Notes and disclaimer in Part One.

Further A/N: This chapter has medical stuff galore (with more to come). I've been researching to the high heavens and now know more about Vidocin and other chronic pain medication that I ever did and may ever know in a lifetime. Med school buddy's out of the country this week, so unfortunately couldn't badger her to confirm, so things may still get tweaked. Apologizes to the medically inclined if I've gotten something glaringly wrong.

--
Vicodin is one of the most widely prescribed pain relievers and has become one of the most frequently abused.
--

Greg hated interviewing. It was the reason why he never wanted to head a department and was simply happy being an attending in infectious diseases, sorting through cases, taking the most interesting ones, passing off the others. Interviews never told you exactly what you wanted or needed to know. Yes, they were informative and his intuitive nature gained him a lot of information about a person in a small window of time, but some puzzles took just a little longer to put together.

With Chase it had been easy. His father had called and House picked up his CV and thought, sure, why the hell not. Rich overachiever, son of an alcoholic and obviously estranged from the person who called on his behalf, Chase had plenty of attributes to challenge his brain.

Chase also worked in intensive care and dealt with weeping families and dreary situations. Meant House didn't need to do those things himself if he so desired. Not a bad deal.

But when he found himself face to face with Doctor Allison Cameron, he was somewhat surprised.

She was pretty. Actually, she was beautiful. A little skinny, but definitely easy on the eyes. Neatly dressed and trying to seem confident. Right away it seemed like she had something to prove, because a girl like her didn't just go into medicine for the prestige. She could have been a model and made more money and had life handed to her on a silver platter.

Which meant, of course, that she was a puzzle.

He liked puzzles.

Wilson sat in the chair next to her as House skimmed her resume.

"Mayo Clinic…" he read, trailing off. Cameron's credentials were fine. He'd seen better, but the best marks didn't make someone a good doctor. Just like a good bedside manner did crap if you couldn't figure out what was wrong with your patient in the first place.

He closed the file and looked right at her. "Okay, Dr. Cameron. Why do you want this job?"

She didn't hesitate. "Your reputation is one of the best on the East Coast."

He contemplated that. "Nice try, but why don't you try telling me something I don't already know. And I've heard the 'because I like helping people' line already. If that was really true, you could just as easily be doing it at Princeton General or some other hospital in the country."

"I want to work with you," she said. "No other hospital has that."

"True. I am one of a kind, but again, that's not why you're here." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his ever present Vicodin. He popped a pill, but didn't break eye contact, and wondered if she'd be bold enough to comment on it. She hadn't said anything about his leg, but then again, he'd yet to actually get up out of his chair.

"Of course it is," she simply insisted and shifted in her chair.

"You're lying." House put away the pill bottle, looked away, and started clicking his mouse. "Have you ever been a model?"

"No." She looked taken aback. "I don't see how that would have any relevance on my qualifications as a doctor."

House looked back up at her. "Oh, it's relevant." He went back to the computer screen. Abruptly, he got up and made his way over to the white board currently sitting in the corner of his office. Propping his can up over the edge of the board, he dragged it forward.

"House," Wilson started.

"No comments from the peanut gallery," Greg shot back as he started writing. He finished and stepped back. The words "lower abdominal pain, acute onset," "short term fatigue," "late menstrual period," "nausea and vomiting," "tachycardia" filled the board and at the very bottom he had written, "uses a IUD."

"Differential diagnosis. And I will allow you one handicap." House got up and headed towards his conference room, leaving both Cameron and Wilson bewildered. He called Chase's name and a moment later Chase came in, looking surprised.

"Yes?"

House stepped back. "Meet Dr. Cameron. You're going to help her with that." He pointed to the board and looked at his watch. "I'll give you ten minutes, starting…now."

"Now?" Chase asked at the same as Cameron said "ten minutes?"

"Ah," House said, placing the marker in Cameron's hands. "You're wasting valuable diagnosis time. Feel free to shout out answers. I'll probably tell you you're wrong, but who knows. Maybe you'll get lucky." He grabbed his cane and limped back to his desk. "Now play nice."

Chase looked at the board. "Easy. She's pregnant."

Cameron shook her head. "She uses a IUD."

"And how many IUD babies get delivered every year?" Chase countered. "It could an ectopic pregnancy."

"Wrong!" chimed House as he sat down in his chair. "She's not pregnant."

Wilson watched the exchange and leaned forward. "What are you doing?" he whispered.

"You see," House responded back cryptically.

"How old is she?" Cameron asked.

"So you want a history? Interestingly enough, that is one of first things a doctor should do. She's thirty-three, slightly overweight, a smoker, has allergies, and a family history of heart disease and diabetes."

"Taking any medication?"

"Well since you asked, she's suffers from serious migraines that often require imitrex injections."

"That doesn't seem significant," Cameron muttered.

"It could be appendicitis," Chase ventured.

"Nope. White count's only slightly above normal." House picked up Cameron's resume and started leafing through it again.

"Slightly above normal is still above normal," Chase said. Cameron stared at the board.

"Could be a tumor," she finally said. "Ovarian. Is there a mass?"

"As a matter of fact this is," House said. Cameron frowned.

"But it's not cancer," she said.

"I don't know. What do you think?" She was quiet a moment and looked back up at the board.

"It could also be ovarian torsion," she finally said. "You'll probably need to do a laparoscopy to be sure either way, though."

"You don't say. " House lowered her file. "When can you start?"

--
Symptoms of a Vicodin overdose may include slow breathing, seizures, dizziness, weakness, loss of consciousness, coma, confusion, tiredness, cold and clammy skin, small pupils, nausea, vomiting, and sweating.
--

It had been a very bad morning. His leg was screaming at him despite the Vicodin, it was hotter then hell outside, and his damn car took twenty minutes to start.

Cameron had started the week before. He'd known the second he'd interviewed her that she probably had issues, but what about he still had no idea and that intrigued him. Wilson often told him he liked a puzzle. He supposed people were puzzles, despite the fact that he didn't like the majority of them.

Still didn't mean they weren't interesting.

He popped another pill on the elevator and tried to stay upright as his leg threatened revolt. He'd already done the fall-and-can't-get-up thing in public and frankly, it wasn't really his cup of tea.

He'd entered his office and noticed Cameron had gone through his mail and placed the consults she deemed worthy on his desk. Of course, worthy for her meant every single one, as she seemed determined to make the world a better place by fixing anything and everything she could.

He just dropped them in the trash. He contemplated briefly typing his own letter with a string of symptoms, a sob story, and a fake name and sending it, but that seemed too much effort just to play with Cameron's head. Especially when he could do other things that weren't as draining. He knew the fact that he trashed consults bothered her and she'd only been there eight days.

After his impromptu differential diagnosis/interview, he'd also managed to insult her on the first day. He'd done the same to Chase – it was kind of a right of passage of sorts -- and Chase had brushed it off and seemed appeased with doing very little and getting a paycheck. Cameron had been greatly offended and for a moment, he thought she might just march out his office door and never come back.

She didn't and apparently had a chat with Chase, as he often saw the two talking through his glass divider. Yet when he managed to poke his head in, there was silence.

They were probably talking about him. Oh well, at least it kept them busy. He'd save the letter writing for another day.

He put his bag down and again, rubbed his thigh. Maybe it was the weather. Rain and the cold always made the pain worse, so the humidity had to be doing something. Any type of heat usually helped his leg, but with his luck lately, it was probably doing the opposite. He turned the computer on and deleted emails, before getting up and moving to his more comfortable chair, where at least he could put his leg up and suffer in peace.

Cameron poked her head in and muttered "Morning, Dr. House" and glanced towards his trash and as usual, frowned. But she said nothing and left, shutting the door. He closed his eyes.

He wasn't sure how much time passed but the Vicodin was not kicking in and the pain was starting to make him nauseous. He had a metal garbage can, but it was all the way across the room next to his desk and he sincerely doubted he could make it that far in his current state. Besides, his puking would attract motherly attention from Cameron and the last thing he wanted was another look of sympathy from her. He swallowed and reached into his pocket.

He stared at the pill bottle. How many had he taken that morning? One in the elevator, yes, but did he take one when he woke up? Or had it been two? He closed his hand around the bottle tightly, grimacing as his remaining thigh muscle decided to spasm before settling into a slight numbness. In the back of his mind he realized that probably wasn't a good thing, but the pain wasn't helping him think clearly.

How many?

Not enough, apparently. He flipped off the lid and popped two. If he just sat and they just kicked in…

Next thing he knew, someone was shaking him.

"Dr. House?"

He cracked his eyes open. Whoever it was just needed to go away. They began shaking him harder. He finally opened his eyes enough to focus on the person in front of him.

Chase. Great.

"How many?" Chase had something in his hand. A pill bottle, his mind sluggishly told him.

He blinked, extremely confused. "How many what?" he managed to ask, although the words seemed to stretch on forever.

Chase shook the bottle. "Pills."

He blinked again. He was so tired. "Two. I took two." He had taken two. His leg hurt. But two sounded wrong. Had he taken more before that?

"How long ago?" Chase seemed like he was almost screaming and House wished he'd disappear. In the corner of his vision, he saw Cameron move, but he wasn't sure and he got dizzy when he tried to move his head to find out.

"Just now, I think," he muttered. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, it all blended together.

"Crap." That was Chase.

"Why? Two is a standard dose." Cameron. He closed his eyes. He was tired of trying to figure out where she was.

"Right. But he usually takes one. And that's after he takes one or even two when he gets up." More bottle shaking. "I don't know how many he had left."

"Had left? You think he OD'ed?"

"No. He was in pain when he got in."

No shit Sherlock, House thought. God, they just needed to go away and leave him alone. His leg still hurt, damnit.

"He was? I didn't notice that."

He swallowed. Even with his eyes shut he was dizzy. And nauseous. Again, great.

"You'll start to pick it up. The pain determines whether or not he's just an ass or a complete ass."

"Sounds like fun. We should get him to the ER."

"No, we should call Wilson first. He'll know how many were left." There was a slight pause and House felt a hand on his chest. "Respirations are ten. I have feeling we'll need to-"

House swallowed and opened his eyes. Cameron's brow furrowed, but Chase ran for the garbage can and got it under his chin just in time. He remembered vomiting and heard Wilson's voice and orders being shouted.

Thankfully he passed out shortly after that.

When he finally woke up enough to recognize his surroundings, he realized he was staring at blinds and a glass wall.

Crap. Hospital room. Complete with the fishbowl feel. He swallowed. Throat hurt like hell and of the bits and pieces he could remember, he was pretty sure he'd been on the receiving end of a gastric lavage, which topped his list of things he'd never want to go through again. He heard someone shift and turned his head to see Wilson sitting next to him, sans white coat and wearing scrubs, and looking extremely worn out.

"I did something stupid didn't I?"

"That would be the understatement of the year, I think."

He swallowed again, trying to clear his throat. Wilson seemed to notice his discomfort and got up a poured him a glass of water from the pitcher next to the bed. He rolled the tray table over and helped House with the glass.

"How long?" He managed after a sip.

"Since you threw up and passed out in your office? Twenty-four hours."

"Please tell me I didn't throw up on Chase."

Wilson shook his head. "No, you missed him. I wish I could say the same about myself."

"Guess that's why you're not wearing the coat, then."

"You're getting my dry cleaning bill."

"Fair enough." He lay back on the pillow, feeling extremely worn out. For the first time he noticed his leg was propped up, a pillow under his knee. And while it still ached, the pain was much better.

Wilson sat back down.

"You scared the crap out of Chase."

"Chase? Now that's surprising. I would have put my money on Cameron."

"Greg."

He looked down, lifting his hand to study his IV. "It was an accident."

Wilson sighed. "I know." He sat down. "You have a pinched nerve and some swelling. Probably hurt like hell."

"It did."

"You should have stayed home. Made an appointment with Boulder or at least have called me." He paused. "Do you know how many pills you managed to take?"

House closed his eyes. "I'm not really sure, to be honest."

"Six. Over the course of about an hour, near as anyone can figure."

"I lost count."

"Yeah," Wilson said, and Greg wasn't sure if he believed him.

"I'm not suicidal."

Wilson blinked and was silent a few seconds before he muttered a quiet, "I know" again.

There was silence before Wilson continued.

"I think you need to get off the Vicodin."

"Off the Vicodin? Not a chance. I admit, I did something stupid, but those pills are the only things that help the pain. Pinched nerves hurt. I learned from my mistake."

"I sure as hell hope so." Wilson sighed again. "You only have a pinched nerve because you stopped going to PT all together. And you don't do the exercises you need to do at home. There might be less pain-"

"No, there wouldn't." House interrupted. "I've been through this before. Even with PT four days a week, I still needed the Vicodin round the clock."

"Hydrocodone is addictive, Greg. And you know that. You'll build up a tolerance, if you haven't already, and you'll keep needing to up the dosage. It isn't a good choice long term."

"I don't care. It's my only choice."

"Maybe." Wilson got up. "Boulder wants to do another MRI this afternoon just to make sure there's nothing else going on with the leg. You also have the standard pysch resident stopping by."

"Wonderful."

"I'm sure you can get through it. I have rounds to do so I'll drop by later." He slid the door open and paused a moment. "Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"Four to six hours is recommended for a reason. Chase wasn't the only person you scared the crap out of."

The door slid shut and House stared at the wall.

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End Part Four. More coming. As always, please let me know if you like. :)