Foreman's pager had gone off twenty minutes into his appointment – thank you God and Buddha, and hell, thanks to Zeus while he was at it. There was a patient; Foreman's bread and butter. What he walked into, however, was broaching House levels of pure domineering bullshit. There was a tall man with thick wavy hair standing above a small blonde boy – looked weak, thin – and the man was intubating him. "What the hell are you doing?" Foreman snapped, yanking open the drawer for his stethoscope.

"Bag!" the man demanded, hand out and fingers snapping. He had a Presence, capital 'P'. Foreman hesitated, but handed it over, watching as the boy's breathing stabilized.

Foreman was not pleased. "You and I," he told the man firmly, "are going to have a talk."

The man simply kept pumping the bag. "I'm Dr. Gordon," he introduced himself in a strong British accent, clapping a protective hand on the boy's shoulder. "And this is my son, Bobby."

"I don't exactly know how it works in…"

"He wasn't breathing," was the clipped response, "and the paged nurse didn't arrive soon enough, so I did it myself and sent her off. I'm a rheumatologist based out of London and working to achieve tenure at Princeton. You'll find my references are in perfect order."

The click of Foreman's jaw was audible as he ground his teeth together. Maybe it was just that fancy accent, but the man was being condescending and Foreman didn't spend ten years specializing just to be condescended to. "I don't care how renowned you are back home. This is our hospital and your son is my patient," he explained, very calmly. "And we're going to do the best we can to get him better. Now, what happened when his symptoms presented? I'd like to get a thorough…"

"I've already diagnosed. Lupus, likely. Possibly--" The word was drawn out thoughtfully. "--scleroderma."

This was going to be a challenging case, Foreman decided. He took the annotated history handed to him by the father – who claimed that Bobby had collapsed during recess at his school, according to the history. He gave Dr. Gordon a faked pleasant smile. "I'll run some tests," he commented and scribbled down some orders before he could get usurped in that aspect as well.

He slid open the glass door and exhaled as he slid it shut behind him, starting slightly when he was immediately faced with House.

"Dr. Rich Gordon," he said, sounding impressed. "Renowned rheumatologist."

Foreman snorted. "Someone page Chase. His Dad isn't the only rheumatologist in the world. He'll be devastated."

"Heard he intubated his own son," House said casually, like he was gossiping. His gaze drifted from inside the room and landed on Foreman, accusingly. "You idiot. Were you intending to get us sued? I don't care where he's a practicing doctor. Next time, get here first. Wrestle him for it. Your people are good at that, right?"

Foreman rolled his eyes. "My people," he echoed incredulously – wondering still why he didn't sue for having a racist boss. He turned the history towards House. "He scraped himself somewhere on the playground. Infection. Easy." Foreman shrugged. "I've ordered some tests. Bet you twenty bucks that his white count is way up," he challenged, wanting to see if House would put some money where his mouth was.

House studied the chart for a minute before glancing inside the room. "Fifty bucks. And you're on."

Cameron's pager had turned out to be a discharge for one of their patients – what had been suspected lymphoma was only a tricky case of Epstein-Barr. She didn't mind being pulled from her appointment, not for this. "Take care now," she ordered sternly, waving as a nurse wheeled away the young woman towards the exit. Cameron stood there for a moment, smiling privately, pleased to have helped one more patient.

The content didn't last long.

The front doors were shoved open and two young black men stumbled inside. They were both covered in blood and one was holding a blood-stained knife. Cameron gaped for all of a nanosecond before she kicked into action, signaling a nurse and already grabbing admitting papers. "I'm Dr. Cameron," she introduced herself as she hurried to the men's side. "What happened?"

"We were at a party," the taller of the men told her. "Went all night. Morning came and a bunch of the guys were still drunk. Kevin, here, he got stabbed. It was a mistake, they were just playing around…joking. My name's Matt. He's Kevin," he said again, like Cameron would suddenly forget.

Cameron's mind was already cataloguing the various effects of alcohol and any adverse reactions that the drugs she was about to use might have. She yanked out her pager to get Chase – an intensivist for backup really wouldn't hurt – while the nurses got the man up on a gurney. She snapped on a pair of gloves, not trusting the blood since she didn't have a history yet. "Kevin, right?" she spoke to the bleeding man to get his attention while a nurse cleared his friend out of the way.

"Y…yeah."

"Kevin, I'm Dr. Cameron. Just hold on. You'll be all right," she promised, stabilizing Kevin's pulse as she got the bleeding to stop, all before anyone else arrived to help her.
She slowly peeled off her bloodstained gloves and spent a good few minutes washing her hands. After she was through, she slid the door closed behind herself and approached the friend.

"Is he okay?" was the first question.

Cameron nodded. "He'll be fine. We're going to keep him overnight because he lost a lot of blood. I'll need his history, in case of complications." The man looked worried, standing there with his arms crossed around his torso, giving Cameron a good look at a fresh tattoo on the man's wrist – while suspicion slowly crept into her mind; wondering just how much of an accident the stabbing had been. Foreman had told her stories about the various pieces of artwork that represented certain gangs. He'd even gone into that whole prose description of them.

The knife was drawing her attention like a magnet, even though the man was speaking directly to her.

"Hey!"

Cameron snapped back to attention at the almost rude shout. "I'm sorry. Yes?"

"Is he going to be all right?" The friend sounded deeply frustrated and annoyed all at once. Cameron immediately felt a flash of guilt and she made a concerted effort to turn off the analytical side of her brain – the knife would still be there later – and she needed to lay the bedside charm on. Fast.

Cameron smiled winningly. "Just give us a little bit of time and we'll have him all fixed up." For better or worse, that wound would definitely be cleaned up soon enough. She pried herself away, the sound of her heels on the floor distracting her as she nearly walked right into House.

She jumped slightly, hand on her chest. "Where's Chase?" she demanded with a furrowed brow. "I paged…"

"Dealing with something else." House was peering curiously inside the hospital room. "You found a new one already? New record."

Cameron pursed her lips. "He's just a stab victim."

"And my leg just tingles," House retorted simply enough. "Have your differential diagnosis ready in twenty."

"So, what's the issue?"

Chase was pouring coffee into a mug, stir-stick firmly in his mouth. "The guy's got cancer. It's getting worse. Problem is, I can't talk to them without the best friend getting involved." He stared into the coffee. "Wilson's running tests now and," he checked his watch, "I'm due to help." He managed a terse smile, leaving with his cup of coffee solidly in hand.

House turned to Foreman. "What's your guy's trauma?"

"Kid's getting weaker. I still think it's an infection. I've got a prednisone drip going." Foreman smirked. "Shame the Dad's an overbearing egomaniac, because the kid seems nice enough." He took up a pile of folders. "Bet's still on." He checked his pager, which sounded with a musical ring. "Tests are in." He flashed the message to House before leaving the room with a sureness to his step.

"Cameron, what have you got?"

She sighed, pressing her fingers to her lips. "Stab victim. It's cleaned up, but we're keeping him overnight for observation. I don't know," she said considerately, taking a moment to think. "The friend is lying about something." She looked up to House, almost unsure. "I'll find out what." And she left too.

And then, there were none.

tbc