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Chapter 3
Wilson stood in the elevator early Monday morning, not quite ready to start his day. It had been a long weekend spent monitoring two of his long-term patients. One died just after midnight on Sunday, the other only an hour later, and for the first time since he chose his specialty, Wilson wondered if he could continue to work as an oncologist.
As he reached to press the fourth floor button, an all too familiar cane stopped the doors from closing completely. He smiled in greeting at his friend, only to receive a half-hearted smirk in return. Without directly looking at him, in an effort to avoid detection, Wilson observed House out of the corner of his eye, noting his friend's weight loss. It was something Wilson detected a few days prior and it was slight, almost imperceptible; it was such a minor loss, that he thought it was unlikely any of House's minions, or even Cuddy, had noticed the change. He knew something was up when House left early after hardly touching the steak and mushrooms Shelby had served the night before.
"Stop staring."
Wilson directed his gaze to the doors in front of him, "Up for lunch today?"
House feigned disinterest, "Nope, big case. No time for lunch."
Wilson's lips formed a tight line, "You're pale. Sure you're feeling okay?"
House shot him a wry, completely fake smile, "Broke in a new hooker last night; she didn't leave until after three."
Wilson raised his eyebrows with a tilt of his head, not remotely believing him. "Well, if you find the magical cure before lunch, I'll see you in the cafeteria," he said as they exited the car.
_______
House stood at the whiteboard, marker in hand, berating his fellows. "Come on people, he's going to be dead if we can't come up with a diagnosis."
"Autoimmune."
"Symptoms don't fit."
Kutner walked into the conference room at that moment, shaking his head, "He's bleeding from his ear."
House placed the tip of the marker on the whiteboard, fumbled with it momentarily and the pen dropped. He cursed himself as he bent down to pick it up; no one in the room heard his whispered grunt as he reached for it. He stood up, finished writing the new symptom on the board and turned towards his team.
"Well?"
"We should re-run the tox screen," Brindle suggested.
"And a head CT," Cameron contributed.
House nodded, "If you need me, I've got a consult in the clinic."
The trio walked out, leaving Foreman behind with House. House set the marker down and headed out the door; Foreman followed, intending to catch up to the other fellows. House turned in the opposite direction.
"Hey, where are you going?"
House shot him a smirk, and in a childish whine he said, "But teacher, I have to go wee-wee."
Foreman rolled his eyes, "You were just in there not even an hour ago."
"Well," he said in a mocking tone, "I don't have to go number two now."
Foreman shook his head, "TMI, House."
_______
House opted not to use a urinal, instead performing his own basic diagnostic test in a closed stall. He stared down into the porcelain bowl, frowning at the reddish hue. Shit. Damn. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Definitely not good.
He could no longer blame the lower back pain on his prolonged work day, pushing the sofa an inch, or lifting heavy objects. Lower-back pain, red urine and weight loss left the nephrologist with one option. Self diagnosis.
He made his way to the clinic, shushed the newest nurse on staff as she tried to shove a patient file at him, and headed into one of the empty exam rooms. House quickly and deftly drew two vials of his own blood, labeled them as 'Brock Sterling', and tossed them into a plastic bag. As he reached to remove the tourniquet, the door to the clinic exam room swung open forcefully and an oblivious Kutner walked in, coming to an abrupt halt.
"House?" he asked, alarmed to find his boss sitting in front of a table with two vials of blood that were clearly his own.
House sighed and rolled his eyes, "Get out."
"I uh…the patient's responding to the broad spectrum antibiotics. We found an infected gash on his head when we did the CT. And the patient finally confirmed he's an epileptic. Looks like it's just staph; Lynne's running the labs now."
"What part of 'get out', don't you understand?"
"Oh. Right," Kutner headed towards the door but turned just before he reached it, "You okay?"
"Routine blood work; Cuddy demands I submit to random tox screens; you know, opiate junkie and all," House said, aiming for sarcasm but missing the mark with a surly tone.
"Okay," Kutner said uneasily. He hurried out, being sure to shut the door firmly behind him.
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House made his fourth trip to the restroom since he arrived at work. As he washed his hands, he began to run through all the possibilities, mentally drawing up a whiteboard. He listed his symptoms on the imaginary board, keeping a tally of the most likely diagnoses.
He avoided Wilson that morning, knowing that he already suspected something was up. Dammit if Wilson wasn't too smart for his own good. With his back killing him, House spent the remainder of his morning in his office chair, feet on the ottoman, classical music softly playing in the background. Fatigue, need to add that to the list, he thought.
_______
At noon, House made his way to the cafeteria and found Wilson waiting near the hot foods counter, turkey sandwich in hand.
"Hey, so what're you having? I'm buying."
"That's not how it works. I'm supposed to steal half your lunch."
Wilson sighed, though secretly he hoped House would steal half his lunch, "Thought you liked Reubens more than turkey."
House eyed him suspiciously, "Are you trying to get me to eat?"
Wilson tried his best not to look guilty, "No, celebrating a good morning," he lied.
"Why? Find a cure for cancer?"
"Nope."
"What then?"
"No one's died in the last, oh, 11 hours in oncology."
House averted his eyes, mind wandering momentarily; it did not go unnoticed by Wilson. House brought his attention back to his friend, "Fine, no pickles."
Wilson knew him well, and without a doubt, he knew House was hiding something and he had a growing suspicion that there was something medically wrong. "I know, I know, god forbid if there be pickles in the Great One's Reuben," Wilson said, with as much mirth as he could muster, though not feeling an ounce of it.
The pair sat at their usual table and ate in silence. House ate a quarter of his sandwich and stopped abruptly.
Wilson eyed him, "Are you gonna finish that?"
House shook his head, "Big breakfast. I'll eat it later." Wilson nodded, not believing a single word of it.
He'd had enough. Wilson put his sandwich down, placed both palms down on the table top, shoulder width apart and leaned in to stare directly at House, "You've lost weight, your back's bothering you and you're pale as a ghost. Stomach, liver or kidneys?"
House pursed his lips, "Getting over the stomach flu. I'm fine."
Wilson shook his head, frustrated with the lies. He stood and leaned over the table, demanding that House not look away. "When you're ready to talk, I'm here. Whatever this is, don't let it get to the point that we can't deal with it."
House made a show of rolling his eyes and brushed off the comment flippantly. "Oh Jimmy, my hero. I'll let you know if the stomach flu turns into a virulent, drug-resistant super bug. Until then, go hug some cancer kids."
Wilson stood up straight, snatched the bag of unopened chips from House's tray and said, "Well, since you won't be eating these, don't mind if I do," and left House to stare at both of their uneaten sandwiches.
_______
Hoping House would avoid work like he normally did, Wilson made his way to the lab. He politely greeted the tech, made a quick scan of the area to be sure the two were alone and then proceeded to question the technician.
"Can I help you Dr. Wilson?"
"I'm just checking on Dr. Greg House's results."
"Dr. House?"
"Yes, I'm his attending."
"Let me check," the lab tech searched the computer files before looking up at Wilson, "I'm sorry, but no tests have been sent in for Dr. House."
"Oh, well maybe he hasn't had his blood drawn yet today. Thank you."
"No problem," she said with a smile.
Wilson turned on his heel and headed back to his office, wondering if he had perhaps overreacted. Wilson didn't notice Kutner as he stood up from behind a back counter after having picked up a dropped read-out. Kutner was unable to wipe the look of concern from his face, nor close his mouth, as he watched Wilson walk away.
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