DISCLAIMER: I don't own House. But I do watch it religiously.
A.N. I didn't reply to any reviews this time - sorry! - but there is a long A.N. at the end. In the mean time - ENJOY!
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Q is for Quarantine
Chapter Fifteen: Riding to Realization
All secrets come out eventually.
"How did you know that he was going into that exact bathroom? There are loads around the hospital – how did you know he'd pick that one?"
"I like to call it: Men's Intuition."
Wilson gave a dry laugh and took the seat behind his desk as House settled in one of the chairs opposite. "Seriously, House."
"I haven't been more serious in my life. I mean, now's hardly the time to laugh, is it?"
Ack. There was no diverting this man. Wilson ran a hand through his hair, wondering what to say, whilst House – in an attempt to quell his simmering anger – massaged the knuckles he had used to pummel Walker with.
The pain was a good thing, the brooding diagnostician thought to himself silently; it took his mind off the present for a while… not that Wilson was going to let that happen. Rolling his eyes, House averted his attention back to the oncologist, who was debating with himself at what to say next, and saved him the trouble.
"Ah, for once, no-one has a speech rehearsed beforehand. No 'Don't worry, I'm here for you no matter what' – no 'Your loss is felt deeply by all'… Wait, I think Cuddy tried to pull that one on me, but –"
"Well, to be fair, I don't think she had the speech prepared before she talked to you," said Wilson reasonably, glad that he finally had something to add to the conversation. "Is it so strange that she might have actually meant everything she said to you?"
House released his knuckles and checked over the other bruises on his body. "Of course it is. It's probably just some little scheme to get me to return the favour if she's going through a major blip in the mid-life crisis and needs someone to comfort her. Hmmm, maybe I should have taken notes…"
"She cares about you, House. We all do." Wilson registered a flicker of a response in his friend's eyes before the limping diagnostician blinked – and then carried on massaging his battered leg. He let out a breath through clenched teeth, indicating pain, and Wilson winced.
"Oh no, not you too," House groaned, throwing a hand over his face in a not-so-falsely distraught manner. "I thought you'd have the decency to not grace me with the sympathy speech."
Wilson sighed. "It was worth a try. To be honest, I don't really know what to say. I can't imagine what you're going through. And I'm sorry. Stacy was my friend too."
"Having a small imagination bums your chances of becoming a fantasy writer and all – but there's no need to apologise to me for it… Are you and Cuddy involved in some sort of coup against me?"
"Er, not that I know of. Why?"
"You keep trying to emotionally ambush me. All this apologising and pity – been around Cameron too long?"
Wilson smirked, welcoming the slight unintentional humour of the situation. "Well, since you're not giving into the ambushing, I might just go get her –"
House hand whipped out and grabbed Wilson's sleeve in a flash. "Don't you dare," he snarled, wild, distressed signals playing across his face. "If you get her, I swear, I'll –"
"So tell me," said Wilson with an open smile. "What exactly are you feeling right now?"
"Terror – in case you get the sea of emotion that is Cameron and drown me in it."
"Come on, House," Wilson said softly, easing the other doctor's fingers from around his wrist. "Just talk to me."
House eyed the oncologist beadily. "Very sneaky, using Cameron to blackmail me."
"I learnt from the best," Wilson said, leaning forward intently.
"Too right you did." House was scowling.
"So, are you gonna talk, or do I really have to throw you to Cameron?"
House let the mortified look from his face slide off to reveal a neutral and bland façade underneath. With his eyes vacant and inexpressive, he opened his mouth… and closed it again, hesitating at what exactly to say. After he had repeated this gesture several times, Wilson sighed and made to leave again (to find Cameron), but House whacked him with his cane and shook his head despondently. "Fine, fine, I'll talk. Seeing as you find me so interesting…"
With little or no prompting from his best friend, House settled somewhat comfortably in his chair and began to speak of what he remembered of Stacy Warner; their frequent disagreements, their chemistry, Mark – and how he got in the way of their relationship. He went on to talk about trivial things; like how she liked to wear her hair, what make-up she used, what perfumes she chose, the cross she liked to wear. He listed endless things about her life and his life involving her – but nothing about how he actually felt. It seemed like a release, though; as he carried on talking, his face softened with each passing memory and he lost the hard callousness to his voice.
Wilson watched and listened with unsurprising compassion, House's memories provoking some of his own. To an outsider, the two doctors' 'talk' would look like any mild conversation between two ordinary friends. But, to Wilson, it was a victory (of sorts) to be able to earn a fleeting glance at what exactly was ticking away inside House's mighty brain. And though no real emotion was being expressed, House felt ever so slightly lighter, as he opened up his memory to his friend. It was strange. It was… nice. But this was a one-off thing, of course. He'd never open up like this again. Never.
House finished and Wilson nodded appreciatively. They looked at each other for a long moment, weighing up the newfound respect they had for one another. Then, House coughed, embarrassed.
"If I wrote an autobiography, d'ya think America would be as interested in me as you are?"
"It'd be a bestseller."
"Really?"
"Definitely. Your former patients would want your picture on the front cover to pin on their dart boards."
Pause. "Cool."
"So, what's the title?"
House was fiddling with something in his pocket. "Hmm, I was thinking – Oh, Crap; Chase, Cameron, Cuddy… Clinic Crisis."
"Wow, that's a long, alliterative title."
"No… my pager just went off."
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Chase thought he'd just about reached his saturation point with coffee. Once they had reached House's office, he and Cameron had raided through the meagre supply of food left there and finished it in minutes. However, they found an apparently endless provision of coffee, stashed away in the oddest of places. Cameron tried not to look at the expiration date on the packet as she took the pot of freshly boiled drink and poured some more into her mug.
"I think I've OD-ed on caffeine," Chase moaned, declining any more coffee as Cameron made to top up his mug. She shrugged and replaced the pot on the countertop, returning to her seat to sip her drink methodically. A gulp later, she grimaced and spat some of the black liquid back into her cup.
"Me too," Cameron said faintly, rubbing her throat and setting the steaming mug aside. She shuddered and leant over her papers, an intent look taking hold of her features as she applied herself to reading and theorising. The coffee had left a horrible cloying taste in the back of her mouth, and it was mildly distracting. She cleared her throat a few times.
"What?" Chase thought she was trying to get his attention.
Cameron raised her head. "What?"
"You want to tell me something?"
"No." She frowned a little. "Did you want to say something?"
Strangely, a faint blush was starting to creep up Chase's neck. "No."
Cameron looked at her fellow colleague quizzically. "Are you sure?"
Chase coughed into a fist. "Yes."
"Ok. So, um, what have you come up with so far?"
Chase appeared to be relieved by the new topic of discussion. "Actually, I was talking to Wilson about it earlier on. Could it be BHF?"
Cameron sat back and rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "BHF? Hmm, maybe." She strode up to House's precious whiteboard and paused before adding the new theory. "The distribution of black typhus is not worldwide, though," she said, re-capping the pen dejectedly. "It's restricted to Bolivia."
"Checked all the patient's holiday destinations?" Chase asked her hopefully, looking down at his charts. His face fell, however, and he waved a hand at her. "Never mind; this Ashley Moore hasn't left America for the past five years."
Cameron sighed. "How about we stick to the Marburg Fever idea," she said tiredly. "Apart from Ebolavirus, there are no other genera in the filovirdiae family. And filovirii were present in some of the blood, right? So it has to be the Marburg virus."
Chase held his breath for some time before attempting an answer. "But if it is Marburg's," he said quietly, "then Foreman is dead no matter what we do. There's no treatment. There's no cure."
"I know." Cameron closed her eyes and rubbed frustratedly at her temples. "I want it to be something else, I really do. But what other disease could it possibly be?"
"Well, lets think of it this way," said Chase slowly, reviewing his notes. "Some patients had a shorter incubation period in comparison to others. Foreman's been hanging on for a while, now, but Stacy on the other hand –"
"Died soon after getting infected," the immunologist finished crisply, pushing all thoughts of not being able to console House out of her mind. "So, what do you think? Got any explanations?"
"Well, since we're going back on old theories," said Chase after a pause, "Maybe there is more than one virus at work here. We said coccidioidomycosis would explain the haemoptysis, but there are a number of other diseases that could fit the same description."
Cameron uncapped her board pen again. "I suppose… Remember how – when Foreman got infected with Naegleria parasites, but Legionnaires slowed its progression in his body?"
"You're thinking the same thing's going on here?"
"It certainly explains why the incubation period for Stacy was so drastically different from all the other patients."
"Hmm. Well, you're the immunologist, you tell me what the other disease could be."
Cameron spluttered indignantly. "Just because I'm the immunologist, doesn't mean you can just sit around whilst I theorise."
"Ah, but that was the only reason why I wanted you with me in the first place," Chase, grinning.
"No, it's because you're stuck," said Cameron with a deprecating laugh, "You didn't want me around; you needed me."
Chase lifted himself from his chair and came to stand beside her. Plucking the pen from her hands, he wrote, 'CCHF' on the board then turned back to her. Moving closer so that he was right in front of her, he held out the pen and passed it into her hands; she took it, making sure their fingers didn't meet. Cameron didn't make an effort to look up at him, instead choosing to stare down at the board marker that she grasped tightly in her palms. She stiffened when Chase bent down slightly to whisper in her ear.
"You're right. I do need you."
The intensivist straightened and brushed past her, leaving her staring at the whiteboard and pondering what exactly his words meant. She read the letters on the board vaguely then forced herself to smile.
"Of course you do," she said lightly. "Who else could tell you that Crimean-Congo haemorrhagic fever is not in the filovirdiae family?" She walked up to erase 'CCHF' but found that Chase was already holding her back, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Nuh-uh," he said, not taking his hand off her arm. "What are you doing?"
"CCHF can't possibly be included in our diagnosis since it's in the Bunyaviridae viral family. We're looking for filoviruses."
"True, but we're definitely looking for a viral haemorrhagic fever, right?" Cameron nodded. "It all points to Marburg fever, but that doesn't satisfy all of the symptoms."
"If you mean the bleeding fingers, that could be –"
"Excluding the bleeding, since 'haemorrhagic' generally implies a lot of blood. No, I was referring to – well, do you remember that Doctor Patterson, the one who went a bit psycho on us then spewed half his body fluids across the floor?"
Cameron sighed. "Well, it's not easy to forget."
"Yeah, well, how else would you describe the haemorrhaging and the mood swings? And the sweating? Fever, agitation and vomiting. All the symptoms of CCHF."
Cameron considered his words. Chase glanced at her triumphantly before releasing her elbow. She let her arm hang in the air for an extended moment before allowing it to drift back down to her side as she nodded, admitting defeat. "You're right. Still doesn't explain the filovirii, though."
Chase shrugged. "I told you I needed you."
"Stop saying that," Cameron said sheepishly. She ignored him as he continued to stare at her and began to write something on the whiteboard… then stopped when a thought struck her.
"I think I've got it –"
The immunologist was cut off as Chase's pager went off. Frowning, he glanced at it, taking in the message. Cameron's pager went off soon afterwards and she looked up to meet Chase's eyes.
"Cuddy," Cameron reported.
"They need extra hands in the OR," Chase acknowledged. "The quarantine's causing a lot of problems. We have to go."
"What shall we tell House?" Cameron asked. Chase tried not to roll his eyes at how her one-track mind, though the situation was way off the rails, would always run on that one track. Destination: House.
"Page him to tell him that you know what it is. Fill me in on the way." Chase was already out of the door as Cameron fumbled with her pager. Though loathe to interrupt House's Alone Time, she readily complied, paging her boss as ordered. Then, she followed Chase down the hallway, dreading whatever bloody messes she would meet at the end of the line.
Unnoticed by most, Walker slunk after the two young doctors as they hurried down the hall, talking about the diseases and wondering what was going on in the ORs. He listened interestedly to the woman's babble about her latest theory, then switched off when she started guilt-tripping herself about her colleague. The predictable Australian comforted her, ending any conversation about the topic of infectious disease. Walker rolled his eyes emphatically, then stalked off to House's office. If there was any evidence of their theorising, it would be in there.
The CDC Director was disappointed to find that House's whiteboard was devoid of any notes, save four letters scrawled across it's plain surface. CCHF. Walker contemplated the disease thoughtfully.Then he put up his hands in a 'I give up' gesture and made to leave the office.
Catching sight of the un-drunken coffee sitting on the table by the door, Walker sighed happily and picked up the luke-warm mug, downing the liquid in one go.
He noticed there was something seriously wrong with the coffee a bit too late. Clutching his stomach, he fought the urge to regurgitate the obscenity he had just swallowed, and retched. Picking up an empty packet of coffee and reading the back had Walker squirming even more uncomfortably than before: the expiration date was… oh, God.
Realization finally dawned and doctor hurtled toward the nearest bathroom a few seconds later.
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A.N. Faster update this time round. It also means a shorter chapter. Oh, well. Be prepared for a L-O-N-G (but important) Author's Note next…
Right. I've got a confession to make. I've been wanting to delete this story for some time now, especially as I read over some of the material I've previously written. At the least, my writing's been immature and generally not-well-written. It embarrassed me to a great extent. So, I debated on whether to delete the whole of Q is for Quarantine.
So why haven't I? Well, for a start, I've loved all the reviews I've gotten for the story! I love my readers and all my fans. Though I write for myself and for my own enjoyment, I like to think that I write for your enjoyment also. Your enthusiasm for this story has been so uplifting (even though I sometimes can't get off my lazy ass and update!), and the support has been genuinely appreciated. THANK YOU SOOO MUCH!
Having said that, I've got to add that the story will be finishing soon. I'm setting my sights for at least 20 chapters, but I have my doubts. Either way, Q is for Quarantine will come to an end sometime before the start of 2007, as my school term is starting up soon and my schedule has virtually no time for fanfiction this year. Now I'm asking myself: Why did I take Russian? Why?
Readers, reviewers, fans and flamers – well, not flamers – you guys are what a writer writes for. Thanks for all the support and kind words after each chapter. As always:
YOU GUYS ROCK!
Daygoner