CHAPTER SIX: Sorry

House has eaten a little more than half of one macadamia nut pancake, and he's drunk maybe four ounces of coffee. He's also studiously ignored the Compazine capsule Wilson had placed on the tray. Wilson decides it's not enough, but it's a start, anyway.

And for twenty minutes, Wilson thinks that maybe he'd been wrong about the nausea; maybe House was telling the truth. He's happy to have been wrong. When House leans over the edge of the couch and brings it all back up again without warning, Wilson feels no satisfaction. As he cleans up the mess, he tries to figure out the best way to tell House that he's just bought himself an IV.

House is lying quietly on the couch, pale and sweaty and miserable. He's silently ordering his stomach to settle down, and he grows more miserable when he has to acknowledge that his stomach has plans of its own. When the retching starts, Wilson's in the bedroom. House doesn't know what he's up to in there, but he strongly suspects it has something to do with needles and tubing and bags of fluid. House tries to be quiet as the retching and gasping grow stronger, but there's no volume control on the involuntary sounds of an angry body, and Wilson's at his side in under a minute. He's got a syringe and a swab in his hand.

"House." Wilson's eyes are apologetic, conflicted.

"Just… do it," House gasps out, and winces and moans as Wilson quickly complies.

Wilson puts the empty syringe down and tries to help House ride out the waves of nausea while the med takes effect. As soon as the worst of it ends, Wilson realizes that somehow, in the tangled confusion of trying to get him through the spasms, House's arms have become tightly wrapped around Wilson's forearm. When he tries to untangle the arm, House's grip tightens almost imperceptibly. His eyes are still closed, breathing's still hitched. Wilson relaxes his arm and kneels on the floor by the couch, waiting for House to calm.

After a minute, House opens his eyes and releases Wilson's arm; he doesn't look at Wilson. "Guess my tummy is upset," he whispers. His eyes are watering and red-rimmed, but he manages a sickly grin.

"Why did you lie?" Wilson asks softly.

House closes his eyes again. "Everybody lies. And patients more so. Without… exception."

That's not an answer. Wilson tries again. "Why did you lie?" When House doesn't respond, Wilson moves his face to within inches of House's, because suddenly, he knows. "Look at me." He waits until House's eyes reopen, and then he locks them with his own. "I wouldn't have decreased the dose on the super-Vic, House. That part of it's over. It's over. I believe you." He repeats it again, more slowly. "I believe your pain. I… believe… you."

House takes in a long, shuddering breath. "Okay." That's all he says, but it's enough.

Wilson stands up and looks down sternly at House. "You know what's gotta come next, right?" I'm so sorry, House.

House almost smiles. "Yeah, the patient pays for his stupidity with another uncomfortable procedure." Sorry, Jimmy; really sorry.

"Wanna stay on the couch? Or would you be more comfortable in bed?" Wilson's trying not to take away all his control; House, of course, sees through the question.

"I'd rather be out on my bike. Or even in the clinic. Barring that, doesn't really matter." Can't make decisions right now. You do it. Might wanna pick the couch, though; don't wanna move, feel funny. But I'll do whatever you want if I just don't have to think about it. Want me to hang from the chandelier? You've got it. Just let me die in peace.

Wilson's afraid that House might not be strong enough to make it to the bedroom, but he wisely chooses not to voice this concern. "Okay, couch it is, then. I'll be right back." Why, House? Why do you do this to yourself? Sometimes I think your common sense is inversely proportional to your intelligence. And sometimes, I think that you just don't give a damn.

When Wilson returns with the IV setup, he's pleased to see that House has allowed himself to drift off. He'll have to remember to thank Cuddy; House seems to be over his aversion to sleep.

"House, c'mon, let's get it done." House doesn't move, and Wilson suspects he's playing possum. "Gimme a break. I'll make it as painful as possible, help you atone for being an idiot." Still no response.

Wilson takes a closer look, grabs the blood pressure cuff as cold fear displaces all the air in his lungs. 90/58. God. Quickly, his fingers go to the carotid pulse in the neck. It's too rapid to count; weak and thready. Wilson bites back a curse, grabs the IV equipment, choosing the largest bore cannula he can find. He gets the line started rapidly, opens the clamp all the way, and hangs the bag as high as he can get it on the floorlamp. "Fifteen minutes. You've got fifteen minutes to come outta this, House, and then I'm calling an ambulance." He realizes that he's shouting, doesn't care.

After five minutes, he takes another carotid pulse. 112, still way too fast, but at least it's countable now, and stronger. A quarter of the 1000cc bag is in. Wilson wishes he had a pump; he'd like to run the fluids in more quickly. A repeat B/P shows a little improvement. Wilson stares at his watch, willing both time and the fluids to run faster.

When the second five minutes have passed, pulse has gone down to 92, B/P's up to 106/68. And over 500cc have run in. Wilson can live with that. "The rest is up to you, House. You've got five minutes. I know you'd hate that whole lights and sirens thing. Wake up and cuss me out for overreacting." He watches House intently.

With two minutes to spare, House responds to his name and a less-than-gentle shake of the shoulder. When he opens his eyes, he's clearly confused, but Wilson sees him try to take in the situation.

House grimaces when he sees the IV already running and feels Wilson's fingers at his neck. He looks at the arm wearing the B/P cuff; that wasn't on his arm just a second ago, was it? He focuses on Wilson and asks, "What happened?"

Wilson's getting another set of vitals and doesn't speak right away. Only when he's certain that the numbers are acceptable—and that he can trust his voice—does he answer. "Hypovolemic shock. Or damn close to it." Wilson's aware that his tone sounds terse, almost angry. Fear can do that to you. Or maybe I am angry; completely avoidable medical emergencies will have that effect.

Wilson makes an effort to calm himself. He walks to the end of the couch, roughly pushes House's feet out of the way, and sits. He looks at House and says, conversationally, "Ya know why sick cats die in much higher percentages than sick dogs?"

House looks confused again by the apparent non sequitur. "Mmm… no. Why?"

"Because cats are so good at hiding their symptoms that by the time anyone figures out there's something wrong, it's usually too late."

House ponders this. Then he looks down; he appears almost ashamed. "Well… about that… I'm, uh… uh—" He hesitates.

Wilson may be angry, but he's not going to be cruel. He's not going to make House say he's sorry; he's already been beaten up enough for one morning. "You're uh moron," he finishes smoothly, and glances away so that House won't have to look grateful.