CHAPTER TWELVE: It's the Left

Wilson rights the fallen IV stand and kneels by House, tries to keep his voice neutral. No worry, no anger. "Let's get you up; then you can tell me what happened."

House doesn't speak right away; he seems to be focused on something. Finally, "Not yet. Must've pulled something in the left thigh this morning. Still crampin'."

It's then that Wilson notices that House has his right hand wrapped around his left upper thigh, and that the fingers are squeezing the muscle so tightly that they're white. "Okay, take your time." When the pump starts beeping Wilson checks the IV site and sees that the cannula must have become dislodged in the fall. Of course. Why not? "House, we're gonna have to restart the IV; it's out." He slides the cannula out the rest of the way, grabs a bandage from the supplies on the side table, and covers the site.

"Wait 'til morning?" House's tone is wheedling.

Wilson takes in breath to start the standard lecture; 'no, you're not drinking, if you'd just do what you're supposed to do, then….' But he hears Dick's voice telling him that House has to fight this, so instead he says, "Sorry, no. Gotta stay in until you feel well enough to take fluids on your own." No accusations, no pressure—and no bargaining. Just do what I think is best for my patient.

House sighs. But he doesn't argue. "Okay, I think I can move now. Might need a little help gettin' up."

Wilson makes no comment on the rare request for assistance, just hands the cane to House and places his hands firmly under both elbows. House uses his left leg to push to a stand; whatever the problem was, it seems to be gone now. Once he's standing, Wilson removes his hands, but as soon as the support is gone, House wobbles forward. Wilson grabs his shoulders and notes that he's supporting most of House's weight.

"Sorry… little dizzy." After just a minute, House is able to straighten up, support himself again.

"Listen, I was getting ready to wake you anyway. Time for your meds, and time to move into the bedroom. I'll restart the IV there; can you make it?"

"Think so. Just don't go too far." House shoots a look at him, makes sure Wilson's within hovering distance, then he moves slowly forward. Cuddy's right—he's consciously controlling his gait, something Wilson's never seen him do.

When they reach the bedroom, House sits carefully on the edge of the bed. "Be nice to get a shower." He says this almost wistfully, in the tone of a request that he knows will be turned down.

Wilson feels a flash of sympathy—he'd hate this too, this dependence, the weakness. "Still got that shower chair? If I can find that, sure, shower's a good idea." No it's not; it's one of the lousiest ideas I've ever heard. But, much as he acts like a child, he isn't—and I can't take away all his control.

House is surprised that Wilson's agreed to the shower. "Yeah, chair's still folded up in the back of the linen closet, I think. Unless your maid moved it; still can't find my bowling ball!"

Wilson laughs. "House, that thing's been missing for, like, three years; why are you blaming it on Lady?"

House is pouting. ""Cuz she found everything else I've ever lost; was counting on her to find that, too."

Wilson shakes his head, smiling, and goes to get the shower chair set up. When he's finished, he returns to the bedroom. House is still sitting on the edge of the bed, absently rubbing his left thigh gently.

"Still hurt? What do you think is the matter?" He sits next to House and reaches over to check the thigh. House slaps his hand away.

"Told you. Felt something pull this morning while I was recycling breakfast. It's fine. Even a cripple can just pull a muscle or strain a tendon, ya know—doesn't have to mean anything. All it needs is a hot shower."

"Okay, c'mon then, let's give it what it needs." Wilson allows House to stand on his own; he makes it to the bathroom, but pauses with a hand on the doorjamb to rest. Wilson goes past him into the room and sets underwear and a robe on the toilet seat. "Just put this on when you get out; I'm gonna check that left thigh." He doesn't give House a chance to respond, just busies himself turning on the water and adjusting the temperature. "Need help getting in?"

"No, and I don't need help scrubbing my back, either." House says this irritably, and it makes Wilson happy because the gripe sounds almost normal.

"Okay, I'll leave you to it, then." Wilson exits the bathroom, pulling the door almost closed but not latching it, then leans against the wall just outside the door, listening for sounds of trouble.

---

House sits on the shower chair, allowing the hot water to beat down on the left leg, appreciating the instant relief it brings. As he starts scrubbing his body, he tries to figure out what he might have done to the thigh. He blames it on the violent retching. Then, he blames it on the stiffness of too much time in bed. Lastly, he considers that it might be an electrolyte imbalance. And then, he pushes away the certain knowledge that none of these perfectly plausible explanations are the reason for this newest problem.

Wilson hears the water stop, and yells into the bathroom, "Don't stand up if you're dizzy, House."

"Not dizzy. Standing. Out of shower. Fine." House yells back, and is relieved to realize that it's all the truth; for right now, aside from the damned generalized weakness, he feels pretty good. As he limps out of the bathroom, he thinks that maybe the left thigh thing was just a fluke.

Wilson is waiting when he gets back to the bedroom. "Here are your pills; let's get the rest of this done, it's late." He watches approvingly as House swallows the pills with at least three ounces of water. "How was the shower? Feel better?"

"Yeah, thanks." House sits on the bed and reluctantly moves the robe away from his left leg so Wilson can check the thigh. As Wilson probes the muscle gently, he notes that it feels tighter than it should, but he can't find anything obviously wrong.

"I'm thinking that an electrolyte imbalance would explain both the pain and the dizziness, so I'm gonna draw some blood in the morning. Cuddy'll come by and pick it up." Wilson slips the robe off of House's shoulders for the rest of the assessment, and doesn't miss it when House moves the cloth over to cover the wasted right thigh. The self-conscious gesture makes Wilson feel inexplicably sad.

"House, look, I can count every one of your ribs. You have to have lost another six or eight pounds these past few days, and those are pounds you couldn't afford to lose. Once we get the IV restarted, I'm gonna give you the other half-dose of Compazine, and we're gonna do that for a couple of days. Until your stomach adjusts to the super-Vic, and you're able to eat and drink, and keep it down." House says nothing, and Wilson continues the assessment. When he finishes, he tosses House a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt and goes to the living room to get the IV pump.

When Wilson returns, House is dressed and lying on the bed. Wilson sits in the chair. "Feeling okay? You look… thoughtful."

House turns his head towards Wilson, then immediately looks away. "What you did today; I'm not happy, but I do understand. Just thought you should know that. And what I said tonight, when I thought you were sick, I meant it. You should know that, too."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "House, I already knew that. Some things, you just know; that's one of 'em," he says dismissively. "Besides, breaking the rules is your job; I've been given strict instructions not to ever get sick. One of us has to follow the rules around here, ya know." He stands and begins collecting the IV supplies.

House takes a deep breath and sighs; it's a relieved sound. When Wilson returns to the bedside with the equipment, he doesn't look at House's face, just starts examining his arms, trying to find a vein that's not already bruised and sore. Once he's found a good site, he keeps his head down and gets to work on the IV. He starts speaking casually. "Shrink told me today it's not your responsibility to give me a running tally of your symptoms. Says if I'm gonna worry so much, I gotta ask the questions, do the poking and prodding. Said my peace of mind isn't your problem. Okay, quick stick here, you ready?" He glances up briefly; at House's nod he inserts the needle. "Anyway, what all that means," he continues, as he tapes the cannula in place and inserts the heplock, "is I'm just gonna have to hone my assessment skills. Hey, I know!" Wilson looks up and grins at House. "I'll just pretend I'm a veterinarian—their patients won't tell 'em what's wrong, either. It'll be fun!" He's pleased when House widens his eyes and shakes his head like Wilson's the difficult one.

Wilson injects the Compazine directly into the heplock, and reattaches the line and sets the pump. Then, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, he grabs one of the journals scattered around the bedroom and sits down in the chair by the bed. "Be here until you fall asleep, if you need me," he mumbles to the pages of the magazine.