Morris hadn't wasted any time, Wilson had noted happily. Using tactics that House would approve of (if he weren't the patient), he had badgered House into being actively admitted overnight for tests. Morris had Wilson submit the orders for a transesophageal echocardiogram, a blood draw to look at his B-type natriuretic peptide, his C-reactive protein levels and an angiography. Given that it would take until at least midday the next day for Morris to have rights to practice at PPTH, Wilson had done so happily. The cardiology team hadn't been quite so happy to see Wilson's orders (or House, for that matter) superceding some of their less critical patients. They had at least been ecstatic to find a physician and surgeon of Morris' renown temporarily joining their team. Wilson expected Morris would find a stack of charts and a pile of requests for consults on his desk every single morning for the length of his stay.

Unfortunately, their initial testing revealed nothing more than a slightly hypertrophic heart muscle, elevated BNP and a normal c-reactive protein—indicating a possible mitral insufficiency and zero indication of infection. Wilson had seen House's palpable disappointment when his CRP had come back normal—an infection had been House's best bet for a full recovery. His ECG had continued to show infrequent abnormal wavelengths while the workup still hadn't revealed the cause. By the time House had wheeled himself back into the room, it had been well after one in the morning and he looked as tired as Wilson felt.

"Want a hand?" Wilson asked, though he made no move to rise from the extra bed in the room. House had yet to accept any help from Wilson beyond putting his shoes on—so it was a surprise when House nodded. Wilson tried to hide his surprise as he sat up and slid his feet to the floor. House locked the wheelchair brakes and rose from the seat without assistance. He scooted himself onto the bed and picked up the scrubs Wilson had left out for him.

"What did you need help with?" he asked, blinking tiredly as House threw his t-shirt off into the corner and pulled the scrub top on. He was wearing a Holter monitor with all the assorted leads stuck to his collar bones and ribs.

"Shoes." House muttered, wiggling his left foot back and forth. Wilson sighed to himself as he grasped House's feet and untied the laces on each before working the sneakers off. He took the socks as well, and waited patiently as House unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans before lifting his hips so Wilson could tug them off. Folding them absently, Wilson set them in a pile on the chair as House flung the scrub pants at him.

"Anything else?" he asked dryly, as he went through the motions of tugging the pants up to House's knees so he could reach. "Want a shower? We could saran wrap the Holter." House's lip pulled unhappily; Wilson would have bet just about anything that his leg hurt, but in the end, he shook his head and lay down.

"What's the plan?" Wilson asked sleepily as he returned to his own bed and tugged the covers up once more.

"Morris is headed for the Hilton that Cuddy picked up the tab for—so he'll be back in the morning."

"I meant with the testing." Wilson said, more sharply than he meant to.

"See if there's any intermittent activity on the Holter. Duh."

House must have been tired. He'd looked tired enough to drop, but Wilson wasn't surprised when the TV clicked on and the bright light momentarily seared his retinas even behind closed lids. He grit his teeth as House searched for something to watch before settling on the movie channel. From the dialogue, he realized House had settled on the current action flick of the month.

"Avengers?" he guessed, and House sighed.

"Yeah."

"Again?" Wilson asked.

"It's this, or Ratatouille. And I hate rats."

Wilson couldn't think of anything to say to that, so he settled for rolling onto his side and staring into the dimly lit corridor beyond the glass. He listened to House shifting and tugging at the blankets, to the sound of explosions on the TV and the faint hospital noises beyond that. Long after House had dropped off to sleep, Wilson had remained awake. Thinking deep thoughts at a hundred miles an hour.

oOo

Wilson awakened less abruptly the next morning than he had the previous one, and he considered that a distinct improvement. Staring into the dimly lit room, he could tell from the distant sounds of shoes squeaking on the linoleum and muffled voices that it was around eight a.m.—which meant he was late for rounds. Sighing, he sat up and pushed the covers away. House was still asleep in the other bed, lying with three pillows under his right leg and still looking pained. Wilson made a mental note to grab House's therapeutic pillow from the loft if he spent another night in the hospital. Sliding out of bed, Wilson tucked his shirt in and slid his belt through the loops on his khakis before he stepped into his expensive loafers. Yawning, he shrugged his labcoat on and stepped into the hall. A shower and a cup of coffee from the Diagnostics lounge sounded like the best way to start the day. House only bought the good stuff.

He'd attracted attention when he'd stepped into the Oncology wing; several of his own staff gave him sympathetic looks at his disheveled appearance. Wilson acknowledged their sympathy with a vague look of contrition. Many of them would undoubtedly let their sympathy wane if it were known he'd spent the night fretting and worrying over House. Alicia—his PA—had even presented him with a pair of scrubs and a crappy cup of coffee as he'd been about to step into the shower. No questions asked. Sometimes, it really paid off to be the head of his own department.

His next stop in Diagnostics, however, was destined to result in either unwanted questions or an out-and-out interrogation. Thirteen made a mean cup of coffee, though, and Wilson refused to consider the swill Alicia had brought him. Besides, bringing House a cup of his own java could only help get the morning off to a good start.

The coffee pot was visible from the corridor, but Wilson felt his courage quail when he realized Foreman was sitting at the conference table. Studying him with the intensity and scrutiny Wilson had long associated with all of House's fellows. Coffee or no coffee?

In the end, he forced himself to grab the door handle and swing the door open. He stepped inside, wincing at the bright sunlight streaming through the eastern windows and focused on reaching his goal; the coffee pot that was brewing away on the countertop near the sink. Foreman eyed him curiously as he traversed the distance to the pot and grabbed two mugs from their spot on the microwave. He'd poured the coffee and was digging through the fridge for the creamer when Foreman gave in to his curiosity and asked the question that had to be uppermost in his mind.

"What's wrong with House?"

"Nothing." Wilson said sharply, and then wished he could take the words back. It was like a red flag to a bull.

"So he was admitted to the cardio wing and had a transesophageal ECG, blood work and has a Holter placement ordered for nothing?" Foreman asked skeptically. Wilson had finally found the creamer and added a dollop to his own cup before dumping some in House's.

"If you already know, why are you asking me?" he asked in exasperation.

"So I can gauge how serious it is by your response." Foreman told him.

"And?" Wilson asked, unable to restrain himself. "How serious is it?"

Foreman shrugged, then let his nonchalant expression slip to reveal the concern beneath.

"Looks pretty bad."

Wilson dropped the creamer back into the fridge and let the door slam closed. He clutched his own mug of coffee and threw it back in one gulp. "Yeah." he muttered. "It's pretty bad."

"How'd he get Daniel Morris out here?" Foreman asked at length.

"Where'd you hear about that?"

"Cardiology's pretty worked up about it. Complaining that House didn't even give them a chance—but excited, too, that someone of his caliber came in to take over. Wolff said he wouldn't have taken House's case even if he was in arrest."

"That's hardly surprising." Wilson snorted. "Morris heads House's primary cardio team. He first took his case after the infarction. House won't see anybody else."

"After the debridement?"

It was Wilson's turn to shrug. "House made his career. Morris cut his teeth on difficult cases keeping House alive following the debridement and all of the subsequent organomegaly."

"Has he even seen House in the past ten years?" Foreman asked. One skeptical eyebrow went up, and Wilson sighed.

"House used to go to Mt. Sinai once a year or so. At least in the past years. I don't know if he's gone more recently or not."

"Can we see his file?"

Wilson snorted. "You'll have to ask him, and I doubt he'll say yes. Look what happened when he faked cancer. He'll want you focused on patients, not on him."

"Any chance he's faking now?" Foreman asked levelly.

"No, he's not."

Foreman nodded, looking grim. "What about his practice?"

"He'll probably want to continue working. Do you have anyone right now? The guy with MS?" Wilson set his mug down and refilled it. A third cup probably wouldn't be remiss after two nights of interrupted rest, but he hoped not to stay that long.

"We came up with a diagnosis, so House is done with him. GI sent us a patient, but I haven't told him yet."

"Keep it under your hat until this afternoon." Wilson cautioned. "Morris set him up in the Holter, and I'd bet he'll download it this morning and see if he can come up with a definitive answer."

"All right, I'll schedule a preliminary workup and let him know later."

Wilson sipped at his new mug of coffee and made his way to the door. He juggled the mugs around to free up one hand—only to find Foreman at his elbow, holding the glass door open for him.

"If you need anything—" he began awkwardly, and Wilson hid a smile. For all his bluster, Foreman both liked and respected House as a mentor.

"I'll let you know." Wilson told him sincerely.

oOo

House was awake when Wilson returned to his room. He was staring grumpily at a nurse who was writing busily in his chart on the rolling bedside table. Unlike the previous morning, House was an actual patient and the nurse didn't look too thrilled about taking his vitals. She looked…disgruntled.

"Good morning, sunshine." Wilson sing-songed, and House grunted. He held out a mug and House snatched it away from him, slurping loudly.

"How are we doing this morning?" he asked, giving the nurse his best professional expression.

"WE are tired and sore." House interjected loudly. "The Holter's making me uncomfortable, and I need to pee."

The nurse shot a sideways glance at House that suggested she thought he was irreparably insane before she met Wilson's gaze and closed the chart. "Vitals are stable. Blood pressure was 120/82, oxygen sats at 98 percent—"

"Have to pee, here." House said again, and Wilson gave the nurse an apologetic look.

"So go." Wilson told him in exasperation.

"Need a hand." he muttered faintly, and Wilson helped lower the bedrail and steady House when he finally stood up. He pressed the cane into his hand and watched as House limped to the bathroom and closed the door loudly.

"Dr. Morris left an order for a fasting blood draw, but we'll have to reschedule it for tomorrow." she gave him a sharp look, and Wilson sighed. He hadn't thought to check for any standing orders.

"Any other orders I should know about?" he asked quietly.

"He left a note saying he'd be in to download the Holter around 11 am or so; he asked that Dr. House remain in the room until he'd had a chance to review it."

"All right." Wilson agreed. He could hear the toilet flush, and then the water kicked on in the shower. House flung the bathroom door open and stood looking at them.

"Need some saran wrap."

"Dr. House, Dr. Morris left orders that you not—"

"Taking a shower." House reiterated. "Need saran wrap to protect the equipment. Or, I can just go for it and Cuddy can spend more of the hospital's money on a new Holter."

"I'll get the wrap." the nurse muttered as she stormed from the room, and Wilson hid a smile.

"You know they can do things to you." he pointed out. House shrugged.

"I know all their secrets."

House's initial burst of energy hadn't lasted long. He'd showered, dressed again in new scrubs—eaten breakfast—and crashed again before an episode of the The View. Wilson longed to join him, but unlike House, he did have actual patients of his own to see. He left House to sleep, and left a note for Morris to call him when he'd downloaded the Holter.

oOo

It had been nearly 11:30 when Alicia had put her head in the exam room to tell him that Morris had paged him. He'd hurried through the rest of his patient's follow-up exam and made his way back to the fifth floor. There had always been a sense of urgency in Cardiology that never quite seemed to fade, and Wilson felt his own pace quicken as he made tracks to House's room. He half-hoped that Morris would announce that there was nothing to be seen, and that they'd all made a mistake. But when had House ever been that lucky? He could see that Morris had left the door open, and he idly wondered if he should close it or leave it as it was when he heard House snap something caustic at Morris.

"Just let me see it." House was saying, and Wilson could hear a faint note of worry in his voice. "You don't need to sugar coat it."

Wilson stepped into the room to find Morris had brought in a laptop and had plugged the Holter into the USB port. House was still wearing the device as well—Morris must have doubted they'd have any viable information so soon. That, or he figured if he took it off he might not get it back on. Wilson was inclined to agree with him. Morris was staring intently at the screen, but he hadn't turned it toward House yet. His fingers moved occasionally over the mouse pad for several minutes, but he made no attempt to express whatever it was that he saw. House, predictably, grew impatient with waiting and slid his feet to the floor as he prepared to get up and go to Morris."Let me see." he repeated in a low voice.

"Intermittent atrial fibrillation indicative of atrial structural or possibly functional derangement. Left bundle branch block, particularly with right axis deviation suggestive of DCM, which has lead to right ventricular decompensation. I'd say biventricular involvement is likely at this point." Morris finally pronounced, without any preamble. "I suppose we could chalk up the original infarction to atrioventricular dysfunction or mitral regurgitation. Blood pools in the chambers of the heart, and clots form. I don't suppose you were aware of your symptoms at any time?"

"No." House muttered faintly. Wilson shifted uncomfortably; House would not be happy about the news in any case—nor should he be—but he was likely to be particularly annoyed about not being symptomatic so that he could diagnose himself.

"In light of the AF, I want to start you on dabigatran." Morris grabbed the bedrail and stared at House intently.

"Why the dabigatran? Why not stick with the warfarin?"

"ACCP recommended dabigatran at 150 mg over warfarin for daily treatment." Morris folded his arms against the argument he knew was coming.

"Yeah, but the AHA and ASA took a more cautious approach. They considered the concern about renal failure, lack of safety due to antidotes and patient compliance." House paused in his rebuttal, looking as though he'd swallowed something sour. "And we both know I've never really been compliant."

"You're also not known for being cautious. Why are you this time?" Morris asked. Wilson shook his head slightly; Morris was asking the right questions, but pushing too hard. House had a tendency to cut and run when he got spooked.

House rubbed at his forehead silently, his expression utterly blank. Wilson wondered what he was thinking; he'd been on warfarin and statins since the first infarction. Taking him off of those and starting him on a new medication designed to target the atrial fibrillation head on was an aggressive move.

"What about cardioversion or catheter ablation?" House asked finally, and Morris sighed heavily as he sat down in the chair beside the bed.

"I'm open to those if we fail rhythm control with medication. But I'd rather leave us an escape route." Morris said finally. House nodded, reluctantly.

"You'll try it?" Wilson asked hesitantly, and House met his gaze.

"I guess I don't really have a choice, do I?"