CHAPTER THIRTEEN: What the Hell?
Wilson fumbles to open the door, realizes it's locked, and turns helplessly to Cuddy. Her hands are shaking, but she manages, finally, to get the key in the lock and push open the door.
House is on the floor, eyes wild, groaning; his white hands have a vice grip around his thigh. They rush to his side; there's no recognition of either of them in his eyes. Wilson, trying to straighten out the tangle of his body so they can assess him, sees the note in his hand and pries it loose. He scans it quickly-- I did something you'd call stupid--, wordlessly hands it to Cuddy as he kneels and takes House's face in his hands, trying to force him to make eye contact. "House! What did you take? Look at me, Greg. What did you take?"
His voice is so forceful, his use of House's first name so rare, that House's attention is caught, even through the pain. Wilson looks scared, he thinks. What the hell is up with that? "Nothing," he says. Wilson gives him a rough shake. "Really… nothing," he gasps out the denial as forcefully as he can manage. He tries to get a hand down to massage his thigh, but Wilson, eyes full of panic, is preventing him from moving.
"House! This is not a joke! Tell me what you took; I'm trying to help—"
"Nothing," Cuddy interrupts him, overwhelming relief evident in her voice. "I've just finished checking; it's all here. Not even a Vicodin missing." She tries to laugh, but the fear is still too fresh, and finally she sighs and sinks down into a chair.
"Are you certain? He couldn't have gotten something else?" Wilson wants to believe her. Although House is clearly in unspeakable pain, he doesn't appear overdosed, or even high; but if he'd taken something in the five minutes that Cuddy was gone, it might not be evident yet, and they could still help him.
"James, I'm certain," she says, trying to calm Wilson. "I was gone less than five minutes, he can't exactly run the 100 yard dash even on his good days, and the door was still locked when I returned, remember? All the meds are intact. He must have just had time to write the note, and then he fell, or passed out…." Her voice trails off; there was still the matter of the note.
"People…." House moans. "I could use a little help here." He tries a crooked grin, settles for not screaming aloud. Then he's lost to the pain again, quits even trying to focus on what's going on around him.
"Let's get some morphine and Compazine into him before we try to move him," Wilson says to Cuddy. Although he's finally let loose his grip on House's head, he hasn't removed his hand from House's shoulder, nor his eyes from House's face.
Cuddy rises to prepare the meds. "I'll call for a transport team too," she says, avoiding looking at Wilson. "I'm admitting him. He's suicidal, and it'd be irresponsible and just plain dangerous not to put him under supervised care."
She waits for Wilson to object, is relieved when he simply stands and gathers the IV fluids and the BP cuff. He reconnects the line and gets a set of vitals, then watches carefully while she injects the meds into the port. He leans down, says something quietly to House, to which House, eyes puzzled, responds with a vehement shake of his head, no. He gently replaces the O2 cannula in House's nose, and then turns to Cuddy. "I think we can get him back to bed now," he says.
Cuddy's eyes widen; had Wilson even heard her? "I think it would be wiser to let the transport team move him, James," she says kindly. "That way we'll only be putting him through the discomfort once."
Wilson finally leaves House's side. He walks across the room, motioning for Cuddy to join him. "Lisa," he says, voice low, "I asked him if he wanted to kill himself. He said no, and seemed genuinely puzzled by the question. I believe him. Please. Let's get him settled, comfortable, let him rest a bit. Then we'll talk to him. If you think he's in any danger at all, you won't get an argument from me. I'll make the call myself, as a matter of fact. But I think there's something else going on with that note, and I want to give him a chance to explain."
He sees the doubt, the hesitation on Cuddy's face. "Listen, I know there are several very good medical reasons to admit him. But I can think of a hundred psychological reasons why that would be the worst thing for him. And if you're honest with yourself, you'll know that's true." Cuddy is still glaring at him. "This is House, Cuddy! Do you really think I'd do anything that might endanger his health?"
Cuddy finally lets her face relax, unclenches her hands, takes a breath. "All right, then," she says briskly. "Let's wait another ten minutes for the meds to kick in, then we'll get this man back to bed."
Wilson thanks her silently, and she squeezes his arm, tries to give him an encouraging smile. Then they return to their patient.