It was all he could do; Cuddy had made that abundantly clear. She'd been standing at the Emergency entrance, knowing it was the first and only place he would go.
"He's alive," had been the first thing she had said, and those two simple words had stopped him in his tracks, left him leaning on his cane and desperate with hope.
"I want to see him."
"Not now. He's still in the ER."
He had tried to push past her. "I still want to see him."
To his utter astonishment, she had blocked his path and wouldn't move. "Cuddy!"
"I said not now! Listen to me, House. Fully half the ER staff is in there, working on just one thing -- saving Wilson. You haven't been an ER doc in years; Chase works this rotation every week and is the best intensivist we've got." Her voice softened as she took in House's anxiety and worry, and she held his gaze, willing him to trust her. "Let him -- let them -- do their jobs. I'll see you're notified as soon as anything changes."
He'd looked into her eyes, weighing the promise there, and after a long moment nodded and stepped back.
"I know he's your friend." Her tone was calming and gentle. "He's my friend too, and my Head of Oncology. There are so many lives he can still save, but we need to save his first."
House hadn't answered. He'd turned away, towards the row of chairs nearby.
Now he sat and waited. And remembered ...
In House's estimation of the mind game he called Push Jimmy's Buttons, this version was pretty mild. Probably a three. There were still a few beers somewhere in the kitchen; he knew that. The question was, could he convince Wilson otherwise?
"I thought you bought a case just last week!"
"All gone, Jimmy. I think Steve McQueen drank the last one. Your turn to make a beer run."
"Come on, House ... are you sure?" James stood looking at him, his head cocked in that questioning way he had.
"Yep," House replied. "It's your turn because I went last time. That's how taking turns works."
Wilson frowned. "Somehow I don't remember it that way."
"Selective memory, Jimmy. Gotta watch out for that. Here ..." He'd picked up James's car keys from the coffeetable and tossed them to him. "Sooner you go the faster you're back."
Wilson had shrugged on his coat, still shaking his head.
"And get the good stuff!" House had yelled after him. "None of that cheap piss you usually buy!"
The only response from James had been an amused snort and a half-wave as he went out the door.
He didn't see House sitting back, a knowing smile on his face. Oh, this was just too easy.
Yeah, easy to send your best (only) friend walking unawares into the middle of a fucked-up armed robbery.
A wave of self-loathing twisted his gut, and he swallowed back the sickness.
He didn't know how long he'd been sitting, lost in thought. Long enough for his leg to start up again; he took his cane in one hand and used the other to try and head off the developing cramp.
"House?"
He hadn't even heard Chase approaching. The Australian doctor was obviously exhausted and House motioned for him to sit. He gave him a moment as Chase leaned back, stretching his muscles; he knew the younger man had been on his feet the entire time.
Chase cleared his throat.
"Well. Here's what we've got. Dr. Wilson was shot twice. First bullet through the right lung, deflected off the third rib. X-ray shows it stopped a centimeter from the right ventricle after grazing the vena cava."
He took a deep breath and continued.
"Second bullet into the abdomen, extensive injuries to the liver, spleen, large and small intestine, and bowel. Those small bullets do the greatest damage when they're tumbling through the body. Assuming he lives, he's going to have one hell of a septic infection, so we're already starting massive doses of Ampicillin."
Chase stopped talking, suddenly afraid he had said too much. House hadn't moved; his ice-blue eyes holding Robert in their gaze, commanding him to go on.
"Weapon was a 9mm Glock, probably a G19. Dr. Wilson's very lucky -- the other victims were all pronounced at the scene. Still, he's had a blood loss of at least twenty percent, maybe more. His heart stopped in the ambulance."
House blinked at last and looked away. Chase had spoken in clipped tones unconsciously adopted from the police officers who frequented the Emergency section of the hospital; House had noticed the pattern recently and was just waiting for the Aussie to accidentally call a patient a perp. He hoped Foreman was there when it happened.
"And now?" he asked, the harsh voice he often used with his Fellows replaced by a softer tone.
"Critical, still bleeding internally. We'll be taking him up to surgery in a few minutes -- I thought you might want to see him before then."
House tapped his cane on the floor.
"That ... would work," he said gruffly.
Chase hid a small smile behind his hand as House rose slowly, painfully from his chair and started towards the ER.
"He may not be conscious," Chase called after him.
House kept walking.
An Emergency Room was never quiet. Even when there were no patients, no doctors and nurses fighting to keep death at bay -- the brightly-lit space seemed to hum with anticipation, awaiting the next crisis.
Wilson lay on the bed in the center of the room, a pale blue hospital blanket covering his nakedness. Tubes snaked in and out of his body, and electronic monitors beeped at attention. He'd been intubated, and House could see the blanket rise and fall with each of James's slow, shallow breaths.
A wheeled stool was nearby, and House snagged it with his cane, rolling it close to Wilson. He sat down carefully, favoring his leg, and looked at his friend.
The Boy Wonder Oncologist looked even more boyish; his face pale, eyes closed, he resembled a youth lost in dreaming slumber. Chestnut hair was mussed and out of place, and House reached up and carefully brushed it away. Wilson's right hand, still speckled with his own dried blood, had fallen slightly to the side. House took it in his own, holding it with the tenderness of a man handling a baby bird fallen from the nest.
James's hand was dry and cold, and House held it palm-down between his own, gently moving his top hand over it in a soothing pattern.
"Jimmy," House whispered, and found there was a catch in his throat. Supposed to keep these places allergen-free, he thought. He tried again. "Jimmy, you were just supposed to buy beer, not wind up on CNN. What the hell were you doing?"
Wilson didn't move, and House bent over, a painful chasm opening in his chest. He rested his forehead on his (James's) hand.
"Shit," he breathed. "I'm ... sorry. It's my fault. I shouldn't have made you go. So stupid."
His eyes were watering badly now, and he lifted one hand to swipe at them.
James's hand twitched. House looked up, startled.
Wilson's eyes were open. Brown stared into blue.
House swallowed. "Hey," he said softly. James's eyes were dazed and glassy; House wasn't sure how much he was really comprehending or would even remember, but he kept talking.
"Y'know, you're scaring the hell out of everybody around here. Cuddy's become a dominatrix and Chase thinks he's a cop. All we need is Cameron and Foreman to show up and we'll throw a get-well party." Did I just say get-well party? Holy crap.
Wilson looked at him, then weakly squeezed House's hand. House found himself blinking rapidly. Too much dust ... as soon as Jimmy's out of here I'm going to ream out the cleaning crew of this place.
It was at that moment that Chase reappeared. Sizing up the situation, he quickly decided that discretion was the better part of valor.
"Dr. Wilson!" he said heartily.
Wilson closed his eyes, exhausted. House glared at Chase, who took a cautious step back. Lowering his voice, he continued.
"Surgery's just about ready." He glanced down at their hands. "Um ... Dr. House ... if you'd like, you can accompany Dr. Wilson upstairs."
James's grip tightened.
It seemed to take forever as House limped slowly beside Wilson's bed, into the elevator and up to OR 4. They paused at the double doors to the surgery, letting the orderlies and nurses sweep past them.
House leaned down, his mouth next to James's ear. This is important, don't screw it up.
"Remember what I said? Bros before hoes, Jimmy." He spoke slowly, enunciating every word, hoping James could understand. He paused, wanting to say more (so much more to say), but all that came out was, "I'll be here when you wake up."
Another, much weaker squeeze of the hand by Wilson; then his grip loosened and he was borne away into the OR.
House stood still, leaning heavily on his cane, and looked down at the hand that had so recently held Wilson's.
Flakes of dried blood dotted his palm and fingers. He started to clean it off, then stopped. Leave it. Use it to remind myself what a useless prick of a best friend I am.
House took a seat in the surgery observation balcony, easing himself down, trying to remember the last time he'd taken a Vicodin. Hours ago. Too many. Reaching into his coat pocket, he retrieved the pill bottle but found himself fumbling to open it. A pair of familiar hands took it from him.
Cuddy, sitting next to him.
She opened the bottle easily, shook out two pills, and offered them to him. "What?" she said at his expression. "You need them. Don't worry; I'll ride you about it later."
"Wish you'd ride me now; give us both a thrill," House said, but he was not at his best for their usual sharp banter and they both knew it. "What are you doing here anyway?"
She laughed; a short, humorless sound. "Standing orders. I get notified whenever one of my doctors comes to work in an ambulance." She looked away for a moment, then continued. "I tried to call Wilson's parents. Turns out they're on an Alaskan cruise. They're trying to connect with a flight out of Vancouver or Seattle, but there's no way they'll be here tomorrow. Today. Whatever." She stopped, rubbing her eyes in exhaustion. "I did manage to talk to his brother. He's driving in from Piscataway, but won't be here until morning."
House nodded; Jonathan Wilson had left the corporate world a few years ago and now taught at Rutgers.
Silence. Cuddy seemed to be waiting for him to say something.
"And?"
Lisa looked at him steadily. "You're his physician of record, House. Are you prepared to make decisions?"
House turned away, staring down into the surgical theatre. "No decisions to be made. He's going to live."
It seemed House would be proved horribly wrong when the crisis came in the fifth hour of surgery.
Cuddy had left to take care of administrative duties; as much as she wanted to stay, she was still Dean of Medicine and had a hospital to run. Today that would be complicated by the additional presence of television reporters and news trucks; as the sole survivor of what had been almost instantly labeled "The WaWa Massacre", Wilson's proverbial fifteen minutes of fame had arrived with a vengeance.
House had put in the earbuds to his iPod, and was listening to a random shuffle. Keeping an eye on the surgery, even he had to admit there was only so much of his best friend's open gut he could look at.
The thoracic surgeon had finished, delicately removing the first bullet lodged so close to James's beating heart. Striking the hard rib bone, it had flattened like a crushed Coke can, and was now about the size of an American dime. He dropped the small projectile into a metal bowl held by the nurse next to him. It made a tink! sound and slid around the bowl's bottom.
Well the first days are the hardest days -
Don't you worry anymore.
'Cause when life looks like easy street
There is danger at your door.
The Grateful Dead. Uncle John's Band. House, still listening to the music, leaned forward for a better view.
Dr. Klipspringer had started on the bowel.
Now it's a buck dancer's choice, my friends .
Better take my advice.
You know all the rules by now,
And the fire from the ice.
It happened so quickly; a bleed that had been hidden all this time was suddenly free. A frighteningly bright red spurt of arterial blood fountained, spraying the surgeons and nurses. The OR sound system was on, and from his position in the balcony House could clearly hear Klipspringer's angry "Fuck!".
It's the same story the crow told me,
It's the only one he knows.
Like the morning sun you come
And like the wind you go.
"BP and respiration dropping," a nurse shouted. "We need more blood here!" On the operating table, James's heart, trying to adjust to the sudden plunge in pressure, beat slowly and erratically a few more times, then simply stopped.
House stood, pulling the headphones out of his ears.
Flat lines traced across the monitor.
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, James Wilson was dead.
Come hear Uncle John's band,
Playing to the tide .
Come on along or go alone,
He's come to take his children home.
tbc ...