Heyyyyyyyyy, long time no update. It's good to be back. Chapter Seven is long, and there's a bit of heart-wrenching, emotional drama around the middle. Tell me if it's too melodramatic; I wrote this kind of late at night. Catch you at the end of the chapter!

Chapter Seven:

"House..."

Chase's voice bursts through my dream like a grenade, and in an instant my dream girl (think Jessica Simpson plus about forty more I.Q. points) disappears into the fog of my subconscious. Darkness forms behind my eyelids, and I groan, unable to grasp the horror of waking up.

"House!"

I open my eyes and fix a cool gaze on Chase. "What?" I ask. "Did Becca try to talk you into playing Spin the Bottle?"

"It's five o'clock. Time to go home." He shoots a suspicious glance at the baby monitor and continues nonchalantly, "Of course, I could understand if you'd like to stay and listen to the sounds of silence coming from Becca's room instead."

"Nice try, but I'm not listening in on Becca," I lie. "The other half of this sucker is set up in Cuddy's office. I like to know what she's doing."

"I saw the other half under the IV," Chase insists. "I moved it behind the heart monitors - less conspicuous that way. It might be a little harder to hear, but I turned the volume up as far as it would go to compensate."

"Thank you, but I think I can manage without your meaningless input." I mentally kick myself – Chase, of all people, has bested me in the art of surveillance. "I know it's hard for you, but please, stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. This is a one-man operation."

"It would go a lot easier with someone on your side."

"Wouldn't it be still easier for you to rat me out to Cuddy or some other figure of authority?"

"You're my boss. My loyalties lie with you."

I chuckle. "Your loyalties – for what little they're worth – lie with the people that can benefit you most. Right now, that's me. I'm waiting for Vogler's evil twin to come along and snatch you up like a lucky penny."

"I'm pretty sure Vogler was the evil twin, provided he had one to begin with."

Cameron marches through the door. "Are you two enjoying your leisurely conversation while Eric and I work our asses off?"

I bring my index finger to my lip and consider her statement. "Chase and I have worked up quite a sweat ourselves. We've been trying this new thing – teamwork – where we talk about what's wrong with the patient and try to reach a consensus. Call me crazy, but it just might work." I give him a subtle wink. "Don't worry – she'll never know we were talking about whether or not she's good in bed. But moving on to more interesting topics –" she interjects with a frustrated uh! as I take the file in her hand and open it to the vitals. "Alright, my little diva, time for a recital."

She rolls her eyes, already recovered. I'll make a man out of her in no time. "Can't you ever say anything literally?"

"The metaphors are more fun. Kind of like, 'Sing like a canary, or I'll set the cat out after you.'"

"Who's the cat?" Chase asks.

"Never mind with the cat; we've got bigger problems." Cameron hands me the folder and continues. "Becca's vitals are slightly high, but stable."

"What's 'slightly high?'"

"The high end of normal – in other words, not indicative of the heart attack she had mere hours ago. Or would it be easier for you to understand if I said…umm…her vitals were straddling the line of normalcy like a high school football team at Homecoming tied with the opponent at the last fifteen seconds?" She looks at me hopefully.

"I'm beginning to understand why I published Foreman's article over yours, other than sheer amusement," I admit. "Your command of the English language is worse than G-Unit's. But not to worry: I just happen to be multi-lingual, and I speak your language…What were we talking about again?"

"The patient," they remind me simultaneously.

"Ah, yes. So she's…normal?"

"As normal as they come," Chase responds, reading over the file.

"Yes, but –" Cameron pauses as the baby monitor begins to make some unintelligible noises that sound vaguely like a human voice. Chase and I both leap to turn it off. "What is that?" she asks, intrigued.

"Nothing," we reply automatically.

She tries to peer over our shoulders. Chase and I, however, are tall drinks of water; there's no way she's getting past us. She steps back and taps her foot thoughtfully, mocking us. "House and Chase, working together," she murmurs. "That's an alliance I didn't think was possible."

"What do we even have to be allied in?" I ask.

"Not much," she admits. I relax a little, and Chase and I move apart.

I swear I see the idea come over her. Her eyes steel over in determination, and she lunges like a football player through the divide between us and ends up, half-sprawled on my desk, prize in hand. "A baby monitor," she announces triumphantly as she rights herself. Her expression changes from pride to confusion. "What the hell is this for?"

"There's something I haven't told you," I admit.

"Oh boy," she mutters. "I'm not sure you should."

"Then I won't. That was easy, wasn't it?"

"Chase, what's going on?"

He licks his lips nervously. "Umm…"

"Come on, you can tell me," she coos.

"Save the pillow talk for after-hours," I say. "This is serious."

"What's serious?" Cameron asks. "It's just a baby monitor, Dr. House. Not worth keeping –"

"Excellent point, Dr. Cameron. Well, no use standing around giving it more attention than it's worth. I'm off to the little boys' room." I walk toward the door, baby monitor in hand.

"Dr. House, don't you think we should –"

"A little help here, Chase? Time to exercise your loyalties – shield my getaway, take one for the team, all that stuff and bother."

"I'm part of the –"

"What do you want me to do?" he asks helplessly.

I wave my hand dismissively. "Drag her off to a supply closet and have your way with her. Serenade her with Aboriginal love songs on your magical didgeridoo. Buy her a puppy, for God's sake – just distract her." I leave Chase to the grueling task of entertaining Cameron and make for the bathroom. I set up the baby monitor on the paper towel dispenser and increase the volume.

"You're kidding!" Isabelle exclaims. "What do you mean we're not going home tonight?"

"Your sister is very sick –" begins her mother.

"Yeah, I'm sick!"

"You know, Princess Isabelle, you can't always get what you want."

But if you try sometimes, you get what you need. Mr. Donahue, at least, has good taste in music.

"This is beyond what I want. If I don't get out of here, I'm going to snap."

"I'm sure they have a psych ward somewhere with a nice room where they can strap you down. That's probably where you belong anyway."

I hear unintelligible muttering in the background and grimace. I'll never know if she achieved the height of wit in her comeback or is in need of immediate help in the art of repartee.

"Then hitchhike home, for all I care," her father grumbles. "Maybe we'll all get lucky and you'll catch a ride with a psychopath."

Damn, I think. My dad was no ray of sunshine, but this guy makes him look like Mr. Rogers.

"What's one more screwball after living with you for so long?"

A loud noise that can only be described as a whack! streaks through the speakers, and I see my frown deepen in the mirror. I know it's selfish, but all I can think is that the amount of paperwork will be ungodly if that sound was what I think it was.

"Very mature, Dad." She sounds far too calm for what has just happened. "Just slam the newspaper on the ground and walk away." Oh. Well, that changes things. "Why don't you ground me like a real dad? Yell at me, tell me you're disappointed in me – something I can work with."

"I'm going to the bathroom," he says icily. I can see him gesture at Becca in my mind's eye as he says, "Why didn't this happen to the right daughter?"

That settles it, I think. This guy is possibly more of a jerk than I am. I contemplate for a moment the sorts of horrific things that could have caused such dysfunction between a father and daughter.

The bathroom door swings open; light floods in. I shove the baby monitor into my pants – the only place it occurs to me to hide it. Idiot, I scold myself. You knew he was coming!

Mr. Donahue and I come face to face. "Dr. House," he says, eyeing my impressive new package. "That's new," he says finally.

"Yeah, well, so is your tie," I reply, trying to divert his attention. "Hospital gift shop? Planning to stick around for a day or two? I'd advise against it. Family tensions will be through the roof in no time."

"Boy, that's the truth," he mutters. "We thought this was all over."

I shrug innocently. "Hate to say I told you so."

"Then don't." He paces the floor anxiously. "Everything is going wrong. One of my kids is sick –"

"And the other isn't going fast enough," I finish sympathetically. "Would have been easier if it had been Isabelle, right? Maybe she'd finally shut up, give you and the missus a rest."

He glances at me, surprised. "Exactly."

To avoid the inevitable awkward silence, I keep talking. "I'll bet you fell like dropping her off in the psych ward sometimes –"

"Alright, you know what? Shut up. Jesus." He stares me down, head to toe, his gaze lingering only for a second on the baby monitor. "What do you have, ESP or something?"

"Sometimes they call me House the Mystic," I say. What do you know, it has a ring to it. "Nine times out of ten, I can sense a woman's pregnancy the second she steps into my office."

"And the one time you don't sense it? What happens then? Do they all turn out like my daughter?"

"Most of them don't have heart attacks."

"Do you know what's wrong with her yet?"

"No, sir."

"Then why are you here?"

"Every doctor pees."

"Yeah, well, every doctor doesn't start packing like that overnight. That isn't natural, if you don't mind my saying so. Maybe you should have that checked out."

"Strange things happen to our bodies, Mr. Donahue. Sometimes they're bad, sometimes they're good. What's going on with Becca – that's a bad thing. But this is a medical miracle, and I refuse to question it." I pat him on the back as I walk out. "You can't always get what you want."

I step into the hall, wondering how teenage boys do this day in and day out. I have to strut like a cowboy to keep my pants at my hips where they belong, although it feels like a lost cause already.

I am so intent in my quest to make it safely to my office without turning too many heads that I don't even notice Isabelle as she rounds the corner. We nearly collide, but she jumps out of my way just in time. "I'm –" she begins, then her eyes widen as she looks down. "Dr. House?"

"No, you're Isabelle. I'm House."

"What happened to you?"

I shrug. "I got a haircut."

She gives a low whistle. "Congratulations, I guess," she says. "I'm leaving. I'll see you around."

Uh-oh. "What, is our hospital not good enough for you? I see how it is – we've got the drama, the heartbreak, the technology, and none of it's good enough."

"There's a little too much drama in your hospital. Not your fault; my family brought it with them."

"Where are you going?"

Isabelle shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe Mexico, where nobody can nag me in my native tongue."

"Isabelle Donahue, the first person to jump the fence in the other direction. Remind me to get an autograph before you leave. How do you plan on getting there from New Jersey?"

"I'll hitchhike if I have to."

"Not a good idea."

"I know, I know, the big bad psychopath will get me."

"What's one more psychopath after growing up in your family?"

"That's what I said!" she exclaims. "They're crazy, and they have no idea!"

"Tell me about it."

"Well –"

"I'll be honest: I was only making conversation. I really don't want to know anything."

"What if it helps you diagnose Becca?" she asks.

"The less I know, the better."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Neither does half the other stuff they teach you in med school. I promise, I fit right into this doctor crowd. I know what I'm doing. Good luck in Mexico – or should I say buena suerte?" I wave good-bye and step into my office.

Isabelle follows me. "Isn't it some sort of obstruction of justice to let me go without at least trying to stop me or telling my parents?"

I shrug. "Probably."

"So why don't you do anything about it?"

"Believe it or not, I don't actually think you're hitchhiking to Mexico."

"You're right. I think I'll head northwest to Alaska instead. I've always wanted to live in an igloo."

"I'm sensing some bad blood between you and…well, everybody."

"Every pint of the stuff running through our veins is bad."

I can tell I'm not going to get away without hearing the saga of Isabelle, so I sit back, pop a Vicodin, and relax. "Look, I'm no psychologist, and my listening skills are shot, but as long as you don't mind the fact that I'm not really listening, I don't mind pretending."

"Well, I do mind."

"Then go talk to Dr. Cameron. She loves dramatic, angsty cases like this."

"Too late. Becca got to her, and now every time I see Dr. Cameron, it's like she's giving me the same look all of my sister's friends give me."

"Then she needs to hear your side of the story. Look, I put the 'sense' in 'insensitive.' If you talk to me, you're going to be mocked, ridiculed, and made fun of."

"At least you make fun of everybody, not just one half of the equation," she mumbles.

At last I understand. Isabelle's all about equality – she wants, for once, to be on par with her sister, instead of a million miles below her. Who can argue with that? I pull out my iPod, pop in the headphones, and say, "Begin."

Isabelle reaches over and pulls one bud out. "Well," she says…

In fifteen minutes, Isabelle details her long, hard family history. As it turns out, this is not the first near-death experience Becca has ever had. At age three, she ate a peanut and her face swelled up the size of a hot air balloon. At age eight, she fell off her bike and had a concussion. At age twelve, she choked on her dinner at her cousin's wedding. Each time, Isabelle was the only one who noticed anything was wrong. Each time, Isabelle was the only one to make a scene until someone would help her. Each time, someone else got the credit for saving her life.

Her father, mother, and sister have always seemed like the perfect family unit to Isabelle. Whenever she tries to break in, it appears as more of a threat to them than anything else. It's not like she hasn't tried, she reminds me. She's just learned to keep to herself and let them do their own thing. She understands why they cling so closely to Becca; after all, they've almost lost her three – no, four times to date. Isabelle has to wonder, though, why they don't seem to give a damn about her. Is a 4.0 and full reign of the cheerleading squad supposed to be more exalted than saving your sister's life time and time again?

What if something had happened to Isabelle before Becca needed her? Where would they be today? Next to each other for eternity, cold and stiff, in the family plot at the cemetery.

Isabelle has had an especially hard time in dealing with her father. Her mother at least attempts to make the twins equal. Her father, on the other hand, looks down on his daughters and only sees one. Becca is the apple of his eye, the best thing he's ever done. She's friendly, she's pretty, she's got Potential with a capital P. This is a girl that's going places – the only thing better would be a son. Isabelle is just another trial of day-to-day life, seemingly existing only to balance out the good and the bad. Sure, he's sorry he feels this way. He just can't make himself love them both.

"And that's it," she finishes, her voice quivering slightly. I wordlessly hand her a tissue. "Maybe now you understand the whole hitchhiking-to-Mexico plan."

"Oh, I understand," I assure her. "I just don't agree with you." She glances at me, surprised. "It's harder to live as a martyr than die as one, isn't it? You're Becca's saving grace, but she keeps you in the shadows until she needs you. You love your sister enough to die for her, but the real question lies with whether or not you can suck it up enough to stand by her another minute in life."

"I'm still here, aren't I?" she asks, glaring at me through eyes circled with heavy black eyeliner. "Is it too much to ask that my family even care that I've been their constant through thick and thin?"

"Yes. That's what families are. They're more than people living in the same house that share some common alleles and hate each other. If you learn to love them, you're stuck with them no matter what. When they run out of feeling for you, you're still stuck picking up the pieces because you care. Love is a nice thing to be able to do, but it doesn't get you anywhere, least of all with your family. Trust me: much easier to hate everyone you meet, no matter if you have their eyes or their chin or their smile."

"I haven't stuck around because I love my sister, or my parents."

"Then why aren't you standing out at the side of the road with your thumb to the sky?"

"The same reason you aren't," she says. "I have a conscience."

"Another useless characteristic."

"My sister is an idiot. She's one of the most awful people I've ever met. She's spoiled, she's stupid, and she's mean. But I know that, for some strange, bizarre reason, people like her. Hell, sometimes I even catch myself smiling over the rare jewel of something she's said or done that wasn't entirely sickening. I don't love her, but other people do."

"You appreciate something about your sister. You love her."

"No, I don't."

"You like to think you don't, because she sure as hell does a good job of acting like she doesn't love you." Isabelle looks at the ground; her teeth clamp down on her lower lip. "You're ashamed of caring about someone who would hardly notice if you disappeared from her life completely. You've sacrificed self-sufficiency and strength for this, and you've lost. You are a familial, social, emotional weakling, and I bet the knowledge of that hurts more than a little concussion or a fainting spell ever could. So you got the short straw in twin-dom; what excuse does it give you to put up a brave front and pretend you don't give a damn?"

For a moment, I think maybe she's going to burst into tears and admit I'm right. Instead, she glances up at me, looks me dead in the eye, and says, "Whatever excuse you have for being a jerk because you drew the short straw in leg-dom."

She looks like she's about to do a complete head rotation from the evil glare she's giving me, but we both look to the door when a voice yells, "She's in here!" Cuddy comes into the room and looks at Isabelle. "Where have you been? Your father's been looking everywhere for you!"

Mr. Donahue marches in and demands, "Why did you leave your sister and your mother alone? You know this is hard enough on them –"

"I was just following your lead. Like father, like daughter and all that jazz."

"Isabelle, your sister fainted again," Cuddy says, trying her very best to sound sympathetic.

"Did she get a good look at my father?"

"You know, I'm getting real sick of your lip," Mr. Donahue warns Isabelle, his pointer finger wagging menacingly.

She shoots me a look that purely reads, I could use some reinforcements.

Screw her, I think. She made fun of my leg. "I'm sick of both your lips," I offer. Her father nods approvingly. "You should probably listen to your poor dad every now and then. Imagine how hard it is for him."

Isabelle, determined to remain catty at all costs, narrows her eyes into tiny slits of malice. "You're laying that crap on awfully thick, Dr. House."

Cuddy uneasily shifts her weight from one leg to the other and looks around nervously. "I wonder where Chase is with that report…"

As if on cue, the baby monitor begins to talk. "House!" Chase says. "Testing, one, two, one, two. House, are you there?"

Mr. Donahue's eyes nearly pop out of his head. "Still think that's a medical miracle?"

"I wasn't aware we had a PA system in this hospital," Cuddy says, glancing at the ceiling.

"That's no PA system," Mr. Donahue informs her.

"House, come in. I need you in Becca's room, ASAP."

"Where is that coming from?" Cuddy rounds the desk, searching for the source of the sound. When she sees my other half, her mouth drops open. "Oh my God…"

"I don't know what that is, but it sure as hell isn't a –"

There is a God; I know this because at that exact moment, my cell phone rings. "Dr. House," I all but gasp, sinking further into my chair with relief for the interruption.

"House, where are you? I've been screaming into that damned monitor for nearly five minutes, and –"

"I'm going to fire you after we solve this case," I warn him. "Wait there for me." I hang up and awkwardly push past Cuddy. This is the only time in the history of the world that I can remember myself looking at the ground instead of other, more interesting places when she's around. "Chase needs a little help," I say.

"He's not the only one," Isabelle mutters, glaring at…well, everybody in the room.

They all follow me, my own personal trio of gawking fanatics. "I don't need an entourage," I hint impatiently. "Cuddy, I'll explain later. Donahues…we need some time apart." I walk out of the office and head down the hall. This had better be good, that's all I can say…

Well, that's chapter seven. Crazy, huh? My job is over (for now), but yours has just begun! (Hint: LOOK AT THE LITTLE PURPLE BOX IN THE LEFT BOTTOM CORNER. CLICK ON THE PART THAT SAYS GO. THEN WRITE WHAT YOU THOUGHT.) Please?

The Official House-of-Insanity News Bulletin:

1) SATs went quite well – all a result of your wonderful reviews that got me all pumped for the test, of course. Thanks, guys:)

2) Birthday also rocked – the reviews were the most awesome present I got…Well, except for a few other things…But they were definitely up there. :)

Anyhow, chapter eight will be up soon. I hope.