"GUESSWORK"
- Chapter Twenty-Four -
"Your Wish is My Command"
WILSON:
The layout of this place reminds me of a military installation. Austere, contiguous, bereft of adornment, flatly utilitarian. House has described the concept to me, usually nuanced with an underlying disdain, many, many times.
I stand under a hot shower for a long relaxing interval, just letting the steamy water wash over me and take away some of the fatigue and muscle and mental tenseness that had claimed me during the long trip south. It feels so good to be fresh and clean again, smell like Irish Spring instead of cooking grease and rancid French fries mingled with my own perspiration. My hair is back to the state that House calls my "moppy look", and smells of Cocoanut Suave shampoo. My clothes, though old, are clean. The bone-deep tiredness has lifted.
I need to relocate my friend … on my own … see him … maybe even touch him … and talk to him, if that's possible …
I walk slowly along a beige corridor. Brown doors line up at intervals on either side. I am noticing details that escaped me before. There are numbers burned into the panels with the letters "R", "H", and "L". I am assuming that they stand for "Residence", "Hospital" and "Laboratory".
I have just left my quarters, labeled "R-12", which I take to mean that there are at least twelve small apartments just like the one assigned to me in the Residence Wing. I turn left and keep walking. Endlessly. It didn't seem this long while I was following Kip Bernoski all over the place while he checked on his staff's projects. I have concluded that he has since retired to his own apartment, (does he live in residence here, or off the grounds somewhere?) for the evening and left me to my own devices. He has given me no restrictions, issued no warnings. It is very quiet all around me at only nine o'clock in the evening, not at all like the busy hubbub in and around PPTH, back home. But this is a private clinic, and I must get used to the differences in ambience.
I walk a little further, and I begin to observe a subtle change that I hadn't taken note of before. The hallway color has changed to mint green, and the doors along the sides are painted hunter green. There are only two doors along here, widely spaced, and I suspect that they are very large rooms, since this is the lab area, and there are other, smaller rooms opening off them, in turn, for specialty purposes. I was in Lab Number Two with Kip, and I noticed other doors there, but was not invited to enter, nor would it have occurred to me to ask. If he wants me to see, he will tell me.
Further down the corridor I come upon an annex to Lab Number Two, and I am more certain than ever that I am right. I hear electronic sounds coming from inside, and the intermittent barking of the big dog I have been introduced to as "Bobby". I'm still not certain of the dog's purpose, or whether he is simply someone's pet … (which I doubt) … or what. I have not asked yet, and they have not offered. They probably never even thought about it, since Bobby just seems to always be here.
Now I pass into the Hospital area, the place of my destination. The corridor is light blue, the doors Navy. I watch the numbers closely, as I am very near the one in which House lies sleeping. Without knowing why, I am very anxious to see him, look at his face and reassure myself that he is indeed okay.
"H-Number One."
I am here. I was here before, but somehow it looks different with the evening lights turned on all along the low ceilings and the long corridors.
The door is ajar, just as it was earlier.
I stand at the threshold, peering in …
And I see the two doctors, the ones I was introduced to before, standing by the bed and looking down. One of them is chuckling softly: Bartholomew Kirkpatrick, the blind psychiatrist, the Saint Peter Double. Close by his side, Bill Bernard, the orthopedic surgeon, has a smile on his face, parrying his gaze from the bed, back to Bart. I get the notion that House might be awake, and I don't know why, but that thought fills me with a sense of relief that nearly overwhelms me.
I take my hand away from the doorjamb and walk slowly across to join them, heart in my throat and my head filling with jumbled thoughts that, if I try to articulate any of them, I'll sound like someone who has lost control of his tongue … and his brain!
Bill and Bart know I'm here. I see Bill reach over and touch Bart's sleeve, and they part to let me through. I voice my appreciation and look at the man on the bed.
House is awake. He is no longer lying flat on his back, but is propped up on a pile of pillows. A small food tray sits where he can reach it with his right hand, the one with the IV in it. His left hand is cushioned on a pillow also. It is heavily bandaged and padded, to the point that it is not possible for him to flex his fingers. I hurt for him, but I dare not let him know. I see remnants of a chicken sandwich on wheat bread, a couple of carrot sticks, and a half glass of what looks like whole milk.
Milk??
He looks up at my approach, chewing leisurely, and his face takes on that long-suffering expression he has turned upon me so often. He swallows. Blinks. "I've been wondering when you'd give up trying to sleep and come back over here …" His expression changes to one of snarky expectation.
I roll my eyes and smile. He is expecting that too. "Hey, House …" I say very softly.
"Hey, Wilson …"
From the corner of my eye, I see Bart nudge Bill in the ribs and whisper something to him. The two men walk slowly away to the other end of the room and I see Bart settle down at a small table with a cup of what I assume is coffee. Bill, meanwhile, goes behind a small counter, and I can hear him rattling jars, or some other kind of glass containers. It doesn't matter. They have left House and me alone on purpose so we can talk.
There is a stool near the end of the bed, and I lean over to pull it closer. I see House's bare foot resting on still another pillow, below the chicken-mesh-looking apparatus on his leg, and I look closely at both for a moment.
They have removed the bandages from his foot since I was here last. I can see that the ulcer is located on the inside surface of his arch, along the ridge of the plantar fascia that connects that area of his foot to his heel; the exact place where his boot must have been hooked on the peg at the Repsol's drive wheel. The injury is swollen and turning purplish black, and I know it will soon erupt through the surface and cause all kinds of trouble. I have a feeling he has been unable to tolerate even the slight pressure of the gauze against the abused skin.
Christ, House!
I wince in spite of myself, and I know he's seen it. I perch on the stool and look into his face. For once I see only questions. He's wondering if I will lash out at him; accuse him of causing more injury to his already too-abused body. But I can only look and feel sorrow and compassion and sympathy … all those emotions he hates and continually runs away from.
"Hurt?" I ask, because there is nothing else I can think of to say.
His eyes lower, and I see him push away the tray with the skimpy supper remains on it. "Not so much," he finally says, and I wonder whether or not to believe him …
"Everybody lies …""Can I get you anything?"
"Nah," he says, but it's not very convincing.
I continue to look at him and watch his eyes flit about like a wild bird at a bird feeder: apprehensive, suspicious, wary. Frightened? He still does not trust me. I can't say I blame him …
"What is that chicken-wire thingie doing to help your leg … exactly?" I ask suddenly.
I see his consternation finally waning, his mind switching gears, dropping barriers, and I think we might be okay again … if we can talk. I also see the repressed feelings flee the blue eyes, leaving them bright and clear again, and his breathing seems to even out. Maybe I have asked the right question at the right time.
"The pain in my leg is gone." His answer is uncomplicated, simple. Truth at last.
"Thank God. Maybe the permanent nanocites thingie will work. And your hand?"
He held it up, looked at it. Shrugged. "Better."
"Good. And the foot?"
"That one I'll have to work through, I guess."
"I'm sorry. Wish you would have told me before that you have reduced sensation in that foot …"
"Nothing you could have done. My own fault. I'll get through it. Just another freakin' boulder to push uphill."
"Jesus, House!"
"Wilson, I'm fine! So … what made you follow me all the way down the damn highway in the fancy-schmancy Cadillac?"
"You had the car pegged, huh? I wondered about that … I called your cell phone from inside your apartment and got serenaded by The Who! You forgot to turn it off …"
"I didn't forget."
"You did it on purpose?"
"Yeah."
"The thought did occur to me …"
"It worked, didn't it? And you found the JAMA article in my files?"
"You planted that too?"
"Wasn't it obvious? Brand new fresh file, just for you. You're a predictable little fuck, you know that, Wilson? Paybacks are hell! By the way, have you still got my damn cell phone?"
"In my quarters. In my windbreaker. It's dead as a doornail."
"Your 'quarters'?"
"There are apartments … at the other end of this wing. I'm staying in one of them as long as you're here."
"Oh joy! That really makes my heart sing."
"Turns you on, huh?"
"Oh yeah. Where's my bike?"
"I would suppose that they put it away in one of the garages … in back."
"Okay. Does Cuddy know what the hell's going on?"
"She knew I was chasing you down, but I haven't had a chance to tell her we got here. Not yet, anyway."
"You gonna tell her?"
"Well yeah … sure. She's our boss and she deserves to know what's going on."
"Figured you'd say that." He sighed, fidgeted with the injured hand on the pillow.
Grimaced.
I knew it hurt him, but he didn't bitch at me about it, and I decided not to ask. From
now on, the medical decisions were all his! "House? What did you do with Steve McQueen?"
"The rat?" His face registered surprise. We were talking about everything but the important stuff. "Left him go. He was the last connection to Stacy … and she's gone. I figured he deserved the same freedom …"
"Where did you leave him go? It's winter!"
"I put him in the dumb waiter to the basement … along with a bag of pellets. He can find his way out if he wants … or stay inside til it gets warmer. I gave him the option to do whatever works for him. Getting' old anyhow … rats don't live that long. Guess I kinda put him out to pasture … like me."
I ignored that last. Did he mean it? Or was it a little self-pity?
"Oh. Well, at least you didn't put 'im down the plumbing! By the way … they left all the stuff from your bike in my room. Clothes, backpack, saddlebags. Your clothes and boots and gloves are all ruined. Can I toss them? The left glove is turning stiff with blood. I found the cash you kept stashed under the duct tape, and I put it in your backpack with your drowned Game Boy. Your iPod is drying out on my bed stand. There's a lot of wet crap in the backpack. Shall I clean it out for you?"
"Yeah, and yeah … if you want to. But don't throw my red necktie away." A smirk.
"What red necktie?" I'm playing the game by pretending to be surprised.
"Like you didn't know …"
I sigh out loud as I look over at him. I'm feeling better now, and Greg is lying there in that bed looking almost comfortable … a state I haven't seen him in for any length of time in … oh God … years!
"What can you actually tell me about that contraption they put on your leg?"
He doesn't have a chance to answer. Bart and Bill are approaching with a three-tiered cocktail cart loaded with sandwiches, fruit, potato chips, bottled ice water, and a small coffee urn that's giving off a heavenly aroma. There are four coffee cups the size of hogsheads arranged pleasingly on the top shelf beside it, along with cream, sugar, and even a small glass with an array of cinnamon sticks. It smells so damn good, and I think those two doctors are well aware that my belly thinks my throat's been cut.
From the bed, I hear a small chuckle, and turn on my heel to stare. Gregory House has a smile on his face … a smile! … in front of me and the whole world… and I am so flabbergasted that I'm ready to pass out right there on the spot.
What wonders the simple cessation of pain can do!
Bill Bernard busies himself setting up a plate of goodies for me, and pouring four cups of that great-smelling fresh coffee. I watch him, almost drooling. I wasn't aware until this moment that I am ravenous!
He extends a cup to House, who takes it right-handed, letting the IV line hang over the side of the bed. His head is propped up enough that he should be able to handle it by himself.
In the meantime, Bart is seating himself on another stool. He turns his snowy head in the direction of House and me, and I know he is addressing me rather than House. "I heard you ask Gregg about the apparatus on his leg. I may be able to tell you both something about the nanotechnology breakthroughs we've been experiencing in pain control, Dr. Wilson. You may find it enlightening … or it may drive you absolutely crazy with a million questions … to which none of us probably have the answers. Would you like to hear some of the things we've found that have worked for us?"
"Very much." I tell him. I enunciate clearly and speak directly to him.
Bart smiles. "I'm blind," he reminds me teasingly. "Not deaf."
I color three shades of pink. "Uh … sorry …" and I hear another snicker from the bed.
Bart goes on with his story, and I suddenly get the feeling I'm about to hear a lot more than I really want … or need … to hear. But I listen intently anyway. I take a big bite of chicken sandwich and chew industriously. It is delicious! And the coffee … wonderful!
I am thinking: I'm here at last, and Gregory House is close by my side … and he is safe and sound (well almost). And he may even forgive me for being such an ass. It's the best of all possible worlds.
"The use of nanotechnology," Bart is saying, "goes back to 1959. A physicist named Feynman wrote an article called "Plenty of Room at the Bottom" and delivered it at Caltech. It outlined a method of manipulating individual atoms and molecules at the subatomic level and incorporating them on a scale smaller than a micrometer. Soon, we learned to fabricate devices on the same scale … so it's part colloidal science, part chemistry, part applied physics and part biology.
"These tiny components assemble themselves chemically, using principles of molecular recognition. Or … nano-objects are constructed from larger entities without atomic level control.
"Actually, nanotechnology is an umbrella term used to describe a variety of techniques to fabricate materials and devices on the nanoscale. Paramar technicians use biomedical engineering in our laboratories under strictly controlled conditions: Sterile environment, cool to cold, lo-temp labs. We're funded by the National Science Foundation, and we're closely monitored by both the Government and privately funded institutions whose interests are medical in nature and sweeping in scope. If we make one wrong move, they let us know.
"Dr. Wilson, perhaps you've seen Earl Keirkgaard and Lillian Chan at work. They are using biological molecular machines controlled from a desktop, with changing voltage, nanotube, nanomotor, molecular actuator, and a nanoelectro mechanical relaxation oscillator. They manipulate nanoprobes, which then attach themselves to tissue particles in the body and emit a magnetic field. In Gregg's case, these probes will seek out the damaged nerve endings in his crippled leg and literally fool them back into a return to normal function. They can't repair the missing muscle, but they can take away his pain.
"When this has been accomplished, the probes will emit color coded messages which can be seen on the desktop, and then directed to the exact locations where they will attach to the injured nerve endings and keep them from transmitting pain signals to Gregg's brain.
"This method has worked for Kip Bernoski, Earl Keirkgaard and for Bill Bernard over here. There is no logical reason why they would not also work for Gregg.
"And there you have it. The temporary nano-electrical wiring now hooked into his leg does approximately the same job … except that the probes are only quieting the electrical impulses while we work on the technical aspects of his upcoming procedure. In a very short time, he will be removed from this 'chicken-wire' getup and be injected with a permanent nanoprobes network.
"If you have ever seen the Star Trek episode, 'Is There, In Truth, No Beauty?' … the sensor net which allowed the blind doctor, Miranda Jones, to 'see' … worked on the same general principles as these nanocites that will find a permanent place in Gregg's central nervous system. So, you see, gentlemen, life imitates fantasy!"
I am finishing my second sandwich, scarfing down the second handful of chips, and am now draining my second cup of this fantastic coffee. Of course I'd seen that famous old Star Trek episode! Diana Muldaur at her sexiest!
I am impressed. Perplexed and flummoxed, perhaps, but impressed.
I look across to House and see that his injured hand is resting across the top of his face, blocking the light from his eyes.
"House?"
He lifts the arm and scowls at me. The glitter in his eyes is pained.
I throw a warning glance at Bill Bernard, who catches its significance immediately. He walks around the bed, checking things out. When he sees House's wounded foot, he finds that the ulcer has indeed broken through the skin and is beginning to drain.
They treat the wound immediately with antibiotics and inject a vial of Lidocaine directly below the anklebone. They do not admonish him for not telling them. Then they apply fresh bandages. House melts and relaxes. He looks at me angrily, but the anger is not directed at me. He is more than fed up with pain and all its minions.
Bill and Bart are now beginning to roll the cocktail cart back across the room. I walk over and stop them. I thank Bart for his informative commentary on the use of nanocites, and he nods in return.
Then he touches my arm. "Go back over to Gregg now, son," he tells me gently. "Your presence here has made all the difference to him. Go now. He needs you."
Again, I am flummoxed. House? Needs me? Needs me?
I thank him … thank them both … turn around and walk slowly back to the bed.
In the corner I find an upholstered chair and pull it close to his side. I sit down and turn my face to him. He is watching me. The blue eyes are huge. He says nothing, but his gaze never leaves my face. I smile, and his eyes sparkle. He does not trust himself to speak, but I don't mind. I lean my upper body across the surface of the bed toward him. I hold out my hands in a silent invitation.
Slowly he stretches out the injured left hand, entrusting it to the warmth of my fingers cupping gently around it.
After awhile, he sleeps again.
After awhile, knowing I am exactly where I belong … I do too.
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