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In Self Defence - Chapter 7
It was dark when House awoke. He floated slowly up to consciousness, feeling warm and detached, oddly muffled. A persistent lethargy stayed with him, weighing down his eyelids, his limbs. Moving seemed far too much effort so he lay still, absorbing sensations.. starched cotton sheets beneath him, the tight, pulling sensation of tape on the skin of his left elbow, a steady beeping from a monitor somewhere near his head. Hospital. In a bed, in hospital. Shit. His body felt foreign, an immovable object over which he had no control. Muscles felt stiff and rebellious.
It took all his effort to open his eyes and he immediately wished he hadn't; his vision blurred and swam and a dizzy nausea turned his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe through the queasiness, panting shallowly. His head began to throb dully. He must have made a noise because a moment later he felt a cool hand on his forehead and a familiar voice spoke from nearby.
"House?"
He swallowed thickly, his mouth dry, and it took him two attempts to respond; his voice sounded dry and cracked with disuse.
"Wilson?"
"Hey," A note of relief was evident is his friend's voice. "How you feeling?"
House tried to concentrate on breathing. "Sick," he mumbled shortly.
There was another voice in the background, too low to make out through the pounding in his ears. His head was starting to feel like it was clamped in a vice. His stomach churned and he groaned, his body trying instinctively to curl up. The movement brought a sharp stab of pain that lanced through his chest, leaving him gasping.
Firm hands pressed his shoulders back against the bed.
"Hold still, House," Wilson's voice soothed, "We're getting you something for the nausea."
We? House lay trembling on the stiff cotton sheets, fighting the urge to hug his unruly stomach and wondering dizzily who the other person in the room was.
He was dimly aware of a tug against the tight sensation of tape at his left elbow. Must be an IV line, he thought. Someone holding the line. Probably swabbing the port for an injection. He tried to concentrate on medical procedures, on diagnosing his surroundings, anything but the awful swimming sensation in his head and his gut. He felt awful. The stabbing pain in his chest had subsided to a dull ache that seemed to throb in time with his head. He felt bile rising and choked out a curse, aware of Wilson's hands hurriedly turning him to the side, and suddenly every muscle in his body seemed to protest the sudden movement.
He heaved painfully, his eyes clenched shut, and hoped someone had had time to grab a basin. The muscles in his abdomen shivered and trembled painfully and sharp fire lanced through his chest as he retched and spat again, the taste of bile sour in his mouth. The effort left him gasping; the pain in his chest was fierce enough to take his breath away. He spat again, weakly. There was nothing left in his stomach to bring up but his body didn't seem to care, his muscles convulsing regardless, sending him into painful, fruitless heaving that shot darts of pain through his right side. He gritted his teeth but couldn't suppress a groan.
Wilson's voice was heavy with concern, "Easy House, I've got you. Just hang in there."
His voice was muffled slightly as he turned his head to speak to someone else. House dimly caught the words "painkillers" and "dosage" and heard a murmured reply. Who was that!
He could hear himself panting, his breath coming in painful gasps, as the urge to retch finally subsided. His ribs were throbbing angrily with every breath. He felt Wilson's hands gently roll him back over until he once again lay on his back against the firm mattress, his eyes still clenched shut against the dizziness and nausea.
"The anti-emetic should be kicking in soon House, you'll feel better in a moment."
He tried to nod but the motion made his head swim so he forced a muttered "Mkay" through parched lips. His ribs ached and his head was pounding and it felt like every muscle in his body was tired and sore. He was pretty sure he'd never felt this miserable in his entire life. He lay still and tried to concentrate on just breathing, just existing, doing his best to shut out pain, nausea, sensation, to just deal with one minute at a time.. and, when that one was done, to concentrate on dealing with the next one.
He had no idea how long he'd been lying there, breathing slowly and carefully, when Wilson's voice startled him out of his daze.
"House? You feeling any better?"
He gave the question cautious consideration. He still felt stiff and vaguely sore but the pounding in his head had lessened and, thankfully, the dizziness and nausea seemed to have gone.
"House?" Concerned. Concerned about him. He swallowed.
"Yeah. I'm here.." his throat still felt dry and raspy and he shocked to hear how.. how weak his voice sounded.
He decided to risk opening his eyes.
The room was gloomy and he struggled to focus; his vision at least wasn't swimming the way it had previously but it still felt kinda blurred…. he blinked owlishly and tried to force his eyes to focus and only succeeded in making his headache worse.
"Hey,"
He could hear the smile in Wilson's voice. He turned his head gingerly to the left and found his friend standing beside the bed and House's vision was not so blurred that he couldn't see the worry in those expressive brown eyes.
"Nice to have you back with us."
"Wasn't aware I'd gone anywhere." Not quite up to his usual standard of riposte but then, he wasn't exactly feeling at the top of his game right now. He chanced lifting his head enough to check out his surroundings a little – hospital bed, hospital gown, IV taped to his left arm, saline drip, pulse-ox monitor.. Cuddy?
She was stood at the foot of the bed, her face sombre. Was that who he'd heard talking with Wilson? He let his head fall back onto the pillow, his energy exhausted after mere moments.
"Dr Cuddy," he addressed the ceiling, "come to check up on me?"
He heard her laugh shortly. "Yeah. Something like that."
The sound of high heels on tiled floor brought her round to the side of the bed, where he could see her. He frowned, squinting his eyes to try and focus. She looked.. pale, tired.. worried. Her hair wasn't its usual sleekly styled perfection and if he didn't know better he'd say she'd slept in her make up. He caught her glancing over at Wilson and began to feel somewhat at a disadvantage with the two of them looming over him on either side of the bed.
Attack is the best form of defence. "You look terrible," he informed Cuddy. Woulda had a bit more bite if his voice hadn't sounded so damned tired and dry. She replied with that infuriatingly calm smile that she seemed to reserve just for annoying him.
"Yeah well, sleeping in an armchair will do that for you."
He closed his eyes. The blurring in his eyesight was making his head ache again. God he felt so tired….
"Why are you sleeping in armchairs?" he muttered drowsily.
There was a silence in the room so heavy it seemed to have a personality all its own. House opened his eyes suspiciously and caught Cuddy and Wilson exchanging significant glances over the width of his hospital bed.
"Stop that!" he snapped, feeling anger surge adrenalin through his system, pushing back the sleepy feeling…he narrowed his eyes, tried to focus on the IV line in his arm, "What's going on? What did you give me!" He glared at Wilson.
"House…"
They were making him nervous, hovering over him with their concerned faces and their furtive looks. He reached his right arm over towards the IV line and cried out as the motion twisted his torso, pulling at the right side of his body and sending a sharp stab of pain through him that left him gasping and shaking, dark spots crowding at the edge of his vision. Wilson's hands were on his shoulders once more, holding him still against the bed, and James' blurred face loomed over him.
"Lie still, House," he said firmly. "You've got a concussion and…"
There was an uncomfortable moment where Wilson seemed to be weighing up what to say next.
"Do you know where you are?" he asked carefully.
House gritted his teeth against the subsiding ache in his chest and spat out an irritated answer.
"In a hospital bed, and from the delightful shade of green on the ceiling I'd say somewhere on the 2nd floor at PPTH. Now will you get off me!"
Wilson let go of him slowly, as if expecting him to do something rash, and his voice was cautious as he asked, "Do you know how you got here?"
"Of course, I…"
House stopped, his words tailing off as he stopped to consider the question. A vague feeling of disquiet settled somewhere around his stomach as he tried to think back, tried to remember how he had got a concussion, tried to remember being admitted to hospital, tried to remember… everything was fuzzy, distorted. He grimaced, his head pounding.
"House?" the concern in Cuddy's voice was palpable as she leant over the bed. He stared at the ceiling in confusion.
"I don't…" he muttered, "I don't remember.."
He lowered his eyes to see Cuddy unconsciously biting her lower lip as she shared a significant look with Wilson. He suddenly felt ridiculously tired, his anger draining away leaving him heavy with lethargy.
"Stop mooning at each other across the bed," he snapped half-heartedly. "Whatever it is, just tell me."
"What do you remember?" Cuddy asked.
He sighed, his eyes closing. He felt strangely detached; his body lay heavily on the bed, his muscles feeling loose and tired, without strength. He tried to concentrate.
"Clinic. I remember the clinic."
"Do you remember what happened in the clinic?" Wilson's voice. Tight with tension, holding something back.
House frowned. He remembered being in the clinic. He remembered waking up here. He tried to focus. Nothing. It was a struggle to open his eyes and his lips seemed to stumble over his words.
"I… I don't know, James."
Some distant part of his brain told him he should be concerned, should be scared that there was a hole in his consciousness, a gap in his memory. He frowned at Wilson.
"What did you give me?" he demanded sleepily.
"Painkillers. Stay with me, House" Wilson's voice was urgent. "Do you remember being attacked in the clinic?"
"What?" He fought against the pervasive lethargy. "No, I… I don't know."
Wilson sighed heavily, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck in an almost unconscious gesture that House knew far too well.
"Spit it out, Jimmy.." he commanded tiredly, "How much trouble am I in?"
"Oh, you've outdone yourself this time," Wilson half-laughed, and House could hear the concern behind the deliberately light-hearted tone of voice. "You've got a nice bump to the head and a concussion to go along with it, 3 broken ribs and what's gonna be a whole lot of really nasty bruising."
The levity fell from his voice. "You really can't remember any of this?"
House shook his head carefully. Whatever Wilson had dosed him with was really doing a number on him. "Why the mega-dose meds?"
Wilson's face was sombre.
"Do you remember waking up earlier? Me and Foreman running you through the neuro checks?"
House frowned. He guessed Wilson figured his silence was answer enough because he carried on talking.
"You were pretty out of it, we couldn't get much sense out of you," Wilson turned his head away, and it was a moment before he continued, "and you were in… a lot of pain."
Wilson let out a long breath before turning his gaze to meet House's and, blurred vision or not, he could clearly see the fear and anger in his friends eyes.
"I gave you a high enough dose to knock you out for a good while. When you woke up and started feeling sick, moving about so much aggravated your injuries so, along with the anti-emetic, I gave you some more painkillers."
House nodded slowly.
"Feels like enough to knock out a rhino," he complained without any real heat.
Cuddy's laugh startled him. He'd almost forgotten she was there.
"I've always said you were thick-skinned, House" she jibed.
He was pretty sure he shouldn't let her get away unscathed after a comment like that but he felt so darn tired he doubted he could string a sentence together, let alone one of his carefully constructed insults. His eyelids started to drift.
"House," he jerked back to awareness at Wilson's voice. "Think you can stay awake long enough for me to run through the neuro checks?"
He did his best to fight the deliciously creeping lethargy that stole into his muscles and seeped into his bones. Wilson shone lights in his eyes and Cuddy asked him questions and he counted digits and squeezed fingers and did his level best to concentrate. There was no pain now, not even from his leg; all the aches and pains and dizziness were gone and he just felt heavy; tired.
His let his eyes slide closed and lay still, enjoying the rare, sweet absence of pain. He was vaguely aware of their footsteps moving away from the bed and the murmur of conversation. The odd word or phrase floated back to him through the haze;
"memory loss";
"blurred vision should clear up shortly";
"get a CT scan?";
"just to be sure";
"let the police know".
He let himself drift on the sea of their words as he slipped gently into sleep.
TBC…