So many disclaimers out there to choose from. Pick the one you like the best.
Part One—The Final Problem
"This is Olive Kaplan's CT scan," House was saying. The familiar wry sarcasm was still present in his voice, but the usual forceful delivery was missing. Its absence hit Lisa Cuddy like a boot in the gut. "The Incredible Shrinking Baby," the diagnostician added for good measure.
Cuddy took the print, trying not to rationalize so much. The man had just lost a patient, for God's sake. His impending dismissal was probably the last thing on his mind. No reason that the defeat in his voice was her fault. She held the image up to the light.
The exclamation caught in her throat, coming out as a whisper. "Her thymus gland!" she gasped.
"DiGeorge Syndrome," House agreed. "It's genetic. Caused the gland to whither to nothing."
He was trying to be a doctor. She could try, too. "This is why she couldn't gain weight," she said, stating the obvious because in the long run that was safest. A vague nausea came over her. This was the child she had almost condemned to a lifetime of foster care, buffeted around the system with nothing to cling to—because of an inherited disorder.
The weariness in House's voice communicated enough to drag her back to the current dilemma, setting aside the awful might-have-beens. "Yeah," he grunted softly.
Cuddy willed her throat to loosen a little. A brush with injustice averted. Saved from disaster. Again. By this misanthropic, cynical cripple. The son of a bitch who was, no matter what Edward Vogler said, the best doctor she had. But administrative instinct took hold and rescued her from that train of thought.
"I'll call the police and Social Services," promised Cuddy; "and have all the charges withdrawn."
That was that, she told herself. Duty done. Now she had to get to that board meeting, to fire the man who had just worked another miracle for her. So be it. He had it coming, she thought callously, trying to work up a little of the frustration that she experienced on a daily basis. He had it coming…
And he wasn't finished talking.
"I've sent a test down to confirm," House told her quietly. "When it comes back you should start Olive on immunoglobulin replacement."
There it was! The spark of exasperation she needed in order to do what had to be done. He couldn't pawn this kid off on her just because the parents were idiots! "You're not going to do it?" she demanded in annoyance. Too good to follow through with his patients now, was he?
The unkind thought faded as his brilliant blue eyes fell to his sneakers. "Well…" he whispered. Then his voice gained a little volume, but it was still low, tainted with… something. Surely not shame or humility. Grief? Cuddy wondered. Was he mourning the woman he had just lost in the middle of a routine procedure?
"I assume I won't be here," he finished.
Then she saw it. It flitted through his eyes as he turned to go—ever so briefly through the crystalline orbs that he had never really learned to control. They betrayed him often, and now was no exception. And Cuddy knew him well enough to interpret their treason, too. One emotion shone through.
Despair.
Despair, she realized, and her blood ran cold. Despair and resignation and maybe—just maybe—a tiny hint of regret.
She watched him go, rocking against his cane with that unique rhythm that almost made you forget that such movement wasn't natural, and she sighed.
And before she could help herself, she remembered the day he had strode back into her life.