Chapter 10

The outer office of the Diagnostics Department was empty but for Foreman, who was poring over a very thick neurology textbook, trying to find any clues he could as to Wilson's condition. His nose buried between the pages and his face pinched in concentration, he didn't notice Cuddy entering until she spoke loud enough to shake him back to the present.

"Sorry, didn't see you," Foreman apologized, sitting up straighter in the presence of the hospital administrator.

Cuddy flapped a dismissive hand and nodded to House, who was engrossed in something on his computer, a pen clamped between his teeth and his desk in disarray with overlapping stacks of open textbooks and medical magazines piled one on top of another. "He hasn't gone home yet?"

Foreman glanced at his boss and shook his head. "No, he's shut himself in there for the past three or four hours."

"Where's the rest of the team?"

"Taub had to go home," Foreman answered. "Hadley's running a couple more tests, and Kutner I sent home early; he'll be back first thing tomorrow morning. Won't be able to use his left hand for a while, though."

"And you? It's almost eleven thirty, you should be home."

Foreman gave her a smile. "I just want to do everything I can to help House with this case."

"Go home," Cuddy ordered exhaustedly. "Get some sleep. There's nothing more you can do today."

Foreman sighed and did as he was told, closing the book and collecting his things. As he passed her on his way out, he gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder and nodded good night. Once he was gone, Cuddy stepped through the door to House's office.

"We need to talk."

He turned around, the pen dropping into his lap. "About?"

Cuddy sat down, crossing one leg over the other. "House, do you think that you're too emotionally compromised to spearhead Wilson's case?"

He swiveled around in his chair, leaning back and regarding her levelly for a few moments. "Do you think I am?"

"I think it's quite possible," Cuddy replied candidly. "Probable, actually."

"Well, regardless of your concern for my emotional stability," House began, for once giving her no snide remarks or sarcastic responses. "This type of affliction is exactly what my department specializes in, and you know more than most that if we can't figure out what's wrong with him, there's a ninety-nine-point-nine percent chance that he'll die."

"I wasn't talking about your department, House, I was talking about you."

He frowned. "You can't take me off the case."

"I have the power to," Cuddy told him. "But I don't want to do that, because I know Wilson's chances of survival without you working on it."

"Then why—"

"I'm asking you for your professional opinion on this. Will Wilson's chances improve if I give this case to one of the people on your team?"

House sighed, giving his tennis ball a bounce on the floor. "No."

Cuddy leaned forward. "Are you absolutely sure about that?"

She was surprised when House seemed to actually give it serious thought before replying, "Yes."

She gave a nod and stood up. "Okay, then. Now go get some rest. As much as I like to see you finally putting a patient before yourself, I don't want to have to hire a new Oncology Department head just because his doctor wasn't getting enough sleep."

"House? House!"

The sleep-deprived doctor jumped, nearly falling off the recliner and squinting in the sudden brightness of the room. Rubbing his eyes, he let his retinas adjust to the light and saw Thirteen standing over him, looking concerned. "Did you sleep here?" she asked.

"What time is it?"

She glanced at her watch. "Almost seven thirty."

"How's Wilson?" he asked, barely managing to force his words through a yawn. Giving his head a shake to clear the static from his brain, he slowly pulled himself to his feet, wincing as his stiff bum leg stretched the gnarled scar tissue on his thigh. The book that had dropped onto his chest when he'd nodded off fell to the floor with a thud. Thirteen picked it up.

"No change since last night," she reported. "O2 sats are within normal range, maintaining a fever of 103—"

House groaned, dropping into his desk chair with a grunt. "Speak English, it's too early for medical mumbo-jumbo."

"How much sleep did you get last night?"

"Not enough to be running the marathon, but I won't be doing that anyway."

Rolling her eyes, Thirteen turned on her heel, heading into the outer office and shortly returning with his red mug full to the brim with coffee. House gulped it down, gave his head another shake, and said, "Okay, now you can proceed with the mumbo-jumbo."

Thirteen repeated the information she'd given earlier. "Blood sugar's normal, too," she finished.

"There goes the diabetes theory." He tossed his giant tennis ball from hand to hand, lost in thought. "Thing is…"

"What?"

Whatever House had to say would have to wait, however, as Thirteen's pager began to beep on her hip. A few seconds later, House's pager echoed it; before he could reach across his desk and see the message, Thirteen had rushed out the door. His heart beginning to quicken nervously, House glanced at the screen, almost afraid of what he would see.

#254: Code Blue.

Without a second thought, House was up and out the door as fast as his legs would carry him.

Foreman had come in early after a short night of restless tossing and turning with no hope of sleep, and was conversing quietly with Wilson's nurse as she changed his banana bag. The IV had been replaced after they'd decided to keep him fully sedated, and he now presented as much of a threat as a coma patient. Their conversation was soon interrupted by a warning beep from the monitors; Wilson's limbs were beginning to twitch. Foreman frowned and watched as his heartbeat began to climb.

"Diazepam," Foreman ordered the nurse as he wrapped an arm around Wilson's back, trying to turn him over onto his side. The sick oncologist's vertebrae rapidly moved up and down beneath Foreman's fingers as he shuddered, convulsing again and again. Still under the influence of heavy sedatives, Wilson didn't feel it when his involuntary movements began to worsen.

"He's seizing. Push two milligrams Ativan, stat!" the neurologist ordered, glancing back at the vitals monitor – his heart rate was still climbing fast. He returned his full attention to his patient just as frothing spittle began to seep out of Wilson's mouth. "He's aspirating. Suction!"

Thirteen tore into the room a few moments later, out of breath after having run down the two flights of stairs in her hurry. She rushed over to the bed opposite of Foreman and placed her fingers on Wilson's neck, keeping her eyes on the screens. "Get me the crash cart!" she shouted to the nurse.

Keeping as firm a hold on Wilson as he could, Foreman argued, "Are you sure he's gonna crash? His heart rate's through the roof, but it's holding steady—"

"It won't be for long," Thirteen shook her head, grabbing the paddles from the cart as the nurse wheeled it in. Sure enough, it was less than three seconds before Wilson suddenly stopped moving, and the monitors started to panic. The rapid ups and downs of the green ribbon panned out, and a continuous beep screamed that his heart had stopped.

"Flatline," Thirteen warned. Foreman quickly rolled him back over onto his back, and she placed the paddles on either side of his ribcage. "Charging… Clear!"

House limped in just as Thirteen sent a powerful charge through Wilson's chest with a solid-sounding thunk, making his body jerk. The line remained flat. House's reflexes kicked in and he dropped his cane by the door, rushing over and snatching the paddles from her. "Charging," he said, his heart beginning to race. "Clear!"

Another shock, no heartbeat.

"Charging," he said again. Thirteen, having moved to the side and out of House's way, circled around the bed to get a better view of the monitor. "Clear!" House yelled, giving another violent jolt. The electric charge did nothing.

The sudden likelihood that his friend wasn't going to make it hit House like a two-by-four, and his head spun, immediately feeling as if he was trying to breathe in a vacuum. He reached forward to shock Wilson again, but was stopped by Foreman, who gestured to the screen behind him. Turning around, House's hopes soared at what had to be one of the most welcome sounds he'd ever heard: the steady blips hailing Wilson's beating heart.

"I got a pulse," Thirteen said, her fingers on his wrist.

House limped over to the door and retrieved his cane, grateful for the support as he headed back towards his office. His team members followed him out, falling into pace behind him.

"More seizures means it's growing deeper into his head," Foreman stated. "Eating away at his brain."

House finished the neurologist's thought, saying what nobody – especially him – wanted to say. "If this keeps up much longer, the damage will be permanent. He could be a vegetable for the rest of his life."