House's dream of an evening off in the front of the TV evaporated just as he walked in the front door. The phone indicated that Foreman was the culprit.
"Your Momma never tell you it's rude to disturb people on Christmas Eve?" House answered.
"My mother taught me it's rude to let people die on Christmas Eve. Besides, you don't even celebrate Christmas. House, you need to come in. The treatment isn't working."
He really didn't want to go in but if they could fix this tonight then he'd be guaranteed a couple of days off. Whereas, if he ignored Foreman now, he'd probably be called out in the early hours of Christmas morning. He doubted the patient was really dying but if he didn't sort this out now, he might be by tomorrow morning.
He sighed.
"On my way. And you better have all the labs for me when I get there."
He hated leaving Wilson to his own devices - he'd have to forego teasing him a bit more about his turn as an elf until tomorrow.
Foreman waited for him in the office. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and a number of dirty mugs on the counter bore mute testimony to the length of the other man's stay.
"Here's the latest." Foreman tossed the chart to House, who fielded it neatly and scanned the contents. "Something else is going on besides the athlete's foot."
"Duh." House flipped a page, then another, and frowned. "Tingling and burning sensation in both hands? When did this come up?"
"About an hour ago. I mean him telling us that." Foreman passed a hand over his face. "Apparently it's been going on for some time, but now his hands don't hurt anymore. They're-"
"Numb." House checked vital stats once more, then dropped the chart on the table. "Go back, do an LP and while you do that, talk to this moron about any other symptoms he decided to omit. They'll probably confirm it's CIDP, but let's make sure before we start the celebrations."
"You get CIDP out of athlete's foot?" Foreman sounded incredulous.
"No, he developed the disease and then had himself some strange shower action somewhere, and contracted foot rot," House snapped. "The fungus among us masked the main problem. You've been here long enough to know that happens, you should have dug deeper!" He flapped a hand at the door. "Beat it. Bring back good news. I want out of this dump tonight."
"House, no tech is gonna want to process that test over Christmas!" Foreman glared at him. "We can't leave spinal fluid sitting around for forty-eight hours!"
"Then you get to play lab tech. Call Chase and tell him to bring his Christmas pudding with him, you'll both be here a while." House pulled a magazine from his backpack and then settled into the Eames chair. "On your way, token person-of-color elf. You have work to do."
Half an hour later, Foreman returned. He looked both satisfied and annoyed. "LP's set up as soon as Chase gets here. And the patient says his feet have bothered him for a while now, before the symptoms of the fungal infection showed up."
House nodded. "He didn't think his burning feet were a problem, but when his hands started to show the same symptoms he decided to turn the diagnosing over to someone in a lab coat with a diploma in his office. Someone like you." He gave Foreman a quick glare. "See how well that worked out."
Foreman muttered something under his breath as the office door was pulled open. Chase entered, a jacket thrown on over rumpled clothes.
"Where's the pudding? And what's her name?" House lifted his brows in a leer. Chase glared at him.
"Foreman said something about a lumbar puncture."
"For the patient, not the dark one. Go forth and poke a hole in the patient. And not the kind you're thinking of." House got to his feet. "Do NOT call me unless you want your family to remember your death on a major holiday." He took his pea coat from the back of the chair and put it on.
"We're gonna have questions," Chase pointed out.
"I'm not staying here to wipe your respective asses and change your diapers. You've got enough to go on." He unhooked his cane from the top shelf of the bookcase. "Earn your damn pay and don't pester me until I walk in at noon on Boxing Day." He limped to the door and paused. "There'd better be fresh doughnuts on the table the next time I'm in here, or you'll both do my clinic hours for the next month."
"We probably will anyway," Foreman said wearily. "Why should we bother?"
"It's a gesture of sympathy and commiseration for the humiliation I've endured lately." House opened the door. "Don't forget. I won't."
He couldn't wait to get out of this place. Thankfully, the hospital corridors were almost deserted at this hour, only the most desperate and unlucky had nowhere else to go on a night like this.
The elevator took ages to get to the ground floor, or so it seemed. House impatiently bounced his cane. There was a full fridge, well stocked with food and booze, a relatively comfy recliner and a tv waiting at home. And a grumpy elf.
The reception desk was as vacant as the upstairs corridors. Wilson's wooden counterpart was sitting all alone next to a sorry stack of leftover glitter cards. House made sure no random passer-by was looking and dumped the remaining cards into the nearest trash can.
Problem solved.
"What are you smirking at," he snapped at the elf. Of course there was no reply. House headed toward the exit, then stopped. When he turned back, he had a grin for the security cameras he knew were recording every movement in the lobby.
House wasn't sure whether the cameras also recorded sound, but just in case he made a big show of putting his backpack onto the reception desk and then said to the elf, "Can't have you sitting here all on your lonesome over the holidays. I know a much better place with booze and porn galore."
He stuffed the elf into the bag and then, for good measure, grabbed the small Christmas tree from behind the counter and tucked it under his right arm. He limped across the floor to the lobby doors and paused before he went out. With a flourish he saluted the spot where he presumed the cameras were posted, an exaggerated salaam; then he turned once more and went out into the winter night, head held high.