CHAPTER ELEVEN: Puzzle

Cuddy answers the phone before the first ring even finishes. "Wilson? Or House? If it's you, House, don't confess to anything—line could be tapped. Or is it the police, calling to report a particularly violent murder at 221B?"

Wilson laughs. "Clever. Very funny. But he took it quite well; too well, in fact."

"You're kidding. What'd he say?"

"He seemed to think that I was seriously ill; went on about how we were gonna handle it. Guess it's my fault. I asked him how far he'd be willing to go if I were very sick, and apparently he assumed I was. Sick, that is. When I explained that I was just trying to get him to empathize, understand why I'd felt the need to get an outside opinion, he made a token attempt at being angry; didn't last long. Told me I wasn't allowed to get sick. Ever. Whole thing was… weird."

"So he's okay with it. Hmm… sorry; not really seeing a problem here."

"Cuddy, we're talking about House. The guy who thinks emotions should be outlawed and psychologists should be shot."

"Yeah, I get that. But I also get that he's ill right now, and adjusting to new meds, and that even House is gonna have a reaction once in a while that falls within the realm of 'normal,' so my suggestion would be to just accept it as a gift. And don't look a gifthorse in the mouth."

"Wish I could just… accept it. But this reaction seems to be symptomatic of his whole attitude towards his current situation. He just doesn't seem to be fighting all this hard enough. Almost like he doesn't care. I'd actually be relieved if he'd give me a hard time about something, anything! Apathetic isn't a word one would normally associate with House, and maybe I'm wrong, but that's how I'd describe his behavior."

"Maybe he just doesn't feel well enough yet to actively work at making our lives miserable. Also, you said yourself that he might come out of this more accepting of our concern, right?"

"But he isn't more accepting; that's my point, Cuddy! He's… well, it just doesn't matter to him, one way or the other. And as far as feeling well enough, that's another concern. Could you come by on your way in tomorrow? I'm gonna draw some blood in the morning; I'd like you to pick it up and run a Chem21. Should've done that this morning after his near-miss with hypovolemia, anyway. But we need to get a look at his 'lytes. If they're really out of whack—which is a good possibility—that'd go a long way towards explaining his behavior."

"I can do that. Have you decided yet how much you're gonna tell him about your consult with Dickinson?"

"I figured I'd let him tell me how much he wants to know. And once you listen to the session, we can figure out the parts he has to know."

"Sounds good. What's he up to now?"

"Went right to sleep after our talk. Gotta wake him in an hour or so for all the midnight stuff. Hard to believe he's only been home one night. Maybe you're right; maybe he just needs some more time. I hope that's all it is. It's just… something doesn't feel right, can't put my finger on it."

"Wilson, you pointed out yourself that, under normal circumstances, he'd still be hospitalized. I think we were all hoping that he'd bounce right back from the breakthrough pain procedure, and everything would get back to whatever it is that passes for normal around here. Guess we forgot that we're dealing with House, the man who wrote Murphy's Law."

Wilson laughs softly. "You're right. We've been back less than 36 hours; only feels like a week. And you took off outta here so fast tonight that I didn't get report—sure not gonna ask him, not what you'd call a reliable historian right now. So how'd things go in my absence?"

"Biggest thing, I guess, would be that he still has no appetite. He talked me into disconnecting the fluids by very logically pointing out that he couldn't be expected to be thirsty when he was receiving 150cc an hour. Made sense at the time, should've known better; if he got three ounces down on his own I'd be surprised. Ate a couple bites of dinner, but he didn't argue the Compazine much. Just asked that I halve the dose so it wouldn't knock him out before you got home."

"How mobile has he been? Any problems with the leg?"

"Aside from the bathroom a couple of times, not mobile at all. To tell you the truth, I think he's… scared. His gait isn't all that steady, and he seemed to be consciously controlling the length of his stride. He denied pain, denied vertigo." Cuddy sighs. "You know, you may be right, maybe something is just a little bit off with him."

"Thanks, Cuddy," Wilson says facetiously. "I'd just finished convincing myself that you were right, nothing's really wrong, that I was hoping for too much improvement, too soon—and now I'm back to my original concerns."

"Hey, you know House better than anyone else. When you say something's off with him, I'd be a fool not to listen. The good news is, his vitals are within normal limits. Does that make you feel any better?"

"Right now, I'll take whatever I can get. And after this morning's adventure, it's nice to know that the vitals bounced back. By the way, Dick recommended that I tell House that I know it's difficult for him to keep me informed about his health. I'm supposed to take that pressure off him, just tell him that I'll be monitoring him more closely, for my own peace of mind. Dick seems to think that if House doesn't feel he has to tell me something's wrong, he might eventually become more truthful about it. Just hope I'm alive long enough to see that happen…." Wilson's voice trails off as he considers the odds of House ever being truly open about his health. Just then, he hears a crash in the living room. "Gotta go," he says quickly to Cuddy.

When Wilson arrives in the living room, he sees House on the floor, just beside the couch. As he goes to him, Wilson can't decide if House looks angry, frightened, in pain—or all three.