Victims of Circumstance
Summary: Quarantined in the clinic, House and his team try to find out what's wrong with a comatose young woman.
A/N: 1) Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out. Real life and all of that. I promise the final chapter will be posted soon.
2) I really did have my Snap, Crackle and Pop line planned before I saw "Humpty Dumpty".
3) For non-Americans, Snap, Crackle and Pop are famous advertising mascots.
4) As always, thanks to Niff for her assistance with the medical aspects of the story, and Marlou for her beta services. All mistakes are mine.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Just read the last one. Nothing has changed since then…

Chapter 3

As the woman's screams ignited a fresh round of alarm in the crowd, House let out a growl. He recognized her; she was the one who had laughed at his Ponce De Leon joke earlier. Even then she'd kept away from everyone else. The hypochondriac, he thought; she would be terrified of catching everyone else's germs.

Reaching for the bottle of Vicodin in his pocket, he stared at it for a long moment. Only one pill remained, and there was no telling how long it would take to get a refill with the quarantine in effect. He remembered withdrawal, and it wasn't something he wanted to go through again; he needed to make this last.

Despite someone trying to calm the woman, her yells became more frantic. That fed the crowd, and several eyed the locked doors with calculating looks. The sick co-ed probably wasn't contagious. Probably – but they couldn't take that risk.

"Come on, get out of our way!" he barked, dry swallowing the last pill as he forced his way to the nervous woman. A group of nurses beat him there, and one looked over her shoulder to describe the symptoms. "She's having a panic attack. Get her two milligrams of Ativan and find someplace to stick her. Use the damned janitor's closet if you have to."

Leaving the nurses to calm her until the needed syringe came, he turned to the crowd. They were on edge, but still under control – a fact he knew wouldn't last if one person in particular stared up again. He spotted the surly teen and pointed to him. "You! Over here! Now," he barked angrily.

The boy inched his way over, his earlier bravado fading when faced with the full force of House's temper.

"If you start another panic, I will give you something to be terrified about. Do you understand me?"

"You don't scare me," the boy whined.

"Then you are dumber than you look," House said lowly as Cuddy pulled him away. "Give me five minutes with him."

"No. God, how pathetic are you? You want to rumble with a teenager?"

"I won't use chains, if that's what you're worried about," he muttered. Turning around, his jaw dropped as he saw nurses pulling carts in from the staging area. "You brought in food."

"Of course I did. We have a room full of sick patients, not to mention hungry infants and little children. We have to give them something."

"Where's my Vicodin?"

"You're sounding like a broken record," Cuddy huffed on the way to the desk. She only made it a few steps before House's cane slammed down in front of her. The noise shot through the enclosed space, causing heads to turn that way in concern. She cocked her head and whispered harshly at him. "Are you out of your mind?"

He glared in return, his temper threatening to boil over. He understood the need for quarantine, probably better than anyone else did. There were infectious diseases that moved with amazing speed. Everything leaving the clinic was double-bagged, and the outside bag disinfected before leaving the staging area. Anyone entering the clinic needed protective clothing.

But anything from the outside was safe to bring into the quarantined area.

"No, I'm out of my pain medicine. I thought we were clear on that! You could have sent it in with the guy that cleaned up. You could have brought it in with the food. I can't go up the pharmacy to get it. Why didn't you have any sent in? I need my pills! Just how stupid are you?"

Cuddy folded her arms slowly, staring him directly in the eye. "I don't care how big of a tantrum you throw – the real babies have priority. They needed food. You don't need drugs. I'm sorry you're an addict," she said quietly. "But that's not my concern right now."

Swearing angrily, House hobbled off in the direction of the restrooms. Wilson inched his way to Cuddy, holding a patient's chart almost like a shield. "We're going to have to do something with him. He's an addict, but that doesn't change the fact that he is in a hell of a lot of pain. When they tried to mob the door earlier they yanked his leg around."

"I know, and I feel badly for him. Honestly, I do. But he really isn't my priority right now," she sighed wearily. "On top of a clinic full of sick, panicky people, I have the board of directors wanting updates, the press found out and making it sound like this is a hot zone, and the state health department went to the wrong dorm to get information."

"What?"

"There're three Jen Hoppers at the college. They took the wrong one. They were talking to her dorm mates when she walked in. They're on their way to get the right one now."

"And these guys are supposed to be helping us?" Foreman mused as he joined them.

Cuddy made a disagreeable sound and shook her head. "At least the CDC checked her around her hometown. They verified that there have been no reported outbreaks of any type. If she caught whatever she has at home, then it's probably not too contagious."

"Or she's the first one to present," Wilson noted. "What about the parents?"

"The Iowa State Police contacted the local airports. When the Hoppers show up, they'll be told to call us immediately."

"Good. But that still leaves us with House. We have Demerol here, or we could hook him up to a morphine pump."

"No!" Foreman stated heatedly. "He's already addicted to Vicodin. The last thing you want to give a druggie is another addictive substance. It's adding fuel to the fire."

"Druggie? Come on. That's not fair."

"What's not fair is subjecting these patients to a drug addict."

"Stop it! If we're stuck here much longer, I'll have some Vicodin brought in with the dinner trays," Cuddy said, her tone leaving no doubt that the conversation was over. Rubbing her forehead, she watched House warily as a nurse handed him a chart. Even across the room, she saw the face he made on the way to an exam room. "I'm going to need Vicodin before this day is over," she muttered.

"Hey, Adam," Cameron said as she entered the young diabetic's room. "I see you're hogging all the doctors today."

"I stopped by to bring him his lunch before someone else took it by mistake," Chase explained. "The kitchen staff made that special for you."

"This is special? Man, I'd hate to see what everyone else got stuck with," Adam said, cautiously poking at a cup of blob with his spoon.

"Sorry. The hospital food isn't that great," Cameron admitted with a smile.

"Great? Is this even food?"

"Adam, don't complain," his mother chided.

"Says the woman who isn't touching her food."

"It's not good, but be sure to eat something. We don't want your blood sugar dropping too low," Chase said kindly.

"Guess that won't balance it out from being too high," he said with mock-hope.

"I'm afraid not," Cameron said. "So, how are you feeling?"

"I don't think I have whatever made that lady pass out, if that's what you want to know."

The two doctors exchanged a knowing look. Adam understood his risk, but it didn't make it less stressful for anyone. "We got back some of your blood work. The CBC is normal, so you probably don't have an infection. So far, everything looks good."

"Was yesterday the first day that you noticed that your blood sugar was off?" Chase asked.

"Yeah, when I tested it last night."

"Did you start a new bottle of insulin yesterday? Or was it from a different source?"

"No. We get it from the same company. Adam used the last of that bottle yesterday," Ms. Richards said.

"Okay, so tell us what you ate yesterday."

"That can't be it. Adam knows he has to stick to his diet. He's very good about that," she insisted. "I know what you're thinking. All moms think their kids never do anything wrong, but he never trades his lunch for junk food, and we make him special snacks to eat when he gets hungry. We're all very careful about that."

"So you didn't cheat yesterday?" Chase asked, giving the mother a half-shrug.

"No," Adam said, dropping his head sheepishly. "Not really."

"What?"

"You were late picking me up yesterday 'cause of that flat tire. I was hungry, and I didn't have any snacks with me. But Aunt Kallie got the stuff from the health food store. It was sugar-free."

Ms. Richards let out a groan as she closed her eyes. "My sister-in-law is an idiot. She knows Adam can't eat junk food."

"It was a power bar," he protested.

"Do you remember the name of it, or what it looked like?" Cameron asked, writing down the brand and description of the package.

"But it was sugar-free."

"Well, it's possible there was something else in there that you shouldn't have eaten. I'll see if I can get an ingredient list for it. Don't worry. If that's what caused the trouble, you'll be fine. Just don't eat them again."

"Right. I'm sorry, Mom. Don't be angry."

"Don't worry. I'm not angry. With you."

"Go ahead and eat something," Cameron said, reaching into her pocket. Pulling out the Game Boy, she handed it to Adam. "There's something to keep you entertained until we can let you go home."

"Thanks!"

Chase followed her out of the room, his head tilted to the side as he examined her closely.

"How's Jen doing?" she asked him, unaware of his scrutiny.

"No change yet. I'm on my way to do another checkup. You stole House's Game Boy."

"I borrowed it."

"Does he know? If not, I'm pretty sure that counts as stealing."

"No, he doesn't know, but Cuddy confiscated it from him. It's not like he's going to miss it."

"You're stealing from him."

"There's no reason Adam can't play with it while he's stuck here. It'll help keep him relaxed. Poor guy. Did you read his chart? He's had a hard life, and he's just a kid. Can you imagine what it's like knowing that you're the one most likely to catch a mystery disease?"

"You stole from House," Chase insisted.

Cameron rolled her eyes before shooting him an annoyed glare. Seeing his expression, she blinked in confusion. "What?"

"What what?"

"What's with the look?"

"What look?"

"The look you're giving me," Cameron said irritably.

Chase looked away quickly, but took a deep breath before facing her again. "You were complaining about House earlier. You snapped at him. Now you're stealing from him. Something has happened. I knew it! He's not the catch you first thought?"

"What? Oh. Oh! I get it now."

"What do you mean?"

"You think you have a shot. A bit of advice," she said dramatically, pausing to give him a salacious grin. "You're not ready to handle his markers."

Limping heavily, House walked over to the examination table and reached through the assorted tubing and wires to yank the cell phone from his patient's hand. "He'll call you back later. Maybe," he snapped before ending the call.

"Hey, doc! That was important. Do you know how long it takes to work out labor settlements?"

"No. Now ask me if I care."

Rudd shifted on the table, but his petulant look wasn't very convincing. "I got to tell you, doc, whatever you gave me really took the pain away."

"Morphine does that."

"Morphine?"

"We figured we'd break out the good stuff just for you."

"Isn't all this overboard?" the lawyer asked, motioning to the equipment hooked up to him.

House stared angrily at the ringing phone in his hand. Making a face, he answered it shortly. "No speaky ze English. Bye-bye. I'd give it back to you, but you'll just call them. Instead of doing something like resting."

"I get what you're trying to do. You want me to listen to my doctor's advice. I know I should, but you know what? I only care about my arm right now. What's wrong with it?"

"Your arm hurts because you had a heart attack."

Rudd stared at him incomprehensively. "What?"

"Heart attack," he repeated, enunciating slowly. "Only three syllables. I thought I was clear."

"I…huh?"

"Okay, let me put this in terms you can understand. Your heart went on strike. Luckily for you it settled on a strike and not a stroke, too."

"But, but … my chest never hurt."

House shrugged as he read over Rudd's stats. "Union labor. What do you expect?"

"But I'm too young to have a heart attack."

"No, you're not. Especially the way you've been treating your heart. The initial test results suggest it wasn't very severe. We'll move you to cardio as soon as we can. They'll do some more tests there."

"Oh, shit."

"Basically," House said, nodding his head in agreement.

"Guess I really need to quit smoking now."

"Among other things," House said, glaring at the ringing cell phone. "I'd strongly suggest a less stressful job, and find yourself a hobby."

"I always wanted to carve ducks," Rudd said in a soft voice.

"Just go easy on the l'orange sauce," House said on his way out of the room. He eyed Wilson suspiciously as he approached. "Do you have my test results back?"

"No."

"Then go away."

Wilson smiled as he moved beside House. "That's rude."

"So am I. Most people are quicker on the uptake than you are."

"For all you know, I just won the lottery, and I was going to offer to share it with you. Your rudeness cost you a million dollars."

"Oh, please. I know you don't waste money on lottery tickets. Your wife won't let you, will she?"

"I'll have you know that I have my own spending money. I'm allowed to spend it the way I want," he answered lightly.

"Then go give some of it to those lab techs. There's no reason not to have that stain done yet. We can rule out the plague that way. Get rid of the water buffalos before they start to stink the place up. The bathroom already looks like a toxic waste site."

"And that explains your lovely mood."

"No, this is my normal mood."

"Right. You always go after Cuddy with your cane."

"In my dreams. That counts for something, doesn't it?"

"Look," Wilson said, stopping and glancing around to make sure no one was listening. "You have a problem. I know it. You know it. You don't want to deal with it. That's your choice. Stupid, but it's your life. But you can't let it get out of control. Not in this situation."

"Stop your worrying. If you think I need help, go get me my Vicodin, or get on the lab to get my test results back. Once we know what we're dealing with, we can end this stupid quarantine."

Cameron approached the empty reception desk quietly, her eyebrow going up as she heard muttering coming from behind it. Leaning over, she spotted her quarry sitting on the floor, rapidly looking through the shelves.

"I don't think they keep any Vicodin back there," she said teasingly.

House shot her an aggravated look. "I know Cuddy put my Game Boy in here somewhere. If one of the herd out there stole it …"

"They didn't," she said quickly, swallowing when he stared sharply. "I mean, you'd be able to see if someone in the waiting area was playing with it. Besides, there're still patients to treat."

"Cuddy won't let me."

"Why?"

"She doesn't trust me. She said the hospital can't deal with a lawsuit if I suture Motor Mouth's mouth shut."

"What about the other patients?"

"What about them?" he asked, wincing as he slowly stood up. He brushed away her hands when she moved to help him. "He's the only one I want to treat. Why aren't you seeing them?"

"Break. Here," she said, handing him a canned soda. "The machine is almost empty. I stockpiled some."

He eyed the proffered drink before grudgingly taking it. The Vicodin had finally kicked in, but it only masked the pain. And made him not really care about it. The jerking caused by the crowd aggravated his leg, and he knew he'd be paying for it later. Right now, he was more worried about the attractive package of personal annoyance in front of him.

"Are you okay?"

House made a noise in the back of his throat before taking a long drink from his soda. "No, I'm not. We went over this earlier."

"I'm worried."

"Right on schedule," he muttered under his breath. "You worry about everything."

"That's not true," she protested.

"Name one patient in here that you aren't concerned about."

"That's not the same."

"Of course it is," he said. "You think your role in life is to make everything right. I'm broken. We both know that, but unlike you, I don't care. I'm fine this way. I don't want you trying to pick up the pieces."

Cameron chewed her bottom lip for a minute, but she quickly moved to overtake him. "You don't want to be fixed, do you?"

"No! I like my cojones just the way they are," he said acerbically before eyeing her bawdily. "Now, if you just want to handle them, that can be arranged."

"What are you afraid of?"

House stopped short, darting his eyes to the side, but not looking at her directly. She was going to push. She cared, for some reason he couldn't understand. What did he have to do to convince her to move on with her life? "Koalas. They look like little teddy bears, but they'd rip you apart if they had a chance. And no fair asking Chase to get you one for Christmas."

"You're avoiding the issue. You're afraid to talk about it."

"Really? Did you ever consider that I just don't want to talk to you?"

"You weren't in withdrawal earlier. It takes longer than that," she stated, moving in front of him again. "You're afraid to face your addiction."

"Been there. Done that. I think we all agreed it wasn't a fun party."

"Then why don't you get treatment? You claim it doesn't affect your life, but you know that's a lie. It's clear to everyone that you need help."

"Gee, that makes me feel all warm inside."

"There are people that can help you," she said gently. "I'd help you."

"Save the psych one-oh-one lecture. It's annoying, and you're not very good at it," House growled, grabbing a folder from the nurse's station. "I have a patient to see."

Cameron shook her head sadly as he walked off. "Avoidance."

House dropped his shoulders in exasperation as soon as he walked into the exam room. The hypochondriac lay on the examination table, her eyes swollen from crying. Facing Cameron was better than this. He started to back out of the room, but she turned her head in his direction.

"Are you my doctor?"

"Lucky me. Well, Ms. Vasnick, you picked the wrong day to come to the clinic. All kinds of sick people out there, spreading their germs around. How many of their symptoms did you pick up?"

"What are you talking about?"

"All those germs! They spread. And you get sick so easily, don't you? Always have something wrong with you. I bet you're certain that you picked up what everyone else has."

"I'm not a hypochondriac," she said, sitting up and reaching for her purse.

"No. You just avoided all those other sickies out there for the fun of it. You were right to scream at them and make that scene."

"No, that's not..."

"And you come in all the time – with symptoms that have no medical causes – because you love the ambiance of the waiting room. But you did get that Ativan."

"Shut up, you bastard," Vasnick yelled. She closed her eyes, clearly fighting to bring both her breathing and anger under control. "I am not a hypochondriac. I'm not here for drugs. I have my own."

House easily caught the prescription bottle tossed in his direction. Turning it around, he frowned. "Benzodiazepine. Pretty powerful stuff. And you're out of it. Couldn't get a refill from your doctor?"

"Do you know how to read?"

"The script is six months old. There weren't that many pills prescribed," he acknowledged, his curiosity piqued. "And it has a refill left on it."

"So I didn't come here for your drugs. I was going to get it refilled on the way home. I didn't know I was going to get stuck here. It wore off."

"I noticed," he answered dryly. Why did her doctor give her such a powerful, and potentially addictive, sedative? She clearly wasn't using them regularly. "You don't take much of this if the prescription lasted six months."

"I only take one before I go out," she whispered, wiping at her eyes embarrassedly. "It's so strong, but the selective serotonin stuff didn't work."

"Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors? Anti-anxiety medication."

"That's it. Now you know my secret. I'm agoraphobic," she said with a disgusted tone. "I'm a grown woman, run my own business, and I'm terrified to leave my home. It's so bad I can't leave without taking a sedative first."

His face scrunched up in confusion, he picked up her chart. "But you've come to the clinic several times in the past month."

"That's my point! Do you think I'd do that if I wasn't sick? I came in as soon as I got sick this time. I knew the symptoms wouldn't last that long. They never do. I worked up the nerve to leave the house, took my medicine and called a taxi."

His hand scratched at his beard absentmindedly as he read over his chart. Taking out a pen, House started listing the various symptoms she reported on the previous trips onto a sheet of paper. A pattern emerged soon. "Renal and respiratory. You said the symptoms never last long."

"No. They clear up in a day or two. Most of the time they're gone before I can force myself to come in. I know something's wrong. That's why I came in today. I didn't wait. I'm not lying. I am sick, and not just in my head."

"Huh. Lift your shirt," he directed. Moving behind her, House listened carefully for a moment.

"Where are you going?" she asked as he took the sheet of paper and headed for the door.

"You're a snap and pop short of a full breakfast."

Rolling her shoulders painfully, Cameron grabbed another reference book. She tensed when the sound of a cane clicking on the floor grew louder. As much as she wanted to help House she knew that wasn't why he was approaching. Why did things get worse every time she tried to assist him?

He confused her; House had to be miserable, but he made no efforts to improve his life. It wasn't just the addiction. He had almost no friends, no life outside of work. What was he afraid of? Something kept him in his shell, and she doubted it was just his personality.

Stacy was able to draw him out, at least a little. Cameron's muscles tensed again. How had she been able to do it? Did she even care? House wasn't interested. He said so in no uncertain terms. And she didn't need someone to fix; she wasn't the damaged thing he thought she was. There were plenty of normal, nice men around.

She just needed to get over House.

"Reading reference books when there's a room full of patients? That's not a very fun way to play hooky."

Cameron ignored the barb, turning a page and scanning the page thoroughly.

"Is it just me, or did it get chilly in here?"

"Not that I noticed," she answered distractedly.

House made a face before cocking his head to scan the book. "What are you looking up?"

"I've been thinking about what Wilson said about mono. I don't think she has it, but he's right. Patients with immune disorders develop severe reactions to even mild diseases."

"And you're thinking Jen in there has an immune disorder. That must be fun – trying to figure out which one without a patient history."

"If we had enough doctors working the clinic, we'd have it."

"It's not my fault!" he groused before easing his way up on the counter beside her stack of books. She ignored him as she continued reading, at least until he picked up the book to read the title.

"Do you mind?"

"No. I like diagnostics. Let's see. If she can't have X-linked lymphoproliferative syndrome, then she can't have X-linked agammaglobulinemia either. That is if you're sure she's really a she."

"She is."

"Okay. That's two down. How many are left? There're over one hundred autoimmune disorders alone."

Cameron pushed the hair out of her face and reached for another reference book. He was right; they didn't have enough information to diagnose an immune disorder, but it kept her focused. Or it would if he wasn't constantly interrupting her. She did care for him, but he wanted something. Knowing House, it was just an excuse to avoid a patient.

"Here," he said, sticking half of a candy bar under her nose. "But I'm keeping the laxatives. How hard do you think it would be to slip them to that bratty kid?"

"Why don't you do something productive?"

"This isn't?"

"Not really," she sighed, her impatience slipping through.

"Is this your first time dealing with an infectious disease?"

She looked up quickly with a perplexed expression. His voice was soft, but there was almost a challenging demeanor around him. "I'm an immunologist. I work with AIDS patients all the time."

"AIDS? Pftt. That's nothing. Unless you're unlucky enough to get it," he added rapidly at her incredulous glare. "But as far as infectious diseases goes, it's a lightweight."

"Do you know how many people have it?"

"HIV isn't easily transmitted. It requires an exchange of bodily fluids. The virus can't live long outside of the host body. You can't get it from a bug bite. You can't get it from a public restroom."

"Is there a point?"

"On the scale of infectious diseases, it's near the bottom in how contagious it is. It's a level two pathogen. The only things with a lower rating are diseases that don't infect humans. Level three things are nastier. And then you have level four contagions. Lassa, Marburg, Ebola. Now, those are contagious. With diseases like that, you have to wear a spacesuit just to look at a sample of the virus under a microscope, and then go through a decon shower when you're done. You have to worry if your waiter's neighbor sneezed on him a week ago. Or worry if you treated an unconscious woman in a waiting room without wearing any protective gear."

Cameron finally closed her book and leaned back to face him. "If you're trying to scare me, it's not going to work."

"That's good to know. And I wasn't trying to scare you. I've been trying to get your attention. I need you to see a patient."

"You can get your own patient histories."

"Is that what you think I want?"

"Did you get it?"

"No, but that's not the point. Listen to her chest," House said, sticking his sheet of paper in front of her face. "You'll like this."

Cameron started to protest, but House hobbled off quickly to the bathroom. Letting out a sigh, she glanced at the paper. After scanning over it for a moment, her head tilted in concentration. She was on her way to the exam room when a nurse called out to her.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hopper are on the phone for you."

"Thanks," she said, running over to take the call.

Walking into the room, Foreman frowned slightly as he watched Chase finish draining a badly swollen lymph node under Jen's right arm before taking a fresh syringe and draining one on her chest.

"I don't think she can feel the pain from those in her state," he said.

"Maybe, but she doesn't need scars from them suppurating spontaneously," Chase explained. "And I'm waiting for the latest round of blood work to get back. Her fever's been fluctuating, but it's starting to creep up a little. She's not responding to the antibiotics."

"Well, it's not the plague. The lab finally got a stain that they could read. The bacteria aren't yersinia."

"Great. We ruled out one of the most likely causes of her condition, but we're not any closer to finding out what she has."

"There's no saying that we ever will. 'Fever of unknown origin' is a medical term for a reason," Foreman noted as he began his own checkup.

"I don't think that will go over well with the crowd out there. They're going to want to know why we locked them up."

"That's true."

"She has some sort of infection, that much is clear. The antibiotics should have done something."

"Hold on. Look at this," Foreman said, bending closer to exam the comatose woman's right eye. He stepped aside, allowing his colleague to view a small, red marring. "Conjunctivitis."

"Yes. That wasn't there earlier. Let me in," Chase said, carefully moving his gloved fingers around her right ear. "The preauricular nodes are swelling."

"A new symptom – Parinaud's oculoglandular syndrome. We need to find House."

TBC