After twenty plus years practicing, and eight of those dealing specifically with the weird and strange, Greg House liked to think there were very few medical situations that could honestly baffle him. As he stared down at his current patient, however, he found himself truly at a complete loss. By all accounts the kid should have died after a fall like that, at least started having another heart attack or clutching at his chest as his barely-healed aorta tore open again. He was doing none of these, however. Just gasping for air after being winded, and cradling his broken wrist. Both normal reactions, and both far from being dead or dying. Of course House knew it had been stupid to trip him, (in retrospect an entirely idiotic thing to do) but he'd been short on options. The sight of his patient calmly walking across the lobby towards the doors, even smiling at a nurse! The medical impossibilities had briefly thrown him, and he did the only thing he could think of to stop the boy before he escaped— before the answer escaped. So he'd stuck out his cane at the last minute, sending the boy sprawling. Effective, and now with the added bonus of providing a new… Was it a symptom? Or complete lack of symptoms?
Realizing Wilson was complaining about his behavior, and already having visually examined the patient's jaw for signs of obvious fracture, he made a slightly irritated face, eyes still on the patient. Wilson could be so melodramatic. "It's not broken. He barely landed on it," he said distractedly.
"Oh yeah, good thing the cast on his broken arm managed to take the brunt of it," Wilson grumbled. He glanced up, noticing House's obvious distraction from the current situation, and made an annoyed noise before turning back to the patient. The boy was now breathing normally enough after a fall like that and looking rather dazed. "Are you okay? Do you think you can walk at all? I need to check your mouth, if we can move to a chair it'll be easier."
The boy looked momentarily confused, before he tentatively nodded. House continued to stare him down, as if watching him long enough would elicit some sort of new piece to the puzzle. (Well, who was to say it wouldn't? Patients keeled over and had seizures all the time when he stared at them.)
The closest nurse had come over to help, and together she and Wilson managed to get the kid into one of the chairs by the wall. House hung back, preferring to watch the patient rather than offer what limited help he was capable of. The boy seemed to be walking fine, balance intact, slightly shallow breathing from diaphragm trauma, but overall nothing abnormal for a fall onto his jaw. Which in itself was incredibly abnormal. With furrowed brows the studied the boy's face carefully. It was definitely the patient he'd seen when he and the fellows responded to the heart attack code. There was no mistaking the strange mix of blue eyes and asian features. Still, just to be certain…
He moved closer to the boy, sidling up next to Wilson and completing the semi-circle of adults surrounding their patient. The kid looked slightly alarmed (irritated, as well? The facial expression was hard to read) by being closed in, but he hid it well. Claustrophobic, on edge. Another tally for his previous theory concerning the assassin's-target circumstances. Ignoring Wilson's muttering to the nurse as they examined the jaw, he sought out the boy's gaze and leveled him with one of his steadiest glares.
"How did you get past Cameron?" There, that would do it. If the kid knew who Cameron was, he'd be sure this was his patient and not some coincidentally identical boy.
The reaction was exactly as expected. Shock, slight panic. He'd been caught and he knew it. But then he did something unexpected. Instead of stammering denials, trying to get out of it, the kid just blanked. His face smoothed, panic and worry either expertly masked or repressed entirely. Wilson and the nurse had pulled back from examining, the nurse trying to figure out what House was talking about, and Wilson looking shocked. (Of course, House had been consulting with him over lunch. He knew the details of the case, and appreciated exactly how impossible this was.) With skill borne of deceiving people constantly, House managed to hide the surprise on his face and return the glare the kid was now staring him down with.
Finding nothing to say that would be of any use in the situation- he couldn't exactly ask the patient how he'd managed to circumvent every symptom of recent heart trauma and go traipsing around the hospital—House merely pulled out his cell phone and pressed the three speed dials of his employees' pagers. (He wasn't sure if he expected Cameron to respond or not, but might as well give it a try.) Tucking the phone into his coat pocket, he kept his level stare at the kid, having to work to keep a disturbed expression off his face –the boy had an incredibly piercing stare- and turned slightly towards Wilson.
"Get an x-ray on the jaw," he said tersely, and turned to limp off in the direction of the patient's room. He wanted to check on Cameron; either she was running around like a headless chicken trying to find her patient before House found out she'd lost him, or had somehow been incapacitated by a mere child. Either way the situation would be interesting –possibly diagnostically relevant. He ignored Wilson's stuttered protests, trying to get him to stay behind and help, or something, and flipped open his cell phone as it started vibrating.
"Go down to radiology when you get back," he ordered as soon as Chase's voice started babbling about what they'd found. He sounded excited, so they'd obviously found the bullet hole. He flipped the phone shut on his employee's confused voice, and tucked it back into his pocket.
More and more pieces to this puzzle... He just wished he knew where any of them fit.
Conan relaxed his glare as the strange, limping man broke eye contact and walked away, pulling a cell phone out as he went. He was immediately disgusted with himself. One mention of Dr. Cameron and he'd reacted like a rookie thief caught in a bluff. Still, the realization that he'd actually managed to run into one of the few people in this hospital who seemed to know who he was had been a low blow to his confidence. What was it about fate that just threw him into situations like this? Only after the initial reaction had Conan thought to mask his expression, and by then all he'd been able to do was go completely neutral. Not the best façade, true, but adequate to hide his feelings from those staring eyes.
And of course, he'd stared right back. Glared, even! Good going, idiot… he thought irritably to himself. The proper course would have been to look away, act ashamed and wait for the man's reaction to decide what to do next. But no, that old stubborn streak had chosen that moment to shine through, and he'd adamantly held the man's gaze.
It was one thing he never really could get over –being stared down like a criminal. He'd used that same hard look so many times, directed at such deplorable men and women… he wasn't a murderer, or a crook, for god's sake. There was no need to stare like that.
His thoughts were broken as the brown-eyed man from before moved into his line of sight, blocking his view of the cane-wielding nutcase limping down the opposite hall. Again he was assaulted by faint claustrophobia, and edged away from the man now kneeling not two inches from his face.
"Your jaw doesn't seem broken, but we're going to have to take an x-ray of your mouth to be sure." The man placed a hand on his shoulder in what was meant to be a comforting manner. In his current state the unwanted contact just put Conan more on edge, wishing he could be anywhere else. "I'm Doctor Wilson, by the way," he smiled genially, saying nothing for a few seconds. Conan realized he was waiting for a reciprocal introduction.
"Ah.. Edo- I mean.. Conan. My name's Conan." He exhaled evenly and tried not to look angry with himself for the near-slip. He'd almost said 'Edogawa Conan desu, yoroshiku.' It was as if his mouth longed to form familiar words again, to speak in its proper language. Fluent or not, English always had a way of tiring him out, making him feel as if a simple sentence required far more work than necessary.
"Just Conan?" the man asked, smile tinged with something like irritation.
"I can't remember my last name." Conan said absently, not really wanting to be confronted about it, but not trusting himself to come up with a decent-sounding alias on the fly. He'd never been good at making up names; his current pseudonym was proof enough of that, having been haphazardly constructed from the names of two titles on his bookshelf back home. And while his friend could sit for a few minutes and come up with Haibara Ai, a pseudonym with symbolism even he probably didn't fully appreciate, Conan was left sitting on an uncomfortable chair in an unfamiliar hospital, still trying not to blurt out Kudo Shinichi to anyone who asked. (Would this man even recognize those sounds as a name? He had to remember he was in America now.)
"Well I'm sure you'll be able to remember soon. Doctor House might not seem like a very nice guy, but he's a great doctor, always gets his patients better." Wilson smiled at him again, somehow managing to avoid sounding patronizing while still using vocabulary designed for a six year-old. The nurse from before –who Conan hadn't even noticed leaving—had apparently decided to make herself useful and reappeared with a foldable wheelchair. He eyed the device warily.
"I can walk," Conan grumbled.
"I'd feel better if you let us take you in the wheelchair, we don't know exactly what's wrong with you yet, or what could make it worse," Wilson said. Again with that placating voice… he glared to himself. Finally he scooted to the edge of his chair and smoothly shifted to the wheelchair with little more than an annoyed sigh, slouching into the too-big seat with his short legs dangling well above the foot rests.
"How's your jaw feeling?" Dr. Wilson asked soothingly as he took the chair from the nurse and pushed it toward the lifts. Conan sank lower in his seat, frowning deeply in anticipation of another bout of forced acting. He was tired, trapped, and certain of his impending death by assassination—a bruised jaw was the least of his worries. None of this could be revealed to the kind-faced man pushing him, however, so he settled for another frustrated sigh. Wilson either didn't notice the gesture or had decided not to comment.
After a few seconds (in which they entered the lift and Wilson pressed a button for the lower levels) Conan muttered something quietly. Wilson made to lean over the top of the wheelchair and ask what he'd said but then remembered to crouch down by the side and ask instead. He'd taken quite a few courses on comforting patients, had to as an oncologist, and unlike certain colleagues of his he'd taken them all to heart.
Bring yourself to the patient's level—avoid making them look up if at all possible—and speak gently, but with authority. Don't make demands. Healthcare is about the patient, first and foremost.
"Did you say something?" he asked gently, but with authority. Ten of ten for technique, he thought idly.
"I said, 'hurts a little.," the small boy muttered impatiently, looking anywhere but at him. The kid seemed frustrated, though whether it was with himself for getting caught or for some other reason he couldn't tell.
"I'll be able to get you some medicine for it once we get off the elevator. Think you can hold on till then?" Wilson smiled. Conan glowered.
Straightening up, he allowed his features to sag back into a frown. This case was incredible. Unbelievable, even. Just over lunch he'd been trading ideas with House over the possibility of cancer being the underlying condition, trying to come up with something that could both simultaneously cause and rapidly repair an aortic tear—they hadn't come up with much. And now this…!
He'd love to get a scan of the heart while he was down there—no doubt House would appreciate it. The elevator dinged and he wheeled the patient out into the hall. Hopefully the CT was open.