Chapter 06 – Bad Dreams

The bustle in the corridors had become much calmer by now and for a moment, November felt lost. The thought of her patient room did not make the situation any better, though. This was not the safety she was looking for. So, she decided to divert herself from her loneliness, shook off this unpleasant feeling, and made her way to the elevator in her wheelchair to explore the upper floors of the hospital. She pressed a random button and the elevator booth started moving. With a beep, the elevator door opened and November rolled across the corridor. She paused in front of a door. "Dr. James Wilson. Oncologist", was written on it in silver lettering. Suddenly, the image from that night emerged in her memory, when his buddy had stood before them, swaying, and had given her back her pendant. She reached for her jewelry, smiling. The intensity the memory reappeared with made her sure that it had to be that buddy's office behind that door. She listened. No one was to be heard. From beneath the door gap, light came out. And so, her hand reached for the door handle, almost like remote-controlled, and opened the door to – without waiting for a signal from inside – simply step inside and stand in the middle of the office.

Vertigo posters on the walls, a solid desk, two comfortable seeming chairs in front of it, closets next to it. On the right, a leather sofa and a small table. Practically furnished, went through November's mind as she looked around the room.

Exhausted and somehow tired as well, Wilson shuffled along the corridor of his oncology ward. It was an unpleasant and sometimes even a disgraceful task to tell people that their relatives would die soon. And as much as he was interested in cancer, researched and worked with it every day, he still felt so downhearted and depressed when he had to realize that from a medical point of view, there was no longer any chance of healing for a patient. It pulled him down, made him dispirited on some days. And especially right today, when his disastrous diagnosis did not concern an elderly person who had lived most of their life, but a child. Just a few minutes ago, he had needed to explain to a young couple that their ten-year-old daughter would soon die of leukemia ... These were the days when he regretted being a doctor!

With the hopeful thought of a relaxing and withdrawn break in his office, Wilson continued down the hall. Until his gaze fell on the open door, which stood slightly ajar. He stopped in front of it, bedazzled. Who was waiting for him in his office?

He did not have any more appointments in the afternoon! And it could not be House either, as he usually closed the door to take full advantage of the surprise effect. Was it perhaps the desperate parents, wanting to talk to him once more?

With a mixture of curiosity and discomfort, Wilson stood outside the door, put his hand on the door panel and pushed it slowly. Beside his desk sat a woman in a wheelchair. It was House's patient! Inwardly sighing with relief, Wilson entered his office. It was no tearful parents, thank God, who had persecuted him here. And yet, he felt a little queasy about the fact that, even seeing November directly, there was no recollection of the night of his booze-up.

"House is not here, in case you are looking for him", Wilson said, hiding a hint of shame. He walked around his desk and took a seat on his chair with a slightly exhausted puff. Hopefully, she would not bring the conversation back to the previous evening once more, Wilson prayed inwardly, glancing at her.

"I'm not looking for him anyway. I was simply curious and wanted to know if you're actually the Wilson whom House was looking for at night, recently," began November as she watched Wilson sit down.

„Well, I guess that is me indeed," Wilson replied, slightly skeptical about her casual tone, and tidied the files on his desk. Not because it looked messy, but because he was looking for a distraction to make the conversation appear more casual. A stack of papers in his hand, he looked at House's patient, whose name escaped him again, and said, "We are something like friends, House and I. And you are…?"

November nodded at Wilson's remark about House, but did not comment on it and wondered incidentally what the papers might be, which he kept pushing this way and that on his desk. "November". She answered his question briefly and continued to speak. "Since you're very obviously the Wilson from last Sunday, I wanted to take the chance to say thank you again, now that you're sober again," November said, glancing at Wilson.

"Thank you?" Wilson repeated confusedly, before he really had thought about what he wanted to say. "Thank you for what?" He still lacked a memory of that night and he could not imagine what November meant even if he tried. The situation was more than unpleasant to him and he successfully worked on not blushing.

"Wow - you really don´t seem to remember absolutely anything at all," remarked November, astounded. "Well, because you found my pendant AND" she raised her voice meaningfully, "because you didn't puke it all over, unlike your T-shirt." She replied to him and looked down herself at the silver pendant, took it in her hand, held it in Wilson's direction and looked at him expectantly.

Wilson saw the silver colored something dangle in front of his face and instantly images popped up in his head. Images from the night he had desperately tried to remember for a week! He saw himself - a dachshund - the house wall - November and House on the stairs - and the pendant he had actually picked up somewhere on the street. Suddenly, almost everything was back. "Oh, that you mean," he commented, waving a hand dismissively, with a smile, "That's not worth mentioning." The utensils on his desk's surface had now been sorted so embarrassingly tidily that it was difficult for him to touch anything without it looking tense.

November took her pendant back. "Thank you," she said, smiling gently. She let her gaze wander over his desk. Penitently stacked files and papers, everything was orderly, seemed almost like a still life, not like a workplace. She felt Wilson's tension, and decided to practice herself a bit in conversational techniques, she did not study psychology for nothing, after all, and it was not as if she would get anything else to do here anyway. "You seem tense," she began. "What's the matter?" She asked with a tone in her voice that showed an honest and serious interest in his uneasiness. "Did you have to tell unpleasant news to relatives?" she allowed herself this speculation, just to see what would happen now. In addition, any thought was welcome that had nothing to do with her patient's room and distracted her from the fact that she was supposed to stay there overnight.

Helpless, Wilson looked up from his desk. The look he met was friendly and open-minded. November did not seem to resent him for his bender and his behavior due to that. On the contrary, she even asked him about his condition and seemed to feel quite clearly that he was still elsewhere with his thoughts. With a tormented smile, he replied, "Everyday life as an oncologist isn't always pretty. Sometimes you simply have to accept that there are people who can't be helped anymore." It did him good to get this off his chest, even if he realized in the next moment that November was completely unsuitable as a conversation partner for that. For one, she was House's patient and also, it would be a breach of confidentiality if he talked about it to her in detail.

November was keen to learn more, but she herself also realized that she was not working here - especially not in sweat pants that reminded her again of her being here as a patient - and that something like talking about burdening experiences in the everyday work of an oncologist was not her task now, even if it would mean a welcome diversion to her and probably would have done him good. "But they can be accompanied on this last path," said November, lost in thought, looking absently at the floor in front of her.

"Yes, that's true," Wilson replied, wondering in that moment what November's profession actually was? Psychologist perhaps? But he quickly relinquished this consideration and brought the conversation back to House. "Well, as I said, House isn't here, and even if you're not looking for him, I think he's looking for you," Wilson said, looking thoughtfully at November, "I think it would be better If you went back to your patient's room."

November frowned and at the same time flinched inwardly. For there it was again - what she had been trying to avoid all afternoon already. Almost, she wanted to say "I don´t have one", but managed to withhold and instead of it, somewhat confusedly, said, "Why would House be looking for me? Also, he was there already to see me …" Does Wilson want to get rid of me? she asked herself as he changed the subject so suddenly and urged her so subtly to leave his room.

"Yes, that's actually very untypical for House, that he misses his patients. As you may have noticed, he's," Wilson halted, how had he gotten back to talking about his friend? Was it because House had rebuffed him today again with a request? " Carefully, he weighed his words, "He isn't always nice to other people. Or rather, he is often deliberately not nice to other people," Wilson finished his sentence and now began nervously to make a mess again out of the order on his desk. "I've talked a great deal too much again," he commented his fidgeting, which got more and more hectic. "Well, either way, House was here this morning and asked me if I had seen you," he added.

"Mhh," November commented Wilson's deliberations thoughtfully. "I'm not always nice to other people either," she said dryly and moved away from Wilson's desk. "Well, then I won't let him wait any longer," she said casually, without letting her thoughts show. Firmly convinced that Wilson actually did want to get rid of her, but not telling her that it was so, and above all, why it was so. A little disappointed with this ending, she was just about to leave his office.

"November!", Wilson called quickly after her, realizing that he had unintentionally provoked the termination of the conversation. He was grateful that she stopped at the door with her wheelie and turned around once more. "Please, I did not want to hurt you," Wilson began, and continued, "It's just that a very hard workday lies behind me and I really want to call it a day." With an apologizing glance, he looked at November.

November had turned around to be able to look at Wilson. She was glad that he had obviously noticed what she did not like. But then she felt that the disappointment had not only to do with Wilson, but also was about her really needing to go back to her room now. She replied, "It´s okay, you did not hurt me ... rather made me curious," she said with an investigative sparkle in her eyes. "As is well known, one shouldn´t keep doctors waiting", she said after a brief pause, raised her hand in greeting and rolled down the corridor toward the elevator.

Wilson still had a sentence on the tip of his tongue, which he was keen to get rid of. With quick steps, he walked around his desk and stepped into the hall, but November had arrived almost at the elevators already with her wheelchair. He swallowed his last words and vowed to save them for their next meeting. With a perplexed expression, he looked after November.

Back on the diagnostic station, November stood in the hallway. Looked back and forth between the door of her room and the end of the corridor, where House's office was, and finally decided for the office. Having to go back to this room as late as possible, is still early enough. And in his office, he will find me in any case, she thought, rolling towards it purposefully. She parked the wheelie at the wall opposite the chair, which made a very comfortable impression. Smiling, she studied the piece of furniture. Her eyes fell on the desk and the felt ball. She simply took it, before she settled into the chair and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling, rolling the ball with her left hand back and forth over her thigh. November wondered why Wilson really was so tense and why he really wanted to get rid of her so suddenly, there had to be something else besides the hard workday ...

House was on his way to his office. He just wanted to grab his bag and go home ... As to his annoyance, not only had Wilson stopped his persecution of November in the morning - No – on top of all that, Cuddy had waylaid him subsequently and dragged him to the clinic. He hated clinic duty, more than anything else in this hospital! The annoying patients, who were waiting with whatever trifles, sometimes for hours, to speak to a doctor, just to tell him of their family problems then. Be it that granny Erna was living in the nursing home now, be it that the son was being bullied at school, or that Aunt Hilde's dachshund had been rolled over by a car last week ... Having to deal with such things strained his patience to the limit.

Striding along the corridor of the diagnostic department, House popped another Vicodin. However, more to soothe his nerves than against the pain in his leg, which since the conversation with November this morning hadn´t been unpleasantly noticeable so far. He opened the door to his office and stopped in the doorway unexpectedly. On his cream-colored chair sat November!

House glared at her grimly. "Put it back!" he snapped, almost in a rude tone, as he saw November playing with his ball and took it from her hand to put it back in the bowl. Then he walked around his desk and reached for his backpack, which stood on the floor next to the table. "Last time I checked, you had your own room?!", he barked at her.

Torn from her thoughts by House, November began, "I like my room just the same you like me right now," without paying heed to his words. Disappointed, she held her gaze on the ball, which now was back in its place in the bowl.

"Fine," House commented curtly and in a tone that left no doubt that he was in a bad mood. "Then we have something in common, I guess!" His bag already over a shoulder, he turned to leave.

"Wilson is hiding something from me," November said quite naturally, raised from the chair and looked at House curiously. "And why the hell are you looking for me, if you just want to leave here as quickly as possible?", she asked him after a short pause, with a confused look.

House paused, wondering briefly what to say. He wasn´t actually keen on a conversation with November at all, as he was firmly convinced that it would peter out like this morning. At the same time, however, he felt that her presence seemed to influence him somehow. He suppressed a sigh, took the backpack from his shoulder, and sat it back on the ground. With a petrified expression, he looked to November and said, "You were not in your room. Therefore, I was looking for you."

"Just because of that?", November answered with skeptical gaze and tone. "Is this here a nursery school with curfew, after all? I'm not sick!", she replied shaper than she was really glad about, raising her arms in the air at that. "Or had you wanted to know anything else about me?" She paused again briefly. "Oh, yes, and your buddy is hiding something from me." She repeated it in a casual tone, hoping that this time it would arouse his interest. Despite the quite unpleasant mood, November enjoyed this conversation with House. She would not be able to stay here for much longer, after all, as much was clear. Everything that came thereafter would probably be something like hell.

"I do not care what Wilson did or did not tell you. And what he told you about me is all a lie," House replied coldly and added, "Go over to your room, lie down and sleep. Tomorrow will be a new crappy day again, guaranteed. " At these last words, his gaze wandered away from November and over to the window. Why didn't he just leave?

"As if I hadn't slept enough for the last two days!", November murmured more to herself than in answering House. On the other hand, he was quite right with the shitty day. And the present one probably wouldn´t get any better either. Seeing that, sleeping would be quite useful actually, if it was not in a hospital ..., she pondered, still sitting on the chair. "Every day is a gift - it's just wrapped shittily," she threw in the song line suddenly coming to her mind, simply into the room - quietly and almost a little while her eyes sought those of House.

Surprised by these fitting words, House took his eyes from the window and looked to November. Still cool, but by far not as off-putting as a few minutes ago, when he had entered his office. "If this is so," he began, looking her in the eyes with an uninterpretable look, "then my day today is packed in a smelly newspaper that held a dead fish for the last three days!"

"Then trash it!", November replied energetically, gesticulating with her arms. She continued to speak, "Whatever that looks like. Maybe you should better take a nap too," she said, now back to a calm tone. The thought that he felt similar in a way held something soothing and conciliatory for November.

House could not understand why, but the quick-witted exchange between November and him brightened his mood. Finally, someone who did not cave in and crawled into a mouse hole. Well, he thought, looking at his bag, which stood on the ground in front of him. Perhaps his mood would continue to improve if he stayed a bit longer. And perhaps there was a chance for getting the one or the other information from November yet, concerning the reasons for her drug consumption? Worth an attempt, he could not lose! House leaned his cane against the table and made two labored steps to the right where November's wheelchair still stood at the wall. Quite naturally, he sat down in it, not least to make it clear to her in a quiet way that he did not like seeing her sitting in his favorite chair. A place not even Wilson was granted to take a seat. House released the brakes on the wheelchair and rolled back and forth on the spot impatiently. He looked at November with a challenging expression and asked curiously, "And now?"

November smiled with pleasure when she saw that he sat down in her wheelchair again. She liked to see him sitting there, because it strengthened her feeling that they were connected. She returned his challenging look and asked as curiously, "Are you going to throw it away?" and, with a look at her wheelchair, she added, "I hope you won´t roll away." Since the idea that he would just take off with her wheelie now, was not at all to November's liking. As without her wheelchair, she did not feel complete, especially inside of big buildings.

Notwithstanding her words, he passed her comment and focused again on what was essential to him. Why the drugs, this wildly mixed consumption of painkillers and the other stuff that had been found in her blood. Still, he had not received a really satisfactory answer to that from her. If she really was as tough as she was acting just now, then she might be able to stand up to some questions that dug deeper? He finally wanted to solve her secret, wanted to know what she had to hide! Fixing his gaze on November with a firm look, House said, "Must be bad as a woman not being able to wear short pants or skirts, with legs scarred like this, that's bound to look shitty!"

November smiled amusedly and shook her head slightly. "Must be bad as a man, not being able to look a woman up the skirt, or? On the other hand, you could still stare at my breasts," November gave back sharply, "And as for the shorts, I don´t have to look at my scars, after all, respectively I barely see them after all this time," November gave back a little stroppy, wondering at the same time why she did not stay placid. Apparently, his words yet hit home more than she had thought. She furrowed her brow deeply for a moment. It was not the words, but the fact that something like this came from him, she had remembered him quite differently from their nightly encounter. But she shook off this thought, braced herself inside for the upcoming battle and looked at House expectantly.

House stopped the wheelchair in the middle of the movement. She wanted a fight? She could have it! He was in the mood to harass somebody anyway and to let off steam. "I'm a doctor," he commented her clumsy reply casually, and added, "Enough women let me look up their skirts if I want that."

"A diagnostician who is not a gynecologist and usually does not treat his patients himself. Sure thing," November commented sarcastically.

House was annoyed inwardly. His first attack had backfired. Spurred on by her defiant answers, he launched a second attack, trying to seem cool and arrogant, "It's really a pity that you won´t get anywhere after your graduation. A psychologist with drug problems who is on the needle" - he shook his head with staged disappointment - "something like that ends early with death."

Now he was getting really nasty. Hinting at her studies and her addiction, it really hurt her, that he said something like this, but for some reason, she suddenly felt a certain distance and cold against his words. Perhaps because her old survival mode re-emerged in this conversation, in which she felt right in the middle of the planche. Which was why she prepared for the next blow. Hard-boiled and cool, with a tone in her voice that sounded absolutely certain and unshakeable, November countered, "My dear House. I have already won the battle with and against death, when I should not have lived at all yet. I'm not killed that easily."

Crap, once again, she had already knocked him out in this duel! Slowly, his ego was threatening to take serious damage. House had so far rarely encountered such a tenacious combat partner. Why the hell was that woman so resistant? He knew that only from himself if anything... On the search for another weak spot, his gaze fell on the backpack. The album, he thought, an evil spark flaring up in his eyes. Quickly, he turned his eyes away so that November would not become suspicious. With a scathingly angry expression, he looked at her and said in a hateful tone: "Don't you miss anything else since you came here?" Curiously, he waited for her reaction, this shot simply had to hit home!

November had an unsettling inkling of what he meant, and where this stab was supposed to hit her, namely, in her very core. Briefly, the album cover of her companion flashed before her mind's eye. It was very hard for her to not let anything on. She could feel the worry showing in her face, which she quickly wiped away, though. Bolstered up by her two hits, she took a deep breath with a bowed head, smiling, looked at House firmly and replied kindly and calmly. "No, I have everything with me," she said, placing her hand on her breast. "What do you think is the reason the last two days were something like the best concert of my life." So, November gave him an idea that she knew what he was getting at.

This was simply incredible, went through House's head. Another strike he had had to take. Was this woman indestructible? If November landed just one more blow, he would throw her out, cold as ice. After all, this was still his office! "Your jag was the best concert of your life, huh?", he repeated gruffly as he just could not think of anything better. And with his next sentence he almost bit his tongue. The fact that something like that came from his mouth of all things, was already bad enough. "Cuddy was right! A drug addict does not belong in the diagnostic department. I'll drop your case. From tomorrow on, you'll be back in another department, in a multi-bed room!"

Startled, November looked at him and flinched, "What? No! You're being unfair now! You can´t be doing that!", she replied imploringly. At the mere thought of spending the nights in a multi-bed room, and not being able to do anything undisturbedly, she felt like fleeing. "Who is this Cuddy, anyway?" November asked angrily, as she could not remember their meeting for the admission.

"Unimportant!" House huffed, restraining himself again at the same moment, it was not his way to be loud. With an emotionally cold and frosty gaze, he focused on November, having had enough of her now really! For good! He raised his hand and pointed his index finger in the direction of the door, without looking there. His icy voice filled the room: "Out!" He simply did not want to admit to himself that she had won this discussion!

This time he really meant it, November thought. All right, if that´s how he wants it, she thought resolutely. November stood up from the chair, stood in front of House, who was still sitting in her wheelchair and spoke down to him with an unapproachable and cold tone, "Get up!"

Only now, House noticed that he was still sitting in her wheelie! Swallowing his grudge, he pushed himself up and stood right opposite November. She was about one head smaller than he and looked up to him out of her blue-gray eyes as darkly as he looked down on her. Their faces were only separated by a few inches. It was as if the air between their heated minds crackled and electrified. They stood there like that for a moment. Stared into each other's eyes fixedly until they both looked away from each other in the same second and parted ways without another word.

And so, November rolled around the next corner, back to the patient's room and on the way there, always the elevator in view, shortly before deciding yet differently again, before she made the turn to her room yet finally, half down the corridor. The slats of the blind had been opened in the meantime. Apparently, nobody was all too concerned about her and they had not triggered a major alarm because a hospital patient was not in her room. Probably they had seen her in the cafeteria as well and had been satisfied with that. In addition, the ward nurses knew that House did not lose a patient that quickly.

The day was slowly coming to its end. Until tomorrow, she would definitely have to hold out in her patient room. But no matter who said what, she would not wear this hideous shirt again. Not even for sleeping. She pulled her hood over her head again and put her arms on the table, crossed, then she bedded her head on them. She would only go back to bed if it remained the last chance to get some sleep. If she were to lie in it, just so, she would feel uncomfortable, strange, somehow sick, although her body was in fact well. For November, a patient bed was for people whose bodies were too weakened. She was not any longer. Thus, she did not belong there. Not to mention what she linked to it from her past, and before her mind's eye appeared the scars on her thigh and the gypsum that had bound her to such a bed for so many weeks. Not to mention the pain associated with this time. Again and again, the unpleasant feeling of immobility returned when she lay in there and that she did not want under any circumstances. She thought about all this, as she lay with her head on the table and looked into the emptiness. Words and conversations of the day echoed, single images appeared before her – over and over, House, as he had sat in her wheelchair and offered her his pills. Why had they pussyfooted around each other at the beginning of their first conversation? What was it that he wanted to know? Why couldn´t he ask her right out? How would the substitution go? Would she be able to hold it out, without the beloved high after a fix? For a short moment, she pondered to fake it, but abandoned the thought again. Would her plan to better get through the nights with Ben's dope work? And what effect would the junk have, together with the substitute? All that, she considered, time and again, in an infinite loop. But that which meant the most to her at this moment, was to be able to spend time with House. But even that seemed as impossible as never before after their conversation just now. Would he really see that through? He simply couldn´t do that to her.

House drove home, left the musty hospital, the exhausting clinic duty and his annoying friend Wilson behind, but reluctantly took with him all the experiences of the day. In particular, the discussion with November haunted him. She had stood head and shoulders above him. A fact that had deeply hurt his ego, as he had to admit. How had that happened to him? Seeing that he won every debate otherwise, whether against Wilson, against Cuddy, or someone from his team. He did not want to lose, especially not against someone like November. And for this bitter defeat, he would present her the bill tomorrow, as much was certain! He would go to Cuddy, tell her that from his point of view there was no reason to continue to treat November and direct Foreman to move her back to another station! The decision was made! Still with anger in his stomach, he parked the car, took the few steps to the front door, and unlocked his apartment door. House turned on the light, and when his gaze fell on the beautiful black grand piano, the sight gave him a slight smile. At least one who is waiting for me, he thought and closed the door behind him.

No sooner had he laid down than he already fell asleep. He dreamed something very strange. He dreamed of himself, how he went to work in the morning. He got into a traffic jam, arrived late. All the elevators in the entrance hall had signs showing: "Out of order" Gasping, he dragged himself up the stairs to his office. Cameron approached him. Stammered something that he could not understand. She pulled him into room 304. November's room! Everyone was there, Cuddy, Wilson, Foreman, Chase, Cameron and him. They were standing around the bed. Stared at the ground with their heads lowered. The bed was empty. Or not? In any case, there was no patient in it. Unexpectedly, it began to rain from the ceiling of the room, heaps of grass and colorful pills. Like the sound of a waterfall, thousands of capsules pelted to the ground. It was a deafening noise. House did not understand what this was supposed to mean. He looked to his colleagues, who still stood around the bed, with mourning expression. As soon as it had started, the rain stopped again. In its place, now a fine powder trickled down from above. It was no dust, no plaster - it was heroin. Like white snow, it covered the bed of November and spread out, like a white carpet, over the entire floor. House shook his head and stared at this grotesque picture incredulously. This could not be true! Suddenly, the bed and the drugs went up in flames! Were ablaze! He cried out, terrified, made a lunge for the bed. But he did not reach it. With every step he became faster, the dramatic scenario moved further away from him. The perspectives of the room warped, became more and more tilted and everything began to dissolve. House felt like losing the ground under his feet and fell, long and deep ...

House's threat was Novembers last thought before her eyes slowly closed. However, she was not asleep particularly soundly. Every sound in the hall made her start with an alarmed look toward the door. Fortunately, she fell asleep just as quickly. When she woke up for the first time not because of some noises or people, it was only 10 pm. She stretched, shook the pain of the uncomfortable and hard position from her bones, walked a few steps.

Sat down again and tiredly ran her hands over her face. The whole night still before me and all that without any dope, she thought. And with an almost inquisitive curiosity in her eyes, she thought about how she was going to pass this night without good sleep and without any stuff to help. What she did not realize, however - was that the stuff of her dreams was going to be even worse. In the meantime, the hospital had calmed down, which at least facilitated sleeping through the night. As soon as she had finished this thought, a night nurse entered the room to check that everything was in order with November. Luckily, she did not insist that November should get in her bed immediately. She was satisfied that November assured her of "soon". So, she got comfortable again on her table. Again, words, sentences, and thoughts echoed through her head, which she could not quite follow and grasp because she fell asleep again at some point. But this time, as well, it was a very restless sleep. She dreamed time and again that the door to her room got opened constantly, even though it was locked and nobody but she had the key. Strangers, often even only voices, whispered threatening things at her. And, again and again, the threat House had spoken, was hovering there, "Tomorrow I'll drop your case!", it echoed through her. She did not know if she screamed, or only talked louder, if only in her dream or for real. Startled, November woke up. 1:15 am. Sleepily, she stared at the wooden table in front of her and tried to sort out what just had happened, when the night nurse came in again and asked her if everything was all right. Absentmindedly, November affirmed and, all of a sudden, turned towards the door alarmedly. "Wouldn´t you rather go back in your bed?", a voice gingerly asked from there into the darkness of her room, only sparsely lighted by the light of the hall. "No!", November replied firmly but as well a bit defiantly and clearly exhausted and tiredly. Determined to bring her cushion between her and the tabletop though, this time around. So, it would get at least something like cozy for the rest of the night. She knew that it would be much more comfortable in this bed, but no sooner would she lay in it than she would be wide awake and not sleep a bit.

Sweating, House awoke from his restless sleep. He jerked his eyes open and stared at the ceiling in his dark room. His breathing rate was increased. His damp t-shirt stuck to his back. With an effort, he crawled across to the other side of the bed and lay down on the cool and dry sheet. Slowly it dawned on him that he had only dreamed and his thoughts did not correspond to reality. He tried to relax, calm himself, and gradually the feeling for his body returned. He was astounded that his leg did not hurt at all. All the more, as it was otherwise the reason for his sometimes sleepless nights. But he felt nothing, no tingling, no pulling, no stabbing. Only his head, it hurt. An unpleasant throbbing knocked against his skull from the inside and pressed incessantly against his temple. He closed his eyes, turned on his side, and tried to find sleep again - he could not. Images appeared in front of his face. Images of November, as she had sat in his chair. Even if he had disapproved of it at the first moment, he yet had to admit that this picture had amused him. In a strange way, she had seemed very familiar in this place ... All to no avail! Like this, he would not come to rest again. Against a painful body, Vicodin did help, against an aching head, only music!

Still in the damp and washed out dark blue shirt and his light gray sweat pants, House limped through the unlit corridor into the living room. He switched on a dimmed light, took his acoustic guitar from the wall and sat down on the piano stool. Testing, his right hand tugged over the strings. He had not played for a long time. Practiced, House hit one string at a time, twisting the pegs with sure instincts to restore the harmonious sound of his instrument - which was not that easy for him because of his headache. The throbbing had not yet disappeared, but he was already feeling it getting better with every sound. After finishing the tuning of the guitar, he began to play. Slowly, quietly and with closed eyes ...

Wish you were here – Pink Floyd

( watch?v=qg3V1WSJSc4)

A - B - D - E, as if guided by an inner force, his fingers slid over the strings and played each note individually. The melodic sound filled the room, was reflected from the walls and rang in his ear – urged its way in, filled him and restored balance back to his core, little by little. Dreamily, he began to hum the text to himself:

So, so you think you can tell

Heaven from hell

Blue Skies from Pain

Can you tell a green field

Form a cold steel Rail

A smile from a veil

Do you think you can tell

[...]

Just why had the discussion with November gotten out of hand like that? What had been his purpose, provoking her that kind of maliciously? Was it really just because he had been angry about Wilson and the wasted afternoon in the clinic? Or was there something else behind it, something that was less obvious? November was not like other people, he had felt that from the very first moment when their eyes had met in the bar. And maybe it was exactly that, causing him a headache now.

Just why was he so reluctant to simply ask her openly what the reason for her regular drug consumption was? Sure - he already knew the answer to this question. It was as simple as it was complicated: he simply did not like to ask questions to which he did not yet know or could guess the answer! He preferred by far when he had gathered all the clues and put his arguments right, to then, in artistic irony, ask the one burning question on everyone's mind, only to answer it himself. Just as he always did! In Novembers case, this meant that he first wanted to reveal her secret and to uncover the motivation for her drug use, in order to confront her with his findings then. But in this case, his plan simply did not work out.

Instead, November developed an effect on him, which increasingly caused both comfort in his core, as well as discomfort in his mind. He remembered her first looks, how she had studied his cane with its flame pattern - her fine and confirming smile as he sat down in her wheelchair - and her whispered words when his leg had begun to ache. In all the situations he had felt well, as if understood on a different level. And yet his distrustful conscience had kept interrupting warningly: "Do not get involved with someone like that! You've been left disappointed often enough!" A familiar voice had whispered repeatedly in his ear. He did not like that there was a person who could look inside him. It scared him, made him become cold and repulsive, but also aggressive and irritable. He did not want anyone to see the miserable heap of shards his painful life presented.

All these thoughts went through his head as he played the song again and again, deeply immersed in the music, forgetting everything else around him. He had wronged November and attacked her verbally. Not because he really wanted to hurt her, but to protect himself, out of fear to be hurt himself – that was clear to him now. He had to apologize to her! But how?

The second half of the night did not go any better for November either. The diffuse, threatening dreams, which seemed very real to her, persevered, and only when the night nurse entered November's room again about an hour and a half before shifts, November agreed to sleep in her bed. Tiredly, she trudged towards her bed. The unsuspecting night nurse eyed the events skeptically and noted in addition to "does not sleep in bed, but on table and dreams badly, with restless sleep" now also "suspicion of renewed consumption of addictive substances. Alcohol? Suspicious stagger" in the file of November. After half a night like that on hard wood, even a patient's bed has something pleasant, November thought as she felt the pain in her arms, shoulders and back subside. For the first time in this night, she really found peace. Her dream, though, was anything but peaceful. She found herself in a club. Loud music and strange faces. She did not know at all why she was there. The atmosphere rather cold than inviting, due to a lot of concrete. She wandered about without aim until someone gestured at her to tag along. She did not know if she knew that person and decided to follow, after all. She did not have much to lose either way. She came to a dimly lit backroom. Dull, the bass lines billowed through the door and, sitting at a table, House was waiting for her. "There you are. Good that you ceased to resist," House began in perfectly neutral tone, so that November was not able to interpret the situation, but it did not feel really good either way. "Take a seat," House directed her with cold voice and while doing so, she cast an irritated and questioning look at him. "I need your arm", House commented her look and took a blood collection tube from his jacket. As if on remote control, November rolled the sleeve of her sweat jacket up. "What the hell …?", she said as House safely tucked away the filled tube. "Well. I'll find something I can impute your blood with, so Cuddy can transfer you to another ward, where you can´t roam the corridors to get on my nerves and occupy my office." A diabolically content glint gleamed in his eyes at that. "Wilson!", he called decisively to a dark corner of the room. "How about a few cancer cells?" "No Problem," came the answer and Wilson stepped into the light. Dressed in an elegant dark suit with a tray in his hand on which lay another collection tube. "An especially aggressive form with a high recurrence rate," Wilson added expertly with sugary sweet voice. "A little bit of leukemia won´t hurt in this case", House said and cautiously took the tube from the tray. Speechless, November had watched the grotesque scene until now. "What … what is this about? Why are you doing this? You can´t simply …", November tried to protest. While time seemed to stretch and she seemed to face her premature end, sitting here. House stared at November for a brief moment with a firm look and then turned back to the unknown person who had led November into this room. He came over to her and held her shoulders in a firm grip. House in the meantime had enriched November's blood with the cancer cells and pulled it up into a syringe. He brought it to November's arm and looked at her a last time with a content and cool grin …

In this moment, November startled from her dream. The sunlight already came through the windows. Nervously, November looked around the room and immediately glanced at the crook of her arm. Everything was like always. Nothing had changed. Relieved, November took a deep breath and exhaustedly scrubbed over her face with her hands.