For House, emotional displays were useless. Getting all weepy-eyed didn't mean you cared more about your patients, and it certainly didn't help solve cases. Being emotionally invested in a patient merely clouded one's judgment, making logical and efficient diagnosis that much more difficult.
Even so, House couldn't avoid the surge of pure relief when they pulled up to the hospital's emergency entrance. He wasn't sure which had scared him more on the trip – the ambulance's slipping and sliding on the slick roads, or that he'd almost had to insert Wilson's chest tube himself. He hadn't put in a chest tube since – hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd done it. That's what his minions were for. But Wilson's breathing had been so erratic that the EMT had opened the prepackaged tray and twice ordered the driver to pull over. Each time, however, Wilson stabilized and the journey resumed.
The instant the ambulance stopped, the EMTs unloaded the stretcher and raced into the ER, leaving House to follow on his own. The ER team had obviously been alerted to their arrival; before Wilson was even in a room, a doctor was calling out orders for x-rays and bloodwork.
House slowly climbed out of the ambulance, doing his best to ignore the pain shooting through his leg. More important things to worry about. Like Wilson.
The hallway glowed eerily with harsh fluorescent lighting. Before he'd covered more than a few feet, a young Asian woman in dark blue scrubs stepped in front of him, clipboard in hand. "Excuse me, sir, are you a relative of the man the EMTs just brought in?
"Close enough," he snapped.
"Then you need to come with me. I need his medical history and insurance information."
House tried to edge past her. "And I need to see what's happening in there. So, you need to get out of my way."
"Sir, if you'll follow me to the waiting room, we can go over—"
House's stared past her, down the hallway where Wilson had been taken. "Last time I checked, doctors belong in treatment rooms, not waiting rooms. Since I'm not only a doctor, but a world famous diagnostician—"
The woman wasn't deterred. "I'm sure you are," she said in a tone that made clear she didn't care if he was the President of the United States. "But right now, your friend is getting excellent medical attention. You can help him best by going over this paperwork with me," she added with a practiced sympathetic expression.
The last thing he wanted was to fill out paperwork. With anybody. Ever. But especially not with Wilson in serious condition a few feet away. He briefly considered pushing past the annoying woman but decided that his PPTH tactics might not be tolerated here. Besides, what Wilson needed most was trauma care, and even House had to admit that wasn't his specialty.
With a heavy sigh and a last look down the ER corridor, House reluctantly followed the woman to an empty waiting room. He collapsed into the nearest orange plastic chair, finding it hard and uncomfortable. The woman sat down next to him, clipboard perched on her lap, pen in hand.
"What is the patient's full name?" she asked.
"James Evan Wilson," he replied in a tired voice.
"Date of birth?"
House answered. Crap, this was going to take forever. Why couldn't she just hand him the damn form?
Address. Profession. Social Security number. Insurance carrier. Question. Answer. Question. Answer. When she reached the bottom of the sheet, House nearly shouted out with relief. Until she flipped the page.
"Now let's go over his medical history."
House leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes and let out a very deep breath.
Finally, mercifully, she reached the last line of the last page then, with a brief explanation, started handing him forms to sign.
"This is the privacy act statement. It says –"
"I work in a goddam hospital; I know what it says," House said, scribbling his signature.
"And this gives us permission to release his medical information for insurance purposes. And this promises that he'll pay the bill if his insurance doesn't cover his care. And this . . . "
House stopped listening and just signed.
The woman stood. "Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. House." The same, annoying, practiced tone continued. "I'll let the doctors know you're here. I'm sure someone will be out to talk to you as soon as they know something."
They already know something, he thought to himself. The only one who had no clue what was happening was the same person who'd just signed enough forms to mortgage a home. He pounded his cane on the floor in frustration, pulled out his phone and called the one person who might understand and could even help. He dialed Cuddy's number.