Chapter 04 – Who is she?
House looked at his watch. It was 11:27. Friday morning. So now it was precisely two days since November had collapsed in the PPTH's foyer, hallucinating and disoriented. At last he held in his hands what he had been waiting for so long, and which would doubtlessly answer some of his questions and reveal a part of her riddle! Almost devoutly, House opened November's patient file. He had instructed his team to get him all available information as soon as possible. For November herself wasn´t yet in the state for an anamnesis. She lay in her room, sedated. The tests of her blood values and the toxicology screen had detected both THC as well as diamorphine and hydrocodone in her blood. The last ingredient had made House frown slightly, it being the main component of his Vicodin, after all!
Wilson had seemed almost disappointed when House had given him the laboratory report yesterday at lunch. "And you're sure that the hallucinations are solely due to the substances consumed?" Wilson had asked with an embarrassed expression. House had nodded silently, smirking at his friend gloatingly. What he, House was absolutely sure, had also perceived, but as usual had not dared to inquire further. Well, whatever, House thought. He would get around to teasing Wilson with the fact that he knew November, although he obviously could not remember the encounter of Sunday night even a bit...
Immediately after she had been admitted, Foreman had injected November an initial sedative, because she had been wriggling in her bed in great pain, repeatedly asking for Voldemort. After the reports from the laboratory were available, House had arranged to increase the dosage of the sedatives and to sedate the patient.
The pain finally subsided. At least for now. November felt her body relax with every breath, her muscles finally loosening. Slowly, there was also a pleasant nothingness spreading in her head. No shouting, no whispering, no noise, no thoughts that were continually scattering doubts, taking hold, not leaving her alone. For hours, she just lay on her back in her bed and enjoyed her state.
The last time she had been hospitalized, had been about 15 years ago. They had done corrective surgery for the defects of her gait, so that she would not suffer any further physical problems in the long run. That time, six weeks, she had spent with her legs in a plaster cast up to her thighs, not allowed to move, so her legs had to be fixed in the plaster with the help of a rod between the ankles. This particular feeling of immobility had burned itself into her mind. Now, once more, she felt as if she could not move. It felt like a magnet that pulled her, lying on her back, to her bed and did not let go. It took some time until November realized that this time she was lying in this bed completely free and could turn and shift about as she wanted.
Slowly and little by little, restlessness sprawled inside her again. The pain came back. She turned from one side to the other and reached for her thigh, in search of her companion, in a helpless, desperate way. But there was nothing. No CD, no bag, just her bare leg. The thoughts in her head ran a race against themselves. Where is my companion, what happened to it? Why is it not here? Does he have it? Where is Voldemort? All this became more and more a blurred fog in her head, and the withdrawal pains more and more gained the upper hand.
"Calm down," a stranger's voice suddenly spoke to her. It was Forman, about to give her the sedative at the order of House. November again held her thigh, an expression of pain and despair in her face. "In a moment you will feel better. November reached for Forman's wrist. Her instinct told her that he would be the right one to let know what was important to her. "My companion, my medevac ... The CD ... Where is Voldemort?" November asked strained and exhaustedly in Forman's direction, without opening her eyes. "House is not here at the moment," Forman said calmly, placing his hand on her shoulder. "Does he have the album? Where is it even? "She asked further, and at that moment, November was flooded by an incredible longing for her companion. She reached for her pendant, but it was not there. It literally choked her and the sudden feeling of being flooded by this longing and helplessness now really burst out of her in her form of silent tears. The painful absence of the only thing she had for support intermingled with the physical pain of withdrawal, and again she held her thigh with her hand, but still that what she had been searching for, hoping for, was not there. "I will take care of it. Sleep first now, then you will feel better soon," replied Forman, who sympathetically watched how November, all alone, agonizing here and apparently having only one album, that supported her? The neurologist gave November an average dose of a sedative, hung the bag with the medicine on a stand and left the patient's room. Before that he reached into the drawer of the night table, where the sisters, who had moved November in and connected her to the ECG, had deposited her personal belongings. House had voiced the suspicion that her things might hold clues on November's condition.
It was best for her to spend the next time in a quiet sleep until her body had broken down all the toxins. Thus, she did not have to consciously experience the side effects of her intoxication on her own body. Also, it gave House time to deal with her story, her past, her riddle, without distractions. So, now he was sitting in his office, his feet casually crossed on the desk, his gray-red felt ball in his hands and Novembers file in his lap. Curiously, he began to read.
Name: November -J. Mevon-Rhain
– Age: 27
– Born: 5-11-1987, in Baltimore
House paused for a moment to think. May 11? Just days before his own birthday. He could not stand it when someone congratulated him on his birthday and much less that anybody even knew about it. It was just as unpleasant to him to congratulate others on their birthday... Brushing aside his thoughts, he read on.
She was enrolled as a masters student in psychology at Princeton University. Hmm!? House raised his head and stared against the wall pensively. As a student of psychology, she had to know about the effects of the substances she had swallowed and also about their side effects, at least roughly. He could rule out that she had randomly or accidentally scarfed down this colorful cocktail. But those who were psychologically so unstable that they took drugs were fundamentally unqualified as psychologists and would not receive a professional permit, or at least they would lose it again if a certain time of recovery had not been proven.
A nervous smile flashed across his face. He had experience with what it meant to be accused of drug abuse and to fight for one's license...
Sighing, House continued to turn the pages. Well, it was not much information his team had gathered in two days, but when November woke up again, one or the other key data certainly would be added to her medical history.
He skimmed the other non-descriptive data and he had almost reached the end of the document when something yet caught his eye. He still had no answer regarding November's movement restrictions. The last paragraph showed that she had probably been treated as a child already. So, something innate? Thought House, and went through all the illnesses which, in combination with a possible birth defect, caused such symptoms. After a short time, three large letters appeared before his inner eye: ICP ...
He came to the last page and in fact there was an entry, and ICP it was! A satisfied smile showed in the corners of his mouth. He could indeed rely on his abilities as a diagnostician. If he knew all the symptoms, he always came to a diagnosis. And his hit rate was considerable! Infantile cerebral palsy - a cerebral injury that occurs in premature infants, caused by, among other things, oxygen deficiency and that strongly affects musculature and motor function.
He put his ball, which he had turned in his hands all the while, to the file on his lap. Then he leaned back, folded his hands behind his head, and looked at the ceiling. Infantile Cerebral Palsy - that explained a lot of November's behavior. For example, why she could not tie a knot in the cord of her pendant! Her lack of dexterity simply did not allow it. In addition, her fall in the bar. She had fallen, controlled and practiced like a cat. Probably because it happened to her almost every day and she simply was in practice. She quite simply had no balance. In the foyer, he had noticed that she had sat in her wheelchair unusually cramped. Such an unnatural cramped sitting position did not only come from physical pain, but rather was fitting to a spastic, respectively spastic paralysis of the musculature ... And her wheelie now also made sense. She could walk, but only a few steps and needed the wheelchair for long distances... What all this, however, did not answer: why November had filled herself up to the top with grass, heroin and painkillers!?
House hardly had closed the file again and set it on the table together with the ball as it knocked at the door. He looked at the glass-door expectantly, nodded briefly, and gestured to the man on the other side to come in. Determined, Foreman entered House's office and set two letter-sized plastic bags on the table for him.
"Here are the personal belongings of the patient you asked for," he commented, waiting for a response from House.
He took the first bag and thoroughly inspected the contents through the thin plastic. Inside the big bag there was a small bag. Approximately the size of a check card. And, at first appearance, the contents of this smaller bag were: "Grass!" House said joyfully, taking the supposed substance without hesitation from the large plastic bag. He opened the little bag and held it right under his nose. "Hmmmm," House groaned comfortably and closed his eyes, "that's good stuff. You won´t just see pink elephants on the ceiling! "He put on a deliberately friendly expression and said, "What do you think, Foreman, shall we test this stuff today at lunch time?"
Foreman soberly looked at his boss. He knew such a peculiar behavior from House, or rather, he had become accustomed to simply not taking him seriously. "No thanks," Foreman said factually, "I'm done with that since a long time already."
Disgruntled that Foreman was not responsive to his teasing, House shoved the grass back into the big bag and set it aside. Curiously he raised the second bag and slowly turned it clockwise at the level of his face. "Wow," it slipped out of his mouth, approvingly, "she carried needles with her?"
"Uh, yes," Foreman replied, now finally seeming a bit surprised by House's behavior yet, "We've been puzzled by that as well."
House lowered his arm with the bag and commented, "You never know when you might need it." He opened that bag as well and took the small disposable syringe, the packed cannula, as well as the lighter and teaspoon from the case that held all of it. "Unfortunately, she will not get her next shot so quickly here," he added, taking the paper basket from under his desk and throwing all the utensils inside.
Critically, Foreman eyed the behavior of his boss and abstained from pointing out that a standard trash basket was not the right disposal channel for a drug addict's needles.
Unexpectedly seriously, House addressed Foreman: "Have you already tested for hepatitis and HIV?" Without giving his colleague time to answer, he continued in a demanding tone: "I want to know if she shot herself drugs with any dirty needles."
Foreman could hardly withstand House's scrutinizing look. He did not like to be the bearer of bad news and especially not to House, as with him you never knew what malicious comment you had to listen to as a thank you. "Unfortunately, this will not happen," Foreman barely managed, after he had prepared himself for an attack, "Cuddy arranged the transfer of Miss Mevon. She is no longer with us on the ward."
House rolled his eyes, slightly tilting his head. "And why is that?" he asked in an irritated tone.
"No idea," Foreman answered truthfully and with a shrug. "She said the case would no longer fall within your responsibility."
With an exaggerated deep sigh, House took his feet off the table, lifting his healthy leg from the table without problems, while holding the handicapped one with both hands and carefully placing it on the ground. Then he reached for his cane, heaved himself out of his chair and went to the door.
"What are you up to, House?" Foreman asked surprised, looking after him.
"Well, what do you think?" House growled without turning around. "I'll get my patient back!"
House had only a few more steps up to Cuddy's office. Through the glass doors, he could see that she was sitting at her desk and talking on the phone. Apparently, it had to be a very pleasant phone call, because he saw her laughing heartily. Without a knock or any other sign of announcement, House burst through the door. Startled, Cuddy jumped with fright and, with widened eyes, looked at House, who planted himself in a not insignificantly threatening gesture in front of her desk, but remained completely silent as he did so. Cuddy's voice instantly lost its lightness as she closely examined House, continuing to talk into the receiver distractedly. House stood there motionlessly, said no word, pretending to wait patiently for his boss to finish her telephone call. In this feigned quiet position, however, he radiated something so unpleasant that it told everyone who knew him that he was about to explode shortly.
Cuddy could all but smell his indignation, even if she did not know yet by what it had been triggered. She made an effort to finish her phone call quickly and with a sugar-sweet voice before she hung up the phone with a steady hand. Ready to face a thunderstorm, Cuddy asked with a slightly ironic undertone, "What can I do for you, House?"
"Give me my patient back!" the diagnostician replied briskly and with a chilly voice.
Cuddy immediately knew who he was talking about but did not want to leave the field to him just like that. "Your patient?" she repeated skeptically, and continued, "Do you have any property rights to Miss Mevon that I am not aware of?!"
House did not react to her comment any further but remained stubborn: "I said I will treat her and my opinion on that has not changed."
"But mine!" Cuddy said with distinctly raised voice. "The toxicological result has clearly shown that the drugs were the cause of the hallucinations. And I do not see any reason why a drug addict needs treatment in a diagnostic department." Having the edge over House, she gave him a meaningful glance and added gravely, "Take care of patients who are seriously ill and need your help as a doctor! "
That was a good forward pass, House thought, picking up her remark. Cynically, he said, "Do you mean to say that the many drug addicts in this country, one of them dying every 19 minutes, are not seriously ill?"
"No," Cuddy hissed back instantly. She tried to remain objective, "I mean to say that you and your team have more important things to do. Fulfill your responsibilities and finally take up clinic duty again!"
"The woman has ICP!" House held against it, trying it the dramatic way. "Well, then she's limited in her everyday life by an irreversible brain damage," Cuddy snapped back. "But that is not a reason to let you treat her further because an ICP does not require further treatment in a clinic."
House ignored Cuddy's arguments and repeated monotonously, "I want my patient back!"
Slowly, the discussion started to unnerve Cuddy. Why did he want to treat this woman of all people? The sound of House's voice when he had been talking to the woman had made her think they had met before...
"Okay," Cuddy finally said with a sigh, raising her finger admonishingly in the same moment. "But only on one condition" - she glared at House, who was still standing there, motionless - "You tell me why it has to be Miss Mevon of all people!"
With an effort, House suppressed a grin and said with exuberantly played conviction: "She is a junkie in a wheelchair! You do not see such a thing as a doctor every day! "
"House!" Cuddy angrily hit the table with her flat hand. "The woman obviously is a drug addict! No more and no less! She will have a medical check-up here in the clinic and then be released again. Period! "
Demonstratively and relentlessly, House returned Cuddy's stern gaze for a few seconds until he abruptly turned away from her to leave the office.
"Hey, House!" Cuddy shouted after him with surprise. "Where are you going?"
"I'll take my patient back to her room!" House replied unwaveringly and opened the door.
"House!" Cuddy shouted again, jumping out of her chair. "Stop!"
In the doorway, House stopped and turned back to his boss again. Their eyes met and House felt clearly that he had won.
"Okay," Cuddy agreed. She sighed once more and closed her eyes for a brief moment, before she justified her decision, more for herself than in front of House: "I really do not understand why you are so concerned precisely with this patient. But all right, if it makes you happy, treat her for all I care. "
House felt the victory flow through his body in the form of endorphins, which forced him to suppress a grin once more. He always managed to soften up Cuddy!
Cuddy continued vigorously with her explanation: "As long as you do not have a real new case on the table, I´ll give you free rein. However, I have arranged clinic duty for the next two weeks for the members of your team! Including you!"
The corners of House's mouth twitched briefly, little enthusiastic as he was about the fact that more hours with feverish, sniveling and wailing elementary school children were waiting for him before he disappeared without a word.
Surprised, Cuddy looked after him. Why did just one of the most gifted diagnosticians had to be so damn stubborn and complicated?
The canteen, as always at noon, was occupied to the last place. But House did not have to worry. He had arranged to meet Wilson, and as expected, his friend had reserved a chair for him. House walked across the room to the table where Wilson was already sitting in front of his plate.
"And?" Wilson asked curiously as he took a hearty bite of his first sandwich. "How is your new patient?"
"After I have her back?" House replied, looking the other food on Wilson's tray over. "Better, I would say!"
"Why back?" Wilson looked at him confusedly, forgetting to keep chewing.
"Cuddy wanted to take the case from me," House explained, wondering if he should challenge Wilson for his second sandwich, or rather the chocolate pudding.
Wilson put his sandwich aside and grabbed his drink: "Probably because people with drug problems are no case for a diagnostician, I suppose?!"
"Yes," House replied curtly, wondering if the light sauce that presently was dripping from the edge of the second sandwich on the plate was possibly mustard or mayonnaise.
"If I´m honest," Wilson began, setting his mug down after taking a few sips, "I am somewhat surprised myself that you insist on treating this woman."
"And if I'm honest," House gave Wilson a serious look, and had decided to go for the chocolate pudding in the meantime, "that would actually be your job!"
"My job?" Wilson repeated, watching anxiously as House's hand wandered toward his tablet.
"Yeah, exactly!" House said, reaching for the bowl with the pudding.
"Hey!" Wilson protested with a full mouth. "That is my dessert! I brought a sandwich, especially for you!"
"I don't like mustard," House replied, taking the teaspoon from the tray.
"It's mayonnaise," Wilson said.
"I don't like that either," House said, comfortably shoving the first spoonful of chocolate pudding into his mouth.
Sighing, Wilson attended to the second sandwich. But no sooner had he taken the first bite than he realized that House had been right! It was indeed mustard and not mayonnaise!
Picking up the thread of the conversation, Wilson said, "I do not see how I, as an oncologist, could help a drug addict?!" He tried not to notice that the mustard was not to his own taste either.
"So you really can't remember?" House asked with a cynical undertone, grinning stealthily. On the one hand, because he could read in Wilson's face that it was obviously mustard, yet, as a sauce on the sandwich, and on the other hand because his friend seemed to still lack any memories of that nerve-racking night.
"And what is that supposed to mean now!" Wilson asked angrily, laid the sandwich aside in disgust, and took up his drink again.
"Sunday night, when you were having your grandiose blackout ..." House began casually, comfortably spooning his pudding, "You ... And she ...", he added casually, wondering if his friend would buy the innuendo.
"What?" came back from Wilson instantly. "House, what with that crap? I can't remember anything!"
"Precisely!" House confirmed, swinging the teaspoon in his hand with an incantatory gesture. "That's exactly why I'm helping you along as your friend."
Wilson nervously glanced at the bobbing spoon and said skeptically, "Right now I don't have the feeling that you're my friend, but that you want to feed me a line!"
"Okay," House replied outgoingly, then put on a serious look. "What is the last thing you remember?"
"I don't know exactly," Wilson said, starting to think feverishly. "There are so many individual pictures ... the pub... the loud music ... and, a barking dog I just can't get out of my head."
House could not suppress a brief snort, but at the same moment forced himself to be serious again. "That you puked your guts out, you can remember that, or not?" he probed and scraped the last remaining chocolate pudding out of the bowl.
Wilson nodded silently, a bit ashamed, apparently.
"She found you," House explained, looking intensely to Wilson to convince him. "You owe her!"
Wilson did not yet show the desired reaction, which led Haus to go one better. In a grave tone, he spoke to his friend, "If November had not -"
"November?" Wilson interrupted questioningly, "How do you know her name?"
House shrugged his shoulders and said in a casual tone: "While you were busy puking merrily, we were chatting a little."
Wilson now obviously was starting to brood over it. His glance flitted across the table undecidedly. Maybe House was not pulling his leg, after all? Cautiously, he addressed his friend: "And this woman really picked me up in the street, in a drunken stupor?"
House nodded silently.
Wilson knew this nod. It was one of the signals that made him absolutely certain that House was telling the truth and he could trust him. "Maybe you're right then," Wilson began, uncertainly and thoughtfully. "Maybe I really owe her a thank you." Hesitantly, he added, "Well, maybe I'll go to see her later."
"Oh," House replied, putting on an artificially regretful face, "don't take too much trouble."
"And how am I supposed to interpret this now, please?" Wilson asked, huffing, and looked at his friend moodily.
Almost in a bored way, House explained, "She's been sedated by Foreman and is still sleeping off her withdrawal symptoms." He put the empty pudding bowl back on Wilson's tray, stood up unexpectedly, and said goodbye, "See you later."
A certain disillusionment on his face, Wilson looked after his friend until his gaze fell back on the tray in front of his nose. A bitten into mustard sandwich and an empty dessert dish. So that had been his lunch! Frustration rose in him and once his friend was out of earshot, he imitated his voice, whispering to himself: "And thank you for the lunch, Wilson." Back to his own pitch of voice, he replied to himself, "No problem, my pleasure, House!"
November lay on her side in her bed, her left hand under the pillow, and slept. She had not been aware that she had been moved from one station to the other and back to her former patient room. The sedative was at work and so she spent hours and days in "her" patient room in the diagnostic department in a rather deep sleep, which did not allow her to distinguish between reality and dream. So, not only the new transfer, but also the fact that Foreman had visited her a second time to take a blood sample from her, passed her by. Far away and dull, she just heard a voice, but did not understand a single word.
November was in her own world during this time. Feeling incorporeal, in a floating state. Movements and touches needed a seeming eternity until they reached her, and when she finally felt them, everything was already over again and she could not process what or who it was just now. The same was true of words which were directed to her, when anyone spoke to her at all.
In her mind, however, she listened to a wide variety of songs from her companion and to lyrics of countless songs. She had always tried to burn every single song of this album, which was so important to her, into her memory, so that she still had them with her in a situation like this when there was really nothing else left. It was mainly the rhythms of the songs that helped her breathe, but to which she sometimes also briefly held her breath, and in the tact of which she sometimes turned her head from one side to the other. "Listen to my words now - lay back and shine" was such a line, which she always took to heart and loved even during conscious thought. A short smile flitted over her lips. It was the song with which she had created a safe place for herself. Back there she found her way just now. She felt light and free. But there were also the serious moments of withdrawal:
"Ten times that and then you know a thing about traumata", a completely different song line kept fluttering around her head again and again. And Nirvana's live version of "Something In The Way" ploughed through her entire body with its heavy and agonizing electric guitar. In those moments, nothing was easy anymore. Her body fought against the withdrawal symptoms, her unconscious processing it with this song. Again, what was pulling her out of those bad moments, were the most various songs from her companion. For November, the familiarity that existed between them was always recovery and a retreat in this state. It was an intense struggle with and against herself, which she was to win in the end.
After lunch, House treated himself to a very peaceful and relaxed break, which he spent, as so often, asleep in Mrs. Pickwitch's room. It was not until late in the afternoon that he felt rested enough to go back to his office.
House had not yet entered the room but he already saw Foreman sitting on one of the chairs, apparently waiting for him.
"There you are, House!" the doctor began, a slightly hurt tone in his voice, as House closed the door behind him. "I've been looking for you all afternoon! Where have you been? "
"I've kept Miss Piggy company," House retorted dryly, walking around his desk.
Foreman ignored the, in his eyes, nonsensical answer from his boss and continued: "After Miss Mevon had been relocated to the diagnostic department, I went back to her for a blood sample."
House watched Foreman interestedly, while the latter continued: "I have noticed, as this morning already, that the patient is always holding her leg. At first, I thought she was in pain, possibly because of the withdrawal. But when I looked at it more closely, I found that she has several postoperative scars on both legs. They run directly on the thigh, along the hips, as well as on the knee pit and calf. I'll be on the phone first thing tomorrow to ask the treating surgeon for the surgery report."
House stared at his desk, absorbed in thought. He had listened to his colleague attentively, and in his head, thoughts on which interventions possibly left behind such prominent scars were tumbling over each other. On both legs at that! Absent and lost in thought, House tapped his cane on the floor a few times before turning to Foreman. "Good. Is there anything else? "
"Uh, yes," Foreman hesitantly replied, reaching into one of the large pockets of his white coat, "I just found the CD and this pendant among her personal belongings. The sisters had put them in the locker with her clothes. "
House nodded and took the things from him. "You may leave, Foreman," he said curtly, waiting for his colleague to leave before devoting his attention to the two objects. At first he looked at the CD. He had never heard of the band before! But there would certainly be time to deal more thoroughly with it later. He stowed the album away in his backpack, the image with the guitar and the tree, on Novembers wheelchair, flashing up in front of him. Perhaps she was making music, after all?
Then he took the pendant into his hand. He recognized it immediately. It was this silver duck thing that Wilson had found on his night walk on the lawn. House recalled November's sad look when she had told him about the loss of her "companion." He found it odd that one could be attached to a small piece of metal that much, but if he thought about it, his gray-red felt ball actually was some kind of "companion" to him.
The pendant still in his hand, he repeated the words of Foreman in his head: "... on both legs several postoperative scars ... they run directly on the thigh, along the hips, as well as on the knee pit and calf." What did it possibly look like? Maybe like with him? What surgery had been done? And, above all, why? And when?
His curiosity was aroused! He had to look at her and look at it! The decision made, he closed his one hand around November's pendant and let it slide into the pocket of his jacket while he reached for his cane with his other hand.
House entered November's patient room and quietly closed the door behind him. He reached for the cord at the window and turned the slats of the blind so that one could not look into the room from the hallway. Then he walked around the bed slowly. November lay on her side, her arm bent next to her pillow and her eyes tightly closed. She was sleeping. And how could it be otherwise, House thought, since Foreman had dosed the sedative exactly according to his instructions and had been here several times to check her condition. If she had awakened in the meantime, Foreman would certainly have informed him ... With a mixture of curiosity and uneasiness, House stood beside November's patient bed and looked at her.
His gaze brushed the tousled, short blond hair, ran over her oval face, with the small nose, glided over her narrow shoulders, covered with a terribly bright blue dotted nightshirt, and ended on the bedspread, somewhere where her legs had to be. Again, memories of the evening in the bar and their encounter at night on the street billowed through his head. Again and again, House had asked himself in the past two days what probably had brought November to do drugs? At first sight, it just did not fit for him! A young woman, handsome, in her late twenties, apparently a successful student, spent a cheerful evening with friends in a bar, and then, at home alone and unseen, fixed heroin?!
There had to be something in her life that unhinged her? Were there problems in her family? Had she been abused in the past? Or was she simply mentally unstable by nature? Or was there perhaps a measurable neurological or organic cause that no one had yet discovered?
All these and other constellations - House had gone through them in the last two days, but had not come to a satisfactory answer. Until half an hour ago, Foreman had once again shown up in his office and had told him about the surgical scars. House had the feeling that the answer was as close as never before! And no question pounded stronger in his head at the moment than this one: Did she really have a scar, similar to his, on her leg?
House took a step towards Novembers bed and reached for the bedspread. He could not help it. He just had to know! But to his own surprise, he hesitated. His eyes wandered to the head of the bed and he looked directly into Novembers face, as if he wanted to convince himself again that she was really asleep and not aware of anything he was doing here. Then he looked again at the white cloth in his hand and in a sweeping movement pulled the bedspread to the side. The nightdress November wore reached well over her hip and provided a view of her legs. As if spellbound, House stared at her naked skin. Foreman had been right! Fine, pale lines were visible on both thighs. He tilted his head, leaned slightly over the edge of the bed, and his cool blue eyes followed the course of the scars inch for inch. He was fascinated by the sight of the scarred tissue, which clearly set itself apart from the surrounding skin in contours and color. He almost caught himself with the desire to touch the scars with his fingers and to trace them. They were indeed not unlike his own. However, much more filigree, much more inconspicuous. Not surprisingly, November did not lack part of her thigh muscle though, like he did! With every inch that his eyes explored, he also felt more and more clearly how the pain returned to his own leg. Unpleasant memories were reawakened in him, of his own surgery, the unbearable pain before and the brutal feeling after. As if someone was stabbing a knife into his leg and cutting the meat from the bone very slowly and incessantly ... Only too well, he could imagine how painful this surgery must have been for November!
All of a sudden, November's legs moved, she turned in her sleep and let out a low groan. House reached for the bedding and covered her naked legs again.
He watched her face with a restless look. Registered each of her movements exactly. But November quickly calmed down again. Relief overrode House's initial nervousness, but he remained vigilant. And in his mind, he wondered what was wrong with him at all? He had never felt scrupulous to visit a sleeping patient to enforce his "unconventional" methods and justify his risky treatments. Be it because he thought it necessary to take a look under the covers, or that he would get himself a blood sample from the patient without their consent. Only with November, he had a strange feeling. Not that he found it fundamentally wrong, what he was doing here, or that it would have embarrassed him at all. No, it felt as if he wanted to help her because of a strange inner bond and just, for now, did not know how or why!
House's clear gaze was relentlessly fixed on November's closed eyes. He tried to concentrate, put his puzzle pieces together again and again in his mind. And suddenly he realized that the answer he had been looking for all the time lay directly in front of him: he had not sufficiently considered the far-reaching consequences of her CP. From her first breath, she had needed to fight - as a child, as a teen, as a woman. It was a constant companion in her life, never leaving her alone, always present. She had to know what pain was. Probably knew the physical and also the mental disappointments that arose from it. Could it really be possible that she and he were alike each other like that? Before his reflections went head over heels, he ordered his thoughts to stop. He needed to consider the whole thing rationally. November was a patient, like many others. There was no connection between him and her, that had to be an imagination on his part! Well, there were the limp, the pain, the scars and the hydrocodone in the blood. But from an analytical point of view, there was nothing else that connected the two of them. House made an effort to shake off his confused thoughts, but did not manage to avert his gaze from her. Something held him here, and had him look at her in her sleep.
She could feel that he was there. Not so clearly as before, as everything was filtered and muted by her medication - also, she was not always sure whether it was a dream or reality just now - but his presence calmed her and gave her security. With every breath, she felt connected with his gaze, resting on her. A connection that was as secure and firm as no other. It did November good to know that there was someone who could make her feel that everything was well. It made the withdrawal she was going through easier for her. But it all was still way too far away. Not close enough. She put her hand on the pillow. The palm of her hand facing upwards, ready to reach out her hand to someone, or to hold on to something.
House just was about to leave when he remembered the pendant he was carrying with him in his pocket. As if on remote control, his hand slid into the left pocket of his dark gray jacket. Slowly he pulled out the leather cord, with the silver pendant, holding it on his extended arm between his fingertips and staring at the pendulum, lost in thought. The images of November and Wilson appeared again in his head. Of the honest and blissful joy in her face when his friend had given her back the pendant ... If Wilson had not puked all over his shirt that night, she would have certainly hugged him out of gratitude. This simple piece of jewelry really had to mean a lot to November.
His gaze wandered from the pendant back to November. Her left hand lay open and shaped like a bowl, next to her head on the pillow. Perhaps she needed it now, her "companion"? Like in slow motion, House dropped the silver something into November's open palm and watched as the cord covered it in tight loops.
Here you have your companion back, he talked to her in thought and only took his gaze from her after a few more seconds. Without turning around again, House left the room.
November closed her hand around the pendant tightly. The cool metal, its shape, all that was very familiar to her, even though she was only very vaguely aware of it at this moment, she knew she had it back. Finally. She sensed how at this moment an undreamed-of energy rose in her, bringing her more and more to a conscious state.