Where are you Mrs. Chapman? I know you're here somewhere.
Normally, the morgue wasn't so populated but, hey! heavy fog and a pilot turning left across the active runway. They'll be dying to get in all night.
This you? Oops, don't think so.
It's was still black outside, but House was down in the morgue at the behest of the nagging voice in his brain that, all night, had been sing-songing you-missed-something-obvious to him. He re-hung the chart back on the drawer, reached for another one and then decided to forget it. He trusted the little voice, but it had given him no sleep and the pain was at its worst in the morning. Coffee. Hot coffee. Vicodin. There would be time and opportunity to humiliate the Scoobies later.
Thunk!
Or, maybe, it was more of a muffled thump, as if someone were knocking against the inside of the drawer that he'd just hooked the chart on. The drawer in which reposed, according to that same chart, the recently and dreadfully deceased John Doe.
It was followed by two softer and more deliberate thumps.
Contemporary morgue design makes no allowance for drawers that need to be opened from the inside. The medical profession doesn't make mistakes that require it any more. Much.
There was no bell to ring to prevent premature autopsy. There was no buzzer to alert the night shift attendant, who, as a practical matter, was out trying to score some caffeine after a long night. But someone, who wasn't dead, really wanted to get out of that drawer and was trying to not make a whole lot of noise about it. House didn't believe in vampires, or zombies, for that matter. He did observe that his hand shook slightly as he turned the handle of the drawer sideways. He didn't pull it out, though, because interns will sleep anywhere.
At first, nothing happened, but then with a sense of apprehension, as if someone were holding their breath, the drawer cracked opened. The gap was about the width of a dime.
House snatched the chart and took a few steps backwards, holding his breath.
The big spender inside went for the whole two-bits. Finger tips appeared and pressed on the stainless steel frame. Silently and warily, the drawer began to slide open.
Slowly and silently, House inhaled. When his lungs were about to burst, he yelled, "You're dead!"
His voice was a pitched a triffle high to achieve the full effect, but there was a sharp crack and a yip from inside the drawer as someone banged something. House grabbed the handle and pulled it all the way open, releasing a smell of chemical char into the ice cold room, and a naked man who sat up, rubbing his forehead and glaring furiously.
"You're dead." House informed him. This time he had his voice under control and was able to delivere the line with the precision of a scalpel edge. It was a tone that rarely failed to draw blood, but this was one of those times.
"I think I'd know it if I was dead." John Doe swung his legs over the side and stood up, arching his back. Then he bent over to touch his toes, work out some kinks, and take the tag off of his big right piggy .
House glanced from the chart to Doe's uncrushed spine and noted that, where it wasn't black and greasy, the skin was healthy and pink, particularly on the arms and left leg Doe wasn't supposed to possess.
Doe straightened up. "May I borrow a towel?" he said.
Definitely, not an intern.
Wordlessly, House pointed to door of the processing room and Doe walked that way.
House made a face at the unfortunate chart and flipped through a few more pages. Then he unclipped the papers, dropped the clipboard in the drawer and stumped after him.
Doe had found the towels and germicidal soap and was briskly sluicing with the flexible the hose that hung over the autopsy table. Black, sooty water was running down the drain in the floor.
"You're so dead, in fact, that only way they'd be able to ID you is by your dental records. Except you've never had a cavity in your life!" Eyebrows flying, House shook the wad papers for emphasis. Je Accuse!
"So?" The dead man said. He had eyebrows, too. "I avoid sweets. Obviously, I'm not dead."
"Oh, no, you're dead. I'm a doctor, I know these things."
"When it comes to that, so am I, and I say that I'm alive. Telephone?"
House pointed to the wall and was treated to a well-developed of back and haunch while Doe punched numbers. He listened, hung up, punched more numbers, and swore. He hung up and turned to look at House. There was more play with eyebrows, as well as some heavy squinting.
House sighed, and gave up the authorization code. Doe worked the phone again and waited, glancing up at the clock on the wall. Frowning he punched more buttons. This time he was connected to an operator and asked to make a person-to-person call. "Adam Pierson," he said. It hadn't been likely that his name was Doe.
House found himself straining to hear the phone ringing at the other end and shared the sudden relaxing of tension as, somewhere, a receiver was picked up.
"Dawson...? Joe!" Someone was over-reacting at the other end of the line. "Joe! It's me. I'm all right." The explosion had been all over the eleven o'clock news. "I know. Where is he?" Pierson scrubbed a hand through his damp hair and briefly shaded his eyes before looking up at the clock again. "That's 40 minutes. When he calls, tell him I'm at…?" He shot another look in House's direction.
"Princeton-Plainesboro."
"Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital. I'll wait for him."
There was silence, and then, softly, Pierson said, "I know, Joe, but you know only the good die young."
Pierson hung up, and said, "Can I borrow some scrubs?"
"You've got a lot of nerve," House said.
"Yes, I do," said Pierson.
They stood glaring at each. House broke first.
"Oh, come on," he said, pivoting on the point of his cane. "I need a cup of coffee."