Title: Prostates and Plum Pudding, Part 2/2
Author: hwshipper

Summary: Chris has collapsed; House, Wilson and the team are on the case with the differential diagnosis; Brian gets a shock.
Excerpt: House glowered at Wilson. A pair of deep brown eyes locked onto blue. There was a short silence in which Brian could almost hear an unspoken discussion, before House looked away and snapped, "Fine. I'll do it."

Prostates and Plum Pudding, Part 2/2

A short while later, Brian found himself sitting in the conference room next door to House's office. He sat frozen on the edge of a chair, hardly able to take in where he was and what had happened.

Chris had collapsed and the sky had fallen in on Brian's world. He'd had to leave Chris unconscious, in the spare bed in Linus's room, hooked up to monitors and drips. It had killed him to walk away, to stumble off down the corridor in the wrong direction, but there had been nothing he could do. Nurse Jeffrey had promised not to leave Chris alone for a minute....

And now he was in a room with what felt like a small army of doctors around the table, House scowling at the head, Wilson at the foot, arms folded, looking at the table. Raul was standing right behind Brian, a comforting hand on each shoulder, but Brian barely felt a thing.

"...stabilized his ABCs," Taub was explaining briskly to House, and then added in an aside to Brian, "Airway, breathing, circulation. Then we treated for shock. He's on oxygen, taking fluids, and we're monitoring his pulse, blood pressure, breathing, temperature. So now we can find out what made him collapse."

"What's with the we?" House demanded peevishly. "How did I get sucked into this?"

"I want you to treat him," Brian stated. It was the only thing in the world he was sure about right now.

"I don't want to treat him." House was firm.

Brian breathed deeply, then said, "A pound of raisins, a pound of currants. Breadcrumbs, eggs, candied peel, brandy. And real suet from a butcher, that's the key ingredient. Boil in a cloth bag for six hours."

Everyone around the table except House looked at him as if he was mad.

House's expression softened a fraction, but his voice didn't give any ground. "The plum pudding bribe was to treat you, not your idiotic oversexed boyfriend."

"House," Wilson said in a tone of entreaty, and for the first time Brian was glad of Wilson's past affinity with Chris.

House glowered at Wilson. A pair of deep brown eyes locked onto blue. There was a short silence in which Brian could almost hear an unspoken discussion, before House looked away and snapped, "Fine. I'll do it. Right, what do we know about him? White male--"

Taub drummed his fingers on the table and interrupted. "Actually, the last thing Chris said before he collapsed was that he didn't want to be treated by House--"

"Fuck that! Just find out what's wrong with him!" Brian almost yelled. Raul's fingers closed on his shoulder-blades, gently stopping him jumping out of his seat and decking Taub on the spot.

"Are you his medical proxy?" a female doctor at the table asked.

"Yes!" Brian was relieved to be able to say that.

"Okay then." Taub shrugged.

House lifted an eyebrow as if to say are you all done with the wankery?, and carried on from where he'd left off. "White male, about my age?--" Brian nodded, and House continued in an absolutely flat tone, "Bar and nightclub owner, lives by the Jersey shore, drives a motorcycle, gay, with a history of sexual promiscuity."

Brian winced, and noticed Wilson was looking away, but neither of them said anything. If anyone else around the table wondered how House knew all this, none of them dared ask.

"In apparent good general health?" House asked, and Brian nodded again. House stabbed the table with a finger as he made successive points. "Recently stressed by working too hard on a restaurant refurb. Is here visiting his best friend who was undergoing prostate cancer surgery, another possible cause of stress. Collapses in hospital corridor with difficulty breathing, chest pain, elevated temperature and increased heart rate. Go."

"The restaurant refurb could have caused it," said a doctor whom Brian didn't know; large, burly, gentle expression, goatee beard. Like House, he wasn't wearing a white coat, although he was dressed far more smartly than House was. "Environmental. Toxic reaction to paint, glue, cement..."

"This restaurant's in Atlantic City," House sighed. "Before you go hightailing off down the highway, Foreman, let's consider other possible causes. How about the sexual promiscuity?"

"STDs?" Chase asked.

"No. We both last got tested just a couple of months ago." Brian was tense, but sure of his ground here. He and Chris had gotten tested following a brief disastrous encounter with a couple of men at a music festival. Chris's condom had split as he was pulling out of the younger dark-haired guy, and the older blond guy had yanked off his own condom and come all over Brian's face in apparent retaliation; Chris had been furious, and they'd all barely steered clear of a fistfight. "Everything was clear."

"Perhaps it's psychosomatic illness brought on by his friend having the surgery," the female doctor suggested.

"Collapsing in sympathy?" House shook his head. "No."

"Is he on any medication? Does he have any medical conditions?" Chase asked. "Allergies? Diabetes? Heart problems, perhaps?"

"No. Nothing. He's always been very fit and healthy." Brian's head was clearing a little now. He thought of Chris at the gym, running, on the bike... this whole situation was just inconceivable.

"Does he take drugs?" said the female doctor.

"No." Brian's reaction was instinctive.

House's snort was loud enough to be heard in the next room. "The man runs a string of bars and nightclubs."

"That doesn't mean--" Brian protested.

"And I personally remember him getting high the first time Wilson and I ever met him," House bowled on. "He takes drugs. End of."

Brian looked helplessly at Wilson, who gave an apologetic shrug, and Brian knew it was true--at least, on that occasion in the past. He then looked around at Raul, who also gave an apologetic shrug, and now Brian felt betrayed on all sides. "You don't know that!"

"Yes, we do," House declared. "It's drugs. What's Chrissy boy in the habit of taking these days, Brian? Pills? Powder?"

"He doesn't take anything!" Brian's brain was in a whirl, trying to remember any relevant conversation he'd ever had with Chris.

"Look, it doesn't mean he's an addict," Wilson chimed in, apparently trying to be soothing. "But if he takes something even just very occasionally, it might have caused this."

"You can test him, then," Brian said desperately. "That'll tell you one way or the other, won't it?"

"We can and will run a tox screen." House's voice was tight. "But it would save time if we knew what specific pill or powder we should be looking for."

"Depending on what he took, there might be an antidote, or complications," Chase said.

He doesn't take drugs! Brian wanted to shout. But another idea occurred to him, and he blurted out, "Linus would know. We can ask him."

Yes, Linus would know. Linus and Chris had been friends practically their entire adult lives. Linus knew Chris better than anyone in the world, including (Brian hated to admit) himself.

"He's just had major surgery," Raul protested immediately. "You want to wake him up and ask him something like that?"

At that moment Brian would have shaken the fragile recovering Linus awake with his own hands. "Yes. We have to."

"You can't wake him up with bad news like that," Raul objected. "He'll be worried! He might relapse, or something..."

Brian bit his lip and realized perhaps he was being heartless, but he wasn't about to apologize. Linus's surgery had been successful, while Chris was still unconscious and undiagnosed.

"Linus will be awake soon anyway, maybe already," Wilson cut in. "We can see what state he's in, if he's well enough."

"Then do it. Chase, go start the tox screen," House directed. "Taub, go through the patient's pockets and see if there's drugs stashed anywhere, then go help Chase. Foreman, Thirteen, get ready to go find this restaurant in Atlantic City, but don't leave just yet."

Everyone got up and left the room except House. Brian and Raul followed Wilson down the corridor back to Chris's room. Raul stalked along ahead of Brian, and when Brian caught up with him and put a hand out to touch his arm, he was shaken off with an angry glare.


Taub was there first, quickly searching Chris's few belongings; Brian gritted his teeth but bore it, and a minute later Taub shook his head and left the room; he'd found nothing. Chris was still unconscious, lying in the same position as before.

Nurse Jeffrey assured them that nothing had changed. "And I think all the palaver when we brought him in woke up Linus over there. He's sleeping but only lightly, I think."

A heavy curtain had been drawn across the room between the two beds. On the other side of the curtain, Linus was lying with his eyes closed, but his head tilted to the opposite side it had been earlier. As Nurse Jeffrey touched his arm, Linus's eyes flickered open.

Wilson stepped forward first, asking him a couple of questions, listening intently for answers, peering at Linus's eyes and taking his pulse. Apparently Wilson was satisfied, as he stood back and nodded at Raul and Brian. Raul came forward and clasped Linus's hand tightly.

"Linus, wonderful to see you, the operation went very well, the cancer's gone, you're going to be fine," Raul said, his voice steady.

"My darling Raul," Linus rumbled through a slightly hoarse throat. "So glad you're here with me. And--Brian, how good of you."

And Linus lifted his head up slightly to scan the room. He didn't say anything, but was so obviously looking for Chris that Brian's heart nearly broke on the spot. Brian didn't dare speak. He watched Raul shut his eyes momentarily, long lashes flickering, then open them sharply as if he'd made a decision.

"Linus, Chris is sick," Raul said, loud and clear, and Brian felt ashamed. "He collapsed and fainted and he's in the bed next to you. Dr. House thinks he's taken some kind of drug, but we don't know what. Do you have any idea?"

Linus closed his eyes. There was a long silence, and Brian thought maybe he'd fallen asleep again. But then his lips parted and a strained breath emerged.

"Cocaine," Linus whispered. "Always Chris's drug of choice. Not often...once, twice a year maybe. After Edward died... and when he was depressed.... not recently. Not for a long time, I thought. I always told him it was--is he going to be alright?"

Raul hesitated, and Brian knew Raul didn't want to lie, didn't want to pretend things were peachy fine if they weren't. Brian spoke up himself to utter the necessary platitude; "Yes, Linus, he'll be fine. We just--wondered."

"Good," Linus breathed back, and relaxed a little back into the pillows. There was silence for a minute, then Brian looked at Wilson, and they both slipped out of the room, leaving Raul by Linus's bedside.

House was outside, leaning on his cane, eyebrows raised.

"Cocaine," Wilson confirmed, and House nodded and wheeled off down the corridor towards his office. Brian and Wilson followed.

Foreman and Thirteen were back, wearing coats, sitting at the glass table. House joined them, slumping down into a vacant chair. Wilson came forward to stand at the side; Brian hovered by the door.

"Cocaine," House said without preamble. "Go."

"Cocaine can be cut with all kinds of crap," Thirteen said. "Sugars, anesthetics, cornstarch, baking powder, caffeine, heroin, other drugs..."

"Cocaine puts a lot of stress on the heart," Foreman took his turn. "It constricts blood vessels and can result in a rise in body temperature, burst blood vessels and, in some cases, death from brain seizures, heart failure and respiratory problems."

"When did he take it?" Thirteen asked.

Brian's mind was racing. "He... I think.... shit. It was during Linus's operation. Must have been. He'd been so tired, and suddenly he was buzzing with energy, I thought it was just adrenalin, stress..."

"Where were you?" Thirteen asked.

"We were in the waiting room by the operation room. He went to the bathroom at least once."

"Thirteen, go check the men's bathroom nearest that waiting room, see if there are any traces left," House instructed, and she got up and left.

"Does he smoke?" Foreman asked.

"Not for years." Brian knew Chris had once been a great smoker, but had given up when Linus had first been diagnosed with cancer.

"He's a drinker," Wilson said suddenly. "Scotch. Single malts. Is that right, Brian?

"Yeah," Brian confirmed, uncertain as to what Wilson was getting at.

"And when Chris collapsed we had all just came back from a drink at the bar over the street, to celebrate Linus's successful operation," Wilson persisted.

"Now you tell us!" House said in a tone of the utmost exasperation.

"Cocaine and alcohol," Foreman said. "Means--"

"Cocaethylene," House said, and the doctors around the table all nodded.

"What's cocaethylene?" Brian inquired.

Foreman stepped up to the mark. "Cocaethylene is a drug formed when you mix cocaine and alcohol. It's the only example of two drugs combining to form a third, once ingested, and it's more toxic than either of them on its own. Some people like the additional high. You get the euphoric aspect of cocaine, but also the depressive aspect of alcohol. It can lead to aggressive and violent behavior."

"Cocaethylene subjects the liver and heart to a lot of stress. People can have a heart attack or stroke, and die on the spot," Wilson went on. "People dying suddenly after only very small doses of cocaine are likely to have a high concentration of cocaethylene."

"And the thing is, it can build up over a long period of time. Years, even," House concluded. "You can be a social drinker, and an occasional cocaine user, and not ever be aware that cocaethylene is building up inside you. Until you go into cardiac arrest and die."

Great. Fucking great. Brian could hardly even think about what this all meant.

He sat back in a daze, while House called Taub and Chase back, and the doctors discussed what to do. They would check the extent of damage to the liver and heart. Any previously undiagnosed heart condition could be very dangerous; they'd do an EKG.... a CT scan of the head to check his brain, and a chest scan... benzodiazepines would reduce cardiovascular effects of the drug, and control tachycardia and hypertension...

Brian couldn't listen anymore; he got up and left the room.


Outside the hospital, he found a bench and sat down. It was freezing outside, and he wasn't wearing a coat, but he barely noticed the cold as he tried to absorb what he'd just learned.

He'd been sitting there half an hour or so when the bench creaked beneath him, and Brian awoke from his stupor to find House had plumped himself down next to him.

"So he's an idiot, and you don't know him as well as you thought you did," said House, his breath a cloud in the air. "Live with it."

"Yeah." Brian laughed through chattering teeth.

"Were you never tempted?" House asked with scientific curiosity. "When you were a high-flying lawyer? Is it not the champagne drug?"

"I tried it once or twice, didn't like it." Brian thought back to his bad old days at The Firm, when many of his fellow lawyers relied on coke to get them through heavy caseloads, long nights and legal headaches. He'd preferred the natural high of the courtroom victory, thrived on the challenges of difficult clients, coasted on the constant giddy whirl of pressure and stress.

"Not when you had your breakdown and quit your job?" House persisted. "During all those months of misery and suicidal sex and absurd alcohol consumption?"

"Nope." Funny how people could be so...different.

House shrugged, and said with an offhand manner, "I was a drug addict, you know? Vicodin, for years." His hand came out of his jacket pocket and his fingers twitched. "Sometimes I still think there's a pill bottle in my pocket. It was there so long it created a false presence."

Brian pondered why he was being told this, then said carefully, "I guess Wilson put up with a lot of crap from you."

"Naw, he loved every minute," House said carelessly. "Now, why are you freezing your ass off out here? I'm going inside."

He levered himself up on his cane and headed towards the hospital. Brian stood up, suddenly feeling the cold keenly, and followed.


Brian camped out in a hard hospital chair next to Chris's bed that night, unable to sleep at all. Machines beeped; janitors roamed with mops and brushes; nurses trotted back and forth.

He eventually drifted off just as daylight began to creep into the room. Time passed, and he was dozing lightly, when Linus's voice cut into his consciousness.

"Christopher."

Brian had never heard anyone call Chris by his full name before. Not Linus, not anyone. And there was no mistaking Linus's tone; this was a reprimand. Linus didn't need to say anything else.

Brian kept very still and pretended to be asleep.

"I'm sorry," a familiar voice mumbled, and Brian's heart leaped; Chris was awake.

"You could've died." Linus said.

"I know."

"And you'd have broken Brian's heart," Linus said unexpectedly. "You know better than anyone what it's like to lose someone you love out of the blue, just like that." Linus snapped his fingers. "Do you remember, Chris? Would you put Brian through what you went through?"

Linus was talking about Edward's death; Brian was awestruck by Linus's nerve.

"I remember." Chris sounded tired.

"Have we all just not noticed?" Linus demanded. "Have you been sucking this stuff up your nose recently and I haven't noticed?"

Brian shifted in his chair slightly to try and see Chris's face. Chris was looking across at Linus, but Brian could just make out a stricken expression.

"No. Christ, no. I haven't done coke for years," Chris insisted. "Not since I met Brian. Until this week. I had to get this restaurant done, I had to work through two nights so I could come here for your operation--Micky and I were both exhausted, he had some."

Linus snorted; his opinion of Micky was no higher than Brian's. "But it wasn't just at the restaurant. You took some here, in the hospital, while I was having surgery!"

"Yeah." Chris looked shamefaced. "I was so tired sitting in that waiting room, I did a line in the restroom. I needed something to keep me going--"

"Not--this," Linus said, putting considerable force into the words. "If work's the problem, then you have to stop working, like I'm going to. Like Brian did. Find something else to do. It's not worth it, Chris, it really isn't."

"Yeah." Chris sighed, and there was a short silence. Brian wondered at what point he should conveniently wake up.

"How did I end up as House's patient, anyway?" Chris asked eventually, fingering the wristband on his arm where his doctor's name was inscribed.

Linus sounded amused. "Brian was doing you a favor with that. One advantage of being treated by House, you know, is that you don't ever actually have to see him."

Brian smiled gently to himself and prepared to wake up.


Wilson was in bed reading by lamplight when he heard the front door slam; House was home.

"Hey!" Wilson shouted, picking up his bookmark from the nightstand and placing it carefully between the pages.

"Hey!" a muffled voice called back.

Wilson closed his book and waited patiently for the ninety seconds he knew it took House to drop his backpack on the floor, dump his coat on the back of the couch, leave his shoes higgledy-piggledly in the hallway, and join Wilson in the bedroom.

House duly appeared, looking about twice as unshaven as usual, and carrying a mysterious paper bag.

"Hey," House said, stopping to kiss Wilson on the mouth, then flopping down on his side of the bed.

"Hey," Wilson responded, and nodded at the bag, which House had set down on his lap. "Edible or lubricating?"

"Edible," House said with great relish, and opened the bag. Wilson peeked in and was intrigued. Inside sat a large round cloth bag, about the size of a soccer ball, neatly tied up at the top with a red ribbon. A sprig of plastic holly had been wedged under the knot.

"A pound of raisins, a pound of currants..." Wilson remembered.

"Plum pudding." House beamed. "See, I told you I'd contribute something for our Hanuk-mas dinner next week. Chris goes home tomorrow. His liver and heart are both functioning well--surprisingly well, considering. And if he doesn't take cocaine again, ever, the prognosis is good. So Brian's made it worth my while."

"That's great news, Linus goes home tomorrow, too. Nurse Jeffrey is already pining and making plans to visit him." Wilson sniffed the bag; a delicious alcoholic fruitcake smell wafted up. "Brian made this?"

"No, so perhaps I should sue him." House moved the bag out of the way, placing it on the floor. "He's staying with his sister in Princeton while Chris recuperates; it's the pudding she made last year for this Christmas, apparently. He's busy making two more in compensation now, for her for this year and next year."

"It's been aged for a year?" Wilson was fascinated, and genuinely pleased at the prospect of eating such a pudding. He'd done some research for his own unsuccessful attempt at making one the year before, and knew it was hard work. "Very traditional."

"Yeah. Hopefully it improves with age, like wine and whiskey, and we're not going to come down with acute food poisoning."

"Is it an old family recipe or something?"

"Or something. It's the invention of Brian's ex, who's a chef. Plum Pudding a la Ethan, Brian called it." House nestled down comfortably into the bed. "Bit of a misnomer, don't you think?"

"Plum pudding? Because... there's no plums in it."

"Nor any Ethans." House hesitated, then went on with a ridiculously straight face, "Brian also managed to say, blushing through his beard, that if you and I were ever interested in a foursome, he thought he could talk Chris into it."

Wilson laughed. "And what did you say?"

House smirked. "I said fine, so long as I could do Chris and you could do him. Which may not have been what--no, I didn't say that!" he added hastily, as Wilson punched him on the arm. "I said I was sure you'd be tempted--" Wilson punched him again-- "but it wasn't what we were about."

And that, Wilson reflected, was a good answer.

"Anyway." House snaked an arm under the bed covers. "Talking of plums... I was thinking maybe we've been neglecting them recently."

Wilson sucked in his breath sharply as a hand cupped one of his balls. "Um...yeah. We should do something about that."

House leaned across to silence Wilson's mouth with his own; the kiss at first appreciative and gentle, and then increasingly prolonged and passionate. Wilson reached out to stroke House's groin, then cupped one of House's balls with a little squeeze; House growled a little into his ear.

They sucked at each others' tongues, teeth, noses, while wriggling out of clothing; gasped, ticked and caressed at each others' balls. Then House reached downwards with a slick palm. And when Wilson felt House's fingers stroke in one beautiful movement all the way up from beneath the base of his cock to the very top, with a final artful flick across the tip, he came in an instant, spurting fantastically into House's fist.

He lay in orgasmic stupor for what felt like a few seconds (although House insisted later that it had been at least an hour, for fuck's sake) before House dug him in the ribs and demanded his own handjob.

END