CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: Stakes

When Wilson and Cuddy return to the living room, neither is surprised to find only Dick seated at the table. House is up and pacing; he's doing a really good job of pretending he's alone in the room.

Once they've taken their seats and Cuddy begins to shuffle the cards, House returns to the table with a smile. "What took you two so long? Didn't get to finish making out on the way back from the deli?"

"Yeah, that was it; had to finish what we started," Wilson says, fingering the syringes tucked into the pocket of his jeans.

As Cuddy deals the cards, Dick glances across the table at House. "How's the leg now?" he asks him.

House looks away from Dick, turns deliberately in Wilson's direction. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't psychologists have PhDs after their names? Isn't the 'MD' designation reserved for people who've actually attended medical school?" He ignores Wilson's scowl, and continues, "'Cuz it makes me really nervous when people who don't rate the 'MD' start asking medical-type questions."

Wilson looks hard at House. "How's the leg, House?"

"Now see, that's different," House smiles at Dickinson. "A real doctor, asking a doctor-type question, about a physical problem. That's a whole 'nother ballgame."

"So answer the question." Wilson's tone is low and warning.

"Just fine, Jimmy-me-boy, A-1, peachy keen!" House says expansively. "Hey, look at these cards! I'm in." He slides his ante to the center of the table, then starts watching the others as they study their cards.

Cuddy folds early in the hand. Wilson is watching House. Dick's already raised once, and Wilson calls. House has a pair of nines showing; Dick's got the jack and queen of diamonds. House raises, and looks curiously at Dick, who's just been dealt the eight of hearts. Dick smiles, looking at no one, and raises again.

Wilson's realizing that this isn't about cards anymore. He folds, and sits back in his chair, watching the two men who are watching each other. When the seventh card is dealt, House's up cards are the nines, a two, and a jack. Dick's got the eight, jack, queen, and a five—and he raises. So does House. Dick looks thoughtfully at his hole cards for a full thirty seconds, his face a blank. Then he looks up. "Fold."

House grins and scoops up the pot. "A pair of nines, a lousy pair of nines! I psyched out the shrink; too cool!" he crows.

Cuddy decides that a win for House is the perfect time for a break. "Let's eat, guys," she tells them, rising to go to the kitchen.

As Wilson is clearing the table for dinner, he takes the opportunity to surreptitiously check Dick's hand—he'd had a straight.

House is in a good mood after his win, so while Cuddy and Wilson lay out the platters of food, he's turning on the charm again with Dick. He tells a couple of his most amusing clinic stories, and then asks Dick about his "line of work."

"Anything interesting ever happen on that couch of yours?"

"Nothing like what you see, I'm sure. But occasionally I get the satisfaction of helping to guide a patient through a rough spot, and see them come out of it stronger, more able to help themselves."

"Sounds as exciting as full-time clinic duty," House yawns.

"I suppose the degree of excitement is relative," Dick responds. "For example, I found it quite exciting when you were able to break that painful spasm so quickly."

House is momentarily nonplussed by the comment, but he's saved from having to respond by Cuddy and Wilson joining them at the table.

However, Dick's not ready to let it go, and House glares at him as he continues. "It was fascinating that your concern for James could override such severe pain."

"Thought I explained that," House says tightly.

"Well, you did mention a few possible theories," Dick agrees thoughtfully. "Let's examine them, shall we?"

"Go for it." House is staring at Dickinson with a challenge in his eyes.

"I believe the first thing you suggested was that you were acting on medical instinct. If a shop clerk had fallen off a low stepstool, without loss of consciousness, you wouldn't have spared the clerk a second glance. We knew that James hadn't been knocked out; we heard him groaning immediately after the crash, and he spoke lucidly, and was able to move. So even you discarded that quickly."

House nods shortly; he's still staring intently at Dick.

"Then, you put your actions off to adrenaline. That's a sound theory—except for one thing. Had that been the cause, your pain would have returned the moment the perceived crisis had passed, once the adrenaline had dissipated. Yet you were fine, weren't you?"

House doesn't bother to answer the question; he's very still, just waiting for Dick to continue. His only movement, Dick notes, is that his left hand has begun to gently rub the left thigh. The motion is rhythmic and light, and House is unaware that he's doing it.

"And your final rationale, the one you decided to go with. False alarm." Dick stops speaking, and watches House for a few seconds. House's massage of the thigh muscle has become slightly more rapid. Dick allows his silence to stretch out until he sees House's hand slow, and watches his fingers begin to press into the quadriceps. Then Dickinson turns to Wilson.

"During our daily call a couple of days ago," he begins conversationally, "didn't you tell me that Dr. House had had another 'false alarm' with his left leg?"

By now, Wilson has noted House's actions as well. He's watching with concern as he notes the tight lines around House's eyes, the set of his mouth. Wilson starts to shake his head; he wants to change the subject. He doesn't want to watch this, certainly doesn't want to be a party to it. But Dick is waiting for an answer. "Yes. He said it was a false alarm; it could've been." Under the table, Cuddy squeezes his arm. He looks at her; her eyes are telling him that he must be honest, and that she feels for him—and that his honesty will help House.

Wilson takes a deep breath. "It could've been. But I don't think it was." He looks over at House, who refuses to meet his eyes.

"And how did that spasm end?" Dick asks.

"I'd… gotten very upset. Wasn't doing too well. I'd left the room. The spasm was beginning to peak when I left, but… I had to. I had to get out of there, calm down. House followed me into the kitchen. I guess I was… in pretty bad shape at that point. He… umm… took care of me. And then, he took care of himself. When I… recovered, and went to find him, I expected that he'd be in a lot of pain. But when I got to his room, and questioned him, he told me it was a… false alarm." Wilson stops speaking and looks down. Then he looks at House and tries to send an apology with his gaze; House turns his head away.

Now House is aware of what he's doing with the thigh. He tries to still his hand, and shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He lets out an involuntary gasp, then looks defiantly at the other three as he clamps his hand over the muscle. "Still don't get your point," he says roughly to Dick. "Spasm ended; that's a good thing. Doesn't matter why it stopped."

"Oh, but I disagree. It matters very much." The tone of Dick's voice has become gently teasing, taunting. "Because now we know how to fix the problem. How to cure you, so to speak."

The pain in House's thigh has reached the point where he can no longer be bothered attempting to hide his discomfort. He's using both hands now to try to relieve it, to soothe the clenching knot of pain. "A cure; do tell," he rasps, but the undercurrent of sarcasm is clearly forced.

"Sure, but it doesn't bode well for your friends, I'm afraid. Seems this problem doesn't occur until your mind has some free time. None of the attacks have happened when you've been wrapped up in a video game. Nor did tonight's incidents happen while you were actually playing cards. James tells me you're all about the puzzle. But games end, medical cases get solved. And then, where are you? It's just you and your pain again. So you focus on that, get angry at that—keeps your brain busy so you don't have to deal with anything else, until the next puzzle comes along. And the pain recedes—for a little while."

Wilson wonders how much of what Dick is saying is actually getting through to House. He's doubled over the leg now; his breathing is becoming ragged, and he's pale, starting to get sweaty. Wilson removes the med from his pocket, starts to stand. But Cuddy grabs his arm, shakes her head. She won't let go of his arm, and her look is stern. He sighs, and sits back down.

"So this is what we have to do," Dick continues. The gently taunting tone of his voice is gone now; when he speaks, his voice is mocking, almost cruel. "We just have to keep James in some sort of danger. Or Lisa; you care about her enough now that danger to her should be just as effective." He turns to Wilson and Cuddy. "James, you're gonna need to come down with some long term illness, preferably life-threatening. Lisa, maybe a serious traffic accident would do the trick with you. Then you," he turns back to House, "won't ever have to acknowledge that the pain is an integral part of who you are. Hell, you won't even have to acknowledge that you care about these people as much as—or more than—your pain and your puzzles. You can tell everybody—you can tell yourself—that you're simply doing your job."

Dickinson turns back to the other two. "So you see, guys, it's really very simple. Dr. House will never have to admit to the psychosomatic nature of his illness as long as one of you is in a constant state of peril." He smiles coldly. "And you're both so overprotective of him that I'm certain you'll gladly make that sacrifice."

A growling sound emanates from House as he half-rises from the chair. "Leave them out of it," he gasps. He attempts to take a step towards Dick, and collapses to the floor.

Both Cuddy and Wilson are at his side immediately. Wilson prepares to inject the morphine into the port of the PICC line, but forces himself to look to Dick first. Dickinson nods sadly, apologetically, and Wilson injects the medication while Cuddy monitors House's pulse and respirations. House neither speaks nor opens his eyes.

Ten long, silent minutes later, Cuddy rises from House's side, leaves the room, and returns with the wheelchair. House is comfortable now, and calm. Although he hasn't yet spoken, his eyes are open; he's looking thoughtfully at Dick, gravely at Cuddy and Wilson.

"Let's get you to bed now," Wilson tells House gently. House allows Wilson and Dickinson to lift him from the floor and settle him in the chair. Dick accompanies them to the bedroom. "Thanks," Wilson tells him. "Got him from here."

"No," House says quietly. "Wilson, outta here, please. Even a fake doctor can help me get to bed." He looks at Dickinson, and the quiet, measured tone of his voice doesn't change. "The Incredible Shrinking Dick needs to do some more shrinking. Scram, Jimmy."