"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Thirty-Six -

"Howlin' at the Moon"

Thursday, the clinic was pretty much quiet and placid. Following the events of Wednesday evening, it was a little like "the calm after the storm".

There were visits from regular therapy and pain patients, and these appointments were handled in turn by Kip and Earl and Bill and Bart, all in the course of a day's work, in the regular exam and therapy rooms at the front of the building. Some of the hubbub reminded House of clinic duties at PPTH, and even the idea made him curl back his lip in disdain. He'd been prowling in the wheelchair, and when the first patient showed up in reception, he whirled around and headed back to his and Wilson's quarters.

The two of them spent time, thereafter, lounging around after breakfast. They showered (Wilson), and took a sponge bath (House), got dressed in leisurely fashion, and wasted another hour while Wilson remade their beds, and then rummaged through what remained of their clean clothing … which wasn't much.

Wilson threw a load of laundry in the washer located in a cubbyhole down the corridor from their room. While they waited for it to finish, he checked House's foot, flushed it with antibiotic solution laced with Lidocaine and pronounced it healing nicely. He added extra padding to the bandage, which House eyed questioningly, but refrained from quizzing him about.

House bitched that he couldn't bear weight on the foot yet, and it still hurt more than it should. Wilson's sub vocal rejoinder sounded a lot like: "Well, no shit!"

"Think you'd like to try crutches?"

House couldn't believe his ears. "Huh?"

"You heard me. It might be a good idea for you to get upright and begin to take some exercise. After the way you lost your balance yesterday when I helped you to the bathroom, you could probably use some kind of movement in your legs before you begin to lose all the strength in them. Sound like a plan?"

House was all for anything he could do that might get him moving again, but after the past four or five days, he was a little skittish where his mobility was concerned. Without even becoming aware of it, he reverted back to his six-year-old persona. "But what if I fall? I could hurt my foot … hurt my leg. It's not like the wheelchair. I can't lose my balance in the wheelchair … and I can't fall out of it …"

"House … after some of the crap I've seen you pull in wheelchairs over the years, if there's a way for you to fall out of one, you'll find it. You could even find a way to fall off the floor!"

"Wilson, that's not fair!"

"Nobody ever said it was fair … but if you think you can't handle it …"

"Whoa-whoa-whoa there, Buckaroo …"

Wilson's last remark had been the icing on the cake. House suddenly became the logical forty-eight-year-old again. "Yeah … I guess I need to get up and get moving, don't I? If I fall, I fall. I'll just get back up again, huh?"

"I guess you will!" His words were sharp, but the quirk at the corners of Wilson's mouth told House all he needed to know about the spirit with which it was intended.

Wilson brought back a laundry basket nearly full of fresh, dry clothing an hour later. He plopped the basket on the mattress beside House, who was tinkering with his dried-out iPod in an effort to get it to work. "Fold these!" Wilson said. "Make yourself useful."

He picked his cell phone out of the pocket of his windbreaker, which was still piled on the dresser. "Do you want your cell phone? It's probably dead as a doornail … but I have it if you want it …"

House looked up from what he was doing, a little put out with being asked to do much of anything that resembled work. "Nah … can't think of anybody I'd wanna call." He put down the iPod reluctantly and picked at the pile of clothing in the laundry basket. "I dunno how to fold this stuff the way you do it …"

Wilson grinned. He could imagine what the wash would look like after his friend got finished with it. "Have a go!" He said. He took his phone and walked toward the bathroom. "I'm going to lock myself in there and call Cuddy. I owe her an update on what's been going on with you. Wait'll she hears that your pain is gone! You wanna talk to her?" Wilson was still all smiles as he disappeared into the john and closed the door. He did not, however, lock it.

House looked up from fumbling with the laundry and grumbled something nasty about: "…actually wanting to talk to Cuddy is like asking for a case of the clap." He pulled the wicker basket closer to his side. Heaving a huge put-upon sigh, he picked up the first tee shirt. He wrinkled his brow and his nose at the same time and sat pondering for a moment. Huge, put-upon sighs were of no use at all without an audience. He should save the effort until Wilson came out of the bathroom again. He chuckled to himself deep in his throat and reached for the second tee shirt …

… and heaved another huge, put-upon sigh. They were cheap. And easy. And they let him feel very self-righteous.

"Dr. Cuddy? It's Wilson!"

"James! I was beginning to think you two had left the country. I was going to call you twice yesterday, but you told me you'd get back to me, so I waited. What's going on down there?"

"He's pain-free."

"What?"

"He's pain free, Cuddy. He's still a jerk, but he's a jerk who doesn't hurt."

"James? Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. He's much better. Much better!"

There was a very long pause, populated with deep breathing. Wilson waited her out. He knew exactly how she felt. He was beginning to feel that way again also: sympathetic minds in perfect harmony.

"Better than the Ketamine? You are … serious … aren't you?" Cuddy's voice was breaking. She was suddenly riding an emotional tidal wave. Wilson found himself choking up with her, and he'd sworn he would not.

"Very serious. Better than the Ketamine."

"You're telling me he can walk without pain in his leg?"

"He hasn't exactly walked yet …"

"What? Why?"

"Remember, I told you about the decubitus ulcer on his foot … from the bike."

"Sorry, forgot. Is that the only reason he can't walk?"

"I think so. But he says his leg doesn't hurt at all. He's slept through two nights now. One of those nights he was lying on his right side with both legs drawn up. I couldn't believe it myself."

"Where is he now? Oh God, James … this is unbelievable!"

"Believe it! He's in the next room … folding laundry."

"What?"

"You heard me …" He allowed the smile to come through in his voice.

"Are we talking about the same person here?" He could hear the tears that transformed her voice, turned it thick and emotional and joyous.

"Oh yeah … tall, lanky guy … sarcastic … can be meaner than hell … walks with a limp … uses a cane … at least I think he'll use the cane again …"

"Oh James … this makes me so happy."

"Me too."

"But you won't tell him I said that, right? I'd never live it down."

He chuckled gently. "Neither would I."

"I'm going to tell his fellows … do you think he would mind?"

"I don't think he'd mind at all. The other night he said he didn't care if I told the President of the United States. Of course he was a little out of it at the time …"

"Thank you, James. This is wonderful. But we won't tell him that either, will we?"

"Of course not. I'll just tell him you're very happy for him … and stand back while he tosses me a raft of crap about that!"

"Goodbye, Dr. Wilson."

"Goodbye Dr. Cuddy."

Wilson pushed "stop" on his cell phone, wiped his nose and eyes before leaving the bathroom.

House sat on his bed in smug indifference, once more fooling with the iPod. The ear buds were in his ears and he was twirling the little dial. Tinny sounds escaped into the room. He must have gotten it to work. He sat back with an air of superiority, took a deep breath and heaved an enormous sigh, then folded his arms across his chest.

At the foot of the bed the laundry basket sat in plain view. Each piece of clothing was folded meticulously within it.

James stared. Not for the first time he wondered who this man was … and what the hell he'd done with Gregory House …

00000000

Earl Keirkgaard's living quarters were located further down the same corridor as the ones housing Gregg House and Jim Wilson. Earl's apartment was specifically constructed in a manner to accommodate someone in a wheelchair. Therefore his doorways were wider, his countertops lower. All the wall switches were lower on the walls, and all the major appliances in his kitchen were installed with such a disability in mind.

Below one countertop near the built-in refrigerator, Earl kept two large doggie bowls nested into a raised platform where Bobby could reach them easily. Earl wasn't the only one living with a disability here, and he looked after the three-legged mutt with the responsibility of a doting father. Bobby ate dry dog food, and he gobbled down a bowl of food as fast as it was placed before him. He ate and drank when he was hungry or thirsty, and he was hungry or thirsty most of the time. Earl filled both bowls once a day.

Thursday, in the sublime aftermath of the impromptu concert of the night before, and the magic of two pianos in sync, Earl's mind was a little off the middle of the road, not quite aligned with the center median. He was humming "Moonlight Cocktails" as he went about his morning routine, and his mind was a million miles away from the quiet German Shepherd lying sprawled out in the middle of his living room floor.

When Bobby had been let outside to run that morning, he was still sore in his gut, and feeling weak. He hobbled out to the back lot as far away from Earl … parked on the cement pad outside the door … as he could get, and searched for the right place to squat.

This time his urine was a darker shade of pink, and he felt a burning sensation even in his testicles when he urinated. He whined a little with the pain, but then he finished and it was all right again. He did not scrounge around among the weeds today, but went back to the door and waited for Earl to let him in. He stared at his food and he did not eat and he did not drink.

Sometimes Bobby went along with Earl and made his rounds of the clinic, stopping off here and there for treats and a Meaty Bone or two from some of his friends. Today he stood by the open door of Earl's quarters when Earl coaxed him along, and refused to move. Instead, he plopped down in the middle of the carpet and looked up at his master with reproachful eyes. He did not feel well enough to venture out. Earl misread the signs. Once in awhile Bobby stayed behind to snooze in the sunlight that came through the east window. Earl muttered, "Suit yourself," closed the door and gunned it on the way over to the lab.

House and Wilson left their quarters closer to noon, making their way very slowly down the corridor in the direction of the labs and the dining area. House was attempting his first excursion with crutches, and the adventure was a little slow and a little clumsy. His lame hand was annoyingly tender after an evening at the spinet, and Wilson paced himself very near House's shoulder in case of disaster. He'd intended to bring the big wheelchair along, just in case, but House had pooh-poohed the idea and insisted that he was "fine". Wilson raised his head and rolled his eyes at the ceiling, and against his better judgment, allowed his headstrong friend to have his way.

As he closed the door behind the two of them, Wilson stopped to listen. Down the hall in the direction of Earl Keirkgaard's quarters, he could hear the dog whining and barking. Bobby sounded alarmed, angry. Earl had probably locked him in there this morning so he could get his work done without the dog pestering him to go outside … go for a walk in the corridors … go visit Shaniqua at reception … the operative word being "go".

Bobby had done the same thing a few mornings back, so Wilson ignored it and returned his attention to House … and his sore hand and his wounded foot and his crutches. They continued forward cautiously. After a short series of stumbling steps while his hand gradually limbered up, House began to walk a little easier, gaining grace and confidence as he eased into the rhythm of movement. Wilson knew he had used crutches before; used them a long time, in fact, after the infarction, and before his leg had recovered sufficient strength to allow any bearing of weight.

House had thought then that he was finished with the things forever … and now, here he was. Again! The circumstances this time, however, were different. When he could finally put them away after his foot healed, there was a very good chance he would never have to look at them again. That was, if he didn't pull something unutterably stupid.

They arrived in the dining area just as most of the staff was arriving for lunch break. Cheers and hand clapping and a general aura of boisterous teasing greeted House's attempts at crutches. Wilson watched in amusement from the sidelines as his friend fielded the jibes and the raillery with sarcasm and humor. He did not miss the respect House commanded from every one of them, just by being who and what he was, and everything he had sacrificed to be here.

House ate up the attention with a spoon. Multiple pairs of hands were there to help him into a chair, pull up another chair for him to prop up his foot, remove his crutches from his hands and lean them beside him at the table.

Wilson caught the smiling brown eyes of Lillian Chan, parked close to Bart across the room, and winked at her as Gregg drank in the attention like osmosis, and beamed that dazzling blue-eyed smile at Lillian and Shaniqua. Wilson shook his head in wonder as he stood at the periphery, hands jammed deep into his pants pockets, about half shivery with emotion, just standing and watching.

This was the fiery-spirited man whose deceptive charm lay hidden beneath ten layers of bitterness and pain. This was the exquisite creature with the eclectic, electric, didactic mind. The healer … the physician … the teacher.

This was the same man who had drawn Wilson to his side like a magnet, held him there easily, in the only place he'd ever wanted to be, since the day they'd first met. What was it House possessed that passed over every other man Wilson had ever known? Even he didn't understand it, but he'd recognized it when he saw it.

Wilson knew, however, that this sense of magic couldn't last. North Carolina was a long long way from Princeton, New Jersey, and Paramar Clinic was a far cry from PPTH. In this setting, House could afford to be a charmer, a witty, smiling Giacomo. In New Jersey he would revert, because that's what got him through. In New Jersey he would intimidate, humiliate, infuriate.

Too bad. But Wilson understood the way it was. And life went on.

He found himself a seat at the table and joined in with the general gabbery and the friendly insults and the wisecracks and the laughter. He enjoyed himself and wished it could last forever.

When the meal was over, they lingered awhile longer over coffee. Everyone hated to break it up, but it was time to go back to work. Wilson looked across at House and saw small lines of distress pressing his friend's lips together. House had overdone it in his enthusiasm and was beginning to pay for it. He had placed his left hand into the warmth of his right armpit. Wilson got up from his chair, placed his napkin on the table and crossed over to whisper something in House's ear.

Gregg looked up, startled for a moment at Wilson's acute intuition. He nodded briefly and whispered something back. Wilson left the room without another word.

The others saw the silent admission of pain, understood why he had pushed himself the way he had. Each of them made the collective decision to stay with him until Wilson returned with the wheelchair.

James hurried down the corridor toward their quarters, noticing with annoyance that Bobby was still raising hell in Earl's quarters. He let himself into their shared room, grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and started toward the door with it.

At that moment the timbre of the dog's voice changed. He was no longer barking. He was yelping, then screaming like a wild animal under attack. His voice raised in volume

and pitch until the sounds began to resemble the sounds of mass murder. If they had been near a highway, Wilson could have sworn the animal had just been hit by another bus.

The red bus with teeth …

The screams intensified, and a chill raced down Wilson's spine.

What the hell … ?

James let go of the wheelchair in the middle of the corridor and took off at a run in the direction of Earl's quarters. Shortly before he reached the door, the sounds stopped.

Silence.

Heart-stopping, bone-chilling silence.

Wilson paused. Did he dare go in there? It was not his place. He paused again with his ear against the door, listening.

The absence of sound that greeted him was worse than the wailing.

Wilson twisted the doorknob and pushed inward slowly. The door moved a fraction and then stopped on something solid. Not quite solid. He pushed again, putting his shoulder into it, and the object gave, as though he were pushing against sand. He gave it a final shove and found himself in Earl's living room.

He stepped beyond the door, heart in his throat. His breathing accelerated wildly, already knowing what was in store.

House's dream! His friend had seen this coming.

"No! …No time! … can't …"

Gregory House had dreamed this entire scenario two nights ago.

Wilson looked down.

"Oh, God!"

The big white German Shepherd lay sprawled on his side. His tongue lolled from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were open, already glazing over, staring toward the far wall.

Bobby was dead.

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