"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Thirty-Eight -

"Ghosts in the Machine"

They were speechless. Every one of them.

Looking around, James saw blank faces, eyes wide and empty. The thousand-yard stare. They were turning into B-movie zombies, lacking only the peeling skin, the falling hair, the bloated, distorted features. No one seemed able to gather a coherent thought or form an intelligent expression.

Except Gregory House.

Remarkable blue eyes searched for and found the other eyes, deep and fathomless rich black coffee. Engaged them, held them. Their owners had been friends far too long to require words for something as grave and far reaching as this.

Reality slowed to a crawl even while they lingered there, and then stopped; camera speed slowing to freeze-frame. A single moment, suspended in time, hung between the two of them.

Wilson's smooth features spoke volumes: House! … you're in danger! Your sub-conscious mind saw this coming. What else have you seen? I've gotta look out for you! You could die!

House's eyes, penetrating in reply, answered: No, Jimmy! I'm all right. It'll be okay. You can't cover my back with every breath I take!

Things inched forward again; slow motion, as time gradually rebalanced. Murmurs became voices. Then a dissonance of sound. Everyone talking at once. Everyone asking questions of one another:

"What the hell happened to Bobby?"

"What did we miss?"

"We didn't know anything was wrong …"

"Did anyone see him acting funny?"

House held up his hand, suddenly authoritative. His action gained immediate attention, and immediate silence. "The dog wasn't sick. He was probably exhausted. All his nanoprobes suddenly stopped replicating. Then they died."

All eyes pinned him in place: even Wilson's … and Bernoski's … and Keirkgaard's.

Kip asked the question first. Calmly. A request for information. "How do you know, Gregg? What're we missing here?"

"Not sure," House said, surprisingly. "But it stands to reason. An engine needs proper lubrication and fuel to make it run. A dog's body is a lot like an engine … and a lot like a man … though his mechanism is a lot different from an engine … or a man. He needs different nutrition. More fuel. This dog's body was deprived of an entire leg! His remaining muscles had to work twice as hard just to keep it going.

"Bobby was like a race car with one of its tires going flat. Then to top it off, it runs out of fuel; loses compression. It's worn out! No matter how much the driver cusses and stomps down on the pedal, nothing happens. It's a pain in the ass to limp back to pit row on three tires, running on fumes and blowing blue smoke. No mobility … steering wheel bucking around in the driver's hands … no balance … no control. Everything Bobby had in reserve … blown! Disabled! Been there …

"Poor old mutt … he ate dog biscuits and dog food and all the other junk he could con people out of, but he never got enough. I think his probes may have just worn out, quit reproducing, quit adding fuel to his tank … like the race car … and when they died, so did he. Maybe those nanoprobes have only so much energy to give … and they quit when the energy ran out."

House shrugged, conceding that his theories were mostly educated guesses. The others studied him hard, gauging whether their past experiences with the experimental probe research, combined with his admitted conjecture, made any sense. He could read doubt in their faces: they wanted to believe, but they still speculated whether or not it offered them anything to go on.

"We need to put Bobby on a table!" House continued. "Conduct a necropsy. Find out what the hell is going on. If we don't, this program could be in danger of an impending shutdown with similar consequences.

"I'm not saying anyone will die. People are a lot bigger and have a lot more body mass than a dog. But there is danger of organ failure, red blood cell contamination and loss of mobility if these nanocites stray into musculature or bone marrow where they don't belong. From what I've learned, they're rather powerful when left to their own devices. God forbid they get into the nervous system any further than they were programmed to go, and then begin to shut down …"

Bill Bernard was already turning away from the group, on his way out of the room. "I'll go get Bobby's body, Kip … put him on a table and take him over to Lab #2. Lillian and her Techs can …"

He paused, breath hitching. "Oh, my God! Lillian's over there with a couple of the Techies … running clinical tests … she doesn't know."

Kip raised his hand for calm. "I'll go on over, Bill … break the news to them gently. You get Bobby and bring him back, okay?"

Bill nodded curtly, already headed out the door.

Bernoski swallowed hard and turned to his other colleague. "Earl … Oh, dear God, Earl. I'm so … so fuckin' sorry …" Kip's eyes were misting and the two men looked long and hard at each other. Keirkgaard's eyes were brimming too.

Wilson remembered Kip's words from last Sunday night … or was it Monday? He couldn't remember. "I have a best friend too …" Earl was that friend, no doubt about it.

Ten seconds later, Kip Bernoski too, was out the door behind Bill Bernard. He had bad news to deliver to Lillian and her staff.

James raised his head and caught Gregg's gaze as it sought out his own. He let his eyes soften to a warmer shade, already forming the message he intended to project this time. The other man was looking back at him steadily now. No nervous shifts of attention or flitting of glances here and there around the room. House was beginning to trust him again.

Shaniqua Tolliver watched them from her seat at the end of the table, silent tears running down her face for her friend Earl … and for his loss … and her own and Tyree's. Neeka watched the connection escalate and solidify between the two doctors from New Jersey; so in tune with each other, regaining something she was certain they had lost once, not so long ago. Celebrating its return.

James Wilson's beautiful dark eyes did for brown what Gregory House's did for blue …

We're okay?

Yeah.

Neeka looked away. She did not wish to embarrass them.

House was adamant about joining the other doctors in the cold room of Lab #2 for the necropsy. Retiring to his quarters to indulge himself in further rest and recuperation was not on his agenda, and he was increasingly vocal about it. Wilson could tell he was getting ready to begin a shouting match with anyone who was not in favor of letting him participate.

James walked over to have a word with Earl Keirkgaard. He knew the man was afraid for House's safety, and, like the others, girding up for a confrontation. He was fully prepared to exert his chops as one of the doctors. Wilson crossed his arms over his chest and sidled up to the other's wheelchair as though imparting a military secret labeled: "eyes only".

Earl frowned and grumbled: "What now?"

Wilson smiled, warding off an incoming round of the big man's ingrained Louisiana Bayou stubbornness. "I'd let the Wookie win this one if I were you," he said softly. "He can be a total pain in the butt when he doesn't get his way."

Keirkgaard snorted. "I've noticed he's a total pain in the butt even when he does get his way!"

Wilson snickered, but hid his reaction behind his hand. "I think I mentioned before … House is a force to be reckoned with. Trust me … he'll just keep on huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf until he blows the brick house down too!"

Earl was not mollified. "The man is a damn pain!" He said with exaggerated patience. "And he's in pain! Have you looked at his foot? It's swollen to convex where it should be concave … because he's not taking care of it. Unless I miss my guess, he hasn't allowed the wound to be flushed and rebandaged since this morning. His hand is sore … he's been holding it against his chest … and now he's facing possible failure of his brand new nanocite procedure. I know there's a good chance he's right about everything he just said, but how much more can we ignore for his damn vanity, Jim?"

"But you're in the same danger as he is, Doctor," Wilson insisted. "Remember? Maybe even more so. And here you are. So are Bill and Kip. I don't see any of you backing off! I'd like you to give House his head in this … please. When he's concentrating on a case, everything and everybody around him becomes part of the furniture. Colleagues and underlings are tools of his trade, and he treats them that way. They're his means to an end. I'm in a position to know, because I've been there. Nothing matters but the case.

"House is the most brilliant, most consistently infuriating human being I've ever met. But he leaves no stone unturned. If this is a problem caused by the nanocites, and Bobby's death didn't come from natural causes, he'll find the real one. He won't give up until he does. If there is a simple solution, he'll tell you about it and then go away.

"If the solution is more complicated, he'll work on it until it's resolved. The diagnoses that most intrigue him revolve around guesswork anyway … the elimination of one wrong idea at a time. But he thrives on solving the puzzle. If the resolution means doing something so drastic as finding a way of getting the nanocites back out again … he'll figure that out too.

"About his foot and his hand … he's very aware of them … but they're not a priority right now. He's more apt to be angry if his hand isn't flexible enough for him to participate fully in the 'hands-on' part.

"This is what he does. This is his job, his passion. This is what keeps him sane. When the pain in his leg used to get so bad that there was no way he could deny it any longer, he would go to the records room and dig up cases that other doctors were having trouble diagnosing. He would immerse himself in them so deeply that his pain became totally submerged. You've seen his leg, Earl, and you've seen the damage. Part of his quadriceps muscle is gone … his tibia stands out like the handle of a garden rake, and his calf looks like the belly of a dead fish. That's his reality.

"I don't want him to ever have to face that kind of pain again. But if this procedure fails … if it does … medicine is what he does better than anyone else in the world … and it's the one thing that gives him courage to go on.

"Let him assist you with the necropsy, Earl. I know Bobby was mostly your dog, and you feel like hell about this … but what happened was nobody's fault. House and me … we need to help. Afterward, I'll see to it that he rests, and that he'll allow me to take care of his foot. And his hand. There's still a vial of Vicodin in his night table. I can go get it. It will help him with the pain that his neglect has caused."

When he finished, Wilson looked the man in the eyes, surprised to see a twinkle and a sympathetic look where there had been a combination of sorrow and open skepticism before.

"What?" He demanded. "Did I say something wrong?"

Earl chuckled deep in his throat, a sound that brought with it a relaxing of earlier tension. "You already had me when you said he treated everyone around him like part of the furniture …"

"You might have stopped me before I kept running off at the mouth …"

"Well … I thought you were enjoying yourself. Actually, I was impressed, but you were preaching to the choir somewhat. We're all in awe of Gregg's courage. If the necropsy means that much … I have no objection. Okay?"

Wilson sighed. He was much more attuned to condolence than persuasion, but he knew he'd gotten through. "You're all right with Bobby's death then?"

"Yeah … I think so. Thanks, Jim. I'll miss that mangy mutt, but he had a good life. Now it's up to us to find out what killed him … keep it from hurting anybody else."

Earl rolled through the corridors and entered Lab #2. Wilson went for the Vicodin, assuming Gregg had allowed Bart Kirkpatrick to push him over there in the wheelchair.

Gregory House, however, was standing beside the cold, stainless steel table that held Bobby's body, and Bart was nowhere around. House was propped up on the crutches, and the wheelchair was abandoned in a corner. He was supervising preparations for the necropsy, dressed in scrubs, sterile cap and mask, sterile gown, gloves and booties. The wounded foot was held clear of the floor, and he had found new grace in authority. His deep voice issued explicit directions for the Techie Team. He was taking no prisoners, and the Techs jumped at the sound of his voice.

Lillian Chan, blank-faced and silent, sat watching from the background. Bernoski and Keirkgaard and Wilson watched from just inside the room's entry in silent exasperation as Gregg jabbed a crutch tip here and there for emphasis.

No one disputed the directions or questioned his orders.

The necropsy was ready to get underway, and House was in the process of perching himself on a tall stainless steel stool, laying back the crutches and reaching for a scalpel with his right hand.

He looked up when Bernoski walked away from the doorway of the computer cubby and entered the cold room. Without a word, he picked up the crutches again and backed carefully off the stool. He bowed from the waist, and they could see the quick wince that pinched his features beneath the sterile facemask as he withdrew in favor of his host.

"Thy throne awaits, Doctor," he said.

House did not withdraw, but balanced himself close to Kip Bernoski's side when the other man made the first incision.

"What the hell is that?" House inquired.

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