Disclaimer:I had hoped to post sooner, but I had to go out and earn my living. This is because I still don't own House. I do own the character of William Oswin, but that doesn't earn me any money, and creeps me out besides. Also, I'm not Catholic, so I apologize for any mistakes I might have made in Chase's section of the following chapter.
A/N: My original plan was to make this the last chapter, but I've had such a good response, I feel inspired to write a little more. This chapter's something of an interlude (not much plot, but hopefully a lot of atmosphere), but I hope you all like it. And thanks again to everyone for the reviews (keep them coming, please), and for taking the time to read.
Again, all quotes are from Marlowe's Dr. Faustus.
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Faustus: Stay, Mephistophilis! and tell me what good
Will my soul do thy lord.
Mephistophilis: Enlarge his kingdom.
Faustus: Is that the reason why he tempts us thus?
Mephistophilis: Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris. Misery loves company.
Faustus: Why, have you any pain that torture others?
Mephistophilis: As great as have the human souls of men.
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The labs worked late into the night, running every known test on their illustrious patient, and, Cuddy suspected, possibly a few more that the technicians had made up on the spot. No one was ever too thrilled about staying late, but at least they had plenty to talk about. A screaming match involving House was nothing new, but a screaming match where House came out the loser was definitely news, and this had fed the rumor mill to an alarming degree.
Cuddy did what she could to stop the talk. Unfortunately, this was one time when truth was worse than rumor.
There wasn't much she could do. The team was staying away from Oswin, who was being remarkably quiet about that fact, so no mediation was needed. But a worried Cameron had recruited her and a confused but cooperative Wilson to help keep an eye on House, and Cuddy felt that was the least she could do. House himself would be the first to tell her she was being stupid in taking on so much guilt, but she couldn't help but remember her excitement at winning such a coup for the hospital. Donation or no, a famous patient successfully treated always reflected well on a hospital and its administrators.
The sin of pride, she thought tiredly.
She stared at her watch blankly for a moment before the time registered. Soon it would be time for her casual walk past House's office again. She tried to work, but could only rearrange the papers before her.
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Foreman was helping in the lab, not something he normally did. This was only helping feed the gossip, especially the way he was half-bullying the techs, in almost Houseian fashion. But he couldn't stand being idle, and though he longed to go home and get out of this madhouse, that felt somehow disloyal. Besides, he was apparently the only rational one left on the team.
House had explained even less of his encounter with Oswin than Cameron and Chase had, but what he had said had convinced him. Once and for all, House had finally lost it. They were all just lucky that he'd lost it during a non-case instead of in the middle of a crisis.
In the morning, or better yet, once Oswin was gone and the place had settled down, he was going to have a serious talk with Cuddy about this. She'd be rational about all this, and help him get things back into perspective. He was a logical man, and he shouldn't have to deal with House's delusions and fairy tales.
He didn't believe in any of the things people were hinting at about Oswin. It was late, and he was tired, and that was the only reason he was even thinking about any of this.
He was a rational man.
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Chase always kept a Bible and an old prayer book at the hospital along with his other things. At first, he'd left them there in case there was a dying patient in need of spiritual comfort, and no priest available. He didn't really imagine he'd be much of a substitute in such a case, and fortunately it hadn't happened yet. The only use he'd made of them so far was for his own comfort.
The ideas of Hell and Satan had gone through some changes of late: the first was no longer considered to be a place; and the second was no longer quite the anthropomorphized Prince of Darkness anymore. Exorcism was something Chase, like many others, had never been quite comfortable with. It was only rarely officially performed these days. But the old prayers were still there, and he murmured the words of one of them now.
We drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions, assemblies and sects; in the Name and by the power of Our Lord Jesus Christ…
But there was no comfort, no safety, in the faintly musty pages of a book, even a holy book.
Whatever had happened in Oswin's room, it now seemed as unreal to Chase as it did to everyone else. It had never been clear, but now it was like a half-glimpsed, half-remembered nightmare. Easier to agree with Foreman and just assume he'd finally cracked under the pressure of work – except that would mean that House and possibly Cameron had cracked also, and that was too much.
He'd doubted before, of course. How could anyone not doubt in a hospital?
But today was the first time he'd ever despised his own faith.
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Cameron hadn't bothered trying to be subtle. House would know she was there, whatever she did. She just walked past his office whenever possible, making sure he was still inside. What she'd do if he ever wasn't there on one of her visits was something she hadn't been able to work out for certain.
Sometimes she exchanged a few hushed words with Wilson or Cuddy, though there was nothing new to say. No medical test could confirm or deny the dark ideas they all thought about but couldn't put into words.
How had she escaped? She should think herself lucky, but this question only disturbed her. An online biography she'd found told her that Oswin did in fact have an estranged daughter of thirty, so perhaps his story hadn't all been lies. He might have felt sorry for her because of his daughter, and couldn't bring himself to subject her to whatever horrors he'd sent to Chase and House. She couldn't forgive him for that, but if her idea was right, there was still some mercy in him.
It was the only explanation she could think of, and she was more and more convinced it was the correct one. That had to mean he wasn't yet beyond help, whatever Chase had said. There was still a chance that someone could reach him, pull him back from whatever terrible precipice he was on.
She was walking towards his room before she knew what she was doing. Even after she realized, it took her a moment to stop moving.
She turned, awkwardly, like a sleepwalker, and fled back towards the conference room.
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House sat in his office in the dark, the blinds drawn and the last dregs of his drink before him.
He'd lost count of the number of times Cuddy and Cameron had walked past his office – both were wearing heels, Cameron walking a little less lightly than usual, Cuddy a little less confidently. By now they must have both logged in miles of walking and checking up on him. Cameron had not-so-subtly peeked in from the conference room a couple of times before he'd limped over and shut those blinds also. Cuddy had stopped just outside the hall door on three occasions and hesitated for long moments. He'd wondered idly if she was trying to hear him breathe.
He wasn't as drunk as he would have liked, but there wasn't a lot he could do about that at the moment. Wilson had wandered in for some unspecified purpose about an hour ago – probably sent by Cameron, but for once House wasn't curious enough to find out for certain.
His visitor had finally let himself be driven away by House's non-answers and stony silences, both worse than usual, muttering something about checking up on him later. It wasn't until a minute or so after Wilson left that House discovered that the half-full bottle of scotch had left with him.
It was impossible to grow up on military bases without learning to swear impressively, in several languages, and House put this talent to full use now. But none of the language was actually directed at Wilson.
He swore at Oswin for existing, at whatever bizarre power or illusion had turned him into what he was today. He swore at Cuddy for accepting the case, at Vogler for taking back his money. Most of all, he swore at himself, at his leg, at his pain, his fear, his weakness. Finally he seized his cane, leaning patiently against his desk, and threw it across the room, watching with grim satisfaction as it crashed into a bookcase and sent several volumes thudding to the floor.
But nothing could drown out the refrain in his head. Your leg. Whole. Just as it was.
No more pain.
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But there is always pain in a hospital. There is always a woman vainly tending a child ravaged by cancer, a husband waiting by the bedside of his dying wife, a son watching his father struggle to live another day.
Pain calls to pain. Each plea and every tear, shed or unshed, pulls together into a clinging web of sorrow, a tangled tapestry of lost chances and denied forgiveness, the fabric that weighs down all those left behind.
It is this blanket that covers William Oswin, this night and every night, as he goes to sleep. Whether it is more pleasure or torment to him, not even he can say.
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To Be Continued