Chapter 30
Pale sunlight reached through the wispy clouds, unfurling its cheering rays like a gift towards the expansive windows of the well-appointed office. The man in the wheelchair tilted his face to catch the delicate warmth, letting it bring him some comfort in the unfamiliar office. Dark glasses blocked the worst of the weak light from assaulting sensitive retinas and sending sparks of nerve pain through the cracked and healing skull of the man in the chair. For the first time in weeks, he was able to enjoy the view outside the window without his senses being assaulted. Revelling in the soothing scene, he let his thoughts take him aimlessly over verdant, tranquil gardens, as the other men in the room discussed his future.
Wilson grasped the clipboard in his right hand, his left hand gently tapping the pen against his hand, not loud enough to disturb his friend. He considered the questionnaire in front of him. He had already completed the section describing the traumatic accident and the extent and location of the trauma to his friend's brain and the physical and sensory impact of the injury. He was now working on a tick list detailing the resultant behavioural changes, changes that caused so much worry and pain to everyone that cared for House. Next, he would have to break down his friend's communication strengths and weaknesses. Seeing that lasting effects House was experiencing from the crash recorded in ink made Wilson feel sick to his stomach. How could he overcome so many challenges? Was there still a way for House to come back from all of this?
When he was finally finished with the paperwork Dr Mahmood smiled warmly, his silver hair glinting in the warm lamplight. "As you know, Dr House and Dr Wilson, we run a highly individualised programme based on the patient's injuries and the resultant needs. Based on an initial viewing of your questionnaire I believe we will consult with the physio team to support mobility, balance and co-ordination, we will also do some rehab on the existing injury to the right thigh to preserve function and help manage the pain. Social and behavioural skills retraining is also a priority as well as work with your cognitive functions such as memory, attention span and concentration. I believe we should also assess how much medical knowledge he has retained."
"There's nothing wrong with my cognitive functions." House interrupted. "My medical knowledge is intact." For the first time since entering the building, he was looking at his new doctor, his expression determined, but Wilson could hear the fear behind the words.
The older doctor turned to look directly at his new patient. "Is that so, Dr House? How do you know?" Mahmood countered with a smile, his tone showing no trace of amusement, but infinite patience.
"I just know" he said softly, avoiding eye contact now that he was being challenged.
Mahmood leaned forwards in his chair, his fingertips tented in front of him. "In that case, would you object to a little test?" House didn't reply, but looked again searchingly at the older doctor.
The neurologist had left his seat and was pulling a weighty book from his packed shelf behind him. "Do you recognise this book?"
House looked from his face to the book, lying across his palms. "Greys Anatomy." He replied, softly, recognition sparking behind his eyes.
Mahmood smiled again, pleased with the interaction. "If I open it to a random page and ask you some questions about it, could you tell me something about what is presented there?" Again, his voice showed nothing but patience. Wilson learned forward now too. He had witnessed House's undamaged intuition and deductive reasoning in person when he had accused Hamilton of murder, but Wilson had been reticent to test how much medical knowledge remained, worried that he wouldn't like what he found.
Again, House didn't respond, but he leaned forward, studying the book with something akin to longing. The older doctor, taking this as his cue, let the book fall open in his hands revealing a diagram of the upper part of a skull complete with a spiderweb of veins and a large amount of text. "What can you tell me about the anatomy of the cerebral veins?" He asked after studying the text for a few moments.
House paused for a split second, then leant forwards so as to get a better look at the diagram. His eyes suddenly quirked upwards as he accessed his memory, then his head tilted to one side, and he drew a breath and began to speak in a voice devoid of emotion. "The cerebral veins are remarkable for the extreme thinness of their mesh from the muscular tissue in them being wanting, and for the absence of valves. They may be divided into two sets, the superficial, which are placed on the surface, and the deep veins, which occupy the interior of the organ. The superficial cerebral veins ramify upon the surface of the basin, being lodged in the sulci, between the convol…"
"Impressive, Dr House." Mahmood interrupted, cutting him off mid word. His expression probing as he watched House closely.
"You memorised the whole of Grey's Anatomy?" Wilson jumped in, stunned and more than a little optimistic following the performance.
"The original textbook. It was a bet in med school." Rather than sounding pleased with himself, or bemused by his friend's reaction, House's voice was bereft of passion, he was merely stating a fact.
Mahmood spoke again. "Yes, very impressive, Dr House. Your memory, as you said, appears to be intact. But, please tell me this, do you understand what it means?" House faltered.
HHHHHHHH
The tour of the facility had been taxing for both men. House had been forced to use the wheelchair again, the unit was too large for him to even attempt to use his crutches. There were so many departments, so many therapies on offer. Wilson asked question after question, hoping to better understand what his friend would be doing during his convalescence. He was trying to assuage his guilt at leaving House here, at the mercy of strangers, when he was at his most vulnerable. For his part, House sat quietly, occasionally nodding when asked a question, or looking at rooms, people or equipment when prompted, but other than that, he appeared completely disengaged.
House now sat on the neat single bed on his temporary bedroom, while Wilson stood next to him, trying to ignore the discrete hospital equipment in the corner and safety bars on the bed. House's bag was laid out in front of the oncologist, open at the top. He began pulling out items of clothing and organised them neatly in the single chest of drawers, next he arranged the meagre toiletries in the small en-suite bathroom, before returning again to organise House's iPod, PSP, Game Boy and books so that they were accessible, should House actually feel the urge to use them. As he efficiently unpacked, he kept up a constant, nervous stream of dialogue. "This place is great; the physio room is really impressive. Cuddy wouldn't like me saying this, but it puts ours to shame. They actually have a pool, we should see if we can book you some time in there, you know, for your leg…The room looks nice… Huh! There's only one set of drawers, I hope they have a laundry service… I wonder if we should label your clothes, so they don't get lost… You have your own bathroom. It's small, but at least it has a bath... I'll put your music, games and books by the bed in case you want them at any point. I'm sure the sensory issues won't last much longer."
Eventually he sighed, frustrated that House felt no need to respond, or even look at him. He turned to look at the older man, who was staring at his own hands, his shoulders tense, anxiety radiating from him. Forcing himself to stop his restless organising, Wilson approached his friend and pulled up the only chair in the room so it was placed opposite the other man, and sat down, leaning forward so if House looked up, they would be face to face. "You ok?" He said softly, watching the other man's face for any sign of emotion. House didn't respond but swallowed convulsively. "Look, this is only temporary, until you're more mobile. Which could only take a couple of weeks." Wilson didn't want to upset his friend when he was so vulnerable, but he knew the chances of House staying for less than a month at the earliest were slim. He needed a lot more support than just with his mobility. But Wilson couldn't bring himself to tell his friend that.
"Liar." House said softly, in a pale imitation of his usual tone. "I saw the form you filled out. I know I'm not the same person I was before. If there's even a chance of bringing back the person you knew, I'm going to have to stay a lot longer."
Wilson was struck by the faintly accusatory tone. Maybe there was a selfish component to putting House in this facility. He desperately missed his friend, he couldn't bare the thought that there was a chance he wouldn't get to witness House's talent, his arrogance, his inappropriate sense of humour again. He had to do something to try to bring him back, or he wouldn't be able to forgive himself.
Wilson had so far repressed his grief at the loss of the man his friend once was, because he still hoped there was a small chance that man could return. His conviction was growing weaker with every passing day, as he witnessed how much had been snatched away from the injured man. His remaining mobility, his wit, his wicked sense of humour, his ability to even drive a car thanks to the ongoing seizures. Hell, he couldn't even enjoy his music or watch a sunrise without extreme pain.
"Yeah…" He finally conceded. "Yeah, I guess you are."