Wow, this turned into quite a long chapter! Sorry for the delay in updating – but never fear, Chapter 6 is here! Another chapter with not much actually happening but an awful lot of introspection – mostly on the part of Wilson and with a little Cuddy thrown in for good measure.
Reviews and constructive criticism much appreciated, as ever.
In Self Defence – Chapter Six
Wilson was slumped in the armchair next to House's bed, staring absently into space, when Dr Cameron quietly pushed open the door and stood hesitantly in the doorway. He snapped out of his reverie with a start and gestured for the young immunologist to enter.
She moved into the room with exaggerated care, stopping to close the door carefully behind her. She looked anxiously towards the bed, "Is he…?"
"It's fine," he reassured her. "He's out for the count. With the pain meds he's on he's not going to be waking up for a while."
Cameron breathed a small sigh of relief, moving to stand by the bed, her eyes irresistibly drawn to the motionless figure of her boss. Wilson held his tongue, watching the play of emotions across her expressive face as she was confronted for the first time with the reality of House's injuries. He knew Foreman had informed the other members of the diagnostic team of what had happened in the clinic as soon as they were through settling House into the ICU but, even so, seeing House looking so beaten and lost was disturbing. It brought home how vulnerable the human body was, how even the mighty, caustic Dr House was, underneath the anger, the bitterness, the armour-plating of biting sarcasm, still just a man – a man who could be hurt. Seeing him like this made the violence shockingly real, he knew that from his own experience.
Cameron's face mirrored the odd mixture of hope, fear and anger that he himself felt and, sitting there at his friend's bedside, he felt a kind of connection to the young woman. No matter what she may have told House to the contrary, Wilson suspected she still had feelings for her boss and, awful as it was to see anyone the victim of such random violence, it was immeasurably harder to deal with when the person injured and in pain was someone you cared about.
"Dr Cuddy asked me to check on things for her. She's still stuck in the clinic with the police.." Cameron's voice trailed off as she looked helplessly at House's still form.
"How is he?" she asked plaintively.
Wilson rose from the armchair, his face sombre as he moved to join her beside House's bed. Somehow he knew Cameron wasn't asking about House's medical condition – she could see his injuries for herself, could read his chart for the diagnosis. Standing there beside her, looking down at the bruised, unconscious face of his closest friend, he felt a moment of relief at having someone with whom to share the burden of caring about this brilliant, difficult man.
"He's in a lot of pain," he told her quietly, "He took one hell of a beating."
"He was pretty confused when he came around, I think partly from the pain but there's a neurological component too – he's got a nasty concussion. We couldn't really get much sense out of him, we just ran through the neuro checks and medicated him as soon as we could."
He tore his gaze from the bed to see the glint of moisture in Cameron's eyes, empathy for House's pain evident on her face. She cares so much, he found himself thinking, about everything, every patient. He wondered how a soul that cared that deeply could withstand the cruel losses that were such a part of the medical profession – how she came into work each day with her spirit unbroken. Cameron, he suspected, was a lot stronger than any of them – even House – had realised.
He wished for a moment that House could awake and see the empathy in her gaze – and recognise it for what it was. Not sympathy, not the pity he detested and resented so much, but true empathy; the ability to put oneself into someone else's situation and understand and accept it. Sympathy was feeling sorry for someone, empathy was understanding someone, accepting them, supporting them. In his anger and frustration at the world House, whose sharp insight cut through pretence, who placed such value in truth, who usually saw things so much more clearly than anyone else, had lost the ability to differentiate between the two. The thought saddened Wilson.
Cameron was silent as she gazed at House, her hand moving almost unconsciously to wipe the tears from her eyes, and Wilson felt a stab of – what was that? Jealousy? Guilt? He realised that all of them, himself, Cuddy, Foreman, had been so focused on staying in control, acting professionally, dealing with the practicalities of the situation, that they had pushed away their fear and sorrow, blocked off their emotions in order to be better doctors to House. Cameron, with her open, too-trusting nature, was the only one who had let herself be upset, allowed herself to feel the emotions that were all too natural in this situation. So yes, he envied her. Yes, he felt guilty that he hadn't shed so much as a tear for his injured friend. And yet he also recognised that being practical was as much a coping mechanism as Cameron's tears. Intellectually he knew that House was doing as well as he was because his colleagues, his friends, had been able to act decisively and not give in to emotion. They had done as they had been trained and had been doctors first, friends second. And he knew the tears would come. The shock and fear was not gone, not forgotten, only pushed aside for the moment – later, when the crisis had passed, when he had time to himself, that would be the time to cry for his friend.
There was the smallest of tremors in Cameron's voice as she asked the question that was on everyone's mind. "What on earth happened!"
Wilson sighed heavily, pushing back the anger and the fear, slipping once again into the role of the practical one, the one everyone could rely on. A part of him knew the question was rhetorical, as much an expression of disbelief that this had happened as a real desire to know more. Everyone who had seen the results of the attack, every member of staff who had treated and looked after House, including himself, had expressed a similar sentiment as the reality of the day's events hit home. But he had to remember that he wasn't the only one who cared about House, the only one who had been affected by this attack. And, as ever, people turned to him to translate, to make sense of House.
House would probably be astounded to know how much people did care about him, about his welfare. Over the last five years he had done an excellent job of keeping people at a distance, never letting anyone get close enough to hurt him. And so the people who cared for him had learnt to hide their concern, their affection, or risk being pushed away. Even Wilson himself, House's closest – some would say only – friend, knew there were limits to how far his friend would let him in. Care too much, push too hard, and House would shut down, shut him out, wall himself off from any spark of real emotion.. even Wilson was no longer sure if it was because House mistook concern for unwanted pity or because he feared that, if he once let himself feel, really feel, again, he might get hurt again. After five years, and despite all the walls and defences House had built for himself, the man's wounds were as raw and fresh as ever and Wilson suspected that House feared, as he himself did, that one more blow would break him – for good.
Cameron had learnt this the hard way. She had pushed too hard, had let House know she had feelings for him, and he had lashed out, pushing her away before things could develop further. House had never told Wilson exactly what had happened on that one and only date but he knew Greg… and he knew that, since that night, Cameron had stopped pushing. She had learnt, like he had, like Cuddy had, to hide her feelings from House.
"We still don't know any more than what Foreman told you." He explained gently. "It seems House was attacked by a clinic patient but we've no idea why or even exactly when. The police are out looking for him."
His gaze was drawn back to Greg, to the ugly bruise on his temple, to how utterly still he lay in his drug-induced sleep, only the slow, faint rise and fall of his chest giving any indication of life.
"We won't really know any more until they catch him – or until House is conscious enough to tell us what happened."
She nodded almost absently, her gaze still lingering on the still figure of Dr House, concern evident on her face.
"I'd better go and give Dr Cuddy an update," she said quietly. She lifted her eyes to Wilson and gave him a brief smile, "She tries not to show it but she's worried about him."
He stood there, a medical professional in a hospital room, surrounded by the apparatus of his profession, and had never felt more out of place, more lost. "We all are," he told her.
Cameron turned back as she reached the door, her expression as open and sincere as ever as she spoke, "If there's anything I can do, you'll let me know?"
Wilson's smile was all the reply she needed and, with a last glance the slumbering House, she turned and was gone.
It took Cuddy more than three hours to deal with the aftermath of the afternoon's events in the clinic. Word of the attack had spread like wildfire throughout the hospital and she had spent as much of her time fire-fighting and soothing fears as she had dealing with the police investigation. The board were up in arms, the trustees were anxious and she'd had no less than six of the hospital's major donors calling her up to demand explanations and reassurance. By the time 6.00 pm rolled around she felt like she'd run a marathon, in heels. Twice.
And, aside from one short update from Dr Cameron, she'd had no chance to check in on Dr House. She knew Wilson would oversee his care and would have paged her if there was any change but that didn't stop her from worrying.. and Cameron's report of concussion was an added concern.
The police had completed their investigations at the hospital and the detectives had left, promising to contact her as soon as they had any developments. She had sent a detail of cleaning staff to deal with the chaos in Exam Room 1 and, for the first time all afternoon, she was alone with no phone calls, no questions, no demands for her presence, no interruptions. From her desk she could see the clinic through the glass office doors and a shiver ran down her spine. With no distractions to occupy her mind, the reality of the awful violence that had taken place mere yards away overwhelmed her. For a moment she couldn't breathe as her mind replayed the heart-dropping, sickening moment when she had opened that door and seen him; seen House lying on the floor, so helpless and so very, very still. A sudden sob escaped her, loud in the stillness of the office, startling her. She pressed a hand to her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut, feeling tears well, shock and panic threatening to overwhelm her. She sat alone at her desk and struggled for control.
Breathing slow and deep she swallowed her tears, wiping angrily at her eyes with hands that shook slightly. Dammit, this is going to help, she told herself. She stood up abruptly, feeling restless and ill at ease, needing to do something, anything, other than sit and dwell. She took a minute to compose herself, to push aside the fear and anger and concentrate on the here and now. There was only one place she needed and wanted to be right now.
The hospital was quiet at this time of the day; all the admin staff and technicians had left for the day along with those of the medical staff who were not on the rotation for evening or night shift. The ICU was busier than the rest of the hospital, a full nursing staff being maintained around the clock, but the corridors still felt empty without the usual compliment of visitors and ancillary staff. She paused briefly outside House's room, taking a moment to breathe deeply and slowly, feeling her control stretched thin and tight over the day's emotions. She pushed open the door and stepped carefully inside.
The first thing she saw was the bed. The lights had been dimmed in the room – a thoughtful nurse perhaps? – and House lay still and silent in the gloom, his skin looking sallow in the faint light of the gently-beeping monitors. The second thing she saw was Wilson. He was slumped low in the armchair, legs stretched out in front of him, one ankle resting atop the other, hands linked across his stomach, his head tipped back and to the side. He was fast asleep. Cuddy couldn't help a small smile, perhaps the first real smile she'd had all afternoon, she thought. Wilson looked utterly exhausted – and he was going to have one heck of a sore neck when he woke up.
Wilson didn't move as she picked up House's chart and reviewed the notations, her forehead creasing into an unconscious frown as she noted Foreman's neurological findings and Wilson's prescribing instructions. She bit her lip as she replaced the chart and moved alongside the bed, her eyes taking in every detail of the man lying there so still and peaceful. He seemed relaxed – he should be given the dosage Wilson had prescribed – and deeply asleep, his head tilted slightly to one side. His eyes were closed and his breathing regular.
She checked the readings from the monitors and then, on an impulse, she leant over the bed and repeated her actions of a few, short hours ago, pressing her fingers to the cool skin of his neck, pleased to find his pulse strong and regular, if a little slow. Fishing out her penlight, she lifted an eyelid and was not surprised to find the pupil constricted and the reaction somewhat impaired. House didn't react to the light – he was really out of it. She shivered a little to think of the pain he must have been in and what it had been like for Wilson to have to see him suffer that way.
Her train of thought brought her gaze back to Wilson, still soundly asleep in the armchair. She considered waking him but knew even if she did he wouldn't go home, he'd stay here with House until Greg awoke. She knew the ICU nurses were perfectly competent to monitor House's concussion but she had to admit she was glad of Wilson's devotion to his friend.
She suddenly felt at a loss. There was nothing for her to do here. House was as stable as could be expected, Wilson looked like he was out for the count, the nurses would monitor things and wake Wilson and page her if anything changed. Monitoring was all that could be done until House woke up and could communicate with them. She really should go home herself but for some reason the thought of her large, empty house, warm and comfortable though it was, was not an appealing one. She made herself take a deep, calming breath as she thought back to the panic that had threatened to overwhelm her as she sat alone in her office. She looked between the bed and the armchair and her two colleagues sleeping soundly and she thought "To hell with it."
Dean of Medicine or no, right now, this one evening, she didn't want to be alone.
Ten minutes later, Lisa Cuddy was curled up almost comfortably in the second armchair she'd had an orderly bring into the room, her shoes abandoned on the floor and her stockinged feet tucked under her. The steady beep of the heart monitor was a comforting sound as she closed her eyes to the dim light of the ICU room. A wave of weariness washed over her and she realised dully how tightly wound she had let herself become over the course of the day. She let tiredness carry her into relaxation and before she knew it she was lulled to sleep to the accompaniment of the slow, constant beep – beep – beep of the monitors.
TBC...