"There's nothing on her tox screen."
House twirled his cane, leaning dangerously back in his chair. "That doesn't mean she was never on drugs."
"I'm with Foreman here. There's probably something else going on with this many systems involved and that quick an onset," Thirteen agreed.
"How do you know the onset was quick?" House asked.
"That's what she said," Taub answered.
House sighed in frustration. "How many times do I have to tell you?"
"Tell us what?" Foreman asked.
"Everybody…" House gestured for them to finish the moto.
"Lies," Thirteen finished in monotone. "She's not lying about being sick, or the onset. If her liver was this bad for longer than a few months, she'd be dead."
"Either way, her white count and platelets are dangerously low. Her spleen could rupture at any minute. It needs to come out," Taub urged.
"Fine. But biopsy it and see if you find anything while you're in there," House said.
His team filed out.
After they were out of sight, House took the packaged syringe out of his backpack. He had wanted to do this last night, but he rationalized being in the hospital would be better in case the drug did something wacky to his body. He didn't want to die right when he might be about to get cured.
He limped to the nearest janitor's closet with his backpack. He'd set up a chair in there this morning, and set resistance bands on the shelf. The cleaning supplies he'd thrown in another closet.
House sat down on the plastic chair after leaning a mop handle against the door so no one could get in. He turned on the light.
The plastic of the packaging shown beneath the fluorescent glare. It looked like salvation. Unfortunately, it also looked like a huge needle that he was going to stab his bad leg with.
He sighed and told himself it would be worth it in the end. Then, he pulled his pants off, careful not to jolt his leg too much. He ran a hand over the scar tissue. The absence of something shouldn't cause so much hurt.
He took a deep breath and unwrapped the needle. Holy shit it looked big.
"You're a big boy," House snarked at himself quietly. Quickly, hands shaking, he plunged the needle into his leg, pushing down the plunger and biting his lip. Pain shot through his leg, and a groan escaped his lips. Finally, he pulled the needle out and took a few deep breaths. He felt something warm running down his chin. He touched it and pulled his finger away from his mouth. Blood. He must have been biting his lip without realizing. He leaned back against the cool cinderblock and caught his breath.
He wiped off the small spot of blood on his leg. Now came the hard part.
He took the resistance band from its spot on the shelf and positioned it under one of the chair legs. The other side he put around his ankle. Slowly, he moved his leg forward. He had to stop halfway through, panting. He felt like the leg wouldn't go forward anymore no matter how hard he tried. But he had to try. He slowly moved his leg forward again, causing his thigh muscles to clench. He bit his lip again and closed his eyes, swearing under his breath. Fire ripped through the muscles and he wanted to scream. But he didn't. Slowly, he lowered his leg. He leaned back and felt a drop of something wet run down his face and off his chin. He couldn't be sure whether it was sweat or a tear. That was enough for today. This might be harder than he thought.
(LINE BREAK)
"Why are you all sweaty? And smelly?" Wilson asked when House limped into his office uninvited.
"Went for a run," he quipped. In reality, he was on his third day of drugs and PT. He'd just gotten back from injecting.
Wilson ignored his self-deprecation and looked back down at his papers. He had scans mounted on the light box in the corner, and he felt as if his butt was glued to the chair.
"She's dead. You know that, right?" House said.
Wilson sighed. "Yes, but there might be some way to help. I can get her into a trial or something."
"She's too far along. And you know it. So why are you still trying?"
"It's my job, House. Stop trying to psychoanalyze me. And put on some deodorant," Wilson said.
House crossed into his office and sat down. His team was already there.
"She's in liver failure," Foreman told House.
"Okay. And?"
"And we still don't know what's wrong with her yet."
"Okay…" House looked at the whiteboard, which read:
HEPATOSPLENOMEGALY
NYSTAGMUS
LOW WBC/PLATELETS
LIVER FAILURE
"She has sarcoidosis," House said.
Taub sighed. "No, she doesn't. It doesn't explain the nystagmus."
"She could have a problem with her ocular nerve caused by the sarcoidosis. Biopsy her liver."
"We can't just biopsy her liver cause we think she might have sarcoidosis," Foreman argued.
"Seems good a reason as any," House shrugged.
"I'll do it," Thirteen volunteered.
"At least someone has regard for the patient," House said.
Thirteen grabbed the chart and left. House tapped his cane on the floor. He was in a good mood. Last night, he had looked at his leg and noticed slightly less atrophy. It could have been his imagination, but he didn't think so. The pain had been significantly better. He'd woken up that morning and gotten right out of bed; no hesitation. These were small improvements, but they made him feel as if he was getting better for the first time in ten years. It was a good feeling.
"Are you...smiling?" Taub asked, staring in disbelief.
House glowered. "Are you...still here?" he said with the same inflection.
Taub stood and started to leave. "Well, if you're in a good mood, we're in a good mood."
House shooed him and Foreman out and continued to smile slightly.
MEDICAL GLOSSARY:
White count: White blood cell count. Elevated white blood cells indicate an infection and low white blood cells indicate suppressed immune system.
Platelets: A blood clotting agent.
Sarcoidosis: A chronic disease of unknown origin characterized by enlarged lymph nodes and appearance of tumors called granulomas. Has a wide range of symptoms. It's the thing they always suggest after lupus.