CUDDY'S POV

Something's wrong. I can tell. The poor guy's been here more than a full day. Most everybody else would jump at the chance to go home, but Jimmy just smiled and went pale and said thanks but no thanks. That would, in itself, trouble me, but then his tone…God, he sounded afraid.

I wonder why.

I motor down the hallway and catch up with House, who is leaving to have lunch at a fancy restaurant, also known as Chick-Fil-A. He sees me and hobbles away faster.

I catch him easily. "I want to ask you something."

"What? Hurry up. I'm hungry."

"Do you know of a reason why Dr. Wilson is afraid to go home?"

He turns and looks at me, obviously confused. "What?"

“He’s been here for the past 28 hours. I told him he could go home and he went white and said no, he wanted to finish the budget reports, which would take him another five hours. And when I mentioned Julie he just turned whiter. Did they have a fight?”

House shrugs. I can tell he’s a little worried by the pace of his hobbling: slower. “Dunno. But, come to think of it, he’s been…kind of…erratic lately.”

"Erratic? Like how?"

"Well, he's not so talkative anymore. Usually you can't get him to shut up with his witty Wilde-ish one-liners. Seems a lot more worried, and gets jumpy a lot more often. And I've seen him a couple of times in his car, just sitting there. Looking kind of spaced out. And now there's the not-going-home-thing. Do you think that…" He sighs heavily. "Oh Christ. Do you think he might have a globomastalia?"

Globomastalia. He fits the symptoms profile. "Damn," I say, and rub my forehead. "The fact that it's possible just…But we shouldn't be so morbid. Maybe it was just a fight."

"But if it was a fight, he'd just go home and face her wrath, not stay here. It's something else. Globo, or—oh, crap! Do you think he might be on something?"

I run over the symptoms again. Spacing out. Lack of communication. Nervous. Mood swing. "Oh, vomitous day. It's either one, the other, or both."

House begins to hobble back to Dr. Wilson’s office. I follow him, shaking my head.

Poor Jimmy.

We get to his office. Chase is there. Unfortunately, Chase is not having an intelligent conversation with Dr. Wilson. Chase is lifting up Wilson's eyelid and shining a pen-light into it.

“What the hell happened?” House barks, dropping the cane and limping fiercely to Jimmy’s side, his face contorted.

"I don't know! I just came in and he was on the floor and…he's in a coma, House."

I grab the phone on his desk and call a nurse.

It's a tumor.

Oh God.

Poor Jimmy.