"Hey, Bones..." started Booth, coming up onto the platform, "got a dead body for you."
Brennan looked up from the sixth century soldier she had been examining.
"I didn't hear anything on the news...."
"In New Jersey."
She frowned.
"I have to finish with this skeleton. The Smithsonian needs a positive identification on the type of weapon used to kill him by next week. Dr. Anderson brought it all the way here from Michigan," she said, indicating the man at the other end of the table.
"Yeah, and this guy's family needs to know where he is as soon as possible."
She sighed, putting down the femur she had been holding.
"Guy was found by a cop, went to investigate some noises in an alley, found a bunch of rats chewing on a dead body. Coroner lady identified the body as male, said he was dehydrated before he died, and that she was stuck. Not enough flesh left to determine cause of death or identity. Also, no head," said Booth, pulling out of the Jeffersonian parking lot.
Bones nodded, taking the case file he handed her.
They finally pulled into a parking lot in front of a large brick building with a sign out front bearing a branch of maple leaves and the words "Princeton Plainsboro teaching hospital."
"Why are we at a hospital?"
"The coroner's office is in the basement. Lady said forensic medicine students work there part-time."
"Oh. I interned in the basement of an accounting firm. Michael and I—"
"Oookay, enough of that."
"—had to go down six flights of stairs every morning because the elevator in that part of the building didn't work."
"...oh."
Booth pushed open the door, and they entered the busy lobby of the hospital.
They looked around, and Booth walked toward the elevators, reading the list of departments.
As they were waiting, a man with a cane—black with flames on it—came over and stood next to them, a motorcycle helmet under one arm.
He looked at them sharply, smirking.
His cellphone rang, and he pulled it out of his jacket.
"This had better be good," he said, sounding less annoyed than the words seemed to indicate.
"Since when is diarrhea a diagnostic mystery?"
"Whatever. Oh, keep your pants on—or don't. I'm waiting for the elevator I'll be there in a few minutes."
"Yeah."
He hung up and resumed watching them.
When the elevator came, it was going up, so Bones and Booth didn't get on.
The man with the cane did, and he was still watching them creepily as the doors closed.
House yawned, leaning against the wall of the elevator.
That had been funny, though the two random people he had chosen to inflict with his boredom solution hadn't gotten nearly as freaked as he had expected.
Whatever.
God, what was Cameron thinking, taking a case with diarrhea...
"Ok, so what's the mystery?" he asked, opening the door to the differential room and limping inside.
"The guy's got some neurological symptoms--"
"What?"
"Mild ataxia."
"He's dehydrated. Give him some fluids and send him home."
"Last case like this you went nuts, were convinced he was dying."
"That's because the case *matched*. This is just some sap with a GI virus. Send him home, and stop wasting my time."
"It's either this or clinic duty," said Cuddy, coming in behind House, "You're taking this case, House."
"*What* case? There's nothing to diagnose."
"Well then I guess you'll just waste a day making sure."
House groaned, watching her ass as she walked out, high heels clacking.
He sighed, turning to the ducklings.
"Chase, go give the guy IV fluids and get a history, Cameron, monitor his stats, Foreman monitor the neurological symptoms. No point in wasting hospital resources without making sure the guy actually isn't dying. I'll be in my office."
They nodded, Foreman rolling his eyes, and went to do what he had told them.
"This man has only been dead a few days. Were there rats in the ally?" asked Bones, turning towards the coroner.
"Yes. The officer who found him said he was covered in them. The noise is what made him check the alley to start with."
"Any idea what happened to the skull?"
She shook her head, "They looked everywhere in a three-hundred foot radius for it. Probably got carried off by stray dogs."
Bones nodded, leaning over the body.
Booth leaned over next to her.
"What you looking at?"
"Trying to determine time of death. I'd estimate maybe a day, two at the most."
She looked at the coroner, who nodded, "That's what I put in my notes."
Bones nodded, turning back to the corpse.
"Caucasian, between thirty and thirty-five years old...." she looked back up at the coroner, "can I send tissue samples, particulates, fluids to my lab? And pictures of the neck detachment to my assistant for analysis."
The woman nodded, "Of course. This is really out of my league, I'm actually the coroner's assistant—he's in Hawaii on vacation."
"Ah."
She looked at little frustrated that Bones wasn't engaging in conversation, but Booth winked at her, and she blushed slightly.
"His clumsiness is getting worse, and we found blood in the stool," reported Cameron, coming into the differential room.
"So give him more fluids."
"We already did. Minimal improvement."
"Minimal improvement means there was improvement, which means it's the right thing to do. Give him more fluids," said House, rolling his eyes.
They sighed, leaving.
"I can't find any trace of bone damage, and other than some occupational markers—" started bones, leaning over the body.
"What kind? What did he do?"
"—indicating that he did a fair amount of heavy lifting recently, I can't find anything significant."
"Well... without the head, how are we gonna identify him?" asked Booth, looking at the macerated skeleton.
"Well, we can search missing persons for a Caucasian male, approximately thirty to thirty-five years old, six feet three inches tall, and see if anything comes up."
"Do you have any idea how many thirty-something white guys are in missing persons?"
"No, how many?"
"Ok, that was rhetorical, Bones."
"...oh."
Booth sighed.
"A lot."
Bones nodded.
"Well, can we see how many of them live near here?"
Booth nodded, pulling out his phone.
"He's still losing control of his body, and now he's exhibiting some symptoms of mental confusion." reported Foreman, making House look up from playing his PSP in the chair by his desk.
"Huh. Ideas?"
"He's still dehydrated. This isn't a new symptom," objected Chase.
House rolled his eyes, "Yeah, but diarrhea causing dehydration this severe is a serious illness, plus the blood in the stool makes me think it's an infection. What's his white count?"
"Elevated," answered Cameron, putting her glasses on and looking at the chart, "and he's got a mild fever."
House nodded.
"could be cholera, or dysentery," suggested Chase.
"Did you miss the part where he's a Princeton cop who hasn't been outside of Jersey since he was five years old? Unless he lives near a water pump, I doubt it's that. Start him on antibiotics for common digestive bugs, see what happens. And Chase, keep the guy from dying before we find out what's going on in his tuckus."
"What if he does live near a water pump?" asked Cameron, frowning, "How would that give him cholera?"
House looked at her, sighing.
"1854, cholera epidemic in the Soho neighborhood of England. Doctor named John Snow made the first real breakthrough in epidemiology by figuring out that one specific water pump was contaminated, and breaking off the handle, ending the epidemic. I was making a joke."
"I can't find any cause of death," said Bones, frowning, "Did you find anything at all indicating a disease?"
The coroner lady—Marian—shook her head.
Bones sighed, standing and looking over the dead man before her.
"I don't know what to do."
"Maybe the squint-squad'll come up with something. In the meantime, how's about we get something to eat?" asked Booth, cheerfully.
Bones looked at him, nodding.
"Alright. Where's the cafeteria?" she asked Marian.
"Fourth floor."
Bones nodded, heading for the door.
"Antibiotics aren't having any effect. His mental status is deteriorating steadily, and we have no idea what's killing him."
House sighed, nodding.
"Could be a brain infection?" asked Cameron.
"That's giving him bloody diarrhea? I don't think so. Foreman, try to get more specific on the neuro symptoms, do an MRI. Chase, Cameron stay here and research the possible causes.
House got up, heading out into the hall for a snack from the vending machines.
"The coroner said he was severely dehydrated at the time of his death... that doesn't make any sense though. Why would someone die of dehydration in New Jersey?"
"Maybe he was homeless."
"The remains of his clothing looked fairly new...."
"Hey!"
They turned around, blinking.
"Did you just say some guy died of dehydration? Without a known cause?"
The creepy guy from the lobby...
"Um, who are you?" asked Booth, stepping forward.
"Dr. Gregory House, head of the diagnostics department," said the guy, sounding annoyed, "When did he die?"
"Sometime between two and three days ago," answered Bones, "I've heard about you."
"Ok, whoever I insulted, mocked, offended, I apologize. Can you get back to the dead guy?"
"No, I mean, I've heard your name in the context of work."
House looked at her for a second, then shook his head and looked at Booth, "What about the dead guy? And a cop found him?"
"Ok," said house, entering the differential room with booth and bones following behind him, "this is... whatever her name is, and her partner... whatever his name is. She's got a dead guy in the morgue, no cause of death, only anomaly is severe dehydration and a missing head. He was found by our dying cop—thankfully, our patient only shares one of the anomalies so far. Chase, why do you look like Cuddy just offered to give you a lap dance?"
Chase was gaping openly at Bones.
"You're..." he swallowed, "can I get an autograph?"
House looked at the wombat for a moment, rolled his eyes, "Hey, fangirl. Mind focusing on the soon-to-be-dead guy, rather than the aspy lady?"
"What?" asked Chase, still looking like he was having the coolest moment of his life.
House sighed, giving up, and turned to Cameron.
"Dead guy, soon-to-be-dead guy. Physical contact occurred. Think that's worth talking about?"
"Well, what's the dead guy's history? Did he travel?"
House looked at the two random people who had happened to be walking by his office.
"We haven't gotten an ID yet..."
"Why not?" asked Cameron, frowning.
"Because the guy doesn't have a head, and he's mostly bone," said Booth, looking at Bones.
"There aren't any markers on his body that I can match to medical records. The only thing I found were stress markers on the joints indicating he did a lot of heavy lifting recently."
"Construction?" asked House, frowning and taking the cap off his vicodin bottle.
"No, this was like he lifting things repeatedly like..." she squatted down, then stood, arms out in front of her, "That."
"Ok... so... I don't know, landscaping?" asked Cameron.
Bones shook her head.
House sighed, shaking his head as well.
"Forget about that. What else. Anything, dead guy or dying guy. What do we know?" said House.
Silence.
Bones's phone went off, she answered it.
"Hi, Zach. Did you find anything in the photographs?... oh. Ok, right. Thanks, Zach."
She sighed, pressing the call end button.
"The head was not removed by any tool... probably chewed off by rats or dogs."
They stood there for a few moments, still with nothing to offer.
House sighed.
"Go find Foreman, tell him about what's going on."
Cameron nodded, getting up and leaving.
House sighed, sitting down and staring at the whiteboard.
"Can you sign a book?"
House glanced between the wombat and the lady.
"Yes, I am capable of doing that."
Booth sighed, looking at House, who was smirking slightly, but in more of an interested way than a derisive one.
"So... where's the cafeteria?" Booth asked, after a while of awkward silence.
House yawned, sitting back in the chair and popping the lid off his vicodin bottle.
Booth looked at him.
"That's the second pill in three hours."
House looked at him.
"Addiction is common in people who are depressed. It's a somewhat healthy response to seek the release of dopamine and serotonin provided by drugs, alcohol, gambling.... solving puzzles...." said Bones.
House looked at both of them, thinking.
"It's common for former soldiers, especially those who knew who their victims were, saw their faces before they killed them—like army ranger snipers—to feel that they have to repent in some way—like joining the FBI, and for people who aren't comfortable with interacting normally with other people to analyze those around them and hide behind that analysis."
They blinked.
"Tattoo on your arm, and you're just obvious."
"Speaking of analyzing the people around you...." said Bones, coolly.
House looked at her, tilting his head.
"You believe that if you look at anything logically, you can work through the human and emotional aspects to it that you don't understand."
"Your injury is in your right quadracepts, you feel uncomfortable using the cane on the other side even though there is inflammation of the rotator cuff, straining of the triceps and serious wear on the Bones of your wrist. You've been using it for approximately ten years, and you're starting to notice that it's having serious effects on your body, but you still refuse to use a more ergonomic assisting device. You believe that doing so would take away from your self, even though you, as a doctor, know it doesn't mean anything about your mind, willpower, or self-control, that the damage is a physical fact you have no control over. You hide behind logic, but you are as susceptible to perception as anyone else."
"As are you. You perceived me as a creepy bum when I was standing at the elevator this morning, because the typical indicators of a successful human being weren't present, and because I was looking at you in a way that you didn't understand. Humans interpret things they don't understand as scary, hated, or creepy. But I'm not a creepy bum, I'm a misanthropic doctor."
"You hide behind the fact that those external social indicators aren't there. You like that people don't perceive the truth, because you're scared to let anyone within a hundred foot radius of your feelings. You are immature, you can't handle being hurt, you can't even handle the possibility that you will get hurt."
"You're hiding behind the facade that you think I haven't been hurt, even though you've noticed personality indicators that tell you I'm like you. Already been hurt. Damaged. What was it? Drunk parent? Brother leave home?"
"You first."
"You're the one that's hiding."
"You're the one that's avoiding."
"And I'm the one that's completely lost," interjected Booth, looking what he said—lost.
"This sounds like a pleasant conversation," said Wilson, sitting down next to House, "Who are you and why is House analyzing you into the ground?"
"Agent Seeley Booth, and this is Dr. Temperance Brenan," said Booth, reaching across the table and shaking Wilson's hand.
"Dr. James Wilson, House's friend and head of oncology."
They nodded.
House was still looking at Bones.
Bones was still looking at House.
"So... what brings you to Princeton? And more specifically, to sit across from House?"
"She's a forensic anthropologist. Cop found a decomposed body in an alley, they called her in. the cop got sick, apparently."
Wilson nodded.
"Do you believe in god?" asked House, thinking.
"No, and neither do you."
"True. Just don't know, or you believe in a scenario."
"I believe in science."
"Believe in silence still takes a leap of faith."
"True, but so does believing in your own senses."
"Believing in your own senses is something you're hard-wired to do. Believing in science is a choice."
"Is it a choice, or a cultural inclination?"
"Somebody had to be the first one."
"The first one was experimenting with his or her own senses. They were hard-wired to believe in what they found."
"You think if it's cultural it developed from an instinctual belief? That's an interesting theory."
"Sooo.... where are you guys from?" asked Wilson.
"DC, Maryland. I live in DC, she lives in Maryland."
Wilson nodded.
"You're obviously a good shot..."
"How do you figure that?"
"You've got a sniper-trained FBI agent as your partner, yet you're carrying. That either means he leaves you alone a lot, which I doubt, given how he looks at you, or he trusts you with a gun. Personal experience, snipers are touchy about other people having guns."
"Personal experience?"
"My dad was an air-force marine. Spend most of my childhood being bounced from base to base, lived in twelve different countries, plus occasionally in the US. And, by the way, your reaction to the phrase "bounced around" makes your history completely obvious. And your profession makes it obvious you didn't know what happened to them."
"And your tone when you mentioned your father makes your history completely obvious."
House shrugged.
"Not to most people. Not even Dr. nosy here."
"What?" asked Wilson, looking at House.
"Nothing. We were just talking about you and Cuddy. Like it's not obvious you've got the hots for her...."
"No, we weren't," said Bones, sounding confused, "We were talking about--"
"Yeah yeah yeah, I know. I was lying to him."
"Oh."
Wilson turned back to Booth, searching for a topic.
"Ask him about his kid," said House, then focused back on his own conversation.
Wilson glanced at him, then at Booth.
Booth shrugged, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet to show Wilson the picture.
"Cute kid."
"What did you mean by how Booth looks at me?"
House stared at her for a moment, "Yeeaaah.... I'm gonna leave that one for you to figure out on your own."
"What does that mean?"
He shook his head.
"Come on, what were you talking about?"
He opened his mouth, but her phone rang, and he sighed, relieved.
"Brennan. Yeah, Hodgins.... you found what? No, the reception's bad... it's endemic where? oh. Thank you, Hodgins. I think you might have just saved another guy's life."
she hung up.
"Hodgins, our entomologist, found an antibiotic resistant strain of Shigella Dysenteriae endemic in Rwanda in the dead man's stool."
House was gone faster than she would have thought he was capable of.
"Rwandan Shigella Dysenteriae. Antibiotic resistant. Start him on the meds."
Everybody scrambled.
House looked the whiteboard, tapping his cane on the floor.
"The dead guy was Caucasian, right?"
"Yeah..."
"And in Rwanda, means he was probably a volunteer. The heavy lifting was probably lifting bodies, which is probably how he got the dysentery."
"So he was coming from Africa. Great, that helps a lot."
"Well it'd narrow down the missing persons...."
"Yeah, one problem. We've already been through the missing person's reports. None of them had been in Africa."
House frowned.
"Well, how many flights a day are there from a remote region of Africa with a dysentery epidemic, going to New York or Philadelphia? It's only been three days since this guy died, right?"
Bones looked at Booth.
He nodded.
"I'll call Cam."
House sighed, leaning against the wall and taking out his bottle of vicodin.
Booth looked at him.
"Don't bother."
He nodded.
"She doesn't have a clue, you know."
Booth blinked.
"Have a clue about what?"
House looked at him sharply.
Then he snorted, shaking his head.
"You are the two most clueless people I've ever met."
Booth blinked, opening his mouth to ask what House meant.
"House. Care to explain why you're treating a Princeton cop for a Rwandan strain of Shigella?"
House looked at Cuddy.
"Well, it seemed like a better idea than treating him for a Nigerian strain of shigella, given he hasn't had any contact with anyone *from* Nigeria."
"He hasn't had any contact with anyone from Rwanda, either!"
"Well, not *that* kind of contact... at least I hope not. Be pretty gross if he had. But maybe you get that? Little graveyard tussle?"
She narrowed her eyes in annoyance.
"What are you talking about, House?"
"Guy found a corpse in an alley. These guys found that strain of bacteria on the corpse. The symptoms fit. Ta-da! All makes sense. Now leave me alone. Unless you want to go for a little romp—"
"Not a chance, House," said Cuddy, turning around and walking away.
House watched her, completely oblivious to Booth tapping him on the shoulder.
"Hey. Dr. House?"
He started.
"What?"
"How long have you two...?"
He blinked.
"What are you talking about?"
Booth stared at him.
"You're sad."
"What?"
"Nothing."
Bones finished her phone call.
"Is there a decent place to eat around here?"
"It's a college town. Of course there's a decent place to eat."
"I think Booth was asking if you could tell us where it was."
House and Booth both looked at Bones, and sighed.
"Yeah. Kinda got that," said House, "I was being intentionally difficult to stave off human interaction without making it obvious that was what I was doing."
"Oh. ok."
Booth looked at House.
"What?"
"Forget it."
"There's a royal diner in Princeton?" asked Booth, looking up at the oddly familiar sign.
"Yeah... I take it there's one in DC?"
"You take what?"
Booth sighed, "just forget it, Bones."
"I figured out where I heard your name before," said Bones, fidgeting with her French fries.
"Yeah?"
"An article on the history of a possible bone eresephlis epidemic in the nineteenth century."
House blinked.
"I didn't know anybody actually bothered to read that...."
"Bone what?"
"It's an archaic term for staph infection extending into the bones. Mostly staph infections stay in the fat and connective tissue layers, but there were a series of cases recorded that might either have been simply immunodeficiency in the victims, or a different, more virulent strain," explained Bones.
"In the nineteenth century...."
"Yeah."
"Why do we care?" asked Booth, sounding confused.
"Because it's an important part of history, Booth."
"Actually I was just bored. But whatever floats your boat," interjected House, smirking.
Bones looked at him, smiling a little bit.
"Up, you know, I bet they've found something on the dead guy," said Booth, looking uncomfortable,"better call and see."
Bones looked at him, "They'll call when they've got something, Booth. Why are you being so impatient?"
"Well... because the guy's family has to be upset that he's missing."
"If they were upset that he was missing, they would have filed a report. They probably think he's still in Africa, or something. It isn't cruel to let them be happy for a little while longer."
"You don't think they'll crash when they find out he's been dead all that time?"
"I think that it doesn't matter what they thought, their family member is dead. It won't hurt them to think everything is fine for a little longer. What do you think?" she asked, looking at House.
He was just watching them with a small smirk on his face.
"I don't know. It's not a good thing to do with a patient, letting them go on false hope... but when it comes to feelings, I'm not the guy you wanna ask. Facts and logic on the other hand...."
Bones nodded, smiling again.
Booth's phone rang.
"Hello?" he asked, hastily elbowing Bones to get her to pay attention to *him*.
House snorted.
They really had no idea....
"Victim's name is Ronald Johnson. His aunt lives in a nursing home near Trenton, according to his buddy in Africa, he was going to surprise her with a visit, driving up from the Philadelphia airport," said Booth, hanging up, "Nice meeting you. Let's go, Bones."
"What? But I--"
"No time, let's go tell the family," he said, pulling her chair out.
"Booth, we can at least finish eating...."
Booth steered her out the door.
House laughed a little, quietly, and shook his head.
Though... he still wondered what Booth had meant about Cuddy....
"Did you like him, or something?" asked Booth, as they got in the black SUV.
Bones looked at him.
"Why is that any of your business?"
Booth swallowed, "No reason. Just curious."
Bones shrugged.
"He's an interesting person. And it's nice, to talk to someone who sees value in the more historical aspects of what I do."
Booth looked at her briefly, then looked back at the road.
"What about that guy back at the lab?"
"Who? Dr. Anderson? He lives a thousand miles away."
"No, the dead guy. The fifth century warrior."
Bones looked at him.
"Sixth century, and.... are you jealous, Booth?"
"What? Me? Jealous? No way. Why would you say that?" asked Booth, his voice raising in pitch slightly.
"I don't know. I suppose because I was misinterpreting voice patterns and stresses, as well as social interactions that I admit I'm not very good at interpreting."
"Yeah you lost me there, Bones."