The first thing House heard as he approached the door to the last patient room on the heavily guarded wing was an annoyed presidential proclamation. "Maddie, there is nothing wrong with me. I hadn't eaten enough on the run today, and I got a little hypoglycemic. That's all. I'm perfectly fine."
"Interesting that you should say that," House stated as he entered. "I've heard somebody else say that recently right before he nearly died. Moral: Unless you have an MD behind your name, you might not actually be that accurate of a judge of being perfectly fine."
The President, in the hospital bed, and his wife, bending over him, both turned to look at the new arrival. Cuddy spoke up quickly, going for more formal introductions than her husband had. "I'm Dr. Lisa Cuddy-House, Dean of Medicine at the hospital, and this is . . ."
"Oh, Dr. House." The First Lady came quickly across the room, seized House's hand, and nearly pumped it off with her vigorous shake. "It's an honor to meet you. Steve and I heard so much about you last fall. You really are an inspirational story."
Cuddy flinched. That was hardly the best approach to get House's cooperation, and his interest, which had been sharpening up a bit perversely at the President's firm denial, started to wither again. She had warned him, but she'd hoped that they could get at least 5 minutes into the conversation before Patrick Chandler, or, even worse, John House, was brought up.
Before House could reply, another man entered the conversational fray. This was the presidential doctor. "I do have MD behind my name, Dr. House, and he was somewhat hypoglycemic. They did a fingerstick in the ER and then gave him some glucose as soon as he got here; he regained consciousness fairly quickly. I would like to get a complete workup just as a precaution, but there's no reason to do it here rather than back in DC."
"Yes, there is," the First Lady insisted. "Steve has been feeling off for a day or two, even if he won't admit it, and Dr. House is here. I'd feel much better with a full workup from him." The look she gave the presidential doctor showed clearly that there was bad blood between these two.
"Dr. House isn't needed for this," the doctor replied with smooth professionalism, adopting an "I'm trying to be reasonable here in contrast to this purely emotional argument on the other side" tone.
House was starting to enjoy this sparring match, his interest reawakening. "Oh, it might not hurt to make good and sure he's stabilized before transfer. It's not every day I get a chance to see the President, after all."
"Thank you," the First Lady replied. "We're not going anywhere until you say he's fine."
The President spoke up in exasperation. "Maddie, I have a vote here, too. This is a democracy, after all."
"Nope," House corrected him pleasantly. "It's a republic. I'd expect you of all people to know that; isn't constitution sort of a required course for you?"
"House!" Cuddy hissed under her breath.
"You don't want to upset the American people," the doctor suggested. "A stay here might make them think something really was wrong."
"Something is wrong," the First Lady insisted.
"Upsetting the American people is pretty much a required course for Presidents, too," House pointed out. "No matter what it is you're doing, a good percentage of them won't like it. Might as well upset them for once about something that sparks off concern instead of blame."
His wife played the marriage card. "This is not up for vote, and you're not going anywhere, Steve."
House stepped closer to the bed, walking right past the doctor, who was about to produce another objection. "Great, now that that's settled. You don't have diabetes, do you?"
"No," the President said sulkily. He still didn't like this, but whatever cards his wife held over him, bedroom or otherwise, were clearly high-ranking ones.
"Didn't think so. If you did, somebody around you would have had glucose, and you wouldn't have had to wait until arrival here to get it." The First Lady looked impressed at House's first shot out of the gate. "About these symptoms you haven't had for the last few days, what are they?"
The President locked up there, looking away, and his wife spoke up. "Upset stomach, vomiting twice the other night -"
"I ate something that disagreed with me; happens to everybody," her husband put in.
"- tiredness, just generally not feeling well. And he hasn't been eating much since that first time."
"I've just been busy," the President protested. "And of course I'm tired. Anybody would be at this job. But I'm not any tireder than usual."
"Has he been tripping?" Kutner interjected from behind House.
"Tripping?" House repeated, turning to face his fellow.
"He tripped on the stair up to the platform. He was placing his feet just slightly off, too, like his balance was a little skewed or maybe peripheral neuropathy. Could have been due to general weakness from hypoglycemia, but it looked more feet specific to me."
"Not bad," House conceded, and Kutner smiled at the praise. "But you're still grounded," House continued irresistibly. He turned back to the bed. "Tripping? Neuropathy? That's decreased feeling in your feet, for the non MD-behind-the-name version."
"No," the President replied.
His wife took a little longer to think about it. "Not before today."
"Get up for a minute and walk across the room for me," House ordered. The President slipped out of bed. He took a circuit of the room, and House watched him, head tilted, wheels visibly spinning behind the blue eyes. "Okay, that's enough." The President returned promptly to the bed, House noted, instead of insisting stubbornly on staying upright. Like Mark, he was definitely not feeling up to par, and like Mark, he had no intention of admitting to that fact. Hopefully the similarities wouldn't extend as far as the imminent Code Blue. House captured a foot and examined it closely once the man was back in the bed. "Okay, we'll run a thorough workup. Kutner, good call." Kutner visibly expanded a full shirt size.
"I didn't see anything wrong with his gait," the presidential doctor protested. "He's a little weak, maybe, but he did just collapse very recently."
"Moral number two: Not all people with MD behind their names are created equal," House said. "You'll probably see Kutner as much as you do me, but I am on the case. We'll start some tests. Kutner, we're all meeting in the conference room for a few minutes. Then you can come back and get a full history. Be sure you get it from her, too, and not just him. The everybody lies rule counts double for politicians." He turned around and limped quickly out of the room while the First Lady was still thanking him.
Cuddy and Kutner quickly followed. "Thank you, House," she said, breathing a sigh of relief that the President was proving interesting enough to get his attention.
"Oh, this could be fun. I'm apparently running a special advertised price today on patients who don't really want me; Mark has the same I'm-fine-itis." House pulled out his cell phone, texting the rest of the team for a meeting, as he threaded his way back through the impressive security to the elevator.
(H/C)
"Three cases," House stated. He divided the whiteboard into three columns and labeled them MJ, Prez, and Wilson, Jr. "Only two at the moment, but I'm afraid it's going to turn into three before long. If Wilson and Sandra's kid makes an early appearance and has problems, we get that one, too. For now, I'll give him a question mark." He added one and left that column blank, wrote in initial symptoms for the other two, then turned to face his fellows. "For the sake of efficiency, you all are going to be divided, although I'll leave all three columns posted together. If something occurs to you on one of the other cases, speak up. Kutner, you get the President."
Kutner smiled. "And just hope that you don't have to break into his house," his boss continued, and the smile froze a little, imagining the difficulties.
"Foreman, you're on Mark. Taub for the moment will be two-timing, which ought to be a familiar position for him" - Taub gave him a slight nod to acknowledge the barb - "but if the kid decides to join us, Taub will focus primarily on that case." Which also would be cutting Wilson as much of a break as House could. Taub of all of them was the least likely to plug into the gossip chain on Wilson's extracurricular activities and their results once he learned of them. "So at the moment, initial tests, more thorough history. Get busy."
"Which case are you going to be focusing most on?" Kutner asked, hoping it would be his.
"All of them," House replied.
There was a moment of silence as even Foreman was rocked a bit at that. Foreman actually was startled the most. He would never forget a night the other two hadn't witnessed, House on the case of the kid with Erdheim-Chester disease. House had been truly frightening that night, and he had almost physically collapsed at the end of it. Now, faced with two cases where he had a personal stake and one where Cuddy would require his best, the immediate future looked even more intense. "House," he said, then paused, remembering. "Could I speak to you privately?"
House was tempted to go ahead and bite his head off here, having a good idea of the objection, but he did want to reinforce the earlier lesson he'd given Foreman. "Yes. Taub, Kutner, get to work." Taub left briskly and Kutner reluctantly, wishing he could listen in on the upcoming conference. House stood up and limped into his office, and Foreman followed.
"I'm not sure you are capable of working three major cases as primary," Foreman started.
"You've never seen me try it, so how would you know?" House countered.
"I've seen you several times on just one where you had a personal stake. That kid with Erdheim-Chester. Amber. Here, you've got a personal stake on two out of three, and Cuddy will want the President to have top billing."
"Your concern is duly noted," House replied. "Now drop it and get to work. I'm only asking you to focus mainly on one."
Foreman hesitated. "You nearly collapsed that night, House. And you half killed yourself with Amber."
"If I collapse, you have permission to be primary on your case only until I wake up again," House countered. "But I will be working all three of them. Equally. Conference over." House turned and walked out of the office. Foreman sighed and looked back at the whiteboard with its three columns. He'd done his best to object, at least; he wasn't responsible for the fall-out from here. With another sigh, he headed back for his own patient.
(H/C)
Jensen sat in the ICU, watching Mark. The steady beep of the monitors was both reassuring and frightening, reassuring because it confirmed that Mark was stable, frightening because Jensen knew that the stability was electronically mandated. Switch off the pacemaker, and things would change quickly.
His brother had nearly died. If he had collapsed an hour earlier, on the highway, or yesterday out working, the result could easily have been different. Jensen's own pulse sped up just thinking about it. If the timing had been a little off, or if Jensen had been a little less persistent last week. Mark definitely had not wanted to do this, and Jensen finally won his cooperation only by promising that if Mark simply spent an hour with House and House agreed nothing was wrong, he would drop it forever, and Mark's family would never have to know.
House had been back through the ICU, checking on Mark again, and had told Jensen at that point that he was staying on the case, would be working on both at once. He had also mentioned then that Sandra had been admitted, with her child as a potential third patient. Jensen wrote himself a mental note to go check on Wilson once he had a chance; he knew that the oncologist would be drowning in panicked guilt. But Wilson would have to wait. Jensen didn't need to be anywhere else besides where he was; Mark for him had to come first. Once Mark's wife arrived, they would be able to spell each other for some sleep and break time, but given Mark's uncooperativeness so far, Jensen had no intention of ever leaving him alone. He had even gotten a nurse to stay here for 10 minutes half an hour ago while he went down to buy a sandwich. No, there was no question where his own primary focus needed to be right now. He wished Wilson well mentally, but he would not be available for any more at the moment. Wilson would have to sink or swim on his own.
House. The idea of House potentially working three cases at once scared Jensen for him, too. He knew how much House threw into his work, and he knew that there were personal incentives here at least with Mark and the baby. House was going to run himself to the limit and hopefully not too far beyond this week. Jensen never could have asked him to do that; that went far past just a favor to endangering House's own health. Still, the psychiatrist selfishly was glad of House's decision for Mark's sake. He could only hope that the other two cases would be easy ones and soon over. He would have no time professionally to spare for House at the moment, either, but the gratitude was the only emotion as strong at the moment as the worry.
Mark shifted slightly and gave an unintelligible murmur, and Jensen came to attention. House was letting the sedatives wear off now; it was up to Jensen to keep him here.
A few minutes later, his brother opened his eyes and looked around, confused. "Welcome back," Jensen said.
Mark quickly focused on him. "What happened?" He started to sit up, and Jensen pushed him back down firmly.
"Your heart stopped, and you had a seizure." Jensen sighed. "You nearly died, Mark."
"Don't exaggerate things, Michael."
"I'm not. House got you back, but if you hadn't been right here in a hospital . . ."
"I remember now; I just got up too fast off the exam table. I passed out."
"No!" Jensen said sharply. "You didn't just pass out. And you aren't going to be leaving any time soon, either. There's something wrong with your heart."
"That can't be right; nobody in our family has any history of heart disease, and I run all the time. No chest pain or anything. I just got up too fast. I'm feeling better now," Mark insisted.
"That's only because they have you on a pacemaker, and it's making your heart behave at the moment." Mark noticed the wires for the first time. He ran a hand over them as if questioning if they were real. "Something else you need to know before you say you don't want to worry the others. I've already called Pam; she's dropping her vacation and getting back here as soon as she can, hopefully by tomorrow night. I also already told Brian and Courtney."
Mark stared at him in disbelief. "You told my kids? They're just kids, Michael."
"And they got a more limited version than Pam did. But 10 and 8 are old enough to face the truth. They know you collapsed, that something is wrong with your heart, and that you're in the ICU. They're scared, but they should be. Melissa has them still, of course, along with Cathy. And yes, Melissa and Cathy know, too."
Mark shook his head. "You're blowing this way out of proportion."
"No, I'm not. But the point is, you have no chance right now to avoid worrying the others. Try to leave without getting diagnosed, and you'll just worry them even more. It's too late to hide from people, Mark."
Mark was getting as annoyed as he ever did. "You had no right to do that, Michael."
"Yes, I did. I've got proxy. I kept it a secret all last week for you, but I won't anymore. You nearly died, Mark." Jensen leaned over closer to him. "Listen, big brother." The private nickname was an old joke between them; Mark was an entire 12 minutes older than Michael. "I have lost way too much family in my life. I can't stop myself from losing more, but from now on, what I can control, I'm going to. And it's never again going to be because of something that I might have changed. We can't handcuff you to the bed, but if you leave now, you'll only scare everybody worse, and there really is a chance you'll have another episode and die. What do you think it would do to your kids if you collapsed and died right in front of them?"
Mark looked away, irritation warring with affection. "You aren't going to lose me, Michael."
"Not if I can help it, anyway."
Mark looked around, taking in the ICU, all of the machines. They really did have him hooked up to an impressive number of things. Part of him still insisted this was all an overreaction, but the medical equipment was sobering. "I don't want Brian and Courtney to see me hooked up to all this stuff."
"They're still in Middletown. ICU restricts kids visiting, anyway. They probably won't come down here until things start getting better - or worse. Pam is different. She'll be here as soon as she can get back."
Mark sighed. "It's not going to get worse, Michael." His brother had his stubborn look on and wasn't giving an inch. Mark was still irritated that even his children had been told, but that did eliminate any last hope he might have had of not worrying them. "I want to talk to them."
Jensen pulled out his cell phone and offered it, then sat back down in the visitor's chair.
No, he wasn't going anywhere. And neither was his brother.
(H/C)
Cuddy walked through the lobby of PPTH, running a mental checklist. She normally would have gone home by now, but she had already called to arrange the babysitter taking over from Marina. There were too many administrative details that had needed tied up this evening, final arrangements for the President being here. The press, for one. Fortunately, the President came with his own spokesman, and he would be handling all releases, but the media was already on the story, of course. Cuddy had had to arrange the auditorium for them and see that a schedule of updates was known and that they would not be disrupting any hospital functions. The isolation of 3 West was complete, and all the security was worked out logistically. Again, that had been an administrative balancing act, recognizing the need to have the President in an impregnable location but also considering all the other patients and families in PPTH at the moment. The President might be the most important patient by far, but he wasn't the only one.
She also had wanted to keep an eye on House for a while. He was going full steam in initial testing on both of his cases, although he had divided up the team. Cuddy had brought him a Reuben a little while ago and ensured that he ate that and took his meds. She had also been to visit Sandra and Wilson. Both of them were frightened, but Sandra's labor seemed to be on hold at the moment. Cuddy hoped for their sake and also somewhat for House's that this was a false alarm, but the whiteboard in House's suite spoke otherwise. She had seen those three columns. House himself didn't think Sandra was going to make it to term.
Alongside the logistics and the worry, though, came the pride. Pride in her hospital, pride in her husband. PPTH had had a tough day, but they had dealt with it well. House was on the case, the genius doctor whom even the President's family esteemed enough to request by name. And when he solved it - and he would solve it, because he was House - even more prestige would accrue to him and to PPTH. She wanted to show him off to the world. He deserved the accolades, even if he hated them, and unlike last fall, here was a chance for him to be in the news purely medically, not for his past. Maybe when the Chandler trial started in a month and a half, he even might be known at least equally to the media as the doctor who had just saved the President rather than the doctor who had overcome his own past of abuse and had recognized his younger self in Christopher Bellinger.
She looked around the lobby. All was working smoothly, no media circus disrupting traffic flow for families, no obvious differences (except in the privacy of 3 West, which was a veritable fortress), just routine efficiency. And House upstairs, doing what he did best. She was still worried, but she also felt satisfaction at how her domain was dealing with everything.
The light evening traffic of visitors ran smoothly past her, coming and going, but to any of them who took a moment to notice, her air of being in control was unmistakable right now. No one would have possibly dismissed her as merely a family member or as some low-level employee. Thus it was that the man entering the main doors right then and looking around picked her unerringly out of everyone in the lobby.
"Are you in charge here?" a voice asked behind her.
Cuddy turned around, straightening up in acknowledgment. "Yes, I'm the Dean of Medicine here. Can I help you with something?" A pleasant, nondescript-looking man. He definitely wasn't media, but he didn't strike her as family, either, though he seemed somewhat keyed up as many family visitors often were. The only remarkable thing about him was his eyes, and they bothered her on some level she couldn't define. The expression wasn't quite one she could categorize into any of her known mental files.
"Is there somewhere we can talk?" the man asked, looking around at the early evening traffic in the lobby.
"Of course. My office is right this way." She led the way to her office and held the door for him, then closed it, granting them privacy, and walked around to sit at her desk. "How can I help you, Mr.?" She paused invitingly, but he didn't offer his name.
He looked around the office for a moment, then straight back at her, and she flinched slightly and felt a cold chill run up her back at those eyes. What was it that bothered her about them? She still couldn't put her finger on it. "The President is here. They said on the radio."
"Yes, he is. Are you with the media?"
In the next second, she had something far more disturbing than his eyes to look at. She gulped as she stared down the cold, metal barrel of the gun. "I need you to take me to him," he said, and the tone amazingly was still pleasant, almost conversational.
Cuddy's thoughts scrambled, desperate for any option, any course of action, but that gun was unwavering. Her eyes automatically fled to a picture on her wall, House, herself, and the girls. The man gave it a quick glance, following her gaze. "Your family," he stated, and the word on his lips was almost a twisted parody of itself, such bitterness and disappointment there.
"I . . ." Cuddy took a deep breath. Think, damn it. Do something. "You know I can't take you to the President," she stated, trying to be reasonable. "There's no way you would ever get all the way to see him, even with me with you. What you're asking is impossible."
"Then you'll never see any of your family again," he replied, his voice tightening up, and the gun raised, aiming directly at her face, as his finger twitched against the trigger.