CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Tests

It's been an uneventful night, and when Wilson awakens at 6:00am, he actually feels rested. He'd sat by House's bed until almost 1:30; House's sleep had initially been restless, with some unintelligible mumbling, which stopped when Wilson spoke softly, keeping up a steady stream of words for a couple of minutes. It seemed to soothe House, and after that he'd fallen into a deeper, more restful sleep.

Wilson suddenly realizes that he should've been awakened at 4:00 by the IV pump signaling an empty bag, and he hurries into House's room. House is asleep, and the IV's been disconnected, and the bag is, indeed, empty. Mildly annoyed, he quietly hangs the new bag and, wanting to let House sleep as long as possible, carefully reconnects the line. House stirs and groans at the touch of gentle fingers on his arm, but doesn't wake. Wilson takes the opportunity to simply observe for a minute.

He notes that, while House isn't in acute pain, he doesn't look peaceful, either. He's moving both legs, apparently trying to find a more comfortable position, and Wilson sees him rub the left thigh. And, once he quits moving the legs, both hands go, fisted, to his abdomen. There's a small frown between his eyes, and he licks his dry lips a couple of times. Still nauseated, still something going on with that left leg. Might as well do the Compazine now; at least that's one argument I can short-circuit.

Wilson pushes the drug slowly. He's considering changing to a stronger anti-emetic, perhaps one usually utilized for the nausea caused by chemotherapy. But he's concerned that House's loss of appetite is more than just a result of the nausea; if that's the case, even a change of medication might not help. I guess it's time to talk with him about the loss of the breakthrough pain; might also be time for some stern words about his general condition. He's heading towards hospitalization—he needs to know that. Don't wanna scare him, but we're running out of options….

As Wilson finishes up and disconnects the syringe from the port, House opens his eyes, sees the syringe, and looks a question at Wilson.

"Just the Compazine, half-dose like we discussed last night. House, why'd you disconnect the fluids? Why didn't you just call me? We've already got two doctors on this case; we don't need a third, ya know."

"We didn't discuss it last night; you did. If I'd been consulted, I mighta told you the Compazine's not working so hot. All it does is make me dizzy, knock me out. Wasn't asked."

Wilson swallows the logical response; 'And you couldn't have maybe volunteered the information?' "Sorry, House, you're right. I should've asked you if it was helping. I think we're gonna change it today." Dick's right; this is not gonna be easy. "Why'd you disconnect the fluids?" He repeats the question that House has, apparently, chosen to ignore. "Is it because you're drinking so much that they're redundant? Or 'cuz your blood pressure's so stable? Or was it just next on your list of Ways To Annoy Wilson?" Damn, what is wrong with me? Taking out my frustrations on him isn't gonna help anything! And why does he look hurt? How'd I blow it now? Wilson sighs, and waits for House to answer.

When House speaks, his voice is quiet, devoid of emotion. "You told me last night that I'd diagnosed 'fatigue'. Boring diagnosis, easy antidote. Sleep. Uninterrupted sleep. It was two hours; just two hours. Wasn't gonna kill me. Thought it might make a difference for you. Sorry I interfered in my own care."

Battin' a thousand this morning, aren't ya, Boy Wonder? "No, you're absolutely right, House. It did help me, and a couple of hours won't make a bit of difference." I hope. "Guess I just felt guilty I didn't hear the pump myself, that's all. Took it out on you, sorry."

"Couldn't have heard it; caught it on the first beep. Would've hung the new bag, just didn't feel like getting up." Couldn't get up; damned left thigh was what woke me in the first place; add dizzy on top of that, well… just wouldnt've been a smart move.

How'd you hear it that quickly? Not sleeping again? "We'd better get that blood drawn. Cuddy said she'd try to be here to pick it up by 7:00. That way, if we need to add 'lytes to the IV, she can bring back whatever we need; won't have to wait to get 'em going." Wilson grabs the blood draw equipment and several tubes; he's decided to run a full battery of tests, try to figure out what might be going on.

House is eyeing the tubes suspiciously. "You gonna leave any blood for me? Trying for physician-induced anemia?" Talk to me, Wilson. What are you worried about? Could you treat me like I might remember a little of my medical training? Starting to feel like your lab rat.

"As long as I'm drawing blood, figured we might as well run a CBC. Liver profile and enzymes wouldn't be a bad idea either." Okay, level with him. I wanted him to empathize last night; now I need to put myself in his place. I'd sure as hell want to know what was going on. "I'm sure you've noticed you're not bouncing back the way you should. We need to figure out why that's happening, and try to get it corrected before we wind up having to admit you." Slid that in pretty cleverly. Now, just sit back and wait for the fireworks.

"Why? Just 'cuz I can't eat, lost a few pounds? A little nausea, some dizziness? Big deal! Not a thing they can do for me there that can't be done here." He's glaring at Wilson now, but Wilson sees more than anger; he sees fear of the loss of privacy, the thing Wilson and Cuddy have worked so hard to protect throughout this ordeal. "Or am I too much work for you? Can't handle it anymore, wanna dump me on the staff, make things easier on yourself?"

"Of course not! How could you think that?" Wilson begins, but realizes even as he's speaking that House is correct; as long as Wilson and Cuddy are willing to care for him at home, there's no valid reason for hospitalization. But he knows also that House is right about the other thing; he admits to himself that he's frightened for his friend, and sharing the responsibility for his care with other professionals might alleviate some of that fear.

The doorbell rings then. Wilson breaks the mutual glare and goes to let Cuddy in. "Haven't got the blood yet. Come help me fix my latest boo-boo," he says to her quietly. "I mentioned the possibility of admitting him, and he's freaking."

They walk into the bedroom, and Cuddy can't miss House's look of anger and hurt. But she understands Wilson's concern as well; House looks like he belongs in the hospital; the only patients she's ever seen in a home setting who've looked worse were those who were dying. But they didn't have two physicians caring for them around the clock, access to everything they needed. This is a different situation. House is a different situation. And he's not dying. We can do this; we have to.

Wilson picks up the syringe and tourniquet and sits on the edge of the bed. He takes House's right arm in his hands, but doesn't yet start looking for a vein. He just holds on, trying with his touch to telegraph comfort, and an apology. He meets House's eyes, and won't let himself look away. "I'm sorry. You're right, again. There's no reason for hospitalization under these circumstances; I wasn't thinking logically. Not a thing we can't do for you here, and of course it's much better for you to be at home. And, to be honest, I wouldn't trust you not to terrorize the poor nurses—you're not sick enough to behave yourself." He tries a small smile, and feels House's arm relax a little, sees a little of the tension leave his eyes.

"I've got the time off," Wilson glances for confirmation at Cuddy, who nods quickly. "So we'll just take as long as we need to do this right. Whatever it takes." He breaks eye contact with House and starts the search for a vein.

"It's okay, House," Cuddy says. "I don't want you unnecessarily taking up one of my beds, and half your team's time, when you don't really need to be there. God knows, you both have plenty of vacation time built up; might as well get some of it off the books. Besides, I don't want to get stuck taking care of that rat again!"

House looks keenly at both their faces. He's trying to decide if he's being patronized, or pitied. But, he has to admit to himself, both his friends appear sincere. "Okay, then." He looks at Wilson. "Seems like I'm stuck with you. Sure your cancer kids can do without you?"

Wilson recognizes all the layers of meaning behind this deceptively simple question, and recognizes, as well, the importance of his answer. "I'm where I want to be," he answers firmly. "I take care of you. All the rest will take care of itself."