Chapter 9
Purpose

…faeries? Was that what he dreamt of? He couldn't remember…

Aiden opened his eyes to slits to view the room, but it was all blurry from sleeping. As he lay there, not feeling and not willing to feel, something appeared strange to him. He raised his left arm: the unnecessary culprit. It felt deadened, but as he raised it, a sharp pain radiated from his fingers all the way to his shoulder blade. With an involuntary grimace, he recoiled, and he clamped his painful arm to his stomach, arching his spine and dragging his knees up. The only sound he made was a sharp inhaling hiss, and his head dropped back to the pillow as the worst of the pain passed.

A flash of his dream came to mind: a sweeping darkness chasing an elegant white peacock. As the image floated in his view, he stared wide-eyed. Then, frantically, he crawled from the bed and stood. His legs felt weak, but they fortunately held his weight. Hastily, he stumbled over to the sketchbook and pen laying haphazard and forgotten on the floor. He fell to his knees before it, and as a wave of pain flooded him, he took up the pen and harshly flipped the cover open. It took him well until the middle of the book to find a clean page, and the time passed eternally slow as his arm throbbed. The peacock threatened ever to be swallowed by the darkness, but he had to draw it; it simply had to be done. The pen scoured the pristine white of the page, and slowly the black lines formed the serene peacock and his inevitable doom.

The minute hand flew around the face of the clock, and beads of sweat formed at Aiden's brow as he worked. As he did so, the pain escalated. Despite it, he did everything he could to bite it back and work on the drawing. Eventually, the moment came when he could no longer ignore it, and he continued to work: his piece was only half done.

Then, time dragged on dreadfully slow as minute-by-minute the page filled up with a dark black. The silence of the room was broken by pants and quiet moans. The pins and needles became blades. Eyes narrowed against unbidden tears, he continued to spew his dream onto the paper.

At long last, the final marks fashioned the completed work, and Aiden dropped the pen to clutch his arm which blazed with a hellish pain. He threw back his head, and he released a scream of agony. A commotion gathered at his door, and a surge of personnel rushed toward him as his vision blurred. His scream died only when he had no more air left in his lungs to expel, then he fell to the floor.

And the peacock watched from its page as both it and its creator were swallowed by the welcoming darkness and painlessness of the unconscious world.

After spending most of the day trying theory after theory and getting nowhere, House and his team found themselves irritable, tired, faced with a problem no solution up to that point solved and a counter that spiraled ever downward. And the news of Aiden's latest symptom went over just about as well as hard butter on dry toast to everyone save House.

"So, chest pain, peripheral neuropathy in his arm, and…well, I guess that's really all we have…Anyway, chest pain, peripheral neuropathy, go!" House said.

Cameron sipped her coffee. "Essentially, the same diagnosis fit as before."

"But none of the treatments worked," House told the whiteboard. "Therefore, it must be something else. Let's get something fresh in this room. Everything else in it is stale and crusty."

"This is pointless," Foreman mumbled.

House faced him, and waved his marker arm. "Don't be Chase, be the psychiatrists."

Cameron and Foreman exchanged glances, then looked at Chase, who shrugged. "I'm assuming that actually means something," Foreman replied.

House nodded. "Certainly does. Where Chase questioned everything I did and told me repeatedly it was pointless, the psychiatrists simply did what they were supposed to."

"And despite their best efforts, it really was pointless all along," Chase rebuked.

House leaned on his cane. "Yes, in that instance, but not here. Now we have the fresh material we've been waiting for, and you're all ready to toss this kid aside. How do you think that would make him feel?"

"He'd probably laugh," Foreman answered.

Chase chuckled.

House stared him down. "You think that's funny?"

"Well, it's true!" he replied. "The kid's all about challenging people."

"So are you, but that's because your Daddy left you," Foreman responded.

"And you've got a criminal record because your Daddy was religious to the core," Chase retorted.

"Oh, stop it. We all know that you love your Daddies even though they screwed you over," House butted in. "On the other hand, we have a kid who's going to die if we don't save him. Care to talk about him?"

"My Dad didn't screw me over," Foreman muttered.

"By him, I meant the patient," House clarified.

Cameron glanced over her copy of Aiden's file. "It says here that his mother's side has multiple diagnosed cases of heart conditions. Maybe all of this is just the result of that."

House paused for a moment, and tilted his head up in concentration. "You're thinking hereditary."

Chase raised an eyebrow in consideration. "Well, that would make sense. We haven't really focused on that particular idea yet."

"Yeah, because it didn't fit," Foreman added.

"But now he has a new symptom," Cameron replied.

House tapped his cane on the floor. "Which dismisses a lot of theories. He's being monitored 24/7...has been for most of his life. If it was a heart condition like the ones his ancestors had, do you really think he would last this long and not be diagnosed sooner?"

Silence engulfed the room; they knew the question was rhetorical.

"So, we're back to square one," Foreman muttered.

"Not entirely," House replied.

The three gaped at him. "You just said-" Cameron began.

"I said it was highly unlikely it was a heart condition. I never said it wasn't hereditary." He capped the marker, and he tossed it on the table.

"Where are you going?" Cameron asked as he began limping toward the door.

"I am going to find out more about Mrs. Gray's husband," he replied. He exited the room, and he disappeared from view.

Cameron stared after him, and Foreman released a scoff. "What?" Chase inquired.

Foreman tapped the file and said, "His father's side of the family has its own problems. They've had recurring neurological issues."

Cameron released a deep sigh. "This poor kid is the accumulation of generations of medical problems."

Chase stirred his coffee, deep in thought. "Then, maybe it wasn't as pointless as we thought." The other two stared at him. "The psychiatric evaluation. If this is a neurological problem, they might have useful information."

"But that's just the mental side of it. We still know squat about his physical side," Foreman stated. "Still, you have a point. If this is neurological, knowing the way he thinks and operates will definitely be helpful in pinpointing the problem."

"So all we can do is wait?" Cameron asked.

After a moment of contemplation, Chase broke in. "His room is monitored by camera as well as people. Why don't we go review the tapes?"

Cameron inhaled timidly. "But, if House is off talking to Mrs. Gray, then he must have…"

"What? A brilliant idea based on a notation in a file?" Foreman asked.

She held her hands out defensively. "He has a way of doing those things."

Chase shrugged. "What's the harm in trying?"

Nobody spoke. After exchanging glances, Foreman nodded. "Let's do it." Abandoning their coffee cups, the three made their way to Aiden's observation room as House found Mrs. Gray and moved to make his inquiry.

Aiden swam through the vicious jet river in his unconscious world, trying to make his way to the shining gold island on the other side, but being continually swept away by the unbeatable current. And, mocking him from the shore, faeries danced, singing about a white peacock swept away with the waves.

Less than two days remained.