Title: Of a Thursday
Author: Sy Dedalus
Rating: T, TV-14, PG-13
Pairing: House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship
Spoilers: Season One
Warnings: WIP
Summary: House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction.
Disclaimer: Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass. Shakespeare's lines belong to him and whoever else holds the copyright to them.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews. In the whole five minutes I have of not grading, planning, or teaching class, or doing homework for the classes I'm taking, I managed to get this done (I don't like this having a job thing; work is hard). Hope to have more soon, but the way my schedule looks, I don't know how soon 'soon' will be. If I can get a few moments, I'll have a new chapter of Some Days up – hopefully this week. But the season premiere is tomorrow, so you've got something else to pay attention to now:)

Any reviews would be really appreciated. They make my day. Hope you like it.

Chapter 12: Out, Out

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusky death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more

—Macbeth, Shakespeare, V.5

Clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk.

He lay absolutely still, breathing shallowly even though it was his leg getting the work-up.

Wilson had kept Stacy outside for this one. He hadn't had to try very hard: as soon as House was in the room and getting set up to move from the wheelchair to the table, she'd asked him quickly with her eyes and he'd said immediately, 'Go.'

She and Wilson had exchanged something he didn't quite catch all of, but the gist of it was that she would go bark at Cuddy while he stayed. That made sense. Wilson could read an MRI; Stacy couldn't. Stacy could make the legal implications crystal clear; Wilson would be more interested in talking medicine. Ideally, they both would have gone but he understood why they didn't want to leave him alone, and while he resented the implication that he couldn't take care of himself, in truth, he really didn't want to be left alone right now. He had been silently grateful that Wilson was there when he tried to lever himself out of the chair and onto the table alone. Wilson had understood that he needed to try it unassisted first.

He had done it, too. Wilson had parked him so that the table was directly to his right and all he had to do was stand on his left foot and use the table to support himself. It was low to the ground for him: he didn't have to put his right foot on the floor at all.

He would have liked to have tried—he'd realized on the ride down to radiology that he hadn't really been standing in his room: he'd been balanced on his left foot and his right foot had taken none of his weight until he tried the small step to his right and pitched over momentarily, shuffling his left foot and letting Stacy take some of his weight to keep him from falling: he'd done nothing substantive, it hadn't been a real victory—but time was of the essence right now and he wasn't going to waste it trying to put weight on his right foot.

They would be nearly done now. He ran over the kind of section cuts they would be doing: thickness, angles, views. He knew Wilson would be very thorough, but basic reasoning told him that the longer the scan went on, the more complicated the problem was.

It might be small and difficult to find: fine cuts would be necessary. It might be shaped strangely and Wilson would need views from several angles to map it out. And it could just be big and they'd need several views to see how much damage it was doing to the surrounding blood vessels and nerves. That made the most sense to him; that was the most straightforward conclusion: it was big and it was positioned such that it was cutting off an artery.

It could be that simple. It had been there for a long time—months probably, growing—and when he'd shifted his weight to his right leg on the golf course last week, it had moved. Touched a nerve probably—that was what had brought him down—and then started moving in on an artery. The muscle had begun to die and by Friday afternoon, enough of it had broken down that it was visible in his urine. The elevated CK level had been there. He hadn't seen the number—he'd skipped over his old labs when he read his chart earlier—and it didn't matter now. What was important now was knowing how big it was and—he fought the emotions that had become tied to this thought over the past few days—whether it was benign.

"Okay, Dr. House," the tech said in a smooth voice, "we're done. You can relax now."

He sat up and saw Wilson coming out of the booth. Normally Wilson was easy to read. Right now, House wasn't sure what his expression meant, except that it wasn't all good or all bad. More like it was confusing him, which meant more tests to unconfuse him. Great.

"What did you find?" he asked as Wilson approached.

"No masses," Wilson said gravely.

House could tell he was trying not to show it, but his face betrayed anxiety. He was holding something back.

"Well?" House said impatiently. "You obviously found something or you wouldn't be looking at me like that."

"I'm not sure what it was," Wilson said, "except that it's not cancer." House saw him hesitate. "Dr. Cuddy should look at it first."

"So it's vascular?" House said, turning to his left to get off of the table. He looked up at Wilson. "It's a clot?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

When Wilson didn't answer immediately and his eyes shifted slightly from meeting House's to the table, House realized his right leg hadn't moved with his body and he was twisted to his left while his leg was still lying straight on the table.

He looked away, wishing Wilson wasn't here to see this. He had to use his hands to pick it up and move it. Heavy. He grunted as he moved it so that it hung over the side of the table at the knee. This was a normal position. Like sitting on a bench. Like sitting in a chair. Like sitting on a couch. Both legs bent at the knee, connecting with the floor, waiting for him to tell them to move.

Move. Move. Move!

Nothing.

He concentrated hard on swinging his foot. He could do this. The nerves were okay. He could move his foot. He could do it. He was starting to sweat, concentration showing on his face. There. It moved. A little. Only a little, but it had moved. He could feel his muscles strain: picking up the slack.

Muscular. Of course it was muscular. He'd known that since last Thursday.

Nerves?

He tried to wiggle his toes. Yes. No problem. Didn't have to break a sweat. His nerves were okay. Some of them, anyway.

He tried moving his foot from side to side. Yes. Difficult, but he could do it without concentrating too hard.

Wilson shifted at the edge of his field of vision. Oh. Right. He was sitting in radiology trying to determine the utility of his leg when he didn't even know what the problem was yet.

"Clot?" he asked again, voice wavering, looking down at the thigh peeking out from under his too-short gown. It was quickly becoming a useless mass of dead flesh. Dead flesh attached to his living flesh. Grey-white dead dying flesh. Muscle turning white, turning yellow, turning purple, turning black. Black. Rotting. Stinking. Dead. Dead? Dying. Yes, dying. But fully dead? Oh God.

"I think so," Wilson said, cutting into his thoughts, "but Cuddy will be able to tell for sure."

He needed to see the film. Now. He'd seen his labs; he'd tested his leg; he knew what he was looking for.

He stared at his leg for a moment longer, unwilling to break the gaze, because he knew that this might be one of the last times he'd look down and see his leg. He felt cold and sick. Dead dying flesh and it was just sitting there. He was just sitting there. He needed to see the film. He looked up at Wilson.

"Can I—whoa," a wave of dizziness cut him off and Wilson automatically reached out to grab his shoulder. House shook his head and blinked hard. "I'm okay," he said and brushed Wilson's hand off. "Just dizzy. Tired."

"You've been off the IV for too long," Wilson said. He held his hand out, offering to help House back into the wheelchair.

House let Wilson half pick him up and guide him through the stuttering, faltering two steps until he was seated again. He felt himself swaying, but he had to look at those films.

"I'd like to—agh," he shook his head again, dizzy. His limbs felt too heavy to hold up and he gave up, slumping in the chair, eyes shut tightly, willing the room to stop spinning and wobbling. "I'd like to take a look at it," he said when the feeling finally passed.

But Wilson was already wheeling him out of the room. "You can see it after Cuddy does," he said.

House coughed a little, limp in the chair. He was so damn tired all of a sudden. This wasn't right. His lytes wouldn't become imbalanced so quickly that he couldn't hold his head up on his own after only forty minutes off the feed…right? Shit. Shit. It was a clot. It was major muscle damage, major necrosis to have him so messed up in such a short amount of time.

Black white yellowing purple necrotic mass radiating in his muscle, cells choking on carbon dioxide, dying, never to be brought back, releasing their now-dead life material into his bloodstream and on toward his failing kidneys, muddying his brain with sludge, dross, detritus, cast-off dying last gasps. Dead dying black white yellowing crap killing his life, parts that he couldn't get back, dead and dying and dead and dying and dead…

"House?" he heard Wilson say from somewhere above him. "You still with me?"

He jumped. What?

"Yeah," he said into his chest.

Jesus, the shot of adrenaline that had caused. He felt it wearing off quickly. Good. He wanted to sleep. He couldn't remember why exactly, but he felt like he'd die if he didn't sleep soon.

"Good," Wilson said. His voice was booming and far away. "Don't pass out on me. We're almost there."

Oh. Don't pass out.

"Yeah," he said again into his chest.

Don't pass out. Why? Some reason. He didn't feel like he was passing out…just like he was going to sleep. He was so tired and sleep was so enticing: so nice and so warm. So easy. There was something…some reason…that was significant…why he shouldn't be passing out…or going to sleep…or whatever…whatever…

The next thing he knew, Wilson was talking to him and attaching that annoying nasal cannula to his face again.

"Hey, House, hey, you there?" Wilson said, his brown eyes and boyish face swimming into focus.

House blinked hard. He hadn't passed out—he didn't remember passing out—but he definitely hadn't been there a second earlier.

"Yeah," he said.

"Okay, good," Wilson said.

With effort, House discerned that he was still in the chair. Back in his room, parked by the bed. Wilson was reattaching the IV.

Oh. Right. Electrolytes. That.

"You need another ABG," Wilson said, squatting in front of him. "I can do it now or I can get a nurse to do it in a few minutes. Which would you prefer?"

"You do it," House said faintly, his gaze settling somewhere above Wilson's right shoulder and hanging there. Blinking was a real effort right now.

"Okay," Wilson said, his face full of concern.

He waved a hand in front of House's face and House started, blinked hard, and looked at Wilson. Wilson had a look in his eyes that House recognized: it was that wary, 'is he really all there?' look. He'd worn that look often, peering down at a patient. House raised his eyebrows and blinked again as if to say 'what do you want?' and Wilson's brows furrowed. He stood up and disappeared from House's limited field of vision—the patch of grey-green wall and floor in front of him—returning gloved and ready.

House blinked hard again and turned to his left to see Wilson picking up a syringe.

"Skip the lido," House said dully.

Wilson's eyebrows jumped. "It'll hurt," he pointed out, not putting the syringe down.

House shifted his gaze back to the wall. "I'm fine," he said in a grating voice.

Wilson paused for a moment, as if arguing with himself, and put the syringe down. "Whatever you say," he said to himself.

House detected a hint of sarcasm but he didn't have the energy or will to start a fight over Wilson's tone of voice.

It took him a moment to realize that Wilson was turning his left hand over. He looked up dumbly as Wilson took his right hand. What? He looked down to see what Wilson was looking at and noticed puncture wounds. Oh. Radial artery. ABG. Need an artery for that. He realized that both of his wrists ached.

"Okay," Wilson said, ignoring House's reaction, "I think you've got one good stick left in the left, maybe two in the right." He cursed. "I told them this morning to put an a-line in."

House watched him. Wilson didn't curse too often and he couldn't pull off looking angry very well. More than anything, his attempt to express anger looked funny to House.

House realized slowly that Wilson was gazing expectantly at him. Oh. Right. He was being given the choice.

"Do the left," he said, unconsciously bending his left hand. Ow. "It already hurts."

He could feel Wilson's incredulous stare. "Sure about the lidocaine?" Wilson asked lightly.

"Just do it," House said tiredly.

To his credit, he didn't flinch while Wilson collected the arterial blood. He was still out of it and while he registered that it hurt, he didn't really feel it.

"Hold that," Wilson said. House was bewildered for a moment before he realized Wilson was pressing a thick piece of gauze against his wrist. He noticed Wilson sizing him up again and pressed down on the gauze pad. The words 'pressure bandage' came to mind but he didn't know what to do with them. He pressed harder, looking down at his wrist.

When Wilson didn't leave immediately to test the sample, House glanced up at him. Oh. So he'd decided on a pressure bandage. Wilson thought he wasn't all there.

"I've got it," House said, pressing harder.

"Humor me," Wilson said without pausing or looking up.

House said nothing and sat still while Wilson bandaged his wrist.

"You're looking shocky, House," Wilson said as he finished placing the bandage.

"Yeah," House said, his gaze back on the patch of wall beyond Wilson's shoulder. He felt pretty shocky and wasn't going to argue the point with Wilson.

"I'm gonna let you sit here for a while and soak up the sodium, okay?" Wilson said. "Deep breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth."

"I'm okay," House said but he found himself obeying. Because that was what you did in this situation, not because that was what Wilson told him to do.

He wasn't sure how long Wilson was gone and it didn't really matter in the end. All he knew was that he kept almost falling asleep, always waking up a second before unconsciousness hit. He felt numb and tired, completely used up, unable to keep his eyes open.

Wilson's footsteps snapped him out of the embrace of sleep yet again and he wrenched his eyes open. Wilson was a blurry mass of white topped off with a smear of brown. He registered a change in Wilson's height and blinked hard to sharpen the lines of the squatting shape in front of him.

"How are you feeling?" Wilson asked.

"Tired," House said. "I need to lie down." Sleeping, he considered, would be easier that way.

"Any pain?" Wilson asked.

"My wrist hurts," House said. He blinked again and could make out Wilson smiling wryly. "No," he added softly, "no pain."

"Okay," Wilson said nonchalantly and stood up. "Ashley's going to help me get you on the bed."

House blinked. Ashley? He glanced to his right and saw a tall, plain nurse standing a few feet from him. He didn't remember hearing her come in.

"Whenever you're ready," Wilson said, a step away from House.

House realized slowly that they were waiting for him to do something. Oh. Right. He grasped his right leg just above the knee and lifted his foot off of the foot rest. His leg was so heavy, he had trouble picking it up. The floor was cold. He could feel that, how cold the floor was. Nerves are intact, nerves are intact, nerves intact. Though he'd done this test on himself already, it was still a relief.

He moved his left foot to the floor and took a moment to gather energy and focus, hands poised on the chair's arm rests. Blood pounded against the bandage on his wrist and his left arm shook though it hadn't taken any of his weight yet. Every ounce of his concentration and strength was necessary to keep him from falling back in the chair and giving up. He was just so tired and drained. He pushed up, trying to rely on his upper-body strength, and felt his muscles strain and begin to give. Then two pairs of hands were under his arms helping him make it all the way up and the half-step to his left necessary to connect his backside with the mattress. He sagged. Wilson's grip alone kept him from falling horizontally across the mattress. He collected himself, planted the palms of his hands, and swung his left leg up. His right leg wouldn't move. The nurse gently picked up his leg before it could twist too far in its socket and hurt him. Between the two of them, Wilson and Ashley got him settled quickly.

He closed his eyes, completely limp. Wilson said something to the nurse that he didn't catch. He felt time pass.

"House?" he heard Wilson say softly. Was it that Wilson was talking softly or was the pounding in his ears drowning Wilson out?

"What the hell is wrong with me," he murmured, eyes still closed.

"You're bradychardic," Wilson said. "51. Your lytes are out of balance again. I'm going to give you a sodium bicarb booster—Ashley is getting it—and you should feel better in about half an hour." He heard Wilson smack the bed rail decisively. "Take a nap."

A nap sounded good. But his electrolytes shouldn't have gotten so messed up in under an hour...he was in serious trouble…

"Too fast," he whispered.

"Too fast?" Wilson echoed confusedly. There was a pause. House had stopped thinking coherently enough to elaborate. "Oh," Wilson said. "Yeah, it was fast. But you saw your labs. And even if you have been improving all day, Stacy said you slept all weekend. It's going to be a while before you get your stamina back." House felt him slap the bed rail again. "You'll have to come to the gym with me and build it up again when you're better."

Wilson's voice sounded sunny and optimistic, but House perceived a tinge of worry and doubt. Wilson was lying.

Lots of things were wrong with that statement, too, House knew, but he couldn't articulate them to himself much less to Wilson. He made a noise to indicate his disagreement, but Wilson must have misinterpreted it because House heard him say something to the effect of 'get some rest' and then the overhead light went off.

No, he wanted to protest, what's wrong with me? What do you know? What aren't you telling me? but he was too tired to speak. Time stretched out, he had plenty of time to sleep and he'd be better when he woke up, but time also closed in, suffocating, destroying, killing, fleeing and he'd never get back what he lost right now in this second. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. It would be so nice to sleep, he so wanted to sleep. If he slept, it would be okay.

The room was dim. Cool and nice on his arms and chest. Warm where his legs were. Comfortable. Oxygen in his nose again. His left wrist ached. Quiet. Safe. Sinking. Warm, numb sleep.

Sleep would make it better. Dim, cool, soft, sweet sleep.

Wilson watched House fade, his face and body going lax as he gave in to sleep, and slumped under the tension of the last hour. He rubbed his forehead tiredly and let out a weary sigh. He stared fixedly at the blanket, hands on the rail of the bed. Ashley quietly slipped in with the sodium bicarbonate and administered it, then left as noiselessly as she had come. Wilson barely noticed her.

Despite the hours of continual improvement, House's kidneys were still compromised. Because, as far as Wilson could tell from the MRI, a clot in his femoral artery was blocking blood flow and muscle necrosis not only had occurred but was still occurring. If he had shut down physically after less than an hour off intravenous electrolyte support, the muscle cell death was widespread. Very widespread. Add to that, the leg couldn't support his weight and although he still had sensation in his foot, meaning the nerves were more or less intact, a lot of muscle was dead already. And having the leg attached was killing him.

He'd been right this morning; he'd made the correct diagnosis. The only problem was that he'd made it three days too late. The safest treatment right now was amputation. It was clean and it would spare his already weakened kidneys. He would make a full recovery if they amputated. But Wilson knew him. He'd known him for a long time. House wouldn't consent to amputation while he had other viable options. And at this point he did. Barely. But he did have them. By-pass and debridement was the most obvious alternative: restore circulation and cut out the dead muscle. That option would be rough on his system—it would take a day or two to for his body to wash out the dead cells the surgeon didn't get and the rest of the cellular waste that was already present—and there was a chance that he wouldn't be able to use his leg at all depending on the extent of the muscle removed. That route guaranteed nothing but danger and pain. Amputation was by far the safest way to go. But he knew House wouldn't allow it right now. Not after being misdiagnosed twice. Amputation would be conceding defeat for House. Everything with him was competition. He wouldn't do the safe, easy thing.

Wilson shook his head sadly. Maybe between himself, Stacy, and Cuddy, House could be convinced to do the smart thing. But he doubted it.

House's heart rate had risen to 55 while he'd been thinking. Good. Maybe his body was more resilient than Wilson had thought. Maybe.

Wilson took a last look at House and silently left the room. He needed to discuss treatment options with Cuddy and make sure Stacy understood the risks and benefits of each option before they talked to House.