"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Thirty-One -

"Zero Hour"

Ten minutes after ten o'clock p.m.

She was still in her office. The dearth of medical personnel had hit hard this week, and she'd been forced into clinic duty Sunday afternoon and all day Monday. It was a good possibility that she would have to fill in again tomorrow. The Assistant Director of Oncology, James Wilson's second in command, had fallen down his icy front steps and broken his arm in two places. Eric Foreman had been called for jury duty, beginning this morning. What next? Where the hell were House and Wilson?

She stood by the window behind her desk and stared into the softly falling snow. Here it was, Tuesday night, and she had not heard a damn word from either one of them, and the incoherent thoughts tumbling around inside her head called both men everything but gentlemen.

Lisa Cuddy thrust out her lower lip and blew aside the stray lock that dangled between her eyes. Wasted effort. It dropped right back again. She lowered herself into her desk chair and thumbed through the pile of file folders stacked there. She was behind in everything. She had purchase orders and work requisitions as yet unsigned, and a budget meeting tomorrow morning would find her ill prepared and probably ill tempered.

Cuddy's computer was in standby mode. The monitor scrolled aerial photos of the big hospital complex that normally swelled her heart with quiet pride every time she looked at them. Tonight, however, she could not have cared less if it was scrolling nude photos of every male movie star she had ever adored. Her mind was into the abstract rather than the concrete … or was it the other way around?

Tiredly, she hit the mouse a shot with her forefinger and brought up a list of emails she hadn't had time to go through. She didn't feel like going through them tonight either, and was just about to shut down and go home before the roads were impassable. Finger poised on the screen's "start" switch, she froze when she saw a familiar buzz name close to the middle of the in his softhearted, devious way, Wilson could be as bizarre as House. He was finally checking in. He must have located the jackass on the motorcycle, and they were on their way back. She wondered why he hadn't just called on his cell phone.

Oh never mind … he probably didn't actually want to talk to her. He wanted to report whatever he'd found out during his excursions, and not have to answer the dozen or so questions she would inevitably ask …

She clicked on his email message and sat reading it with her mouth dropping open further with every sentence he wrote:

"Dr. Cuddy:

" I am in Raleigh, North Carolina at an experimental pain clinic, and Dr. House is scheduled for surgery tomorrow morning …"

Lisa Cuddy blanched, and pulled a long, labored breath into her lungs.

"Oh … my God! What in the hell is going on? How nice of you to let me in on all this in such a kind and gentle manner, Dr. Wilson! How nice of you to spit it out in a way that makes me feel as though I just drove my car into a brick wall! How nice of you indeed! What the hell happened to House?"

Cuddy wished she had a paper shopping bag. She felt like she was about to hyperventilate. She took another deep breath and worked at swallowing the lump that formed in her throat. No damn wonder Wilson had shied away from talking on the phone! Consciously slowing her respiration, she blinked and read further.

"House left rehab, as we know, last Friday at noon, and immediately embarked on a road trip to North Carolina."

Embarked??

"He had been in touch earlier with a group of medical people at an experimental pain clinic here, and had volunteered for their program. Unfortunately … House being House … he did not choose to confide in any of us.

No kidding!?

"He rode his motorcycle 600 miles in the worst possible weather conditions, and arrived here ill, injured (I won't go into that now) and in terrible pain."

Well, when in hell WILL you go into it?

"I rented a different car and followed him, hoping to keep him safe, although I was not entirely successful. The people here took him in and saw to his needs in a professional manner, and we are both in their company now, and taking advantage of their hospitality."

Wilson, you're getting to be as big a freeloader as he is!

"The surgery I spoke of will take place in the morning, and if it is successful, as we hope it will be, Gregory House will be pain free for the first time in nearly ten years. This clinic, as you may already have guessed, is a combination of state-of-the-art technology, cutting edge medical research, and a little 'X-Files' thrown in for good measure.

"If you have not come upon it already, I placed some literature about the pain program under your desk blotter last Friday night. Rather than trying to explain to you further, I would ask you to read this information thoroughly, with an open mind, and remember what Gregg House has been going through while the two of us … and many others at PPTH … looked at him sideways and told him his pain was all in his head, and that he was a drug addict.

"It wasn't … and he's not!

"I will call you tomorrow after the surgery on House's leg. We will require additional time off from our duties, as House also suffers from a decubitas ulcer on the bottom of his foot, and will not be able to walk for quite some time. (More about that later.) I cannot, in good conscience, leave him alone during that time.

"Thanks, Dr. Cuddy. I'll let you know how it goes.

"Regards, J. E. Wilson."

Astounded and sitting limp in her chair, feeling as though she'd just been sucker-punched in the stomach, Cuddy reread the email message, reread it again, then printed out a hard copy and saved the message to the "Wilson" folder on the desktop.

"My God! How in the name of all that's holy, did he manage to give himself a pressure ulcer on the bottom of his foot?"

Almost as an afterthought, she lifted the corner of her desk blotter to look, and the two stapled-together articles were right where Wilson said they would be. She read them. Read them again. Read them a third time. Twenty-Third-Century medicine!

If she were not so damn tired, afraid of making no sense at all on the telephone, she would have put in a curiosity call to a longtime colleague at MIT. She had heard of nanocite experiments in medicine … but leave it to Gregory House to locate a private

clinic close by in the continental USA!

In the meantime, her thoughts returned to the two maverick doctors who continually caused her bouts of sour stomach and lingering tension headaches, but both of whom she held in highest regard anyway.

They think they can really take his pain away? For good? Ooh … House …

For now, control of the situation was entirely out of her hands and in the competent ones of James Wilson. He could look after Gregory House better than anyone else on the planet. She needed to let this alone, not worry it, and allow him free reign.

Damn them!

She smiled and wished them well, wondering what it would be like to be around House if he unexpectedly cultivated a bedside manner.

Nah … nanocites couldn't do much by way of attitude adjustment. Could they?

Lisa Cuddy turned off her computer and her desk light, retrieved her coat, hat and scarf from the coat rack in the corner, and locked her office door.

Tomorrow would bring whatever tomorrow would bring …

00000000

Wilson kicked his sheet to the foot of the bed and sat up. The night seemed to be closing in around him, and he'd been tossing and turning for two hours, maybe more. He was too warm, even with the big ventilation system humming quietly, and he could feel the snick of something oppressive at the back of his mind. Probably the same damn thing that had awakened him the last time, and the time before that …

He didn't have to wander far within his stampeding imagination to know what it was. House's upcoming surgery had him in much the same mental state as it did Gregg. Wilson had never considered himself to be someone who was easily spooked by harbingers of evil, or premonitions of disaster. He had to admit though, that he was deeply concerned about House's recent encounters with the dark side. Never before had he seen House succumb to panic episodes the way he had done recently; not once, but

twice.

House dreamed that the dog died violently, and it had rattled him to the core. They were all disturbingly aware that the procedure about to be performed on Gregg's crippled leg was the same one that had been used on Bobby when the program was brand new and wildly experimental.

It had now come to the fore that although it had worked well with the dog originally, and three diverse people later on, there had also been two failures. No one had mentioned whether or not the "failures" still survived, but Wilson assumed they had, since nothing had been mentioned to the contrary.

He was certain no one was hiding anything. If they were, they would have found it impossible to obtain a grant from the Science Foundation or funding from the watchdog Federal Government. He wondered whether the early history of the pain program had anything to do with the dream about the death of the dog that had traumatized Gregg nearly to the point of wanting to back out of it all. He hoped not, but he suspected, of course that that was indeed the case. House never did anything by half-measures.

Wilson sighed and reached for his sweat pants and the soft-soled moccasins. He would not sleep now, and it would be useless to try. He went into the bathroom and relieved himself, then left his room and started down the corridor in the direction of H-#1. If nothing else, he could check on his friend and make sure that he was able to sleep, and that the resumption of the Vicodin intake was keeping him relatively pain free.

He looked at his watch in the dim light of the corridor and was surprised to find that it was already 2:30 in the morning. Damn! He was getting his days and nights mixed up. It was the second night in a row that he'd found himself prowling around after midnight.

In the meantime he drew and expelled a deep breath and kept walking.

Wilson paused at the door to House's room and stood looking in. Leaning on the doorjamb, he swept his gaze across the bed where House lay sleeping beneath a rumpled sheet. He looked at ease and free from discomfort. Wilson knew that that was because after two months without his drug of choice, the Vicodin's impact was strong and powerful again, and House's pain had retreated beneath its strength. If he stayed on it, however, it would soon lose its impact and go right back to giving him very little benefit.

A movement in shadow near the partition at the back of the room drew Wilson's attention, and he moved around the corner of the doorway to get a better look. Bart Kirkpatrick was moving into the open space between the partition and House's bed. His right hand lingered momentarily at the edge of the wooden upright, and from there he could judge the angle and distance of the space he needed to traverse. His hand let go of the wood and he walked slowly, but confidently, across the floor.

Wilson took two steps into the room, and at the same time saw Bart's head tilt a fraction to the right. He knew he'd given himself away. The blind man was uncanny. Wilson could see the slight upturn at the corner of the old man's mouth, and the glint of the dim light off his snowy hair. Bart reached out his hand and touched the IV stanchion at the head of House's bed. He approached the bed frame in the same manner as a sighted person.

"Hello, son," Bart whispered pleasantly. "Couldn't sleep either, huh?"

"Uh … nosir," Wilson replied. "I guess I'm kinda locked in to watching out for him when he's having a hard time of it …"

"Not like anyone ever noticed …" Bart teased.

"Didn't think it was that obvious …"

Bart buried a chuckle into his white scrub shirt. "A blind man could smell it on you," he replied kindly. "This guy has you wrapped around his little finger."

The two of them drew up chairs by the bed and sat for a time watching the object of their attention as he slept. "He let me look at his face earlier …" Bart said after a time.

"What?"

"Remember … ? I told him I'd take a look at his ugly face later. Well, awhile ago he asked if I still wanted a look."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"And … ?"

"So I did. He has an interesting face. Not quite as homely as I thought he'd be. Could use some extra calories in his diet though. High cheek bones. Classic brow arch, and a narrow chin. Greek nose and a Swede's mouth. His whole facial structure is an amalgamation of Caucasian Classic. He has Englishmen and Irishmen in his ancestry, hasn't he?"

Wilson paused to consider the old man's words. He had honestly never given House's lineage a thought before. "I have no idea …"

"And you …" Bart went on, warming to the subject. "You have the music of the South Seas deep in you. There is the lilt of Trinidad and Tobago somewhere long ago in your background. I sense you have soft skin and dark, deep-set eyes. You have gentle hands and a ready smile and a kind heart. But I know you are not a pushover. You are a match for him … your Yin to his Yang, so to speak. He is the pitcher and you are the catcher. It is a study in contrast. You keep a tight rein on your own intellect … in deference to his."

Wilson could think of nothing to say, and so he said nothing. He considered the old man's words and thought about the fact that most of what Bart had said was very close to being accurate. He decided that if he indeed projected such an image to strangers as that which the old man described, then that wasn't so bad …

After a time, Bart changed the subject and resumed his conversational musings. "He'll be all right, you know. He's a courageous man … and a strong one. He would not have survived this long if he were not. It is difficult to live with pain such as he has been forced to live with. His kind of pain produces stress that often results in increased blood pressure, alterations in hormones, depression, fatigue … attention deficit … thoughts of suicide …

"Gregory House is a survivor, but you know that already. No matter what eventually comes of the procedure they will undertake for him tomorrow, they will not harm him, you know. Kip, Earl, Bill … they've all been where he's been. They understand his pain in a manner that you or I can't relate to. That's why he's been called an addict. That's why he is so dependent on the medication. He has nowhere left to go, and that is why he must risk this procedure. Do you understand, son?"

"Yes. Yes, I understand it. I always understood, I think, but I followed the herd. I talked the talk, but couldn't walk the walk. He knew. He knew I would continue to follow all the rules … expect him to kick the habit and get off the pain pills that gave him the strength to keep going. I ignored all the signs, and he paid the price. But it's not like that anymore.

I'll never ignore him again."

They parted at 4:00 a.m., each to his own bed, each to his own thoughts. Wilson slept deeply, free from guilt at last, and Bart lay on his bed, content with the silence of the night.

At 8:00 a.m. they wheeled Gregg House out of his room to the OR.

It was time.

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