House sat in the small CCTV room, his cane propped up against the table and his face illuminated by the bluish light of the monitor. It made him look old, but that was the times as much as the lighting. Frustrated and tired, his face looked gaunt, his hair stood ruffled so that you could still trace the habitual movement of his hand through its contours. The bulb-less lamp hung futile and dusty. He hadn't looked at his watch for what must have been hours, yet his leg throbbed rhythmically. A mocking pendulum that pulsed through his thigh, as time slowly bled into the past.
His heart missed a beat as he saw what he was looking for, he quickly paused the screen. That was him. He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, certainly looked similar. The figure he had paused on was looking slightly to the left of the camera, probably at the sign that directed patients to the clinic reception. He looked to be in his mid thirties, white, with thick hair that stood on end - brown, House suspected from the grainy black and white image, and with blue eyes. He was tall, from what House could see, strong built but skinny. He checked the date and time on the monitor, 12/12/04 14:56:05. He opened the file that lay on the desk, this was the last time he had visited the hospital; House knew he had moved nearer to home after that. A cough, and an unspecified itch. House chuckled and grinned slyly.
His pager went off. He cursed. He fumbled. you were wrong. He cursed again, this meant another differential. He felt for sure he was right, everything had fit perfectly into place. He stuffed the file into his backpack and reached for his cane. He pushed his chair back, memorised the doors' position and turned the monitor off like Albert, the bribed minimum wage security guard, had told him to. The room went dark, momentarily leaving behind the negative afterimage of the door. His photoreceptors adjusted and it was gone. A practiced hand reached into his pocket and lifted his Vicodin. He took three in one gulp and rested his head back against the chair, waiting for the numbness. He lifted himself, carefully placing all his weight on his left leg. His thigh still felt the strain, it was stiff, he had been sitting longer than he thought. He hobbled towards the door, pushing down heavily on his cane. He reached for where he knew the handle would be and met with smooth wood. He panicked, feeling the blood rising in his face as he groped at the featureless door. He hated small spaces, he had his father to blame for that. His hand struck the door handle, metal against bone had never sounded so good. Relieved and suddenly glad this weakness was stifled within the dark room, House took a deep breath and opened the door.
---
House swung open the door to the differential room.
"You were wrong" Thirteen said without even looking at him.
"I got that, thanks to your heartfelt message, and I wasn't wrong." House moved towards his chair while he spoke. "It was just the wrong treatment".
Thirteen looked up, angry now.
"The treatment wouldn't have made her cough up blood, and neither would your diagnosis of cancer. The surgery has just made her weaker. It's a new symptom, we were wrong".
"So now we're all to blame, I was starting to think it was all my fault" House said mocking a hurtful expression which made Kutner stifle a laugh. House sat down, sighed and distractedly began massaging his leg. Thirteen glared at him. Taub stood by the whiteboard, pen at the ready, with an exasperated expression, unsure whether it would ever be wise to interrupt.
"Well" said House, redirecting his sarcasm for a more varied effect "Haemoptysise the board already!"
"Err…right" mumbled Taub, catching House's meaning and proceeding to write Haemoptysis on the board under the other incongruent symptoms.
House paused, he stopped his leg massage, and looked up.
"Hand me the history." Kutner tossed the file across the table. House grabbed it, and quickly flicked through the few pages, eyes moving across each page quickly, looking for the one word that would nourish his new diagnosis. He spotted it.
"You idiots. You absolute idiots" House threw the open file to Thirteen. "She's been to Africa, and was treated one month before for a urinary infection. She was given Corticosteroid."
"I don't see how…" Thirteen mumbled before House continued.
"She had a allergic reaction to the Corticosteroid, unusual which is why she wasn't tested for it, it weakened her immune system and made her more easily susceptible to Coccidioidomycosis. We didn't see it because it was hiding behind the extroverted anaphylaxis. We stopped the drugs when she arrived, but she had a mild, latent response, until we restated her heart and gave her the shock of adrenalin she needed. It explains the varied symptoms, and why the important ones have only just surfaced. Biopsy the patient's lung to confirm and start treatment before she dies."
Thirteen pushed her chair back without looking at House, and left with Kutner close on her heels. Taub placed the lid on the pen, grabbed his lab coat from the back of a chair and headed silently towards the door.
"What's up with thirteen?" House asked before Taub had time to reach the door. House looked at Taub, with his best poker face on.
Taub paused, shrugged and reached for the door handle, "she…spilt her coffee this morning" he said, groping for a specific reason for typical moodiness. House nodded and was once again alone. He took some more Vicodin for good measure before he stood quickly and headed for his office, intent once more on his plans.
---
The letter was written and Cuddy's signature successfully forged. All that remained was for the surreptitious placement of it in the outgoing tray of the main reception. Hook, line and sinker. House smiled, slightly high, and began beating a drum solo into his desk. Wilson opened the glass door, and leaned in. House mirrored his expression of rushed exasperation.
"You'll want a lift home, it's snowing pretty heavy out". He paused and looked at House. "And you're not driving your bike high."
"I'm not high" smiled House, trying to look at Wilson without his eyes veering off to the light playing on the glass.
"Right, well get your coat I'm leaving in five minutes" he said shutting the door behind him. Wilson shook his head and sighed, rubbing his forehead as he walked towards his office, filled with the well worn emotions of frustration and worry.
---
They didn't speak in the lift. House had taken twenty minutes to find his coat, but his eyes were more focused now. As they walked through the entrance hall to the hospital, House glanced at the CCTV camera he had been spying through. He moved towards the reception and slid the letter in the outgoing pile. The receptionist didn't look twice, but Wilson looked curious.
"What was that? You're not one to send mail personally."
"It's a Christmas card." House answered, wide eyed and innocent.
"It's January, and you never send Christmas cards."
"Then what was it?" House philosophised, riding his Vicodin high and walking a little faster than Wilson.
"Fine" sighed Wilson raising his hands in surrender, realising this would go nowhere, and he continued to walk just behind House. House lifted his hand to his coat's collar and brought it up to protect him from the bitter wind when they reached outside. Wilson's eye caught Houses' hand; his little finger was bruised quite badly, and from its odd angle looked broken. "What happened to your hand?"
House looked around, a little taken aback. Wilson nodded towards his left hand, House looked down and frowned.
"Did you not feel it? How much Vicodin did you take?"
House ignored the question and brought his injured hand up to his chest to inspect it. He probed it a little, before deciding on the point of dislocation and immediately popped it back with a disturbing crack. Without so much as a wince he reached over the receptionists desk, ripped some tape off the little stand and wrapped his two fingers together, using the second as a splint.
"A lot" he answered with a wry smile, before continuing to walk towards the doors, with a frowning Wilson in tow.