Floating

Chapter 7

"Why do you think he can't have visitors?" A cup of coffee shared with colleagues on a break from Walter Peterson's immunology research lab.

House's outer office was too neat. Unused since the afternoon of the shooting, it had that abandoned look about it somehow. Chase's eyes drew to the floor near the white board. It had been cleaned. Everything had been cleaned. Blood had gotten everywhere. Books, desks. It was better that the office was left closed. That they were rotated to other departments.

"Maybe they're doing a personality transplant. Who the Hell cares. This way, we're not obligated to be polite and visit, and we get a week or two off from his abuse. Win-win." Foreman had been re-assigned to neuro.

"I saw him with Cuddy this morning. In the lobby."

"So?" Chase was back in the NICU. This time it wasn't voluntary. "How's he doing?"

"They were walking. Quite a sight. House in a hospital gown and gym shoes."

"Guys, I've got to get back in 10 minutes. Can we please not talk about House. We have a vacation from him, let's not spoil it by talking about him. Neuro's been a nice break. Whitman's a great mind. I'll actually be sorry when I have to come back here."

"House's injuries were bad, but he's not in ICU. And he's ambulatory. It is pretty strange that they're not allowing any visitors."

"Maybe he just wants a little privacy." All three turned towards the voice coming through from the door between House's inner and outer offices.

"Dr. Cuddy. How is House doing?" Cameron approached, her eyes concerned.

"House is doing great. He'll be back to harassing you on Monday. He just needs to be cleared by phisio."

"No. I mean, how's he doing. You know, the shooting. It must have been traumatic for him. Has he talked about it at all?" Great, thought Cuddy. All House needs is to have her hovering. Cuddy sighed.

"No. He hasn't spoken of it at all. I think he's just concentrating on getting physically healthy right now."

"Huh," barked Foreman, "Just what we need. Add PTSD to his chart. Off the edge." He sounded almost delighted at the prospect. "That'll be one train wreck I'd be glad to not witness, thank you very much."

"Aren't you being a little too quick to think that? Maybe he'll be fine. And he just hasn't wanted to talk to anybody yet."

"Coming from the king of internalized emotions, himself. Strike a little too close to home, Chase?"

Cuddy watched the bickering. She had considered the idea of leaving the department intact for House's absence. Leaving Foreman in charge again. But without House there to keep Foreman's wings clipped back, she had had grave concerns. And rightly so, it would seem.

"I'll just let you three get back to your coffee klatch. I just came down to get House's mail for him. And his iPod. She brandished the little white music device."

House was asleep when Cuddy walked in on him. She quietly placed his iPod on the bedside tray and turned to go.

"NO!" House was struggling against the restraints, no longer calmly sleeping. "Not my leg. Don't shoot my leg!"

Cuddy made her way hastily back towards his bedside. "House." Her voice was calm but firm, not wanting to startle him. She placed on hand on his left shoulder, gently shaking him, trying to rouse him.

She maintained her grip on his shoulder as he came out of the deep, fitful sleep. He looked into her face, disoriented.

"Hey. It's OK. It's OK." She looked down, noting that his wrists were red from the struggle. "You were dreaming. Was it a bad one?"

House was breathless, nodding. "My leg…"

"…Is right here! Intact and pain free, remember." Another nod. "Scoot over." House did as he was told, regaining his composure.

"Why, Cuddy! Presumptuous, aren't we?"

"I just want to sit."

"I believe there are devices for that. New invention. I think it's called a char? Choor? Something like that." She sat down on the edge of House's bed, untying his wrists in a two quick motions.

"You haven't talked about it." House looked puzzled.

"It. By 'it' you mean what exactly."

"The shooting." Cuddy's face was serious. "Not since you regained consciousness. It might help. To talk about it. I can arrange…"

"I'm fine." The defensive line was back intact.

"Physically, yes. House, you were shot. At point blank range. In your office. In front of your team. You can't be OK. Not if you're human." House arched an eyebrow.

"You are human, House. And whatever you may wish people to believe about you, and despite your best efforts, you are human."

"Not really ready for this."

"Clearly. If you don't want to talk to a counselor here, I can arrange…Or talk to me. Or Wilson. But don't let this fester too long. Is the vivid dreaming getting any better? Are you getting much rest at all?"

"I see him. He's the constant. My personal Professor Moriarty."

"So what's he do, Sherlock?"

"Different stuff each time. It always ends the same. He shoots me. I can't stop it. Him. In the leg. In both legs. I never die, just suffer. Lie there fucking helplessly in pain. And then more people die around me. Sometimes it plays out till I'm in a cemetery somewhere surrounded by bodies that keep piling up around me. Sometimes people I know: you, Wilson, Stacy, patients. Sometimes not. I can't get rid of them. The dreams. They're there all the time, even when I'm awake, they'll just come back to me."

"Guess that's why they call them vivid dreams." She smiled wanly at him. "It's mostly the after-effects of the Ketamine, I think. We expected it."

House nodded. "It's an equitable trade-off. My Faustian bargain, I guess."

"When you're ready, tell me about the shooting. Any time. Even at three a.m."

"Ooo goody." House glanced at the wall clock. "Time for physio. My favorite."

"Yeah right."

"Maybe later. You, me, we take a walk, see the sights. After hours. I'd like to retrieve my GameBoy. Know I can't go myself…"

"I'll see you at 10:00 p.m."

"Don't be late." Cuddy swept out of the room as the PT tech entered bearing a wheel chair for the ride down to physio.

"My chauffeur awaits. To Physio, Jeeves!"