey!" He moves over, long limbs carrying him fast despite the limp. "The hell are you doing?"

"You parked on a handicapped spot."

"I am one!" House holds the cane bottom-side-up in a threatening, phalusoid gesture.

"Than you aren't capable of driving a bike."

"If that were true, you'd think I'd have an accident in three years." He digs out a license.

The cop squints. "Disability certificate."

"Cane?" House waves the thing in front of him.

"Acting?" The other man replies.

Pissed, House undoes his belt in a blink, jeans slipping to his knees. "Satisfied!" Expressively his hands fling to either side, large scar making pedestrians freeze in their steps.

"That's it." The cop snaps, spinning him around, cuffs snapping to place tightly. "You're under arrest for public obscenity and disrespecting a police officer."

"What?" Is all House can say before rough hands shove him in the back of a police car.

…

"One cane, black epoxy." A policeman notes from behind the wire-mesh window. "One leather jacket, black." He pulls an orange bottle from one pocket.

The arresting cop takes the prescription drug. "Veecodin." He mispronounces before giving House an inquisitive look.

"Pain meds for the grand canyon." House glares back.

The clerk squints, cogs working. "I remember you, you're Tritter's case."

House frowns in a poor attempt at confusion.

"Get narcotics." He speaks to someone in the back of the room. "Tell'em the junky doctor is back."

House rolls his eyes in exasperation.

"One cell phone." The clerk continues. "Wanna use the call now?"

House takes the device and dials J, the sole name 'J.E.W.' popping up. A few rings later Wilson picks up.

"House?"

"I'm in jail." The words plummet like dead weight.

"Wha- Never mind. I'll pick you up on my lunch break." A dial tone concludes their conversation.

House closes his phone, tossing it to the clerk window. "Lock me up, sheriff."

A guard leads him into the single cell and House seats himself on the cot, springs protesting even under his lanky form. For a long while he sits in silence, staring out until a familiar footfall catches his attention.

"You mooned a cop!?" Wilson shouts his incredulity, one guard at his side waiting for the exchange to play out.

House shrugs. "Idiot wanted evidence of my cripple-hood."

"Normal people explain their misunderstandings away, why do you insist on escalating yours?"

"I'm an anomaly?" House offers, now mere inches form the bars.

Wilson sighs with futility of arguing with such a character. "Go ahead." He speaks to the cop who proceeds promptly.

"We found Vicodin on his person." Tritter's voice joins in. "Perscribed."

"He developed tolerance to weaker analgesics." Wilson explains before House can bury himself deeper.

"Have you tried non-opioids?"

"Side effects presented themselves. Heartburns and palpitations among others." He delivers the line as if rehearsed.

Frowning at the medically sound excuse, Tritter walks out.

Wilson relaxes visibly. "Let's go."

…

"I see you've been doing eliminations." Wilson comments as he enters the inner diagnostics, eyes affixed on the whiteboard. Next to the symptoms, a dozen conditions are listed and crossed out.

House holds up another scan to bright sunlight and scrutiny. "The lab rats took my order to zero-in on it a little too literately."

"Ruled out everything." Wilson follows.

CT images join the small heap of negative results. "It's not poisoning, it's not infection, congenital, injury…"

Seating himself on the glass table, Wilson crosses his arms. "Maybe it's not systemic."

"Or it is." House turned from the board. "Not in the brain but in the support systems."

"Metabolic?"

"Wiring fine, not enough juice." House wrote down metabolic in big letters. "f-MRI."

"What if it's not the brain, just vascular. Mildest bumps result in bruising and he doesn't remember anything because there's nothing to remember."

"Frail capillaries. Me like."

…

Doors slide open with a quiet rumble as House joins his patient. "Wanna see something cool?"

"What?"

"We've got a tube that tells what you're thinking about in real time." He proceeds peeling sensor wires form the boy.

"Cool."

"Lo five." House offers a palm and Matt slaps away with gusto. "Hi five."

The boy obliges, his palm showing no signs of injury. One down, one to go.

"Let's go." House leads the way.

"How come you're doing this test?" Matt gazes up at House with curiosity as the cranky doctor moves down a long hall.

"Because it's scaaary." House gives the kid a frightening look, leading the boy in. "Some people freak out when left in a small space forever." He continues with the horror explanation, tapping the exam surface to direct the kid.

"I'm not scared." Matt lays supine, but a small gulp tells otherwise.

"Of course not." House smirks before hobbling to the 'aquarium'. "Move and I'll club ya." He speaks into the microphone, cane held up for good measure.

"I'll run." Matt smiles amused at the threat made hollow.

House smirks his approval. "Smart-aleck."

With a button pushed, Matt is sucked into the large tube.

House leans into the chair, cane spinning idly while the machine hums. "You read comics?"

"Um-hum."

"Who's your favorite?"

"The Hulk." Replies an enthusiastic voice.

"You like him better as genius or giant?"

"Giant, duh."

House snorts. "Figures."

"You don't like him?" The kid is strung between surprised and disappointed.

"I'm more of a DC man myself." He evades.

"Which one is your favorite?" Matt is curious.

A dirty grin takes over. "Wonder Woman."

"Ewww, gorse." Mat voices his disgust.

"Couple of years from now you'll be drooling over her."

"Will not!"

House smiles the broad grin of one who knows better. As the last of the images appeared on screen, he passes a hand over a weary face. "No lesions or masses." He speaks through a sigh.

"That's good, right?"

"Yesss." The word sizzles out a bit disappointed. "How 'bout a pop-quiz?"

…

Turning from the nurses station Cuddy almost slams into House.

"I need permission for nerve biopsy." He cuts straight to business.

As the initial shock wares off, she suppresses a frustrated groan. "I told you, no invasive tests."

"ANA, CBC, CT, F-MRI, ECG, EEG, LP, pick your letters, all done." For emphasis, he thrust the thick file under her nose. "Forgetful and clumsy as hell and no cause for it what so ever."

"Clumsy?" She flips through the lab reports.

"Couple of bruises, healing, nothing dangerous." He waves it off.

"Ragged red fiber?"

House puffs annoyed. "Like I wouldn't think of that one. No. He actually falls more during daytime."

"So the memory is back." She deduces. "Any other neural functions compromised?"

"Just finished testing – boring normal brain." He frowns.

"Well there you have it." She offers the file back. "No go watch TV or whatever you usually do to waste time."

"No clinic duty?" He looks insulted, file still hovering between the two of them.

"You did five minutes of it on your own for once. I'm not pushing my luck."

"Well?" He stands impatiently. "Aren't you gonna let me do the biopsy as reward? It is my birthday." He makes cute puppy eyes.

"NO." She slaps the file against his chest.

"Fine." House snatches it, holding out a hand. "Archive. Better patient history."

Cuddy fishes a key from her lab coat. "Anything to keep you from going Mr. Hyde on a ten year old."

…

Unceremoniously House barges into Cuddy's office. "The kid stays."

She stifles a frustrated groan. "The kid is fine. You made a bad call. Get over it."

"He's not going to stay fine." House insists. "I'll bet you a weeks worth of clinic duty his condition will deteriorate."

Her interest piqued, Cuddy gives her full attention.

"In the last year the kid has suffered every germ that came along. Everyone wrote it of as him being sickly, but it's getting worse. Could it be an underlying cause left untreated?" He offers.

"You found nothing." She repeats.

"Yet."

His beeper goes haywire in moral support. A glance later he storms out without explanation.

The click of high heals catches up with his two-part beat. Before them, a code team races to the same destination.

"He's in tachy!" a soprano warns at the insanely fast heartbeat.

Matt slips to unconsciousness, covered with cold, clammy sweat.

"Antiarythmic, stat." Yells a young doctor.

A needle is passed along with haste, its content soon flooding the boy's system.

"Pulse steady." The man smiles.

Relief washes over all but the ever inquisitive House, plucking the pulse-ox readout. A glance is enough to darken his features.

"What was he doing when this happened?" He tips his head Matt's way, while throwing the resident nurse a glance.

"Nothing." She stutters from fear and relief.

Cuddy sighs. "The kid stays."

…

House strides in diagnostics with the phone on his ear.

"County Gereral? This is doctor Homes from Princeton-Plainsboro. Matthew Brown was recently admitted to our clinic, could send us the medical files of his parents, Patrick and Sarah Brown. We need a more accurate medical history. Mail? diagnostic at ppth dot med."

The printer beeps and buzzes, papers spilling out an masse.

"Thank you. Could you send the last year's ER log while you're at it? Thanks." He hangs up only to dial another number. "Mercy Hospital?"

The next hour he spends studying the medical history of Matthew Brown, watching a distinct trend take form.

The boy's general health was slowly failing, his immunity struggling with every bug that cam along. Something about that is strangely familiar to House, yet realization remains tantalizingly out of reach.

…

House emerges from the elevator as the embodiment of Cool, shades and biker jacket on, flame-cane twirling. One confided hobble later, an empty orange bottle thumps against the pharmacy counter.

"Bartender?" House calls out, eager to clock out; his bag slinked over the shoulder. The click-clack of distant heels draws his attention up a pair of long legs and beyond.

"Now I know why it's called gluteus maximus."

Pausing in stride, Cuddy rewards him with a flattered smile and walks over interested. "What's with those?" She takes in the hefty set of stapled papers peering from his bag.

"More detailed history." He explains. "Looks like a long night."

"The father is here, you could just ask him."

House pockets a new dose of narcotics. "People lie, papers don't."

"Let me know what's your wish, birthday boy." She passes him with a smile.

"You know what I want." He leans to her but keeps his voice loud and clear.

"In your wet dreams." She strides away, teasing with a sway to her stride.

Wilson stands by the main exit, watching House approach. "Just for the jail incident, I want a jumbo."

House shakes his head. "Could you not bash the CD immediately? A perfectly healthy kid almost died on me today."

"Looks like you got your wish." The younger man chuckles and grabs the handle. "Saturday's the deadline!" He warns.

…

Night finds House alone on his sofa, cross-referencing Matt's and Patrick's files while surrounded by piles of medical textbooks. With a rub on blood shot eyes, he gives up on reading. Rising to his feet House decides to pace the bum leg out of paralysis. The easy music's slow beat is comfortable to walk to. He ambles about aimlessly until…

DRRRING!

"Go away!"

The ringing comes back double and twice as long.

"Coming already." He snarls, gimping to the door.

Opening it, he friezes in place, for the man on his stoop is Tritter, holding out an envelope.

"Your letter of indictment."

House snatches the damn thing, tearing it open in a mess of flakes. "For what?"

"Failure to comply to a court decision, substance abuse, repeated patient endangerment, sexual assault on a minor, repeated assault, breaking and entry, repeated instigation to breaking and entry..." Tritter trails off.

House stares at the long list in utter disbelief.

"Happy birthday, doctor." The man leaves with a mock smile.

House closes the door in slow motion, vacant eyes glued to the list of crimes. He drags himself back into the living room and sinks dejected into the sofa, shoulders slumped under the invisible burden.

TO BE CONTINUED