Drenched

Summary: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heals, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

Disclaimer: House ain't mine. Belongs to David Shore and Fox. O woe is me. The poem, "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" belongs to Nicole Burdette. More woe. Don't sue!

Author's Note: I'm sure this will become pretty obvious very quickly, but I know next to nothing about medicine. I have done some (very limited) research online and via my local library, and as such any medical claims I make in this story should be ignored, or accepted at face value and then ignored. If you happen to know anything about medicine yourself, please feel free to correct me.

Please note that this is part two to chapter one, and not a separate chapter altogether. Hence, the same chapter title. (No, I have no intention of making these this long every time. I have no idea what got into me. I'm obviously insane.)

This section didn't turn out nearly half as well as I had hoped. Even if you're disappointed, stick with me until Chapter Two. If it's still hopeless by then, I wont beg you to stay. –grin-

This story is canon-compatible up to "Distractions".

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

---

Chapter One: A Stranger's Coat Pocket, Part Two

I want to be a lost poem in a stranger's coat pocket that conveys the importance of you
To assure you of my desires
To assure you of my dreams.
I want all the possibilities of you in writing.
-Nicole Burdette

---

Cameron resisted the urge to laugh hysterically, cry or bang her head against the table.

She was sitting in the diagnostics lounge, coffee in hand, various letters strewn out on the table in front of her. Foreman was across from her, looking similar, sorting through medical files. Chase was on the computer, checking House's email.

The team needed a new case desperately, as House was getting bored. And as they'd all learned, when House was bored, no one was safe. So they were all doing their part to find an intriguing case that could satisfy their boss's need for intricacies.

But Cameron knew she wasn't being very helpful. She put up a sincere and honest effort to read each and every letter, but shortly after she began to focus on the words she would lose them again, too busy worrying to work.

It was just ironic, that was all. It was the only reason why it was bothering her so much. The irony. Any other disease, it would have been fine. Well, not fine, obviously. But it wouldn't disable her so completely. Wouldn't stop her in her tracks; prevent her from doing the most mundane of tasks, like reading letters from dying people and their families.

Funny. Should Clara be classified as a dying person now? It was hard to think of her that way. Her older sister had never been anything if not full of life and energy, young at heart always. Even though Allison was thirteen years younger than her half-sibling, the two were closer than the best of friends. They had helped one another through trying times, both in childhood and adulthood, and the result was a connection deeper than most could imagine.

When Clara was ten her mother died of breast cancer, leaving their father alone and miserable and Clara lost and frightened. A year after the death their father had married again, this time to Cameron's mother, who quickly became pregnant and gave birth to Allison. The new baby, so similar to Clara and yet so different, forced the girl to break out of the shell she had formed upon her mother's death, the small baby's smile making Clara want to smile too, a task that neither the awkward attempts of her father nor the gentle pleadings of her new step-mother had been able to accomplish. If this seven pound, days old, person could face this big and frightening world with a smile, then so could Clara. Four years later their younger brother, William, was born.

Even though there was such a gap in their ages, Allison and Clara quickly developed a strong bond that nothing seemed able to break. In Allison's eyes, Clara was brave, fearless and curious, never hesitant to investigate any unusual situation. Always intrigued by people, quick to make friends and full of what seemed to be an uncontrollable force to do, to see, to discover. And yet, somehow, she radiated an inexplicable clam. As if all of her energy and spirit were perfectly channeled to bring about the best in Clara, that all of her love and passion existed in a chaos so organized that it left her truly content, at peace.

As for Clara, she found Allison charming from the outset. She told Cameron that she knew that her younger sister was smart by how quickly she learned to do everything. By how soon she was walking, talking, reading. Allison was among the best of her fellows, a quick and intelligent study at whatever she set out to do. Clara said that the intelligence was only matched by Allison's fiercely nurturing nature and desire to please. When she was young she would find small bugs in the backyard as Clara watched, moving them carefully from point A to B because, "There's more sun by the fence than by the fountain."

The bond grew when Clara went to the local university for undergraduate school, living at home to spare the family from paying for a dorm room she insisted that she didn't need. By the end of those four years it was obvious that Allison adored everything about her older sister, and that Clara found her sibling irresistible. They had active lives outside of one another, of course, but even after a long night of dorm parties the first thing Clara would do when she got home was kiss her younger sister on the forehead before she went to sleep. And if she was still awake, Allison would run to the door as soon as she heard it open each evening, giving her sister a hug before she went back to whatever interest she was pursuing at the time. Each sister gave the other strength, reassurance and comfort simply by being.

As for their younger brother, the sisters doted on him, spoiling William endlessly and making certain that he never lacked for love. Even at six, they could see the flirt he was destined to become, always wandering off to bring back his mother and sisters flowers, drawing them pictures and kissing them on the cheeks to get his way. He was a lady's man waiting to emerge, the perfect combination of sweetness and independence that they were all certain would make women swoon when he was fifteen years older.

And they were happy this way, each child filled to the brim with love and care, lacking nothing. They had no way of knowing that it would be ending soon.

Clara went to California as a grad student on a full-paid scholarship, and two years later their father died of lung cancer.

He was a cigar man, and despite everyone's attempts to make him quit the bad habit, he continued smoking his tobacco, too stubborn and set in his ways to change. "Hell, I'm an old man anyway," he would say as he scratched his beard, "Stopping now would be a bit after the fact, don't you think? No, I'll enjoy the last years of my life properly, with a nice Cuban in my hand."

It had destroyed Cameron's mother, a meek, quiet woman with a soft smile and kind eyes. Although she had healed her father when he felt as if he could never be whole again, Allison's mother couldn't withstand the death of her husband. Her strength was of a special kind, for the curing and caring of others, sustaining those around her with a gentle but firm hand. And although she was more than a little skilled at this, able to put even the most broken of people back together again, she was incapable of offering the same solace for herself.

Clara had come home for the funeral and wanted to stay, to desert her graduate work so that she could take care of a family that she thought desperately needed her. Anyone could see that her step-mother could barely take care of herself, much less deal with trials of raising two children.

But Cameron wouldn't let her.

She had only been twelve, but she was stubborn and determined. Allison knew how much her sister loved her studies, and wouldn't let the person she admired most abandon her dreams when she herself could watch after her brother and mother, if she needed to.

Clara didn't like it, nor did the rest of the small town, but in the end, Alison got her way. She had convinced everyone that her mother only needed time, and then she would return to her former self. Asked them all to give it a week, a month. Let her mother have some time to grieve, that's all.

Clara left, but only with the promise of daily phone-calls. The town had allowed it, but planned to keep an eye on the Burroughs family, on the look-out for any sign of the children being ill-cared for. And although Cameron's mother never did fully come back to herself, no one knew until it was much too late that Allison had taken on a role no one thought a twelve year old capable of maintaining.

More often than not, Allison's mother would spend her days in a rocking chair by the window, looking outside at their large front yard and remembering a marriage cut far too short. There were times when she could pull herself together for a few hours, and during those times she, Allison and William would go out to buy groceries, go clothes shopping, take care of the necessities of life that the family could afford.

They never starved, that was for certain. But most of the money they got from the funds they received in their father's absence were spent on food and simple house-hold provisions rather than on pretty clothes, hair products or electronics. For most children this would have been unacceptable, but Allison didn't have the time to be upset, and William's complaints were quickly silenced and easily brushed aside.

Allison became the parent in the family, taking care of William and her mother while doing her best to succeed in school. By that point, Cameron knew that she wanted to be a doctor. She liked helping people, and she felt that no greater reason could be found to make the job more suitable for her. Perhaps she didn't have the talent of her mother, able to soothe even the most distraught of persons with a caring word and smile; that was an ability more suited to Clara. But Allison did have the innate drive to shelter broken things, the help mend them if she could. She knew there was more to it than that, the simple desire to heal, knew she had to display excellence in all of her classes. It wouldn't be easy. As intelligent as Allison was, she was no genius. She was smart, but not brilliant, and in every advanced class she took she felt the need to work twice as hard as any of her fellows, to push herself more than they felt was strictly necessary. That, in combination with her responsibilities at home, would have been too much pressure for the average teenager to take.

Somehow, she had done it. As Clara was setting up her own psychology practice, Cameron was head of the household, one of the top students of her class and rapidly gaining respect and credibility within the community as a very able young woman. But no one, not the neighbors, not her sister, not her teachers, knew of the extra burdens she had taken on.

By the Christmas of her senior year, Allison had forgotten that she wasn't supposed to be the care-taker of the family, had given up her hopes of medical school (finally aware of the price of such dreams), and had just begun to accept the life she was leading for what it was, and to expect nothing else. When Clara came home to see what her little sister had done in the years she was away, (the scholarship, after all, provided for everything except for trips back home. By the time she had finished at the university, she was scraping together every penny she could to create her practice, leaving nothing for plane rides) she made a decision.

She sent Allison to her school councilor and had her apply to the best pre-med schools in the country. She contacted every scholarship provider she could find and made her sister apply for those as well. At the end of the holiday she went back to California and made her arrangements to leave, referring clients to other doctors, ending her contract with the building she had rented and getting her personal affairs in order.

By June Clara had returned home, Allison had been admitted into a well-known university with one of the best pre-med programs in the country, and had gotten a full-ride scholarship to pay for every aspect of her education, including, to everyone's pleasure, trips home.

Clara then told her sister that if she didn't peruse her own goals, achieve her own dreams and do something for herself, she would have a very upset older sibling bent on banging sense into her head. Violently.

Cameron didn't look back.

More than a decade later, Allison was a successful doctor, happy and content in her profession. Her mother had died several years ago, and although the death had affected her greatly, she knew that her mother's suffering had ended. Will was doing what he loved while he loved it (in more than one sense), and Clara had opened another practice on the east coast and was thriving, happily married with an eleven year old son. The siblings remained close, weekly phone calls keeping them connected until the holidays came around, when they would, at least for one day, get together to see one another.

All was well.

Until that morning, when Cameron woke up to the sound of her telephone blaring at the side of her bed.

She groggily sat up and reached for the phone, bringing it to her ear as she flopped back down onto her bed.

She cleared her throat, "'Lo?"

"Al?"

"Clara," Cameron sat up instantly. She never called this early. "Is something wrong? Everyone okay?"

Her sister laughed on the other side of the line, "This how you greet every morning caller, Al?"

Cameron smiled, "Only when they're as special as you, my dear."

"Oh yes, that's it. Flatter me. Then I might tell you why I called."

"You're brilliant."

"A start…"

"My role-model, greatest hero… If I were in charge of such things you would be proclaimed queen of the universe and the rest of us would bow before you like ants."

Clara's grin was audible, "At last, someone with sense. You should be in charge of those things. You obviously know what you're talking about."

"Clara," Allison stopped smiling and became serious, "You never like staling, not unless it's bad. Just say it."

"Al, I don't think this is one of those things I can just say to you without some sort of warn-"

"Clara," even Cameron heard the note of irritation in her tone.

"I have breast cancer."

Cameron was certain she stopped breathing.

"Al? Allison?"

"I'm here," she fought down the panic, the familiar fear. Cancer. Why was it always cancer? "What stage is it?"

"Three."

"When did you find out?"

"Last night."

"How big is the tumor?"

"Five and a half centimeters. I should have checked sooner, I know. I noticed the lump, but I didn't have the time, I didn't think... I've felt fine, and we've been so busy, you know. Moving, and Mark's business taking off, and work-"

"I want you here."

"What?"

"Our oncology department is the best on the east coast. Transfer here."

"Al, I don't have the power to do that. I'm sure PPTH does have the best, but I can't just admit myself there,"

"I'll get you admitted. I know the head of the department."

"Are you sure you can do that?"

No. "Yes. I'll talk to him today. Who's your doctor and what's his number?"

Cameron grabbed the pen and pad of paper she kept on her bedside table and wrote down the information Clara gave her. She didn't look forward to the prospect of asking Wilson to take on her sister's case. He was a nice man, but he was also a very busy man, and she barely knew him. This was no small favor she was asking. That would have been requesting a consult, or borrowing a dollar. Those were things that she sure Doctor Wilson would have been happy to help her with. But curing her sister of stage three breast cancer?

Oh God, it was already to stage three...

"Al?"

"Yeah?"

"Stop."

"Stop what?"

"Worrying. I can feel it through the phone for Christ's sake. Calm down, I'm doing fine."

Allison forced a smile, "If you're upset with my worry you must be insane with the amount of fluttering Mark has got be doing."

"You have no idea. He wants to carry me from room to room. I mean, its fun and all, I feel like I'm sixteen again, but it's getting a bit absurd now."

Cameron grinned and went back into her thoughts. Cancer…

"Al!"

"I'm sorry," she said sheepishly.

"Don't be sorry. I know this is going to be hard for you,"

"Hard for me?" Cameron threw the blankets off of her legs and stood up from her bed, making her way to the kitchen. "None of that now. As of this moment until you've gotten healthier your only concern will be yourself and getting better. Understood?" Cameron started making her morning coffee, ignoring the way her hand shook when she took down her mug.

"Yes ma'am." A slight pause, "Allison?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Cameron smiled, "No thanks needed. Now, I expect you to sleep all day and do nothing that even remotely resembles work. Let that strapping young husband of yours wait on you hand and foot, it'll make him feel better. Plus he cooks a mean omelet. I'll call you when I get home from work today, okay?"

"Alright,"

"Love you,"

"I love you too."

Clara hung up and Cameron allowed herself to lean against one of her counters, slowly sliding down until she sat on the floor.

Cancer.

It was always cancer.

---

"Earth to Cameron?"

Allison jumped at the voice.

"Sorry," Chase muttered as he moved from in front of her and sat instead at the glass table, "just wanted to make sure you were still among the living."

"Yeah I'm here, I just don't think I can go through another one of these letters," Foreman grinned as Cameron, the most patient of the team, threw down her stack with a sigh. "Most of the ones I've read are just variations of slightly obscure diseases. I'll write them back with suggestions later, but none of these will interest House."

"Well I've got nothing," Foreman said, tossing his own pile onto the table and looking down at them with disgust. "This is ridiculous."

"What?" Asked Chase as he took up the big baseball and threw it into the air, "Finding no interesting cases? I agree. Didn't get any in the emails either. Usually there's something remotely remarkable out there, but just when we're about to have an under stimulated House; nothing."

"No," Foreman growled as he looked up at the Aussie, "That's just bad luck. Us having to search for patients for House so he doesn't terrorize the hospital is ridiculous. It's insane. We're wasting our time and talents on this."

"It's been two days since our last case. I'm sure the medical world survived without our contributions. "

"That's not the point," Foreman said quietly, standing up to get some more coffee and grabbing a mug violently as he strode across the room.

The frustration had been mounting for months. Being House's lackey was not an enjoyable experience, especially when one wasn't a member of his fan club. And although both of his teammates were obviously annoyed by their boss, Chase and Cameron seemed to be card-carrying members, too swept up in House's intelligence and skill to see his faults, or to notice the way they were treated. It wasn't that Eric didn't respect House as a doctor; no graduate of medical school worth the thousands of dollars spent on the education could witness even a moment of House at work without being impressed. It wasn't even that he didn't like his boss. He didn't, but that was something he could deal with quite easily.

He was simply tired of being a puppet.

Even before taking the job with House, Foreman was aware of his own intelligence, aware of his own abilities and potential as a doctor. It wasn't vanity and it wasn't pride, it was a simple knowledge of his own capabilities. Unfortunately, this knowledge was often mistaken for arrogance, and although he had proven time and time again that he actually contained the capacity for medicine that he claimed he had, he was given next to no credit for it. Maybe because his certainty of his own abilities aggravated those around him, maybe it was because he was black or maybe it was simple jealousy, but throughout all of his years of study he was rarely acknowledged as anything other than a bright student and a good doctor.

And that wasn't enough for Foreman.

He didn't want to be a good doctor, he wanted to be a great doctor. But obviously, the medical community at large was still unimpressed with his attempts to distinguish himself from his peers.

So he applied for the most challenging job he could find. Working under Doctor Gregory House at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in the diagnostics department.

Suffice to say, he didn't think he would be spending his time doing secretarial work. "Anywhere else," Foreman poured himself some coffee, "and I'd have a full schedule of patients," he turned back to his fellow puppets, "actually doing my job instead of trying to appease some egomaniac psychopath."

"Hmm. Egomaniac psychopath. I like it. Think I can get it embroidered on a hat?"

House was standing in the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane with a file in hand.

"I'd pay for it," Foreman muttered, sitting back down at the table.

"Aw, that's sweet Eric. Still won't get you into my pants though," House limped across the room and went up to the white board, starting to write a new set of symptoms, "Now chocolate. That might make me more inclined to accept your obvious advances."

Foreman rolled his eyes and took a sip of coffee.

"You found us a patient." Cameron had a look of utter astonishment and slight horror on her face.

House turned around and squinted at Cameron, raising an eyebrow slightly. "No," House stepped away from the board and capped the pen. "Cuddy found us a case. Behold!"

The team looked at the board, Foreman tilting his head slightly at the symptoms.

"You've got to be kidding me," Chase had dropped the ball on the floor and was staring at the symptoms with a bewildered expression on his face.

"B-but..."

"Ah, excellent. Doctor Cameron has already been reduced to stuttering. This is going to be a good day, I can tell." House was smirking as he made his way to the coffee.

"It's a common allergic reaction," Chase was still staring.

"Cuddy's blackmailing you, isn't she?" Foreman gave the diagnostician a suspicious glance. There was no other way House would take the patient. It was just so...

"Boring, isn't it? No, not blackmail exactly. She just pulled the old, 'You cost us a hundred million dollars and are now my slave' routine. Still milking it, two years later. At least she hasn't wanted me to do anything too kinky yet..."

"Not an image I needed," Chase twitched, "I'm still nauseated by the thought of Wilson in spandex and doing... that... to a rubber duck."

The team gave a collective shudder.

"I thought it was creative." House took a bagel from the table. "What can I say? Our Jimmy is adventurous." He bit off a large chunk.

"Who's the patient?" Cameron asked. House gestured to his full mouth and shrugged. "I mean, it can't be just any patient if she's willing to face your sarcasm."

"Arrrothn Rat," crumbs fell from his stubble to the floor.

"It has to be someone rich," Foreman took another sip of coffee, pointedly ignoring House.

"Very rich. And someone with influence," Chase looked up at his boss, cheeks puffed out and shirt covered with bagel pieces, "If Cuddy was going to make him cure someone involuntarily, because it obviously will only work once, it would have to be someone whose good praises would earn the hospital more credibility."

"Jrrronoth Rat!" Little bits of bagel now completely covered the floor where House was standing.

Cameron sat up in her seat, "Jonathon Pratt?"

House smiled in triumph, a ridiculous sight with his cheeks still puffed out with bread.

"The Jonathon Pratt?" Chase whistled. "Impressive."

House swallowed. "Yep. Very impressive. I would jump for joy but, you know. Bum leg. Not so fun. Now let's all work for Mommy and get her the mula so that we can do something more interesting with our time. We already know what it is, so all that's left is to figure out what caused it. Cameron, go take a patient history."

Cameron blinked, looking up from the letters she was still attempting to read. "Right now?"

"Yeah, that would be nice. Unless you want to spend more time diagnosing? Want to pretend it's something else?"

Cameron sighed and stood up from the table, gathering a clipboard and pen.

"Hey, none of that sulking. If we want him to deliver the goods, we better give him something nice to stare at, so smile. I would send Chase, but you've got better hair."

Both doctors glared at him. "Stop pouting Chase, you know it's true. Get some Head and Shoulders and we'll have the contest again next week." He looked at Cameron. "Why are you still here?"

She rolled her eyes exited the room, grabbing her cup of coffee before leaving and giving a small wave to the boys.

"So," House looked at his two remaining doctors, "Have you guys figured out what's wrong with Cameron?"

"Wrong?" Foreman raised an eyebrow. She did seem a bit distracted, perhaps not as focused as usual, maybe a little pale. But more likely than not she had a bad night, didn't sleep well.

But even as he thought it, he recalled how quiet she had been that day, how drawn. She wasn't herself, evading conversations and patients as if actual human interaction would require too much of something she had no energy to give.

He hated the fact that House had noticed it before he had.

"Does it seem like something's wrong?" Chase asked he picked up the big tennis ball from where he had dropped it earlier.

"Well if you have to ask," House hobbled forward so he was standing next to Chase, "then I guess I have my question answered." He snatched the ball out of the air and smirked at Chase. "She hasn't seen any patients, only two of the letters she was reading have been opened and she has bags under her eyes," Chase and Foreman exchanged looks as House put the marker he had used away, "Something's wrong," he looked thoughtful for a beat before he gave his head a slight shake and limped around the table.

"I want you two to go over to the building where he had the attack." He slouched down into one of the chairs, "The allergen probably originated there, I was you to see if you can find it."

"How do we find out what caused the reaction if we don't know what he's allergic to?" Foreman remained sitting even as Chase stretched to his full height.

"I'll have Cameron call you when she's done with the history. Now hurry up, would you? I want this done before General Hospital comes on in an hour."

Chase was already out the door, but Foreman lingered, watching his boss as he threw the tennis ball in the air.

Foreman was a neurologist, top of his class, working for over a decade to get where he was today, and he was being sent to poke around in an office. All of that effort, for this. "I'm tired of being your errand boy." It wasn't an angry accusation, not a wounded remark. Just a statement.

"And I'm tired of having to pay hookers for sub-par service," said just as seriously with another toss of the ball, "And yet, you'll still do what I ask and I'll still pay them. Oh curse the system!"

Foreman sighed and got up from the table, grabbing his jacket and jogging to catch up with Chase.

---

"The building you work at, is it relatively clean?" Cameron was sitting across from Jonathon Pratt, who was comfortable on the hospital bed. He was a middle-aged man of average size and height, with black hair and hazel eyes, unremarkable in virtually every way. No one could have guessed by looking at him that he was one of the richest men in the world. Allison was nearly through with the history and still surprised by how at ease she felt in his presence, used to rich patients glorifying in their wealth and prestige, annoyed that they had to deal with tedious questions like normal patients. Generally they felt that they were above such things.

"I think so," Mr. Pratt said, looking up at Allison as he twisted his wedding ring on his finger, "I mean, I don't go in there every day, but as far as I can tell there are no cockroaches or rats." He gave her a smile.

"Okay," Cameron made a check on her form, "Any recent changes to the environment? Construction, remodeling?"

"We had the top floor repainted yesterday. Could that have caused," he gestured towards the left side of his face, now back to its normal pigment, but which had earlier been a shocking shade of red with hives spotting from his mouth to temple, "that."

Alison did her best to look supportive, "It's possible, depending on the paint that was used and your sensitivity to chemicals."

"I wouldn't know about the paint, but I've always had a problem with intense chemicals." He grinned, "My wife hates it. She can never spray the pesticides in the garden unless she wants me coughing and wheezing for hours. She usually waits until I'm away on business to do it now." Another rueful smile, "We don't have a very impressive garden."

Cameron smiled back, "Your wife likes to garden?"

"Loves it. She says it's relaxing and refuses to let me hire someone to help her with tending to it. She said something like, 'Johnny, if you want to get the garden to grow you've got to take care of it, so it knows it's loved. Now how would it feel if I let someone else get filthy, muddy and disgusting when I'm the one whose supposed to keep it?'"

"She seems like a very smart woman,"

Pratt nodded, "The smartest. Light-years ahead of me,"

Cameron shot him a suspicious glance, eye-brow raised.

"I'm serious! She's actually a doctor too, you know. A pediatrician at Princeton General."

"Really? And she still finds time to garden?"

"Whenever she can manage it," he had a wistful look on his face, seeming to momentarily forget where he was. He looked up at Cameron again, "My wife is amazing. She can do anything."

Cameron found herself smiling. One of the most brilliant men on Earth, and his biggest hero was the woman he was married to. "I don't doubt it." She looked down at her chart, marking a few areas. "Well, thank you Mr. Pratt. We're going to run a few more tests and then I'll get back to you as soon as we know what caused your episode."

"Thank you Doctor Cameron,"

"You're welcome," Allison stood up and left the room, sliding the glass door closed behind her and pulling her cell-phone out of her pocket.

She began the journey back to the diagnostics office, dialing Chase's number as she dodged nurses and patients.

"Hello?"

"Chase?"

"Hey, what've you got for us?"

"Are you at the building yet?"

"Just arrived. Foreman's in the boy's room, but when he's out we're going to start searching."

"Start with the top floor. Apparently they just had it repainted and Pratt is sensitive to chemicals."

"Do you really think that paint could have chemicals concentrated enough to cause that sort of reaction?"

Cameron was down the hall from House's office when she stopped in her tracks, looking ahead of her to see Doctor Wilson sitting in front of his friend's desk, laughing about something as House stared with an aggrieved look.

"Well it depends on when the paint was made,"

"Pratt's not going to use paint that's more than a decade old. The man's a billionaire, there's no reason why he should be pinching pennies and using leftovers."

"He's also a busy man, meaning that he wouldn't be paying attention to what kind of paint was used so long as the office was a different color when he got in this morning. It's not a matter of him wanting to save money," Cameron was still standing in the hallway, watching Wilson pick up his coffee cup and go to the sink, "It's about the people who he hired trying to make money."

"You think they scammed Pratt? Made him pay for new paint when they were using old stuff?"

"Yep," Wilson emptied his mug into the sink and rinsed it.

"You've been around House too long. I still don't think that the chemicals could cause such a violent reaction so quickly."

"Well you'll just have to check and see." He walked back to House, gave a wave and started for the door. "I have to go."

"Okay," slight pause, "Cameron?"

"Yes?" Wilson was pushing the door open.

"Is everything alright?"

She stopped her observations. "What?"

"Are you alright? Nothing's wrong, is it?"

Yes. Yes something's wrong. My sister is dying of a disease that has already taken more happiness from me and the people I love than anyone should have to give. The person I admire more than anyone in the world is sick, and she's going to die unless I ask a near stranger to heal her, for no other reason than because I asked him to. And even if he says that he'll try, that doesn't mean that she will be okay, and the uncertainty is killing me. I feel like screaming or crying, but I can't because I'm a doctor, because I'm responsible and because I have a job to do. Because if she is going to have any chance to survive, I have to hold myself together so she will spend her energy on healing instead of on making sure I'm okay.

Everything's wrong.

"No, everything's fine," Cameron forced a smile, "I'm just tired today. You and Foreman get back here quickly, okay? Try to get an undiluted sample of the paint and we'll run some tests to see if it's the cause of Pratt's reaction," Wilson was walking away in the opposite direction, case-file in hand.

"Got to go. See you when you guys get back," she snapped her phone closed and marched past the diagnostics office, tapping Wilson on the shoulder and bracing herself.

---

Chase turned off his phone, puzzled over Cameron's abrupt departure. All was not well, that was a certainty, but just as obvious was her reluctance to tell him anything.

They have sex and she never trusts him again.

Perfect.

It didn't matter that it was nearly a year ago, that they hadn't spoken of it since, that there had been no hints or notions that something similar would take place again. It remained an invisible but nearly tangible barrier between them, preventing them from ever becoming more than casual friends. More often than not it was an easy wall to ignore, and they continued on with their relationship as if nothing had changed, but then, the moment things became more personal than everyday conversation permitted, one or both of them would become uncomfortable, feel as if they were testing the limits of a line not meant to be crossed.

Chase wasn't going to fool himself- he knew that he had, at the time, an interest in Cameron beyond their already established relationship as colleagues. She was beautiful and nice, smart and funny. He had liked her from the outset, and soon that fondness grew into something else. It was that stupid 'something else' that made him go along with her that day, made him accept her kisses and return them with equal enthusiasm.

And it had been wrong. She was on drugs and high, unable to think clearly, barely aware of what she was doing as she removed his clothes from him. For a time he was content to ignore these facts, to believe, briefly, that it wasn't the drugs or the fear that made her do it, that it was him. That she wanted, not just anyone, but him. These delusions were quickly shattered, as Cameron continued on with her business as if it had never happened, and eventually Chase was glad of it. Allison was too good of a friend to lose, and she obviously had no interest in him that wasn't strictly platonic.

But now, during times like this, he would get the impression that all was not well between them. That she was holding something back, afraid that if she gave him any notion of a deeper friendship between them, he would assume that she wanted something more from him. Normally, this wouldn't have bothered him, and he would quickly set her to rights, reassure her of his completely pure intentions. But, she was not the only one who had made the mistake that day.

He had taken advantage of her, and the shame of it kept him from pressing her now. He had no right to ask her to express any troubles she may be having, he had no right to ask anything of her.

They were friends, but they were both so afraid of crossing lines that they brought the progression of that friendship to a standstill. Friends, but not good friends. They knew one another, but not well. And both felt the worse for it.

Or at least Chase did. He sighed and let his hair flop into his face, wondering again how he managed to screw up every relationship, romantic or not, that he ever had.

Before he could become too immersed in his pathetic people-skills, Foreman came out of the bathroom.

"I was worried there for a second," Chase smirked. "Afraid you fell in."

Foreman glared. "Ha. Did you hear from Cameron?"

"She said to check the top floor first. They painted yesterday and Pratt's has a hypersensitivity to chemicals."

"Depending on the age of the paint they used, the concentration of the chemicals will be varied."

"Exactly."

Foreman led the way to the elevator, "Up we go then."

When the two men stepped out of the lift, they were greeted by a overpowering scent of drying paint and a woman whose smile took up most of her face, displaying a set of very white teeth. "Hello! My name's Audrey!"

Chase quickly stepped behind Foreman and nudged him forward, using him as a shield against the cheerfulness.

Foreman shot an irritated look behind him and gave a tentative smile to the woman in front of them. "Er, hello Audrey. I'm Doctor Foreman and this is Doctor Chase. We're working on Mr. Pratt's case,"

"Oh yes," like a switched had been flipped, Audrey's smile instantly turned into a frown, "it was so horrible what happened. I was so scared, and Lee didn't know what to do... Good thing Mrs. Wilson was here or else the two of us would have been completely useless."

Chase perked up from behind Foreman, "Mrs. Wilson?"

Audrey blinked, "Yes, Mr. Pratt's economic advisor,"

An elbow jabbed Chase in the ribs and he let out a huff of air.

"We were wondering if you could answer a few questions for us?" Foreman smiled pleasantly as Chase resisted the urge to kick him. "It would be very helpful to the case,"

"Oh of course, anything." The smile was back, and in full force.

"The paint job, it was done yesterday, correct?"

"Yes,"

"In the evening?"

"Oh yes. Couldn't do it in the afternoon, everyone was working."

"What time would you say they finished?"

"I couldn't be certain, but it was probably early in the morning. This is a big floor, after all." She produced a grating giggle that made Chase want to shove his head into a blender.

He could see Foreman's smile becoming more strained. "That it is. Did they have any extra paint that they left behind?"

"I don't know, but if they did it would have been put in the garage... Oh, but it's just huge! Are you going to go look for them? And I think the lights are broken too,"

Chase held in a groan.

Foreman sighed, "Yes, we are going to go look for them. Thank you for your time,"

And with that he turned around and headed back to the elevator, Chase on his heels.

They heard Audrey cry shrilly, "The color is 'Springtime Moss'!" just before the doors closed.

Time to look for the needle.

---

Wilson was in a good mood. Sure, Greg would probably drug him in his sleep and he'd end up being several hours late for work the next morning, but at least he had finally gotten some of his own back. House's frustration at the simplicity of the case Cuddy had forced him to take just made the victory all the sweeter.

He was finally starting to understand where Greg was coming from with the whole, 'annoy them to death' definition of friendship. Much more entertaining than the traditional definition.

Pulled out of his thoughts, Wilson turned when he felt a small tap on his shoulder.

"Doctor Cameron," James tried not to let his inner astonishment show. Although he liked Cameron (at which House would say that he liked everyone, making the point irrelevant), he was surprised to be confronted by her.

He had felt for the young doctor during her first years at PPTH, as easily becoming attached to patients was something he himself had to overcome when he was younger. It wasn't easy, to turn off or limit how much he cared for people. He didn't do it because he wanted to, but because he had to if he wanted to do his job properly. It was painful for him to see people suffer and to not make some move to comfort them, an effort that would have been seen as inappropriate if he attempted it in his confines as a practitioner of medicine. And that wasn't even taking into account the toll that deaths of patients could have on a person who cared too much.

Knowing this, he had perhaps overstepped his bounds with Cameron, trying to mentor her, help her become less emotionally invested in her patients. Guidance that she, possibly, didn't want or appreciate. He had since kept his distance from her, not wishing to upset her. She already had the trial of working with House everyday, no need for him to add to her irritation.

But now here she was, after months of barely speaking to one another, looking very nervous and as if she was expecting him to yell at her any second. "How can I help you?"

He saw her take in a deep breath, "I was hoping I could ask a favor of you."

"Yes?"

Another breath, "My," a pause, a flash of uncertainty, "my sister has stage three breast cancer."

Wilson was shocked into silence.

"I know that you're busy, and that you already have a full load of cases, but her doctor... I've never heard of him before, and the hospital isn't known for their oncology department..."

She looked at him straight in the eye. "Honestly, I don't trust them."

Wilson, ignoring the warning signs going off in his head ("What if her sister dies? Will she still be able to work with you? Will you still be able to work with her?" "Having her sister here will distract her from job, her patient care will be compromised." "You have a full case load, you don't have the time to take on another patient."), didn't need to think twice.

"Do you want me to take her case?"

A look of relief washed over her features, "Would you, please? I know it's a lot to ask, and that I have no right to-"

He held up a hand, halting her frantic pleas. "Of course," he gave her a reassuring smile and hoped that he wasn't making a mistake. "Give me her and her doctor's information and I'll have her transferred as soon as possible."

She reached into one of her pockets and pulled out a small piece of folded paper.

She passed him the note, and then held his hand in hers for a moment, her cold hand squeezing his as she looked at him.

"Thank you."

Wilson took the paper and put it in his lab-coat pocket.

"You're welcome."