Transitions

Chapter 11

"Time changes everything."

"That's what people say. But it isn't true. Doing things changes things. Not doing things leaves everything exactly the same." House stared out his office window into the night.

He had spoken from experience. Time changed nothing. Certainly not for him. At least nothing positive. The passage of time doesn't heal; doesn't make the hurt any less profound; love less intense. Not that he'd had all that much experience with love…

House had to smile as the image of the disheveled Cuddy—the bra-less, disheveled Cuddy popped into his head. He hadn't quite meant to annoy her that night. Actually, he wasn't entirely certain as to what drove him, like an overly-protective older brother, to her door the other night. Yeah, he had told himself that he needed her medical opinion, and the on-call endocrinologist was an idiot. And, she had already OK'd the nerve biopsy. Thyroid storm. It was extremely unlikely at best.

She sure had fallen right into bed with him. First date. Impressive, he considered. Eastern Lube. House had to admit that he had, on the surface at least, all the makings of a serious prospect for Cuddy. He was tall (though not as tall as House); nice looking (well except for the decided lack of hair); probably rich (yeah, richer than him. A lot richer than him); nice. Cuddy would eat him alive. Unless she put on that really annoying demure act. Fuck. So why did that bother House so much: enough to distract him from his reading.

"Do you like me, House?" She had gotten right in there. Right into his personal space, her voice, at the same time, a challenge and a seduction; a growl and a purr. And he had been rendered speechless, if only for the moment. He had become almost undone by her gaze, with its mix of sensuality and callousness.

"…Do you want me for yourself, House?" That was the question, wasn't it? When she was close, her voice soft and warm, saying things to him that no one else had leave to say; comforting him, when he would allow no one close enough to even try…

He couldn't go there; refused to go there. He had no right to go there. What could he offer? He was soul-withered and weary. He could barely walk at times; making love—having sex could have none of the spontaneity of a playful wrestle in the sheets. His right leg would always be the elephant in the room, affecting his mobility, his agility, his pleasure—and hers. She was so better off with Mr. Eastern Lube.

But then there was that night not long ago when he had told her his deepest and worst secret. What had made him tell her? Why had he needed her to know that about him? House shook off the emotion, willing himself to return his concentration to the task at hand.

No, time changed nothing. Well, except for the cost of Medline searches. Now, that had changed for the better. House smiled as glanced at the scatter of monographs and journal articles. Post-it flags decorated the edges of most. A yellow legal pad, now filled lay on top of one stack.

Back in medical school a Medline search required a trip to the library and $95 per hour of search time. He remembered his shock when he'd asked the librarian at Hopkins to do a search on a fast and dirty synthesis of lysergic acid. She hadn't been shocked. Not at Hopkins and certainly not in the early '80s. No, the shock had been all his when presented with the $500 bill and a bibliography. "Can I get copies?" he asked in his most seductive voice.

"Sure. Library has most of these journals. Check them out. Show the clerk your student ID and she'll get them for you. Copier's right around the corner."

"But I don't have time…"

"Well, I can order copies. Five bucks apiece."

"Great." He was in the wrong field, he griped.

But now. Now, he could sit at his computer, handy Medline subscription, courtesy of PPTH, do a click or two and voila! Not that he was searching for cheap and quick ways to synthesize LSD anymore. No, this was much more important.

"Pain management," he had typed in quotes. "And experimental and clinical." The Boolean logic linked the terms together to maximize the relevance of the hits. He watched as the list of publications scrolled down his screen. He scanned the screen, looking for names he recognized, respected, knew personally (and hadn't pissed off recently.)

"Knicks game on at nine. Want to do pizza and beer?" Wilson had startled him. House felt a bit like a kid being caught red-handed. "What are you doing?"

"New porn site. Med school babes."

"Yeah. Right."

"Right up your alley. Who knows, one of them could be Mrs. Wilson number 4."

"Nah. Now if they were nursing school babes…"

"True."

"Seriously, man, what are you up to? You looked like I caught you with your hand in the cookie jar."

"Got me. Never could keep my hands off of Cameron's Toll House cookies." House looked back at the screen. "Nothing. Just a little research. Nothing." House shrugged, flipping the computer off, trying to remember if he had bothered to save the search. Probably not.

Wilson sat opposite House, who had picked up, and was now destroying, a large paperclip. Wilson was now eyeing House's collection research papers on House's cluttered desk. He grabbed one, reading the title.

"You thinking about getting a fourth sub-specialty in Oncology? Diagnostics no longer doing it for you? 'Phase II Clinical Trial Protocol for Experimental Pain Management Protocol in Terminal Cancer Patients.' Sexy title."

"Movie's probably better." Wilson leafed through the monograph.

"Cornell University Hospital? Sounds like a plan. Except for one problem. You don't actually have cancer."

"Hey, Wilson, did you know that Cuddy is going on blind dates? Guy was a real…"

"He seemed pretty nice."

"She found him on…"

"Yeah, I know. doesn't even do ballroom dancing. Does she?"

"I don't think she was actually planning on going ballroom dancing with him. Why are you so suddenly interested in Cuddy's social life? Did you know that's he a mechanic?"

"No. Actually, he's not. He owns Eastern Lube. And when did you meet him?"

"Really? I'm impressed. In passing. Yesterday."

"She went out with him again?" House looked stricken.

"Again. Why do you care if and who Cuddy dates?"

"I don't."

"Right. Did you ever ask that patient about the nerve fiber?" Wilson knew when to change the subject. At least most of the time. It was something that House appreciated about him.

"No." House looked away from Wilson. "Why? Would you have done it, seriously?" House's voice was quiet. The playfulness present when discussing Cuddy was gone.

"Yeah. Probably. Asked at least." House couldn't do it. Not anymore. It was Wilson's fault, anyway. But he was right. House had no right to risk a patient's life for his own benefit. Had he really fallen so far to have even considered it? He couldn't venture to answer that, not even to himself.

House knew he had to do something. To change something. He had to find a clinical trial, or at least a protocol that he could undertake on his own. Or design one himself. Something. Anything. House rose from with some difficulty from his chair and began packing up for the night. "So pizza and the Knicks? I'll even buy."

"You always buy. I'll take a pass. Got a hot date with a hooker." House continued packing his backpack, stuffing four large monographs and several journals into it.

"You OK, House?" House nodded in reply, distracted.

"Yeah. Fine." Wilson eyed him with curiosity. House grabbed his iPod from its dock and headed towards the door. House was not up for a Wilson lecture tonight. Wilson had been opposed to the Ketamine from the start. And when it went south, House could read Wilson's "I told you so's" from a mile off. He certainly did not need them now.

There were times when House appreciated Wilson's self-appointed role as ethical guardian. He had been right about the patient. House had been right all along that they needed to biopsy a nerve. Clearly there had been nerve damage. But a spinal nerve was unnecessary, and House had known that. And what if he had paralyzed her for life, only to find out that it was a tapeworm? It was a good call. Annoying, but a good call. Back safely behind his ethical barrier, House could see that, and couldn't pursue it further. He had no right.

There had to be a way, just not that one. "See you tomorrow, Wilson. Hooker awaits." House really didn't want Wilson shooting holes in his efforts. He knew the risks with experimental procedures, especially the more radical options: the options with the highest possible reward; the highest risk. Wilson was right. Life on immunosuppressant drugs; shortened life-span; constant monitoring. Always the potential for it not working or worse (or not worse depending upon how you looked upon it)—death. And in House's estimation, a completely acceptable risk/benefit ratio. A life of relative normality--no matter how short—priceless. But Wilson would see it differently, so the less he knew, the better—for now, anyway.

It had taken House months to get to this place, where he would feel again like seeking an answer to his own puzzle. He had fought through enough of the devastation, the anger and depression to even begin to give a damn whether he lived or died. Some days were better than others. On the worst days he considered the temptation of a loaded syringe to finally end the cycle of pain; on the best, the darkness lifted and he could see a future only hinted at last summer when he could run; hell, when he could walk.

The hospital's main floor was only dimly lit at 11:00 p.m. The clinic was closed for the night and visiting hours were long over. He observed the light on in the recesses of Cuddy's office as House strode with his broken gait past her door. He paused, noting the heaviness of his backpack, deciding whether he should stop; apologize for disrupting her evening with Mr. Eastern Lube; or, conversely, give her the chance to thank him for the rescue. He smiled inwardly as he quietly opened her door.