"GUESSWORK"
Chapter Twenty-Nine
"Mirrors of Destiny"
Wilson's jaw dropped open at House's words. He could feel a knife-edge of dread beginning at the base of his spine, hurtling upward with icy fingers until the hairs at the base of his neck rose in alarm.
Eyes wide, James drew a breath to speak, but his timing was all wrong.
Earl Keirkgaard entered the room first, followed closely by Kip Bernoski and Bill Bernard. Shadowing Bill, as usual, Bart Kirkpatrick brought up the rear, pushing a large medical crash cart filled with alien supplies and equipment.
Wilson swallowed the lump in his throat and hazarded a final glance at House's face. He knew without a doubt that his friend had just experienced some obscure mental trigger that enabled him to remember the dream. His eyes were huge and stricken in his pale face. He had intended to talk about his fears, Wilson believed, but the business at hand made it quite impossible.
Wilson blinked both eyes slowly in reassurance, making sure House saw the gesture, and then added a small shoulder shrug of resignation. House saw it indeed and looked away, his own eyes, over-bright mirrors of fear and regret, but knowing now was not the time to voice his trepidation out loud.
There were other fears to be considered first.
Kip Bernoski and Bart Kirkpatrick walked up to House's side. Bart placed his hand on the edge of the bed, from there judging House's position. He then moved on up House's arm until his hand rested lightly on the bony shoulder. "We're prepared to unhook you from the damn scaffolding, son," he joked. "Are you about ready to see where the bear shit in the buckwheat?"
Wilson saw Gregg gradually unfold under the old man's relaxed presence. Bart could not have been at a better place at a better time. He'd made exactly the right gestures, spoken the right words, and the feral glint in House's eyes softened second by second. Wilson swallowed the second lump in his throat, but this one was not fear. More like gratitude.
"I'm ready," House said. "My ass is getting calluses. I'd like to get the hell out of this contraption and out of this bed."
"We can arrange that," Bart told him. "Right Kip?"
"You got that right," Bernoski replied.
He and the others were pulling on rubber gloves, donning sterile masks. "This procedure isn't much different from removing an intravenous needle from under your skin," he said. "… except that there are four of them. We'll slide the stringers right off over your foot, and you're done with it. Of course we have to be very careful of your foot … but we're all aware of that … so it shouldn't present a problem. The removal wounds will probably bleed a little, so we'll bandage you lightly."
The spikes came out with no problem, the wounds left behind covered quickly with rolled gauze held down with adhesive tape. House couldn't even bitch that the tape pulled the tiny hairs on his leg because in the vicinity of the massive surgical scar, no body hair had grown for years.
They buckled the intricate stringer mesh and rolled it carefully down over his calf and out from under his foot. The wound on the sole of his foot, they noticed, was turning slowly back to a healthier pink around the edges, rather than the reddish purple of the day before. Their attention to the constant sterile flushing and application of antibiotics around it was paying off. The wound still looked off-putting and sore, but not angry and infected.
Earl Keirkgaard placed the collapsed stringer apparatus into a sterile basin and left the room with it. Wilson wondered abstractedly where he might be taking it. Could it be used again? Or was it headed for toxic waste? He did not think to ask. His rapt attention was riveted on Gregg and Bart.
Bart Kirkpatrick was still positioned at House's head, his soft fingers gently stroking House's shoulder from collarbone to carotid artery, and Gregg was allowing it with seeming relish, his head relaxed against the pillows. Wilson watched with contented satisfaction, thinking that House and this gentle and wise old man could become good friends if only the opportunity presented itself. House responded to him better than anyone Wilson had ever seen before.
Kip Bernoski and Bill Bernard were busy getting House settled again. They lifted his legs one at a time and drew up a pair of soft old scrub pants. They elevated his bad leg high on a pair of bed pillows for a short time until it got used to a small amount of mobility's return.
Surgical masks and rubber gloves disappeared into the waste, and things returned quickly to whatever passed for "normal" around there. Wilson watched their movements silently, taking note of the minimum of excess motion. They did not linger long when touching House's body, nor did they move him about more than absolutely necessary. Wilson was impressed, and House seemed to be melting into it. Wilson could see no indication yet of the return of the pain. He wondered briefly about the outside threshold …
Kip and Bill and Bart seemed in no hurry to leave or attend to duties elsewhere. They were probably expecting something to happen soon. He had asked about the threshold before, but they hadn't been able to give him a clear answer. So he waited with them.
House waited also. They could see his concentration and impatience pulling a stoic mask across his face. When the pain returned … if it did … he had no intention of doing anything more than calmly announcing its arrival …
House, after all, was still House!
An hour passed with no further developments. Earl had not returned. Wilson decided he had gone back to the lab. He and Lillian Chan were probably doing further work on the medical procedure House must undergo. Bill Bernard had disappeared behind the rear partition with the crash cart and was rattling things around back there. Wilson thought he might be making a pot of coffee. He hoped so.
Bart had retreated back there also, following where he always followed. He had been on his feet a long time. Wilson suspected he might have gone back to lie down on the cot while they waited for something to happen with Gregg.
Only Kip Bernoski remained close to House's bedside, watching the electrical monitors closely, keeping track of respiration and blood pressure and studying Gregory House's face. For some reason, Wilson suspected that Kip Bernoski suspected … something.
What?
Gregg's expression was a study in intense mental control. He sat still, his right hand worrying at his thigh, a gesture he had abandoned the last twenty-four hours. Was his pain returning? Or was he just preparing for his pain's returning?
Wilson walked nonchalantly around the end of the bed and took up the position where Bart Kirkpatrick had stood at House's side. He lifted a hand to the shoulder where Bart's had been, and Gregg looked up at him suddenly, as though unaware until now that he was there. Wilson squeezed gently.
"Hey …"
House eased his head into the contact, but remained silent. His eyes were on Bernoski. Wilson watched, but did not speak further.
At the room's doorway, movement caught their attention.
Shaniqua Tolliver and her son, Tyree, were entering, coming closer, lending greetings to them. Wilson, Kip and House voiced greetings in return. Tyree lurched closer to the bed and stopped close to House's side. "How ya doin', man?" He asked.
House moved restlessly on the bed, the others watching in consternation. He nodded shortly, a silent response. Then his eyes widened.
Wilson grinned, suddenly realizing what the reason was. Tyree was wearing iPod ear
buds, the thin white wire disappearing around his body into a hip pocket. House looked at the wire, then up into the kid's face.
Wilson turned slightly to Kip, lowering his voice to a whisper. "He drowned his own iPod on the road," he said by way of explanation. "Right now, that kid looks like Santa Claus to him! When he has a case to solve, or when he's distressed about something … like now … and especially when there are no cases … he always needs to be occupied with something. He plays piano … paces … plays a video game … I'd be willing to bet he's thinking of ways to con Tyree out of that thing …"
Tyree looked up at Wilson at that moment, looked at Kip, looked at House whose eyes were still on the thin white wire. Slowly the boy removed the ear buds, pulled the little device out of his pocket and handed it across to Gregg House with a knowing smile.
House hesitated, looked about, then reached up shyly and took the buds from the kid's hand. Tyree moved closer to the bed and assisted House in putting them into his own ears. House grinned. Evidently, their tastes in music matched very closely.
Tyree stepped back and laughed out loud. "You da man, Dogg!" He quoted from somewhere.
Behind them, there was the joyful bark of a real dog. Bobby came scratching through the doorway and lumbered over to Tyree, sat down at the boy's side and looked up adoringly. His coat looked almost silver in the sunlight, and it was obvious he had just had a bath.
On the bed, Gregory House's face paled to deathly white. He yanked the iPod ear buds from his ears and dropped them on the bed as he stared in horror at the German Shepherd.
"No!" He shouted. "No time! Can't …"
He tore his gaze away, face filled with instant panic; a mirror of the unreasonable fear he had tried to express earlier. … the bus was bearing down on the dog …noooo …
Wilson froze, icy fingers again playing an arpeggio along his spine. He tightened his hold and pulled House's tousled head closer into his arms. His friend was trembling violently …
Something to do with the dog …0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
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