Chapter 22

"How can she have another infection?" Chase spluttered, incredulous. "She's in a clean room." Their patient had taken a turn for the worse in the night, her burns weeping pus, her temperature soaring. Cameron and Chase were busy in the lab, checking cultures and testing blood. Cameron had taken the latest setback in her stride, but Chase was agitated and defensive.

"A pathogen must have gotten in. There's nothing we could have done. We followed protocol at every stage." She tried to reassure him for the tenth time."

"He's not going to see it that way." He grumbled. Of course, Cameron knew he was referring to Hamilton. The man had stepped up his efforts to intimidate the team, throwing his weight around, refusing new courses of treatment, questioning their ability to treat his wife, or anyone else for that matter. He seemed to take particular satisfaction in terrorising Chase. Since the incident in the scrub room, he never skipped an opportunity to make a sneering jibe, or vague threat, or to just scrutinise the young doctor as he worked, trying to intimidate him into making some sort of mistake. Chase however, refused to let it show just how much Hamilton's campaign against him was affecting him, telling himself that a few weeks being forced to put up with that man's crap was nothing compared to years working with House.

HHHHHHHHHH

The afternoon sun played across the expanse of windows. The gentle breeze causing the leaves to dance and swirl, the gentle light strobing across the sunny room. Blue eyes watched the daylight and shadows twirl and pirouette across the blinds. "Whilst it is upsetting that he suffered a panic attack, you must see that the lack of a violent outburst is progress." She heard Dr Santos state firmly. "It means his new schedule and the meds are working."

Pulling her eyes from the window and training her gaze on the Psychiatrist, Cuddy shook her head. "This didn't seem the same as the other episodes. House is… different. He's barely talking. He wouldn't look at me. He had photophobia and audiophobia. He's listless." Her voice rose as she continued. Her fears taking over. "His behaviour before was aggressive and violent, but now he's agitated, scared. He doesn't even want anyone to touch him." She sighed, looking around her.

"No," Wilson disagreed. "He spoke to me, he looked at me. He's getting better."

"He's altered!" She countered. Worry causing her to snap at her friend.

"Of course he's altered! He was in a car accident and his skull was crushed driving a shard of bone into his brain. He just woke up from a week long coma. The swelling in his brain hasn't even subsided." Foreman interjected incredulously. "Every one of the symptoms you described can be attributed to the head wound. It's way too early in his recovery to worry about character changes." His voice was hard, defensive.

Hearing the information they were all well aware of thrown back at her in such a brutally blunt way shocked Cuddy into silence.

"Doctor Foreman is right." Dr Santos took advantage of the lull in conversation and jumped in. "We need to continue with his new course of treatment as the results have been encouraging. But we also need to keep a record of any behavioural changes as they could be significant too." She added tactfully. "We should also discuss moving him out of the ICU now that his condition has stabilised." As she talked Santos typed her notes up on her laptop, avoiding eye contact with her three colleagues.

"We should also try getting him up and moving about, even just a little. We need to get him sitting up in a chair. The increased blood flow will aid healing." Foreman added.

The unlikely collection of doctors around the table processed all of the latest information and nodded as one. Every recommendation was sound, but the last one gave Cuddy and Wilson pause. Walking, even the short distance to a chair, would cause House excruciating pain from the site of his brain surgery, and neither of them wanted to be the cause of more pain, Wilson, however, knew he couldn't leave the job to anyone else.

HHHHHHHH

The transition out of the ICU and into a private room one floor down had gone relatively smoothly. House had barely acknowledged what was happening, ignoring all the personnel involved. Choosing instead to lie with his eyes tightly closed against the movement of the bed, blocking out the ceiling tiles and dazzling lights whizzing by overhead.

Wilson walked alongside the bed, looking worriedly down at his friend from time to time. When the bed was finally slid into the new and almost identical room, his eyes drifting to the monitors, assessing the condition of his friend. He looked tired, in pain and more than a little green.

The last nurse exited, and House relaxed as the door huffed closed and the room quietened, breathing out a sigh of relief. "How are you feeling!" Wilson said softly. House immediately tensed again, and his eyes darted over to the source of the noise, startled to find someone else in the room with him. Recovering himself, he looked away again, ignoring the question. The Oncologist suppressed a sigh. The day before Wilson had felt so encouraged, House was finally making progress. The meds seemed to be working. He was more coherent, less agitated. Even the pain was more manageable. Yet the meeting he attended following Cuddy's visit had him questioning their earlier interactions.

He studied the man on the bed, hoping to somehow find a way of gauging his friend's state of mind. When it didn't work, he decided to try to engage the older man, rebuild their connection from the previous day. "The room seems nice." He began to walk the room, pretending to inspect the new features. "You still have a private bathroom." Silence. "The view is better than the ICU…" No response. "This room even comes with cable. What's that awful soap you like?" At this he picked up the remote from the small table, flicked on the set and began clicking through the channels, looking for something to engage the other man.

After a while movement from the bed diverted Wilson's attention from his quest. House's eyes were clamped tightly shut again, his right arm thrown across his eyes as if shielding them. The muscles in his jaw rigid with discomfort, his body strained. Throwing the remote onto the bed, Wilson quickly covered the ground to the other man's side. When he couldn't find an obvious cause for the change in behaviour he looked to the monitors. Both his heart rate and respiration were up, his blood pressure was creeping up too. "House? Tell me what happened. What's hurting? Give me a pain level." Wilson quick fired. Desperate to take the pain away quickly.

After a few painful moments House swallowed and ground out, "Turn off the TV." Realisation dawned and Wilson again snatched up the remote, putting an end to the obnoxious noises emitted from the box in the corner. The tension slowly began to ease from the body in the bed, but the hand remained in place, whether shielding the man from the world or hiding House from Wilson, he didn't quite know.

After allowing House time to compose himself the younger man couldn't hold it in any longer. "I didn't realise the photophobia was so bad."

He was surprised when House murmured back, "It's not." Confused, Wilson was about to respond when his friend continued. "There's too much information."

Struggling to make sense of what had been said he blurted out, "I don't understand."

Sighing, House knew he would have to further elaborate, "There's too much information, I… can't filter it out."

Realisation dawned. House's intelligence was both a gift and a curse. What made him such a renowned doctor was his ability to observe minute details that no one else could, make huge intuitive leaps and retain vast stores of information. However, it also alienated him from a lot of people. They hated his obsessive nature, his opinion that normal rules didn't apply to him, and his lack of regard for anyone else's feelings.

Now his staggeringly high IQ was becoming a liability, House's ability to filter out any extraneous input was seriously compromised. He was being overwhelmed with stimuli. Wilson suddenly became aware of how much visual, and aural stimulation even a quiet hospital room could emit. The monitors beeped out the rhythm of House's heartbeat, the sound of footsteps could be heard from the corridor outside, the murmur of voices from nurses and other patients, the dizzying mix of voices and music from televisions in the adjacent rooms, bird song drifting in from the open window. The room was overly bright, the lighting harsh, colourful art donned the walls, the cardiac monitor faced Houses bed pulsing with information, the glass walls revealed people milling about, a broken light flickering in the ceiling down the hall.

Jumping into action James set about closing windows, silencing monitors, closing blinds and shutting off the lights. Noises still bled into the room from the corridor outside and the other rooms; but seemed less intrusive without the other input. "Thank you," House sighed, almost looking content.

HHHHHHHHH

Reluctant to leave just yet, Wilson stayed with his friend, taking care of the hand over from ICU to the staff on the main ward. House didn't exactly sleep, but he seemed to doze fitfully. Every so often he shifted in the bed uncomfortably. Eventually he huffed out a sigh and seemed to give up on trying to sleep, instead settling on gazing towards the window.

"You ready to finally get out of that bed?" Wilson's question caught House by surprise and he felt himself stiffen. A move would mean strange hands on his body, inviting an onslaught of fresh information. It also meant trusting someone else, leaning on them. Most of all it meant moving, it meant pain. Yet his body ached from lack of movement, his skin burned where it was in prolonged contact with the mattress. He could barely endure the sensation of the starched sheets against his skin any longer.

Weighing the ideas slowly in his head he eventually relented. The need to finally leave his bed, even if only for a little while, only just outweighing his fear of making the move. He nodded minutely, avoiding eye contact with the other man.

Wilson set about prepping House for the short move. When everything was ready he stepped around the bed.

"Remember to take it slow. You've been in this bed a week." He knew House knew this already, but held out hope that his friend would gripe at him, or reply with some sarcastic or scathing comment, but again House didn't respond.

House was just wondering how he was going to sit up with both hands out of action when he felt a strong hand circle his uninjured arm then another slide in behind his back. He felt himself tense at the touch, feeling his skin crawl at the sensation. The hands faltered as they felt him react. "Sorry…" He heard Wilson splutter. The grip on his arm began to loosen, the support on his back began sliding away.

"It's fine." House ground out, realising there was no way he could leave the bed without help. At least it was Wilson and not some nurse. "Keep going." He saw Wilson nod and felt the hands reposition and repressed a shudder. Suddenly he was being manoeuvred slowly into a sitting position. As his head elevated, pain suddenly exploded behind his eyes, blackness crept into the corners of House's vision, eventually blotting out everything, the world faded away for a few moments and he felt his body sway. Incrementally his vision returned, the agony from moments earlier retreated a little and the world righted itself, he found gentle hands on his right shoulder and chest, supporting him without eliciting more pain from his extensive wounds. The younger man looked into his face, concerned. Feeling sick, in pain and awkward, House nodded wordlessly, his eyes flickering over to the other man's for a second to signal to the younger man that he was ready to continue.

He slowly began to shift his weight. Hampered by his broken collarbone and the cast on his left hand, he put his weight on his right and winced as the action pulled at the sensitive skin on his palm. Manoeuvring his left leg was easy, but the right leg required Wilson's support, his two compromised upper limbs would not support the weight; he braced himself for more touching. Rotating his hips while Wilson gently cradled his leg made his damaged thigh muscle throb, irritated his ribs and caused his head to spin. The pain in his skull had increased from a constant sharp throb to a pickaxe being imbedded behind his ear. If it hurt this much just moving around the bed, how would walking to the chair feel?

Again, they both paused once his legs were dangling over the edge of the bed, both men apprehensive about the next step. "Ok now, easy does it." Again Wilson couldn't help himself. He knew that House was aware he had to take the next step slowly, or he could end up in an undignified heap on the floor. But he needed to acknowledge that the next step would be the most difficult.

Slowly, ever so slowly Wilson supported the other man while he slid off the edge of the bed, until his feet touched the cool lino floor. Again, House felt his body sway, his leg left leg threatening to collapse, his right near useless. Gesturing wordlessly, Wilson indicated that he should take House's weight, again House allowed it with a small nod. More touching.

The short walk to the chair by the bed was miserable. The pickaxe was replaced by a jack hammer. The darkness at the edge of his vision had all but taken over, the chair was all House could see. Bile rose in his throat, threatening to make a break for it. House was barely able to support his own weight anymore, Wilson dragged him the last three paces and gratefully deposited him into the chair. Seeing the grey colour of his friend he quickly grabbed an emesis basin and thrust it under House's chin just in time to avoid an outfit change as he retched painfully until his body shuddered with effort.

By the time he finished he was sweating, he could feel his pulse throbbing painfully in his chest and through his cracked skull and he was panting from the effort. The usual constant dull pain in House's head had reached almost unbearable levels as he covered the short walk to the chair, supported almost entirely by Wilson. He tried to cradle his head, but only succeeding in glancing his heavy cast off the sensitive surgical scar. Unable to hold back any longer he felt himself groan pitifully, his eyes screwed up against the pain.