Chapter 4

PPTH—Emergency Room Area

With Foreman still trapped in the Clinic, Cameron and Chase waited in the midst of the evacuated ambulance entrance for the convoy to arrive. For the two residents, they had wanted at least one lunch to themselves without House pulling something.

"What do you think it is this time?" she muttered.

"House gave up his soap for it. It must be bloody important," he retorted. He glanced into her eyes. "After this is done, want a rain check?"

"Think he'd be suspicious if we both call in?" she inquired sarcastically.

He snorted. "Cameron, this is House we're talking about."

"Good point," she admitted while hearing the ambulance's siren approaching. "Heads up." As the vehicle backed into the slot, she could see the EMTs wearing their masks. "What the Hell?"

The driver saw them standing there without their masks. "Get something on your faces! We have an infectious woman here!" He tossed them a pair of masks.

"Who is it?" she wondered.

"Your boss, Doc," the driver answered while opening the back doors and helping the others to lift Cuddy onto a stretcher and hurrying her into the hospital.

"What the Hell?" Cameron reiterated.

"That seems to be the question of the day," Chase quipped as they ran after the EMTs. Catching up to them, he directed, "Clean room's to the left."

"Sounds great," another of the EMTs agreed as they rushed the ailing administrator in there.

"Guess we know what was so important," Cameron presumed.

"I knew there was a reason I hired you—other than the fact you make great coffee," House cracked while limping toward them as fast as he could manage. "Anything yet?"

"We had the EMTs put her in a clean room. What's going on with her?" Chase informed him.

House glared at the younger man, effectively shutting him up. While he might've engaged in some witty repartee at any other point, he had other priorities at the moment. "That, Chase, is what I pay you three the big bucks for. Go and spring Foreman from Whiner Central. I'll be right there." He limped into the clean room's airlock and donned a yellow contamination suit. Then, after a quick sprits in the shower, he continued to the raven-haired patient's side.

"We'll get checked out, House," the EMT agreed.

"Wow. Smart and a lead foot. My hero. Shower's down the hall. Leave your clothes. We'll decontaminate them," House instructed.

"Hate to tell you, House, but we have other stops…."

The diagnostician wheeled around on the EMT and the latter's cohorts. "Oh I'll bet! Meantime, you want to infect half of the city! Some party then, huh? Radio your damn boss and tell him already." The blank eyed stare followed.

The head EMT rubbed his temples to soothe the headache starting there. While he wanted to lash out, he knew better than to get into a snark match with the gimpy physician. "Fine. Let's go, guys."

After they'd left, House examined Cuddy again. He discerned no new signs or symptoms—just the flushed sweats and the shakes. "Wonderful." As much as he wanted to knock his cane over the head of Cuddy's quack, he thought to start with the medicine from the drug store. He studied the brown vial and its label for a second. "Figures. Might as well play darts as use this crap." He flung the bottle into the trash angrily. "DAMN IT!"

He collapsed into a chair; the situation's stress firing up the burning from the infarction once again. Rolling his eyes, he jabbed his hand into his pants' pocket, pulled his own bottle out and almost flung three white oblong pills down his throat. For two minutes afterward, he sat there both letting the Vicodin do its thing and to watch Cuddy.

Feeling the welcome numbing of the pain, he forced himself to stand. Limping to her side, he grabbed for the hypodermic attached to the IV. "Might as well start her on the good stuff." With that, he set to work.

Thirty minutes later—Diagnostics Suite

Foreman snatched another item off of his desk and almost threw it in the packing box. Can't believe he's still doing that garbage to me! For a full ten seconds, he felt the steam coming out of his ears. After that, he composed himself. Of course he is. That's why you're getting out of here, remember?

"Good. You're still here," Cameron realized as she and Chase rushed into the suite. "House wants a differential diagnosis."

"Differential?" The neurologist scoffed. "We haven't had a case in two days! Differential on what?"

"Differential on whom," House corrected him while limping into the room. "Thanks for playing but since you're already off the playground, we can handle it."

She was about to object but Chase shook his head at her.

"Don't mind me then. I'll grab lunch," Foreman growled before leaving.

"Was that necessary?" she chided.

"He wants out. Fine. Big help, he is," the Diagnostician retorted from the whiteboard where he was writing down symptoms.

"Looks like regular laryngitis to me," Chase supposed after reading the laundry list.

"Figured that out on your lonesome, did you?" House snapped, letting the mask droop ever so slightly. Seeing the couple's startled glance—a rare treat for two so accustomed to his usual brusqueness—he shrugged. "I just spent the last hour with said patient." He took a deep breath and swallowed four vicodin pills.

"So why do you need the differential?" She focused on him, sensing that something wasn't making sense there. "And why are you so interested in a perfectly boring case?"

"I'm feeling lazy today so sue me," the boss replied flippantly.

She snorted, knowing he was like that every day. Before he could stop her, she grabbed for the folder. "Wonder what Cuddy will think of this?" When she read the name, she stopped.

"Cameron?" Chase inquired.

"Wonder Girl there just figured out the angle, Chase," House revealed with an air of dark sarcasm. "Get it now, Cameron?"

"In more ways than one," she fired back, not hiding her own distaste for his motives.

"And here I thought you moved on. Careful, Chase, she's still playing the field," House advised sarcastically. "My reasons are my own. Meantime, let's get back to the case."

"And the butt kissing," she groused.

"Get yourself sick, Cameron. Maybe you might be next," House countered impatiently.

"Okay, guys," Chase interjected. "The case, remember?"

"Nice to see one person's on point," House complimented half-sincerely. "Chase is right. We need to figure out a treatment regimen here."

"What about regular antibiotics and bed rest?" she interjected.

"If Cuddy hadn't tried to play superwoman the last two weeks, I'd say cool. Sorry, Cameron, the laryngitis settled and started inviting its buddies to the neighborhood. The cookout's nasty. Right now, we're sitting on a bomb and it's ticking."

Chase stared at him. "House, we can't contain it. The disease is already out of the hospital! Where did you find Cuddy?"

"At Rinaldi's," House informed him; his mind already thinking of strategies to deal with the current problem. "Wilson needs to know about this too." He rolled his eyes anticipating the whine and protests that his best friend would have. "But I do know one place that's going to shut its doors." He smirked darkly at that thought.

The two younger doctors knew where he was going with that. "But Cuddy…."

"Cuddy's out of it. Wilson's been put in charge of the playground now. Too bad her favorite place is about to bite the dust…at least for now," House disagreed. "Go ahead and draw a blood sample from the Empress. I'll be by to harass her later. Don't forget to put your stuff on." With that, he took off.

"This is going to go really well," Chase supposed.

"Might as well get it over with," she commented with a sigh. "We might want to test ourselves too since we were in the Clinic with that epidemic."

"Terrific," he groused as they left the suite for Cuddy's room.