Round the House
Forced to process ammonia from a body several times its size, the creature which supported House died of multiple organ failure in his stead. Now he is back in ICU, in a state of deep, dreamless sleep, albeit bereft of the myriad life support machines, and a lot less sensor strings attached. With only the IV feed, Foley cath and pulse ox, he looks almost naked, face gaunt from the recent brush with death.
Having finished with the backlog of necessary paperwork, Cuddy is at his side because that is what she does, not as a boss concerned for her best employee but as something which even an erudite like he has no word for. She knows the pallor of infirmity is only a temporary improvement; it is only a matter of hours before the ochre tint of jaundice returns.
"Foreman says you can hear." Tentatively she begins, her back to the hallway glass panes and her voice low. "Not sure if you'd understand. … I need to tell you anyway. … Let's just say you haven't drunk yourself sterile yet." She smiles a little at the small miracle. "I'm not sure if it'll hold though." Immediately the defense mechanism of not hoping to much kicks in.
"You'd be surprised how many people want to give you a piece of their liver. We're waiting for the compatibility tests to come back. I even tested myself. That's how optimistic I am about being mom." She chuckles sadly. "Can't miss what you never had, right?" A sniffle. "Please wake up, House." Cuddy leans in, their foreheads touching. "I don't wanna miss you."
She feels something brush he cheek lightly and sharply pulls away.
House's eyes flicker open slowly, lips parted slightly in an effort to communicate, but only a raspy sound emerges.
"Don't try to speak." She holds a finger to his lips.
Blue eyes turn to her, struggling for focus.
"Nod if you can hear me." Trepidation is obvious in her voice.
Head tips a degree.
She takes a deep, bracing breath. "Do you know who you are?"
With slow-motion mobility his long fingers join at the tips, slanted like a roof, thumbs perpendicular to the palms forming the base and side walls to form a picket-fence home.
Cuddy smiles relived on seeing his identity and ingenuity preserved. "Do you know where you are?" She moves on to test his memory.
He blinks in slow motion, obviously tired.
"Do you know who I am?"
His grin, a shadow on lips but a mischief spark of eyes, says it all.
Cuddy, her hand over his, gives him a small squeeze.
The bandage covered arm rises, shaky fingers forming a loose pointer that is vaguely aimed at his chin, oscillating between mouth and throat.
Cuddy leaves for the nearby table. "Hold on." She returns with a plastic cup, guiding the straw to his parched lips while supporting a barely upright head. Still weak arms meet her own on the cup and a smile creeps to her lips.
Slowly he empties the cup, leaning back into the pillow with an expression of gratitude clear in his tired features.
Manicured hand rakes through porcupine hair. "Relax."
He nestles the head deeper in the pillow fluff, eyes closed on a face that is peaceful and no longer empty.
Slight squeal of hinges makes Cuddy turn back and see Blythe in the frame.
"May I…" Whispers the older woman.
"Of course." Cuddy steps away from House, following the older woman's approach. "Just stay quiet."
Blythe nods, hands clasped over her son's unbandaged one. "Doctor Cuddy, are there any problems?"
"None so far." The two exchange smiles of relief. "When he wakes up call doctor Foreman."
They nod each other farewell.
…
It is only by accident that John House turns the corner to ICU waiting room at the moment of his son's awakening, and is left speechless with joyous relief soon turning to apprehension of not knowing what to do. Leaving the hall before anyone can spot him, he saunters to diagnostics, empty since the former fellows have made themselves available in other departments.
He walks through the room like a museum visitor, taking in each item whilst trying to guess its meaning to Greg, to gauge its importance. By the time he has circled the desk and sat in junior's chair John must admit being at a total loss.
Among the many varied possessions the blonde doctor has recently dug out of Greg's desk, an old fashion cassette, unique among original vinyl records and high tech CDs, pulls his focus.
Picking the thing, John reads the badly scribbled 'lax motivational gospel', his interest further piqued by the unfamiliar, unexpected and unusually arranged words. He fumbles with the stereo for a moment before a decidedly black woman with a slightly British accent starts to more or less recite.
I look into the window of my mind
Reflections of the fears I know I've left behind
John realizes loosing Greg isn't so much a fear now as it is regret, junior sometimes feeling too far gone.
So I step out of the ordinary
I can feel my soul ascending
But some habits are so ingrained...
What have you done today to make you feel proud? She asks at one point.
He can't remember the last time he did something truly honorable.
It's never too late to try.
Somehow he doubts it. He's old, his son grew up, and into a better man. Because despite self deluding, it is Greg who, for all his disregard of anything resembling rules, saves people on a weekly basis, while John's latest act of chivalry was flying in it to cover trapped infantry, way back in 'Nam.
Still so many answers I don't know.
And what else does he know about Greg anyway.
Realize that to question is how we grow.
Well Wilson felt approachable.
So I step out of the ordinary
I can feel my soul ascending
Maybe…
The singer pokes, encourages, urges…
At the last chorus John stands up, marching out with all the determination of a seasoned marine, choir heard from the office keeping him from faltering on the way to the other doctor's office.
The door is opened.
"Mr House?" Wilson stands up surprised. "Please…" He makes a broad gesture over the guest chairs.
Risking rudeness, John settles at the sofa, elbows on knees, palms rubbing against each other in nervous postponement. "What is Greg like?" He looks up.
…
A covert wave of apprehensive impatience washes over Princeton-Plainsborough in the next several hours, as one by one the doctors receive independently ordered tests.
As dean, Cuddy is first to find out, having used her influence to skew regular priorities. A readout is faxed straight from the lab, and in seconds from pulling the sheet form the machine, she lets it float down to the center of her desk, relief and regret fighting on her face. In bold red on white the test declares a complete mismatch on all six points.
Wilson receives his from Brenda, just as he's about to drop a patient's file at the clinic's nurse station. He tears open the sealed envelope with haste, only to crumple the paper in frustration and fling it to the distant trash can.
John paces the hall, scanning document handed to him by a nurse only moments ago. Suddenly he rips the thing in half, heaving mad. Seeing tears well up in his wife's eyes, he steps closer and envelops her in a bear hug, his own sorrow silent.
Cameron raps on the door of NICU, grabbing Chase's attention. At her apologetic shake of head his eyes close in defeat, posture sinking.
Foreman sits in the hospital chapel, tapping the folded paper against the empty hand. His deep musings are interrupted by the pager beep.
'House awake and alert.' It reads.
Clipping the device to his belt, Foreman stuffs the paper in the lab coat pocket and heads out.
Moments later he is at the private room. "Misses House, could you give us a minute."
"Of course." She leaves the two in private.
"You look good." Foreman walks over.
House replies with an unspecified. "Hm."
"Any dizziness, confusion?"
He shakes his head, unintentionally proving the same.
"Nausea, diarrhea, abdominal pain…?"
"Tired." House replies flatly, bandaged limb held up. "Hurts."
"A little soreness is normal while the perforations heal." Foreman tests the peripheral reflexes, limbs jerking properly.
"What happened?"
"Coma. Person, place, time?"
House gives him a 'puh-leaze' look. "Gregory House, head of diagnostics, five years old single male. Aliases: Greg, Greggers, G-man and Jerk."
Foreman hides a smirk. "Go on."
House looks around. "Private recovery room of ICU, Princeton-Plainsborough, Princeton, New Jersey, US of A, Earth, Solar system, Local spur of the milky way Galaxy."
Forman tilts his head, suspecting compensation. "Time?"
"2007. I know I was out of it but I'm guessing… Late August?"
Forman's eyes slide shut. "September Sixteenth."
House's nods curtly.
"What's the last thing you remember?"
He pouts, thoughtful. "My office … high summer… playing guitar … Cuddy… something abut hiring fellows."
"What happened?"
"I… don't know." He is upset at it.
"Unless you experience trouble forming new memories, a little lost time is nothing compared to what could have happened."
"You haven't tested my skills yet."
"Language skills is just fine. Trivia too. Now close your eyes and touch your nose with the right index."
Older man successfully obeys. "Want me to walk a straight line?"
"Maybe later. Kinesthetic sense and motor control are fine. Humor intact." Pen light moves briskly across both eyes before retuning to the pocket. "Does your leg hurt?"
"A little. How long have I been out?"
"A week."
House mulls it over. "Nerves wouldn't have enough time to regenerate receptors." He speaks to himself.
"I'm guessing those experimental meds are designed to over-stimulate the pain receptors. Make them less sensitive over time?"
House nods.
"Medical knowledge looks good so far."
"Chart." House makes a 'gimme' gesture.
Foreman hands it over. "You understand any of that?"
"I think I do." House continues to leafs through the notes. "Reyes and Chickenpox." House states in mixed amusement and astonishment.
"Reading skill intact." Foreman notes.
"I must still be young at heart." He smirks.
"Yeah, a real brat."
"Liver failure…" House winces.
Foreman wonders why he isn't asking abut transplant.
"Why did you come back?"
"Cuddy called me." Foreman replies a bit too quick. "Why did you go to the apartment?"
"Hm?"
"When I had Naegleria. Cameron told me you went back to the cop's place without protection. Why?"
"To make a diagnosis."
"Deep brain biopsy - "
"Left you brain damaged." House cuts in sharply. "Figured you'd rather pass that."
"You cloud have gotten infected."
"I did." He says off handed. "Got meds before it became symptomatic."
"It could have been a new bug, incurable."
"Long shot."
Foreman shakes his head. "You don't risk your life for other people. Career, yes. Jail, maybe. You know Cuddy has your ass cover and never goes beyond extra clinic duty."
"Why are you so interested all of a sudden?" House squints for a moment. "You tested."
Foreman breaks eye contact.
"And you're positive." He tosses the cover and sits up to face the younger man. "If you can help someone the only thing that matters is whether they want your help or not. You don't calculate if it pays off. You don't calculate if they deserve you getting fired, sick or dead. And you sure as hell don't do it in their face!"
Foreman stands silent.
"You're afraid of becoming me?" House lies back. "You've left me in the dust." He shoots one last glare of disdain before turning away, pointedly ignoring.
Finally the man takes a clue and leaves.
"Have someone fix my arm."
"Fine." Reply reeks of finality and frustration.
…
At the sound of doors opened Blythe looks up from House's bed side while pretty brunette nurse applies a balm under his appraising eye.
"I want my new pain meds." House preempts any greetings.
"Nice to see you too, House." Wilson ambles over, his optimism indestructible. "I've got it covered." He holds up the injection pen.
"Bout time. I was beginning to think I'd get to go through the joy of adaptation all over again."
"Greg!" Blythe slaps him lightly on the shoulder. "He had an argument with the other doctor." She apologizes.
"He had an argument with the Universe." Wilson declares with acceptance. "Where do you inject?"
House shoots him a glare. "In the bathroom."
"Ha, ha. Seriously, does it matter?"
"Walking speeds up recovery." Older man ignores him.
"That's post op, not post coma. We don't ever know if you can walk. Where?"
"Leg." He mutters, glance passing between mother and nurse.
Understanding, Wilson pulls the gown only an inch, to get access of rectus femoris without exposing the scar, now hidden under his palm. "This is gonna hurt a little." Fingers bite into muscle and release to enable a good blood flow.
House winces at the kneading, head thrown back. He can feel the hair thin needles pierce skin, heat gushing to aching muscle. Sweat buds over his face, nostrils flaring as he heaves. "Should have restarted from minimal concentration." He mutters through clenched teeth.
"Sorry." Wilson ups the morphine.
House shakes his head vigorously. "I'll be fine." Goes out on a pant that adds 'not soon enough'.
"How do you feel? I mean otherwise."
"They forgot my lunch." House looks pointedly at the nurse about to finish up bandaging.
"You're scheduled for transplant." Wilson excuses the staff. "Wait - you're hungry?"
'Du-uh' House glares at him.
"Liver failure should cause lack of appetite and nausea, not hunger." Wilson searches the drawers for a blood kit. "Any other symptoms?"
"Nope."
"Greg?" Blythe looks at her son, sensing something.
"It's nothing, mom." He leans back with his eyes closed, breathing deepening as the opiate kicked in, self suggestive pain relief added to treatment. "Just Jimmy's wishful thinking." Deeps set blues seek out bushy browns. "Who diagnosed me?"
"Chase."
"So the fellows came back…"
"Rushing."
House nods once, slowly, as if inputting that fact in some mental equation.
…
It is Cameron who comes to give House the details of his post transplant life, not that he needs reminding.
"The biggest issue will be immune suppression." She starts on home turf.
"A chance to get first hand experience of my first specialty – infectious disease."
"The recurrent illnesses might take as much as a decade off your life expectancy."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." House waves her off. "I'll be a mortal like you – got it."
"There will have to be changes in your diet."
"No booze or junk food. Oh, happy day." He snarks.
"Most importantly no vciodin."
"Yippe." He chirps unenthusiastically, eyes on nurses arriving to prepare him for surgery.
In minutes he is wheeled through the hospital, prepped all the way to the skull cap, his gurney pausing next to Foreman's at the elevators. Neither man turn to the other.
"How's New York?" House defies custom with small talk.
Foreman shrugs. "It's okay."
"How can you let the rich white boy steal your thunder? You got out of a gang to wallow in mediocrity?"
"I didn't become a doctor to kill and torture." Foreman bites back
"You and I can't not have an opinion. We can change it like socks but we have to have one. And once we do we have to act on it. Sure, you can crush the impulse, your conscience will happy as a kid on Christmas. But you won't. You're not." Just as the elevator pings, House looks at the former fellow. "Thank you."
Before Foreman can process the words, pod doors slide shut after the man.
…
Scalpel makes the first, two inch long and half inch deep incision through the abdominal wall when a ringing comes form the corner.
"Somebody get that please." The surgeon directs while reaching for the next instrument.
Soft soled slippers tap away. "OR 1" An alto speaks form the background before turning to the table. "WAIT. Check his sclera."
Anesthesiologist pulls eyelids apart. "It's normal."
"What's going on?" Asks the surgeon with impatient annoyance.
"Latest blood works show normal enzyme probes and ammonia levels."
"Tell the other team." He waves at the swing door between ORs.
Retractor in hand, the surgeon pulls apart folds of skin, adipose and connective tissue for a look at the liver. "Normal size and color, no fatty tissue visible, no lesions. Overall healthy appearance. The Liver has recovered - call off the transplant and stitch him up." He pulls out of the abdominal cavity to peer over the barrier between himself and the knocked out House, arms crossed. "You really can't let me have an uninterrupted procedure, can you House?"
…
Consciousness comes and goes in waves as the anesthetic fades. Hours into the drift House makes out a youthful blond face hovering above his, blurry in strong neon counterlight.
"m ay in hevn?" He slurs with a quizzical look.
The face smiles. "Not yet, House." Chase replies, features coming to focus.
"Padawan Wombat." House greets with an affectionate, idiotic grin, still a bit out of it. He rolls to the side to face the man, lifts one arm only to let it drop on Robert's shoulder. "Yee rrr knighted." Hand drags up over his face before dropping at the other shoulder, Chase following it with a baffled look and pulling back.
"I'm a Jedi?"
"A spiritual, irreligious Ausie you are." House makes the drunken connection, finger up for emphasis.
Chase laughs. "And you're supposed to be Yoda?"
House, a little more sober, makes an insulted face. "I've got a cane, don't I?"
Chase chuckles.
"I've heard you've got a spot at Mayo."
"Pediatrics." He nods. "Department head is retiring in two years."
"Shooting high? Good for you. Ours is being promoted to WHO, leaving in December. Cuddy 's looking for a sub. Interested?"
"I'll have to ask Cameron."
"Behind every great man there's a woman with guts, and behind every small one a whiner."
Sliding doors shush open, John making a small cough of announcement. Greg's head lolls to the side, blue eyes a surprised question.
"I'll leave you two alone." Chase exits the stage.
John walks up slowly, fingers tapping a photo frame in his hands. "I found this cutout in your office…" He trails off, turning the frame around to reveal a faded yellow newspaper clip entitled 'Blue jays win championship.'
The grainy image taking up most of the article is of a youth athlete holding up a cup while being paraded on his team mates shoulders. A keen eye can make out a prominent forehead and long nose in the form of a block-letter T, and short, dark hair.
Greg takes the image from John, a ghost of a glad smile lightening his features as he thumbs the cool glass.
"Why haven't you ever mentioned this?" John asks from his side, and perhaps for the first time ever there is no trace of accusation in his tone, more like regret.
"It's a sport you never heard of and a lame team – blue jays. We might as well be called cuckoos." Voice oozes to bitterness.
"You were captain of a title-winning team, pulled the tie-breaker." Senior attempts to lift his spirits.
"What was I supposed to say?" Two pairs of blue eyes met. "I scored the winning goal in the student championship, dad." He intones with mock cheer. "Oh, and by the way, practices kept me from the books so I got tossed out of med school."
John's face falls. "You didn't move to Michigan because of the internship." He concludes.
Greg shakes his head. "A year earlier I would have ditched the sport, but the guys…" He sighs. "I never had friends before. Than suddenly I was popular."
"Still…"
"It was supposed to be a surprise. I was Valedictorian of a famous med school, got an internship at the best clinic, and lead of the title-winning team. You were supposed to be left speechless." He smirks. "Instead I got ratted out, expelled, lost the internship, had to start med school all over again. Work to pay for it."
John frowns. "You didn't get a sport scholarship?"
"Meds schools don't have those. You're either a doctor or not."
"No student loans?"
"Didn't feel like being indebted for the rest of my life."
"You could have asked us-"
Greg cuts it off with a sore snigger. "If I wanted conditions I'd have gone to a bank, less strings attached."
"A self made man." John nods approvingly. "What did you do?"
Greg sighs. "I was and orderly." He mutters.
"Why haven't you mentioned it."
"It's a cross between a nurse and a janitor, okay? I cleaned other people's shit and barely had enough money for school, let alone living expenses. Showered in the locker room, sleeping in ER, hospital cafeteria food..." Voice trails off.
"I'm glad you did." The tone is genuine sincerity.
Greg looks at him dumbstruck. "Who are you and what have you done to colonel House?"
John makes a half huff, half-snort. "I'm John. I've retired him."
A tentative acceptance crystallizes in Greg's eyes. "Now what?"
John shrugs. "We start slow. Visits on the Holidays? Aunt Sarah can be our neutral zone."
Greg nods. It takes a minute of awkward silence for John to leave, returning with Blythe only to say their goodbyes.
…
House sits on the hospital bed in almost complete civilian attire, buttoning up an oxford shirt. Two hospital issued crutches stand to attention next to him.
Cuddy's entrance is attention grabbing. "Leaving against doctor advice?" She hold up an AMA form with his signature.
"Reye's is done with, blisters are healing, experience memory will come back or it wont, skill memory is intact and jaundice checkups can be done at home." House shrugs on a suit jacket before slipping to the floor and taking the crutches. "I have a doctor in the family, asked him for a second opinion. He told me it's okay." He takes off.
They walk out together. "I've spoken to Chase. He'll take the spot at pediatrics if you re hire Cameron. You still haven't interviewed anyone."
"Okay."
"Foreman wants back also." She calls the elevator for him.
"Figured he might."
"You need a third fellow."
"Why? I've got a female and a minority."
Cuddy glares at him. "Hiring guide lines have nothing to do with it."
"Oh that's right, if forgot a closet homo." He pouts. "Hmm. What if I trade them for a Hispanic lesbian? That'd save you tow salaries." Brows wiggle.
Cuddy shakes her head smiling. "You're impossible."
Pod arrives with a ping and they both step in.
The privacy prompts her curiosity. "Do you remember the charity banquet on Labor Day?"
He shakes his head. "No. What happened? And more importantly, were there fireworks?"
"No." She mumbles slowly, the clash of literal and figurative pyrotechnic a bit uncanny. "You saved me from a sleaze. Just wanted to say 'Thank you'."
"Any time." He nods, eyes grounded like a ten year old with a crush, erasing her doubts of memory surfacing in fragments.
As the doors open they take separate routes to administration and parking lot respectively.
"See you later, House."
"Later Cuddy."
THE END
Next
PHYSICIAN HEAL THYSELF
Baby Blues
Near death experience, constant pain, solitude, dysfunctional parents... Not House - his youngest patient.