"GUESSWORK"
- Chapter Twenty-Six -
"Busy-Busy-Busy"
It did not take long for the warm tendrils of sleep to close over Gregg House and enfold him in a cocoon of quiet comfort. The grueling motorcycle ride had finally caught up with him, but its miles and miles of lousy weather and nerve-wracking pain had done at least one good thing: it had delivered him into the care of some rare people who actually gave a damn. Difficult to find these days without an accompanying outstretched hand seeking monetary compensation. Nothing with the label: "absolutely free" ever was anymore, he'd found. And CBS didn't really care!
Dr. Bill Bernard, after watching with amusement Gregory House's losing attempts to remain awake, had simply melted back into the shadows of the large room. Morning would come soon enough, and the fast-approaching day promised to be a busy one. He folded himself into the cot in the corner, pulled a blanket across his shoulders and slept immediately with the ease of one who was used to abrupt awakenings.
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Bartholomew Kirkpatrick left his quarters a short distance down the hall and made his way to the room where Gregg House still slept. It was six o'clock Monday morning, and he had overslept by almost an hour. He must speak with Gregg and further prepare him for the things he would be experiencing today in preparation for the procedure on his leg, and Bart was already lagging behind.
Gregory House opened his eyes to bright sunlight pouring into the room from wide-open vertical blinds at every window. He looked around, wondering what time it was, and whether he had slept away half the day here in this comfortable bed in this warm room, cushioned with soft pillows and fragrant sheets and a ventilation system that had practically lulled him to sleep the night before …
To his immediate right, an immaculate image of Saint Peter, for God's sake, caused him to swallow convulsively. For a second he thought he had died and gone to … wherever that place was … the place with the Pearly Gates … that housed the righteous and the meek in the afterlife …
Beside the bed, Bart Kirkpatrick smiled a beatific smile, his gaze slightly above Gregg's body and to the left. He was well aware of the image he exuded with his snow-white hair and beard and his carefully chosen attire of immaculate white scrubs. "Good morning, Dr. House," he began with a soft voice and a soft expression and a hint of humor.
Gregg glared at him; putting on a layer of "gruff" in compensation for being startled out of his wits and realizing he was being "watched" by a blind man. "Where the hell did you come from? Scotty beam you down? You sneak around like the CIA!"
Bart chuckled softly, a little Santa Clausy, but toned down. "Compensation, you might say, for the one sense I lack. I do tend to make up for it in other ways."
House pulled a face; already knowing the action was useless. "So I noticed," he grumbled. "What time is it? I suppose you have a clock imprinted in your brain …"
"No, not really … that would be Mr. Spock … but I do have a watch with a chime. The last time it spoke to me, it was six a.m."
"Damn bright outside for six a.m."
"This is North Carolina … but actually, I wouldn't know."
"What's going on that I need to know about at this time of morning?"
"Oh, a few things. Breakfast will be here in about a half hour, and Neeka will be in to give you your bath …"
"What?"
"Bath. Bathe. Wash off the stink. Sponge your face and neck, ream out your armpits …
You know … make you presentable for polite society."
"That woman? … is gonna give me … a sponge bath?"
Bart smiled, obviously enjoying himself. "Uh huh. You don't have any objections, do you?'
"Hell yes!"
"Relax, Doctor. She will not touch you anywhere you don't wish to be touched …"
"Nowhere! Get it? Nowhere!"
Bart's smile only widened, much to Gregg's consternation. He shrugged. "Okay … suit yourself."
"You were bullshitting me!" House accused.
"Uh huh. Bullshitting the bullshitter. Kind of fits both of us in a strange kind of way, wouldn't you say? Which begs the next question … may I touch you?"
"What?"
"I will not touch you intimately. Nothing of the sort. But I have been endowed with an extraordinary sense. I need to touch your leg … your hand … and probably your foot. I will not hurt you, and I promise to be very careful. But I won't do it without your permission.
"You see, there have been times when I have been able to discover alternate pathways through the body; routes which pass through the muscular and nervous systems that can be utilized by the nanocites in reaching areas of dysfunction and pain. Ways I can help you that conventional methods do not find. With your permission, I'd like to try.
"And then I'd like to touch your face … take a look at you and get to know you. All I have right now is the sound of your voice … and I get the impression that you're somewhat of a grump."
"Me? No way. I'm so sweet; butter wouldn't melt in my mouth. And you, old man, lie like a stack of rugs."
"Talk about bullshit …" Bart's words were so soft that Gregg had to strain to hear them.
"You're actually trying to tell me that you do hocus-pocus … mumbo-jumbo … the Vulcan mind-meld?"
"Whatever floats your boat, son. The Vulcan mind-meld does have a distinctive ring to it, don't you think? I seem to remember Mr. Spock's long, sensitive fingers, reaching deep into someone's mind, drawing forth information that his Captain needed …"
"Dr. Kirkpatrick," House said sarcastically, "I've heard a lot of bullshitters in my day, even met a few … but you beat 'em all. 'Course, it takes one to know one."
"Then I have your permission … bullshitter to bullshitter?"
House tilted his head to the side and studied the bright, sightless blue eyes looking somewhere just beyond the top of his head. "Yeah … go ahead. But watch it!"
"That would be difficult," Bart snarked back. "But thank you. I shall 'watch it' in the only manner of which I am capable …"
They both laughed and the tension was broken.
"Let me have your hand," Bart began. "The one with the laceration. I need to remove the bandage, examine the stitches." He was already reaching into a pocket, removing a pair of rubber gloves, feeling out their contours, drawing them on one at a time.
House watched him, eyes full of skepticism, fighting an urge to be impressed by the blind man's dexterity. He lifted his bandaged hand, held it up where Kirkpatrick could reach.
Bart's fingers were sure and gentle. Carefully he unwrapped the gauze until Gregg's hand lay bare. The cut was stitched beautifully, two inches or so wide, but the stitches were light and delicate in an artistic weave. The metal had gone deep into the heel of his hand.
He winced in spite of himself. Bart's fingers were barely touching the injury, his soft grasp cradling House's wrist between both palms. "This is doing well," he said. "The healing process is getting underway. It might be a good idea to leave the bandage off for now … let it breathe. Does it hurt you?"
House shook his head at first, and then realized how useless the motion had been. He frowned and then said, "No. Doesn't hurt … except when I press on it. So I don't press on it."
Bart smiled. "That makes a certain amount of sense, I guess." He placed Gregg's hand gently back on the pillow, and Gregg moved it closer to the center, looking at the stitches for the first time, the diagnostician in him evaluating the skill of whoever had done the work.
Not bad …
Bart moved down to House's leg. Slowly he removed the blanket that covered the spikes-and-stringers apparatus.
Gregg tensed. He was so used to pain that the reaction was a natural reflex.
"Relax, Gregg. Let your body go limp if you can. I know this is difficult for you,
but I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to place my hands on either side of your thigh, nowhere near the scar or the area where the stringers enter the flesh. My hands may seem a little cool on your skin, but that's normal. I'm looking … that's a relative term, you know … looking … for any sign of fever … any indication that your system might possibly be trying to reject the probes. But I'm getting nothing significant. I can feel the tiny nerve reflexes that are still occurring just under the skin, and I'm guessing that those are normal for the amount of trauma your leg underwent at the time of the infarction. Have they have been an ongoing phenomenon since then?"
Gregg gasped, still tense and expecting pain, although his mind told him it was not there.
"Yeah," he said stiffly. "Sometimes they're accompanied by muscle spasms severe enough that I have to hide from the whole damn world until they ease off. They always make me a little … irritable …"
"I can understand why," Bart told him sympathetically. "No damn wonder you're a grump!"
Gregg snorted with sarcastic laughter and searched the old man's kind face. He found no patronizing attitude in Bart's words. The blind man was simply stating facts, making a half-assed joke.
Gregg continued bitterly. "It's a hell of a way to live day after day … never knowing if your body's going to fuck you over and throw you on your ass. Or drain half the life out of you even before you get out of bed in the morning."
Bart straightened. "I understand," he said. "I'll never know exactly how much pain this has caused you over the years, because I haven't experienced it myself. I do understand the frustration and the anger and the unfairness of having the best part of your life ripped out from under you. I understand that completely, son, and trust me … we will all do our best to see to it that this never happens to you again. I'm not telling you that you'll be able to walk normally again. That's out of the question with this amount of damage … but you shouldn't have to double up in pain every time you move …"
The old man's blue eyes were brimming, and Gregg was at a loss how to say "thank you" and get his meaning across fully. He reached up instead, grasped Bart's hand. He clasped onto the fingers and held tight for a moment before letting go.
James Wilson walked through the door while Bart was gently removing the bandages from Gregg's wounded foot. It was almost 6:30 a.m. "Good morning," he said, and they nodded to him in return. Bart was still unwrapping the bandages.
"Is something going on with House's foot?" He asked. "Have you found an infection?"
Wilson's eyes were dark and worried as he watched a blind man unraveling gauze bandage, and not offering an immediate answer to his questions. Then the injury was laid bare and Bart's hands were cupping very gently on either side of Gregg's ankle, the heels of his hands meeting just above the sole of the foot.
Wilson frowned. "What are you doing?" He asked.
Bart did not move from his position, but raised his sightless eyes to gaze in Wilson's general direction, missing the mark by only a few inches. "Guess you might call it 'the laying on of hands'," he said. "But you're right, Dr. Wilson. The skin is a little too warm, and there is swelling present. He has an infection starting. Could you please go back behind the counter and bring a syringe of Lidocaine. We're going to have to flush out the wound before it goes any further. Need the little pump with the rubber bulb on it, and saline solution. Add a broad-spectrum antibiotic while you're back there. You know what we need." He still held Gregg's wounded foot between both hands, while House lay white-faced and silent in the bed.
Wilson hurried to comply.
They injected the anesthetic just below the anklebone and waited for it to take effect. The flush took upwards of ten minutes before they were satisfied that it had the correct amount of cleansing necessary to combat the onset of infection.
Wilson dumped the basin of solution into the biohazard drain, cleaned the equipment and set it to sterilize, then returned to House and Kirkpatrick at the bed. "How is he? Hey!
House?"
"Relax, Jimmy. Things are perkin'. I'm fine."
Wilson turned to Bart and cocked an eyebrow, making the same mistake House had made. A cocked eyebrow meant nothing to a blind man. Chiding himself for the error, Wilson turned to Bart and said, "Thank you."
Bart smiled. "Happy to oblige. I'm also happy that you showed up when you did. He'll be okay now."
"Hey!" House growled. "I'm here. Quit talking around me! Who says I'm okay? You two just tried to scrape the hide off my goddamn foot. It hurts!"
"No it doesn't," Bart said calmly. "You won't feel anything at all for another forty-five minutes or so. After that you can get as bitchy as you want." The old doctor made his way back to the head of House's bed and removed his rubber gloves, one at a time. He threw them in the waste container and placed a hand on House's shoulder. "I'm sorry the problem with your foot ruined the touching … but it was fortunate we caught it in time, before it could get worse."
Bart turned and aimed his body toward the doorway. "I'll be back in a few hours … probably about the time when Kip and Earl are ready to take you off the stringers. Right now I think your breakfast is on the way … and it's time for two old friends to spend some time together. See you later, eh?"
"Thanks, Bart," two voices echoed from the area of the bed.
"Oh, by the way … Gregg … I'll take a look at your ugly face sometime before the end of the day." An immaculate white hand rose into the air and waved, and "Saint Peter" walked calmly out of the room.
Wilson turned to House with a frown of deep puzzlement. "What the hell did he mean by that?"
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