A/N: Special thanks to Brynaea; it's because of her that the info about PICC line procedures was understandable in the previous chapter—she kept asking questions until I'd written it clearly. And to those of you who've written especially perceptive reviews lately, my deepest gratitude—means a lot at this point in the story! mjf

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Reactions

While they're waiting for the placement x-ray on the PICC line, Wilson calls the pharmacist at Hospice and consults with him at length about the proper mix of nutrients for the total parenteral nutrition. Wilson doesn't want to waste any time; he'd like to hang the first bag of TPN as soon as they've confirmed placement of the line. A carefully balanced formula is decided upon, and the pharmacist promises that the first few bags will be there by early afternoon.

Wilson can't help but smirk a bit when delivering the results of the x-ray to House, "They told me, and I quote, 'damned near perfect placement.'"

"Smugness doesn't become you, Wilson. Ever stop to think it might be my textbook-perfect circulatory system? Made it real easy for you."

As he hangs the first bag of TPN on the pole, Wilson rolls his eyes. "Ya know, wouldn't hurt, once in a while, to let me have my little victories."

Now it's House's turn to roll his eyes, but he lets the comment go unchallenged. "Hey, before you connect that to the line, how 'bout I get a shower? Don't really need all these monitors anymore, should be safe."

"Yeah, let me d/c the old IV and cover the PICC site. Far as the monitors go, though, another twenty-four hours wouldn't be a bad idea. This time yesterday, you were in real trouble."

"And the 'lytes from a couple hours ago were all within normal limits. What could happen?" House is clearly becoming impatient to be free of at least some of the trappings of illness.

Wilson considers this. "Nothing, probably. But your luck hasn't been the best. So I still want assessments every two hours, and an hourly O2 sat. I'll d/c the oxygen too, for now, but if you can't maintain your sats on your own, it goes back on without an argument. Deal?"

"Sounds fair. A little overprotective, maybe, but I'll live with it. You should know, though, that if my O2 sats do drop, could be 'cuz you're smothering me. I'd get less observation in the unit, and it wouldn't come with a side dish of worry." And why don't I mind that side dish?

"Yeah, with a little coddling for dessert," Wilson says dryly. "But hey, if it's bugging you, Cuddy did offer to arrange a bed…."

"No, perfectly happy with the menu here," House says. It's as close as he can come to saying he appreciates the care he's been receiving from Wilson and Cuddy, and he hopes that Wilson will get it.

"Glad to hear that," Wilson says as he discontinues the old IV site. He does, indeed, understand what House has just said, and is glad of the small task that prevents him from having to look at House as he speaks. He knows that House has become more accepting recently, of both his own circumstances and of the way his friends have been protecting him. He also knows that to make a big deal out of House's comment would be to invite House to retreat back behind his walls, so the next thing he says is a change of subject. "When I heard from Cuddy earlier, she said your team still doesn't have a case. So she's making them burn up some of your clinic hours!"

"Good woman," House smirks. "Knew there had to be a silver lining to all this."

"You're all set," Wilson says as he finishes placing a waterproof dressing over the PICC insertion site. "Now, let's run down the list. Any dizziness? Nausea? Pain in the leg? Or anything else I should know about?" Think that covers everything. Though I maybe should've phrased it 'is there anything you don't want me to know about?'

"Nope, not a thing," House responds as he grabs his cane, stands slowly, and begins to make his way to the bathroom under his own power. Really don't think you should 'know about' the left thigh. Could still be a pulled muscle, even a tendon. Hot shower should help.

Wilson positions the shower chair and gets the water started. "Be sure to call me if you do get dizzy, or weak. You haven't had any chance to move around; you're gonna tire quickly. We're finally starting to get you straightened out; I'm gonna be pissed if you try anything stupid."

"Yes, mother," House says, exasperated. "Wanna wash my hair for me too?"

"No…. I think you can safely handle what's left of it," Wilson deadpans as he quickly exits the bathroom.

While House is in the shower, Wilson gets the sheets changed and straightens the room. He keeps an ear out for any untoward sounds from the bathroom, and smiles when he hears House singing. Wilson checks the red code box, and makes a note of the few things that need replacing so he can let Cuddy know. Once again, he's impressed with Cuddy's wholehearted participation in all this, and he's grateful that she's taken over so many of the details.

He hears the water shut off, and listens keenly for the next few minutes, until finally he sees House, safely limping back towards the bedroom, and he allows himself a small sigh of relief. "How was the shower?"

"Great, but I'm just gonna lie down here for a few minutes. Not quite up to a trip to the living room. Did you make the walk to the bathroom a few miles longer while I wasn't looking?"

House-speak for 'that took more out of me than I'm willing to admit'. "I might've added a mile or two; should have checked with you first. C'mon then, get settled so I can get you hooked up."

House stretches out gratefully on the bed. "Let me see the bag."

"Aw, c'mon, House, gimme a break. The pharmacist and I went over this forty times! I even insisted that he take the arsenic out of it. Can't you trust anybody?" Oops. Force of habit, I guess.

House looks mildly hurt at the remark. After a moment, he says quietly, "Not you I don't trust."

Wilson hands over the TPN bag with a quick, apologetic smile. He watches as House studies the label carefully, analytically; he can see the wheels turning.

"Well?" Wilson asks.

"You're not fooling around. Everything in here but the kitchen sink," House says. He's impressed; he can tell from the list of components that Wilson's put a lot of thought into how to do this most efficiently.

"Figure you deserve the gourmet version," Wilson says softly as he attaches the line to the PICC port and turns on the pump. When House doesn't come back with a quick retort to the affectionate remark, Wilson looks down at him, sees the fatigue written in his face. "Looks like that shower was enough activity for today. How 'bout you close your eyes for a little while?"

"Sounds like a plan," House sighs wearily, and Wilson thinks he's probably asleep before the last word is finished. He reaches over and pulls a light blanket up, arranges it gently around House's shoulders, then quietly leaves the room.

Wilson enters just as quietly an hour later; if House is still asleep, he'll forego the vitals for another thirty minutes. There's no motion from the bed, so Wilson's surprised when he notes that House's eyes are wide open and alert. "Thought you were still asleep; why didn't you call me?" he asks as he approaches the bed. As he gets closer, though, he sees that something is very wrong; House's eyes are panicked, and his lips look gray. Even as Wilson rushes across the room to the bedside, the gray cast takes on a blue tinge.

Time stops as Wilson grabs a stethoscope and discovers that House is scarcely moving any air at all, although from the way his chest is retracting, Wilson can tell he's trying very hard to breathe. The stridorous sound House is making as he attempts to breathe means his airway's shutting down quickly. House is trying to say something, but Wilson doesn't want to waste the time trying to figure it out. "Gonna be okay," he promises as he grabs the ambu bag and the intubation tray from the code box.