Fairy God Doctor
Part IX
By GeeLady
Summary: Wilson and House attend a medical conference. One of them gets into some unexpected and serious trouble and the other must come to the rescue in an unexpected way.
Rating: ADULT. SLASH. NC-17, M. Mature.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Disclaimer: I don't own Gregory House, dang-nabit!
I have done some reading with Hearing and Court proceedings, but have taken some liberties with the way things might be done. Judge for yourselves. Any oddities are mine.
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"Why did you go there?"
House shed his suit jacket, tossing it over a chair, thankful to be free of some of the stuffy, court-required attire. He looked at Wilson as though to a pesky insect that kept coming back to buzz around his head. "Are you kidding me?"
Wilson followed House's angry dot-and-one-go down the hall into the bedroom. "House. I don't think you killed the guy, I just want to know why you went there. Was it really just to talk to him?"
Wilson followed House to the closet where House yanked off his tie and tossed it on the dresser instead of hanging it up. Wilson picked it up and without conscious thought, hung it over a clothes hanger. "Or was it maybe to scare him? Perchance threaten him into telling his devoted family to back off?"
House didn't answer, only plunked down on the edge of the bed and began removing his thick soled sneakers.
Wilson watched patiently. At least this pair was black. "Or was it maybe to frighten him so he would eat himself to death?"
House stood to unzip his fly. "Eat this!" He sat down again, slipping his pants off, pausing a moment to knead his thigh. Wilson, his own unspoken rule, suspended his interrogation while House brought his pain under some control. He sat down beside him.
"House-"
House shook his head. "I am not having this conversation with you again. If you want to think what that idiot DeLouise wants everyone to think, then think it. I'm sick of this. Go away now. I still want to like you tomorrow."
Wilson felt guilty for asking but felt that House was not being forthcoming about everything. "I just,..." He sighed, tired of the whole shitload himself. "I just need to know that...everything's okay. That I'm not going to wake up tomorrow or next week and find myself sleeping with a stranger."
House glared at him sharply as though stung. "You think, this," He gestured between Wilson and the bed and himself. "this thing between you and me is fake? You think I'm pretending?"
Wilson had hit a raw nerve and knew that of course House would not fake love. The man could lie to the devil and get away with it, but he could never lie about affection. He would never pretend to be in love with anyone he liked. The genuine article was the one thing in life House still held as sacred.
"Of course I don't think that." Wilson put his face as close to House's as he dared without touching, so House would feel his body heat. As close as they had been physically - Wilson had seen House in all manner of nudity - leaning in close, invading his personal space was still his best weapon for gleaning the truth from the man. It was the one sure way to get at House's deepest feelings on a matter. "I don't want to lose you. If there's something you're not telling me, something that could, I don't know, jeopardize the outcome of this Hearing; something that could put you in a bad light-"
"-Jesus, Wilson, there hasn't been a good one yet."
House stripped off his socks, keeping his eyes averted but Wilson could feel his lover's walls slowly crumbling. "You know what I mean."
House nodded. "Yeah, I know." He tossed the balled up socks into the corner of the bedroom, missing the clothes-hamper. Wilson had purchased one a week after moving in. He shook his head and let slip with one of his tiny, ironic chuckles; barely a breath of wind from between grim lips. "You and that word; you and Love. You say it so often..."
Wilson sensed he was about to lose his shaky control on the conversation. "This isn't about-"
"-Sure it is. It's always about that." House looked at him sadly. "You don't trust me."
Wilson felt his heart lurch. It wasn't true. It wasn't mostly true. "Yes I do."
House shook his head and sighed, evidently exhausted with the whole useless parlay. "If you did, you would have never asked me to begin with. You would know."
Wilson felt like a heel but, still... "House,..."
House leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his head hanging almost parallel with the floor, as though there was far too much on his shoulders and he was close to snapping in half. "You want to know: Am I capable of murder?" He nodded. "Sure. Would I want to kill someone without a damn good and sufficient reason? No. But you think I might. And because I'm already an addict and drunk, then why not a selfish bastard who doesn't value human life?"
"Don't play the sympathy card."
House stared at him. "You want to hear this? It's what you've been digging for all evening."
Wilson shut up and crossed his arms, leaning away to listen, surrendering the floor to House.
House took that as a yes. "You're right. I am an addict and a drunk. I'm a self-centered SOB, too. You've not only thought it, you've said it."
Wilson did not feel like arguing a point he could not by any rights deny.
"You think like these other idiots think, only you add "probably not" at the end."
Wilson rubbed his eyes with a finger and thumb, understanding that he should have let it drop. He had asked for House's true feelings and now he was getting them, and they left him feeling sick at heart for their stark honesty, and himself guilty for having doubted him.
House was a maze of discovery. Even when the man was being honest, loving him, though always difficult, was startling. At the moment, House's defensive, personal shields were as tissue paper, and Wilson saw that House was waiting for his next move to see if it would tear through him or not.
But Wilson remained silent.
House paused to catch his breath.
House was scared. His face was white. And Wilson needed to halt his lover's rapidly accelerating fear that not even Wilson believed him. No one, it seemed, was all the way over in his corner. Even Wilson had one foot still in the ring and it was obvious that it hurt.
"You think a lot of things I guess." House added. "But what I need is for you to believe that I didn't hurt Morgan." House looked at him and Wilson saw the raw reaching-for-hope in his eyes and his heart almost stopped. House's walls were down.
That is all he had wanted; someone all the way in his corner. Wilson found himself wondering how often that had actually occurred in House's life. He said quietly. "I don't think you killed Morgan, House." The sweet words said to my lover as he teetered on the edge of worth, and I just pull him back. Wilson felt like a traitorous shit.
House looked at the carpet, nodded and sighed, as though he had been holding his breath this whole time; as if his world had almost come crashing down around him. Quietly relieved, "Thank you."
House looked over at him, his eyes piercing the thick air. True-blue glowing luminescent holes from his soul. "Now I'll tell you why I went to see Morgan."
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"I'd like to call Doctor Gregory House to the stand." Harcourt addressed the room of judge, lawyers and lookers-on.
House reluctantly took his place in the witness box, gingerly easing himself down onto the hard, wooden seat, leaning his cane against the barrier.
Harcourt began by a gentle coaxing of his client into the den of wolves. "You are a physician at New Jersey Plainsboro Hospital?"
"Yes."
"And, for the record, what post do you hold there?"
"I'm the head of the Department of Diagnostics. I instruct three fellowships - interns."
"And you've been a practicing physician for how long?"
"In various positions, twenty-six years."
"You carry what specialties?"
DeLouise stood. "Your Honor, we can stipulate through all this."
Harcourt countered. "It is within protocol to have this stated in its entirety for the record, Your Honor."
McKenzie waved DeLouise back to his seat. "Continue Doctor House."
"I hold two specialties in Infectious Disease and Nephrology."
"Kidney functions?"
"And diseases, yes."
Harcourt nodded, very casually strolling around in a small circle before the court. "Doctor House. Are you a jerk?"
Unexpected question. Harcourt had obviously been talking to Wilson.
"Takes one to know one."
Harcourt smiled patiently at him. "Do you use pain drugs, a lot of pain drugs and take a drink or two? Or three?"
"Yes to all of the above."
"Do you take risks with your patients lives?"
"I am sometimes forced to take risks with the treatments to hopefully save their lives."
"And with a near one hundred percent save rate, isn't that so, you jerk?" By saying it, by putting the word out there, Harcourt was draining it of its potency. That House may or may not be a jerk, or have a temper, or drink or use drugs, was only the opinion of some. And only opinion. It was even the opinion of his lover who yet loved him. Harcourt was demonstrating to the court that private or public perception of Doctor House's personality was essentially irrelevant. Being an addict or a drunk or even a jerk did not make one a bad doctor or a liar. Or a murderer.
Wilson silently applauded the lawyer.
House frowned. He didn't like being in the dark, and later was going to have a talk about it with Wilson. "Yes to the first thing. And I may be a jerk, but you're a lawyer." This solicited some chuckles around the room.
Harcourt chuckled indulgently too, enjoying himself. "Why did Doctor Cuddy offer you a position?"
House started a little. They had not practiced this line of questioning in Harcourt's office either. It was pissing him off. "Because . . .she opened a new department. I fit the bill." I got you cheap.
"Why?" Harcourt asked with deep interest. "According to Mister DeLouise and the free world, you're impossible to get along with. You drink and take drugs and, among your colleagues, possess an infamous temper. Why in the world would Doctor Cuddy, Dean of Medicine at the most prestigious teaching hospital in the whole blinking state, offer you a job? And not just a job, but your own Department?"
House had no idea where this was going but as far as he was concerned, it was nobody's damn business. Peeved, "What does it matter?"
Harcourt nodded, seemingly expecting just that response. He walked to his defense table and withdrew a hand-written statement, bringing it to Judge McKenzie to examine.
The judge looked at it, nodded and handed it back.
Holding it up for the court. "Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen." Harcourt began, "this is a written testimony by Doctor Cuddy, Dean of Medicine at Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, the facility in remarks. Doctor Lisa Cuddy is Doctor House's boss and she was good enough to provide a sworn written statement addressing the question Doctor House has just declined to answer. I'd like it to be entered into the record."
Harcourt looked with sympathy at House. "Doctor House, you are a private man and I respect that, but I feel it is necessary for His Honor and the rest of this distinguished court here today, to know the answer."
Seething, House said nothing, only flashed dagger eyes at Wilson and then back to his lawyer.
When Harcourt received no further protest, he read:
"In 1999, Doctor House lost the complete use of his right leg due to a misdiagnoses on the part of our Emergency Department. Due to this, he suffered greatly and has suffered ever since with loss of his mobility and from the resulting chronic pain with which he must battle daily. Despite all that he endured, Doctor House made no legal or private motion for compensation. Indeed, substantial compensation was offered by this hospital to Doctor House, which he once again refused. After a series of very difficult adjustments in his professional life, a year later, I sought out Doctor House and again offered him a job, this time as Department Head of Diagnostics. I felt his abilities as, not only a brilliant infectious and nephrological specialist, but as an uncanny medical man with particular insights into the field of diagnostics, would make him a highly valuable addition to my staff. Indeed, I insisted he accept the position. He agreed on one condition: that I never again offer compensation. Although at the time he did not explain to me why, I now believe it was because he wanted to practice his chosen profession on his own merit and abilities, and not as a result of the collective guilt on the part of the hospital's board members, or misplaced sympathy on the part of the staff; foremost - this writer. In this decision, the bringing of Doctor House onto my roster, I have no regrets what-so-ever. He has served this hospital and his profession with an excellence and dedication I have seldom seen matched by any, and it is my honor to provide this character missive on his behalf."
Harcourt looked over at Doctor House. "It is signed "Doctor Lisa Cuddy".
Had it been a movie theater, Wilson believed there would have a wiping of a tear or two among the audience. Cuddy was going to get a thousand dollar gift certificate to Bloomington's in her next Christmas card.
Harcourt placed the document among with the other items on the evidence table. "I think the question of whether Doctor House is a sufficiently talented and dedicated physician has been well answered."
Harcourt addressed House directly. "The other question that my colleague has raised, Doctor House, is why you went to see Doctor Morgan that day, so I'd like to get that out of the way as well. I'd like to once and for all settle this second distracting little question that is hampering our advancment to the evidence - or lack-there-of - regarding these erroneous accusations against you."
Harcourt looked straight at him. "Tell us, then: Why did you go to see Doctor Morgan that day?"
House cleared his throat. He looked uncomfortable. "I went to offer him money if he would tell his family to back off. I wanted him to leave Wilson alone."
"A bribe? You went there to help Doctor Wilson? You wanted to protect the man you live with. Because you are in love with him?"
House glared at his lawyer. "Duh."
Harcourt nodded. "Even so, not the wisest thing you've ever done."
House shrugged. "No, but I didn't think I had any choice. In my opinion the Morgan's wanted to ruin a man, a good man, who saved their father's life, because they had their eyes on half a million more in settlement. It was a gross lack of appreciation for what Doctor Wilson did." House looked down at his cane. "When a physician or nurse takes it upon him or herself to help someone while off duty, they take a big risk. Samaritan's law aside, anything can happen. They might save a life, they might not, but whatever the outcome, it gives the grieving survivors somewhere to point a finger if they think they somehow got a raw deal - even if they didn't.
"People who are grieving want the pain to stop. They can't attack the dead and a nurse's wage won't get them much. But if they can force a hospital or a doctor or an insurance company to cough up, I imagine it goes a long way toward easing the pain."
DeLouise stood. "Your Honor, this is an outrage. The witness is mocking the Morgan family's grief."
McKenzie waved his hand. "Doctor House may have a blunt way of putting things, Mister DeLouise, but you know what he has said is, in general, often the case. My court wouldn't be as crowded if it were not."
House took that as leave to continue. "Doctor Wilson wanted to, in his misguided idiotic neighborliness, help a man he thought might die. Turns out, being neighborly was a mistake. Wilson was going to be ruined. Seeing Morgan out of professional curiosity over his case was just an excuse. I went to see Morgan to offer a bribe. Doctor Wilson's practice is worth saving."
Wilson felt warm all over. It was House's way of saying he was worth saving.
Harcourt folded his hands on the witness stand. "Doctor House, when you arrived at Doctor Morgan's room, was he awake?"
"No, he was asleep."
"Tell us what else you observed while you in Doctor Morgan's hospital room."
"He was breathing even and steady. He seemed in no distress." House looked over at DeLouise. "And there was no rash on his chest."
Even DeLouise started at that revelation and he stood. "I have the disciplinary records of the attending physician at the time, Your Honor, and the nurses notes. There was a rash."
"I've read the notes. There probably was a rash, simply not yet evident while I was there."
Harcourt raised his eyebrows and looked around the court room, challenging anyone to doubt the validity of his clients words now. "No rash?" Harcourt took a deep breath. "Seems the evidence, and I use the term loosely, with which my client has been accused, wasn't actually present at the scene of the crime."
DeLouise said. "Objection."
McKenzie frowned. "What are you objecting to?"
"We have only just begun to examine what evidence there is. It remains to be seen whether it was present or not."
McKenzie looked like he had just eaten a fly. "Well, if you'll stop interrupting, we can get on with examining this "evidence", which has yet to be presented to me."
In answer to Harcourt's last question, House said. "I also think, in the case of Doctor Morgan, that Doctor Cameron's suggested diagnosis of Red Person Syndrome is a bit of a stretch. It's not all that hard to recognize, nor is it all that common."
Wilson was glad Cameron could not be in court that day.
Harcourt, hands in his pockets, walked toward his client, his face a terrific imitation of puzzlement. "I don't understand, Doctor House. Then what caused the rash? And when did it appear?"
"Doctor Cameron was correct. Lots of things found in a hospital can cause skin reactions - antibiotics, laxitives, aspirin, drug dyes, epipens - that's adrenaline - and even big-guy nappies. But if you ask me what I think caused it?" House spoke to Harcourt though nodding toward DeLouise. "Tell DeLouise to read from the nurses disciplinary notes. Ask him to find the last treatment administered to Doctor Morgan prior to death."
DeLouise stared at Harcourt. "He's not my client."
Harcourt, with eyebrows raised in questioning arcs, found the information himself from his own notes. "Shall I, Your Honor?"
McKenzie nodded to DeLouise instead. "Proceed."
DeLouise obeyed, placed his reading glasses on his nose, and flipped through the many documents at hand and located the relevant material. Not without perturbance, he read aloud: "Patient shaved. Prep' for Radiology." DeLouise looked at the time it was done. "This was performed at approximately fifteen-thirty hours." He shrugged his shoulders. "So what?"
House looked at his hands resting comfortably on the handle of his favorite cane. "What was the time recorded for my visit?"
DeLouise read: "Fifteen-forty-five."
"When I found Morgan asleep, there was nothing for me to do. Can't bribe a sleeping patient. So I stayed for a couple of minutes and left."
DeLouise sighed. "So you claim. Again, So what?"
"Folliculitis. Simplest explanation." House said.
"And what's Follicu-"
"Skin irritation." House answered. "From shaving. Bacteria gets into microscopic cuts in the skin, becomes purulent - this can happen in minutes." House stretched out his hand, pointing at DeLouise's left index finger. It sported a small bandage. "Paper cut?"
DeLouise looked at his finger. "Preparing for this case. Last night."
"How long before the edges of the skin turned red?"
DeLouise shrugged. "I didn't wash it immediately, but I suppose, minutes. Six, seven minutes."
"That raised, reddish swelling along the edges of the cut? That's bacteria, already making it's home inside the wound. Our bodies carry thousands - millions of bacteria of all kinds."
DeLouise laughed a little. "Are you trying to assert, Doctor House, that Doctor Morgan's mysterious rash was because he cut himself shaving?"
"No, the nurse cut him while shaving him. Micro-cuts. Dozens of tiny, open wounds for the bacteria on his skin."
"But the nurse would have-"
"-Sterilized the area, yes. But just with alcohol. The surgical sepsis would have been done in the operating room and with far stronger antiseptics. Morgan wasn't due for surgery until after the CT that, once I gave him my opinion, his attending finally ordered. The nurse was just being efficient. She shaved her patient before he was due to be transported out of the Unit. She did her job."
"This is ridiculous." DeLouise said. "Your honor, we cannot take this man's words as anything but an attempt to deflect."
"Doctor House took an oath in this court, Mister DeLouise."
"So that makes him incapable of lying?"
McKenzie leaned forward and said in a voice that warned DeLouise not to argue further. "As a lawyer, you took an oath to uphold the law. Shall we next discuss that? And let me remind you, Mister DeLouise, that you are not a physician, so I'm going to let Doctor House finish, if that's okay with you."
"Of course, Your Honor." DeLouise retired to his seat, sufficiently abashed.
"Doctor Morgan died from just what I suspected." House began again. "He had undergone a stomach stapling years before to lose weight. But he abused his body post-surgery with high fat foods and alcohol, regaining the weight he had lost. Surgical scar tissue on his duodenum eventually began pressing against his diaphragm causing dyspnea, which caused him to inspire food into his throat. Doctor Wilson's quick actions dislodged the bolus, but Morgan continued to have breathing difficulty. The emergency attending suspected a ruptured diaphragm and possible bleeding into his abdominal cavity with the risk on infection that would naturally cause." House tapped his cane on the floor. Wilson recognized it as a thing House did when, whatever the argument, that he knew he was winning.
"Anticoagulants were administered which cause Morgan to stroke. Thrombolytic thinners were then given but it was already too late. Morgan never recovered from that stroke. My diagnosis of the duodenum scar tissue was only investigated weeks post-mortem."
Harcourt, himself impressed, asked. "And what were the findings of the medical examiner, Doctor House?"
"Scar tissue on the duodenum. No signs of infection." House sighed. He was tired. "The Morgans lose out on a cool extra half million. Their dad did himself in by gluttony."
Harcourt stared at his client, hardly believing the man himself. So you were willing to bribe Morgan, go through this Hearing, risk your reputation, all to save your friend sitting right over there."
House looked like he wanted to shrink into the wood splinters. He nodded. "Yes." He looked at Wilson once then away, embarrassed by his own vulnerability where Wilson was concerned. "I'd do anything for him."
Harcourt paused dramatically and then, in a booming voice that would brook no further argument, looked at Judge McKenzie and said with triumph, "In the lack of any substantiative evidence that my client did anything harmful at all to Doctor Morgan, other than offer a plausible diagnosis for his illness - that his own attending at first ignored," Harcourt said the last bit directly to DeLouise. "I ask for an immediate dismissal of this Hearing." He returned to his seat, plump with victory. Harcourt said as a final call of the battle won - "A skin rash as a result of a close shave is hardly "evidence". Reasonable doubt, Your Honor."
McKenzie nodded. "Quite reasonable. Mister Harcourt." McKenzie looked at DeLouise. "Your witness?"
DeLouise looked at House with resentful though, now, more respectful eyes. "No questions."
"Closing statement?"
DeLouise remained seated. "No closing, Your Honor."
"And you, mister Harcourt?"
"None, Your Honor."
"Very well. Then I shall make mine. This Hearing seemed to me to be more about conjecture and opinion than it did about facts and concrete evidence. In fact, I could see no evidence forthcoming, Mister DeLouise. The reputation of two of this state's dedicated physicians have been sullied. You might thank whatever god your worship that neither of these gentelman have filed a countersuit for slander. But the defense in this case has filed a motion for all disbursements to the courts, etc, be paid by the late Doctor Morgan's family and their attorney. I'm sure they will want a few words with you, Mister DeLouise.
"Let me also state that Mister DeLouise and his clients have tied up this court's time and the public's tax money with baseless accusations, and as much as I'd like to see some compensation for that be returned to the people of New Jersey, well, this is precisely why this state has arranged for Hearings; to examine whether sufficient evidence exists to take a dispute such as this one to trial, and so eat up more of the state's funds. In this instance, I find no substantial evidence exists and therefor I am not going to allow this to go to trial. This case is dismissed."
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Wilson took House out to a victory dinner and stuffed him full of steak and salad, then got himself drunk.
"You surprise even me." Wilson said after his fourth beer. "Hey. How much were you going to bribe Morgan with anyway?"
House chewed a french fry. "Six hundred, fifty-five thousand dollars."
Wilson almost choked on his swallow of beer. "W-what? Six hundred, fifty-five thousand bucks?"
House tried to wave the numbers away. "Don't be too flattered, twenty thousand of that was yours."
Wilson refused to let it go. "House. Six hundred thousand...I think I love you."
House frowned for real. "Don't start, Pickleuppigus. Let's go home."
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Wilson preceded House in the door and once the door was shut he pushed House up against the wall. "I'm not sure if he going to work, but I'm sure as hell going to try, sexy."
House rolled his eyes. "Mind if I take off my shoes? And you need a mouthwash, you smell like a day-old ashtray into which someone poured beer."
Wilson just giggled and kissed House and House let him. Wilson reluctantly let House's lips go but looked at him, right in the eye. "Where in the world would you have gotten six hundred and fifty-five thousand dollars? I know you don't have that much money. Unless one of my bank accounts has gone missing."
House stared back, sober as a priest on Sunday. "I would have sold everything."
Wilson gaped, his heart speeding up for this man he was going to bang the lights out of a moment from now. "Sold eve-, . .sold what?"
House nodded his head to his apartment. "You know, the piano, the guitars, the record collection, the corvette; cash in my bonds; retirement fund; savings - everything."
Wilson went still. His breath washed against his lover's face. "I know you hate the word and I don't care. I've never loved anyone like I love you. I'm not sure it's even possible." He kissed him.
House drew away from the kiss. "You stink. Go shower."
Wilson laughed and stumbled down the hall, removing his tie. "A man of wit and charm." Wilson called back over his shoulder, "Do you have any beer?"
"No."
"Can you go get some?"
House thought it was a good idea. "I'll have to take your car. Mine's in the shop."
"Don't scratch the paint."
"Yes, dad."
House drove to a nearby liquor store and bought a dozen medium priced beer. He didn't have any six hundred, fifty-five grand on him at the moment. Eighteen bucks would have to do. Had he needed to, though, he would have bought Wilson's way out of that mess somehow.
Didn't matter now. He loved him. More than anything in the world. Wilson was safe now. Wilson was all he had. He would have done everything to help him. Anything to save him. . .
House stopped in a nearby park through which ran a rapidly gurgling creek, carrying leaves, sticks and human fast-food refuse down to Lake Carnegie. From his pocket he pulled out a small thing. So small a thing. House knew it well. He was a doctor after all. He could quote most of the pharmacology by heart.
Epinephrine is a sympathomimetic catecholamine. Chemically, epinephrine is B-(3, 4dihydroxyphenyl)-a-methyl-aminoethanol. Epinephrine is a heart stimulant. Contraindications are: hypertensive patients or those with other cardiovascular disease or patients taking other drugs that affect vasodilation or constriction, or drugs that affect sympathetic nervous system function are at higher risk than patients without these conditions. Systemically absorbed epinephrine, by venous, intramuscular or high topical concentrations could also increase heart rate and exacerbate cardiac rhythm disturbances or myocardial ischemia. Rash may develop with topical application. Epinephrine solution deteriorates rapidly on exposure to air or light, turning pink from oxidation to adrenochrome and brown from the formation of melanin.
House tossed the empty topical vial into the polluted stream and watched it float away.
. . .Anything at all.
XXX END
Thanks for reading.