TWICE THE MAN

Part IIIfff

Summary: Wilson/House centric. Paranormal-ish. Episodic, sort of. Implied cfharacter death. Wilson suspects there is something very wrong with House.

Pairing: House/Wilson Bromance.

Rating: General. Some language.

Disclaimer: Gregory House is not mine, dammit!

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"Was he House?"

Wilson understood Cuddys' meaning. Last night, their evening togther that he had told her all about afterward. She wanted to know if House was himself House, not House acting half-cut when he hadn't touched a drop or House tripping when he hadn't done any psychedelic recreating in months.

"He was . . ." Wilson shook his head. He wished otherwise but "...I'm not sure. He wasn't completely his usual frustrating eccentric self." He offered. "I know that much."

"Well, we'd better find out because now he's refusing cases so he can treat his invisible man." She pointed to a stack of files on her desk. "He had Kutner deliver these back to me."

It seemed a sharp turn had just appeared off Weird House Street to take all of them down Going-to-Shit Alley and House was driving. His heart sank. "Damn."

Cuddy held up the top file. "This one has been to four hospitals and nine doctors - he has kidney damage with no previous injury or disease, pain in his extremities and so far no diagnosis."

"Alcoholic?"

"He's nine." She thrust the file into Wilsons' hand who handled it like it was a live grenade, it was a bomb waiting to blow up in their faces. If House refuses this one Cuddy would shut him down.

Cuddy looked at him squarely. "Make sure House takes it. Make sure we're not wrong before I have to end his career. And while you're at it, I want you to check him out. A complete physical."

Wilson felt the quasi fear he had been carrying around in his chest solidify into a menacing mass of dread. "He'll never buy it. He'll know something's up."

"But he'll still do it or he's gone. Tell him if he wants to argue about his job, he can see me after he passes his physical with flying colors."

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Wilson delivered the file to House personally, who flipped through with it his interest meter registering just above zero. "Cuddy's orders huh?" He said after Wilson explained her intentions. "And what about Elvis? Did Cuddy tuck your balls away somewhere too, or is it just mine she's after?"

"Cuddy asked me to bring this to you. Do the case, House, or Cuddy will have to shut you down and I don't think she's kidding."

House nodded, took his cane in one hand and the case in the other, opened the connecting door between his office and the conference room, took a few steps toward the desk around which sat his team with very obviously little to do, and tossed it to the nearest member. "New case." He said. "Kid. Nine years old. No prior history-"

Doctor Hadley opened it and began to skim through. "-No prior history of what?" She asked.

"Of anything, he's nine. Check for all the usual toxins, drugs, heavy metals and if that's all negative, ask Daddy if Mommy cooks a lot of imported beef."

"What?" Hadley asked.

"Aflatoxicosis." Taub explained. "Gets on vegetation, cows eat it, shows up in the organ meats, transferred to people, interferes with kidney and liver functions and in the worst stages, can cause gangrene."

"Which starts with tingling or numbness in the extremities."

"Get on it, kiddies." House returned to his desk where Wilson was still waiting. "What are you still doing here?"

"Cuddy also said you missed your physical."

"Cuddy says? You mean Cuddy and you." He sat down again, turning to his computer. "Sorry, no time. Porn to bookmark." He quipped. "You understand. Clearly a physical with a hose up my anus or busty girls with a hose type object up theirs-"

"-House."

"-is no choice at all." House turned innocent eyes on Wilson, but shut his computer down. "Come on." He alternated his hands, palms up. "This is me, remember? Porn? Physical? Porn? Surely you can appreciate that my judgement is still sound?"

"Maybe but Cuddy doesn't and she ordered me to make you take your physical."

"Okay but only if she's wearing the rubber gloves for the fun parts." He stood, leaning heavily on his cane. "Bare handed would be fine. I'm a nature buff."

"House-"

"-Don't you think I know what this is? This is Cuddy trying to make sure her best player's still got all his chips. She thinks I'm going nuts. How about you?"

Wilson looked at the ceiling and House noted it. "Ceiling tiles don't talk."

Wilson mustered every facial muscle he owned and effected his best look of a pretty-please.

House closed his eyes and sighed like a man who couldn't find the Exit sign. "Fine. Give me the goddamn physical, for all the good it'll do. But you're mystery friend could be dying while we're wasting time." House lurched from the room toward the elevator, displaying his unapologetic displeasure by bringing the hard rubber tip of his cane down on any of Wilsons' toes that strayed within range.

Wilson silently endured his friends juvenile wrath. That's what I'm afraid of.

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Wilson choose a private exam room, turning the door handle lock to spare them any disruptions and took blood and urine samples. He checked Houses' heart and lungs. House endured the "breath in and out" routine with a long, grumpy face.

"They appear fine." Wilson cautiously announced.

"Why wouldn't they be?"

Wilson pulled on a fresh pair of sterile gloves. "Oh, I don't know, maybe the three heart attacks you've had, the pneumonia after your two life-threatening surgeries, the alcohol and Vicodin you've been throwing back since you turned forty. . . "

House screwed up his eyes, clearly impatient with the facts. "Yeah, yeah, just hurry up. Elvis needs me." He snipped. "I thought this patient mattered to you?"

Wilson looked at him pointedly. "This patient does." He handed House an opaque, plastic beaker the size and length of a large man's thumb. "Fill 'er up."

House stared at the cup and then at his doctor friend. "Are you making a pass? You better be because you are not getting a sperm sample. And this isn't big enough."

Testily, "Right!" Wilson snatched it away with an angry fist. "Fine! Be an ass. Ignore your health and dismiss those who care about you."

House snatched it back. "Don't go turning into your Jewish grandmother, just give the damn thing back." House unzipped then looked up at Wilson, who was hovering near the door. "You're going to watch?"

Wilson turned away and exited, though not really wanting to leave him alone.

Cuddy was waiting in the hall, seated on a hospital issue hard plastic and steel, uncomfortable chair. "So?" She asked when Wilson appeared at her side.

Wilson didn't have any answers yet. "Just getting the samples now, then we'll do an MRI, then the labs."

Cuddy knew, of course, the procedures.

"Hey!" Houses' voice called from behind the door. "Need a magazine in here."

Wilson ignored it.

"Or send Cuddy down here and tell her to wear something sleazy. I mean sleazi-er."

Cuddy looked at Wilson with eyes sadder than usual. Such commentary, however inappropriate, was something she hoped she would not have to soon miss.

Cuddy leaned her head back until it touched the wall. She looked up at Wilson. "You look even worse than he does."

Wilson pursed grim lips. "Thanks. It's the wear and tear. Best friend and all."

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House was glad his fireman wasn't ready to retire yet and when Wilson entered the room, he handed him the cup. "Here you go. Genuine House DNA. Go and procreate with my blessing."

Wilson didn't take the cup. He stood against the door and spoke. "You're blind. And an idiot."

House was still at the sudden attack. "Now what the hell are you-"

"-I've been as open as I have been able to be and still you make jokes. Still, instead of helping me, you neglect your health and end up here."

"I can't help your patient if I can't see him."

"Why not? You never used to meet the patients. You always said it wasn't necessary - not to mention that you always didn't care."

"And you haven't always been this cryptic and infuriating. You insisted we waste time on this physical and now your panties are in a knot about it? I don't know what the hell you're playing at but you're driving me crazy!"

Wilson all but shouted in his face. "Wake up, House! Things aren't always the way they seem. Open your damn eyes."

With a flurry of pissed off fingers, House yanked his jeans up over his boxers and bent to pull his socks back on. "You want your damn patient X diagnosed, do it yourself. I'm sick of your paranoia and Cuddy assuming it's all me when it's actually all you." House looked around for where he had carelessly tossed his tee-shirt. "I'm beginning to think it was you who was in the bus accident."

Wilson took tiny steps to the wall opposite the door so in case House decided to bolt, he wouldn't be in the way. Holding up two restraining hands, "House. I know this is frustrating."

"Frustrating? You all act like I'm losing my mind. Well, next time they ask, I'll send them to the source." House bent down to wiggle into his sneakers, tying the shoelaces with unnecessarily violent tugs, ignoring Wilsons' presence from then on.

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Cuddy heard voices behind the wall. She listened carefully. A voice - just one. Houses' voice speaking - talking, pausing, then talking again, seemingly back and forth to some one. She looked up at Wilson standing at her side. "Do you hear that?" She said, her voice soft with the sad realization. "House is talking to himself." Then again to make it all too depressingly real, "Oh my god, Wilson, is he really talking to himself?"

Wilson trained an ear closer to the windowless door. He heard Houses' distinctive voice, the rise and fall of his mocking chatter, but could distinguish no individual words. "Yeah, yeah, he is..." He closed his eyes for a second. "...I'll go."

Cuddy crossed her arms over her torso to keep her nerves and stomach in place. Their worst fears were now more certain than before.

Wilson opened the door and saw House bent over, his back to the exam table and him. "House-"

House straightened up and with some difficulty, hobbled passed him into the hallway. "Shut the hell up. I'm through talking to you." He noticed Cuddy and let into her with equal venom. "You think I'm nuts?" He yelled. "You want to admit me? Then stop dancing with him and admit me. You're the Administrator - do something for Christ sake or just leave me the fuck alone to do my job."

"That's what we were hoping to do." Cuddy stood and faced him. Houses' quick temper had never managed to fluster her before and his inexplicable rage now did not stop her doing what she was now forced to. "House, I'm admitting you to the psychiatric ward for observation and evaluation. Check yourself in or you're fired."

House had almost stalked off when Cuddy issued her threat and when his black cloud of anger had settled enough, he turned to look at her, searching for any sign that the threat was an idle one.

And Cuddy obliged him with, "This isn't a joke. You've become unstable, almost unglued, and that means you're a danger to yourself and if you're a danger to yourself, then you're a danger your patients. No more cases, no more anything until you've been cleared as mentally fit."

House looked to Wilson who didn't have the courage to return his gaze. All he managed was a solemn - "Sorry, House."

House nodded. "Right. Admitting me. If you're going to admit anybody, it oughta' be him." House stepped to the elevator and pushed the button. "I'll be upstairs. If anybody starts dying while I'm gone, just pretend I'm too crazy to work and let them die. At least it won't be on my record."

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Wilson entered Houses' private room.

House appeared to be asleep but opened his eyes when he heard the door.

Approaching cautiously Wilson asked "How are you?" He felt like an idiot because it was a lame ass question, but he could think of no appropriate opener for his first visit to a psychiatric patient who happened to be his best friend.

"Crazy. Didn't you hear?" House quipped. "Got my own plastic cup, spoon and plate. Got me a nice guard at the door and even my own camera."

Wilson followed his eyes to the tiny black ceiling camera opposite the bed panning back and forth over the room with its red, cyclops eye.

"I'm a celebrity. I've got a belly full of luke-warm milk, pureed oatmeal mush and rubber sheets. I ask you - what more could an nut-job want?"

Wilson had no response but, "You know, we really are just trying to help you."

House closed his eyes. "You want to help me - Then how's the patient? Worse?"

Wilson could hardly breath now that they knew the painful truth of it. There was no patient other than House. House in a cage. House with his wings clipped. House mentally or physically too ill to work. Too ill to be again the best thing he ever could be - a crack-shot, brilliant physician with a mind like a diamond jack-hammer. Nothing, almost nothing, ever got by him.

It was possible that House would no longer be the House he had known. Not anymore. Wilson said softly. "We think so."

"Too bad. I guess the guy's only going to get sicker. Sure as hell can't work a case from in here. Don't have my team or my Internet porn - how's a doctor supposed to get anything done?"

Wilson smiled in spite of the sorrow that made the room stuffy and close. House appeared oblivious to it. It was true that the truly crazy didn't think they were crazy.

But if that were true, House had been crazy for years, hadn't he?

With small, weary steps Wilson pulled the rooms' only chair over to the bed and sat down. "Well, Cuddy said only a few days at first and then she'd see about privileges."

"Yeah." House fiddled with his bed covers. "Guess you'll have to send Elvis to another doctor. But that doesn't clear you of coughing up my fee if that's what you're thinking. The price is double now."

"Didn't you mention you were doing that case for nothing?"

"Now it's triple, smart ass."

Wilson choked up. House could be seriously ill. Whatever was wrong could take his mind, his body or his life and until the DNA tests came back they wouldn't know how bad or how soon any of it might worsen. Maybe even then, they would not really know.

God, he was tired and sick to his stomach with the whole situation. He hadn't eaten so much as a cracker since yesterday. Something occurred to him. "Why ALS?"

"Huh?"

Wilson recalled their earlier odd-ball conversation. "You said you thought the patient might have Lou Gehrig's disease but you based that on just a few, vague symptoms so why Lou Gehrig's? With so little to go on, why that disease?"

House appeared a little confused by the question. "I don't know. It just. . .came to me. It just seems to fit, that's all."

"From three or four symptoms that might be a dozen different things, you settled on that. Did something trigger the idea?"

House tried to think but the attending shrink had pumped him full of Lantanon and his mind was starting to drift like leaves on pond ripples. his higher senses scattering away. No thought would stick one to another and form a pattern that made any real sense. Nothing was connecting anymore. He sighed. "I'm not - there isn't - I...d-don't know." His head dropped back onto the pillow and he closed bloodshot eyes.

Watching quietly as House fell asleep, Wilson felt so afraid for what might be in store for his friend. This room was confining and depressing, two things House already had enough of in his life. But here he would be kept physically drugged, regulated and controlled. His daily routine would be scheduled to the last minute and he would be assigned boring, pointless crazy-person tasks like reading self-help books or making ugly bookends until his eyes popped out and his mind lost all direction. Either the mental illness or the underlying physical disease causing it - or the treatment for either one - would be his undoing.

"I'll leave you alone." Wilson whispered, touching his arm. House was already asleep. "See you tomorrow."

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Wilson drove home, his eyes shifting focus from the road to the sharp memory of House lying almost comatose, already preserved within his accident-proof, plastic sheeted existence and then back to the real-time street in the night, bathed in harsh street lights. He could barely keep his hands on the wheel.

ALS was a puzzle too. Why would House come up with that? Did he see it in himself? And why would that be causing neurological symptoms?

Or was it the other way around, the neurological symptoms only mimicking Lou Gehrig's?

House was displaying almost all the signs of a mental breakdown. But, Wilson often forgot, House was almost fifty and maybe he wasn't quite as resilient anymore as they had all somehow convinced themselves he was. Maybe House hadn't just shaken off that terrible accident or the resulting head trauma, seizures and heart attack? "Jesus Christ", Wilson asked his seat covers, "who could?"

If House wasn't sick with ALS, he was still quite obviously sick. Wilson himself had observed the restlessness, the fatigue and stumbling (though he had to admit to himself that one was debatable at best. The man was, after all, a cripple in pain), the dramatic lack of appetite and the mans' irritability with all of the foregoing and to put a head on it - with all of them as well.

Because we're telling him he's crazy, Wilson. Even crazy people don't like that.

Would House, even in all his brilliance, be right in a diagnosis as serious as Lou Gehrig's based on little more than a smattering of vague symptoms produced only in himself but about which signs he was in denial? Was House diagnosing himself via a hallucination of his nagging best friend? Of the whole damn situation, the idea itself was the craziest part.

Wilson parked his car, struggled to get out and place one foot in front of the other. He made it to his condo and stepped inside, remembering to flip the lock this time, a thing he had been forgetting lately what with House so much in his thoughts at front row and center. He dragged his ass up his five plus one for the landing, then turn and six steps more, making it to his bedroom in one big wobbly but still roughly whole human form.

Wilson sat on the edge of his unmade bed, sheet-tucking and pillow fluffing tasks for which his energy had also been recently lacking. He tapped his foot on the floor. It was almost asleep. He would follow it down just as soon as possible.

Wilson undressed and considered, his mind refusing to rest just yet: House was hallucinating - they couldn't deny that. He was in fact hallucinating, from as much as they could tell, a James Wilson ghost trying to convince House that he was ill.

Made sense in some ironic, semi-sorta'-romantic way; that the man who nagged him the most would have gotten so deeply inside Houses' head that House himself, in spite of his own stubbornness to admit there was anything wrong, would nag his own psyche in the form of James Wilson, Supreme Nagger-er.

Wilson felt a sad yet strange pride that he had become that tied up in Houses' mind; so integral a part that House, in the absence of the genuine article, would use a made up version of Wilson to try and self correct. House, for all his insistence that he could care for himself just fine all on his own had, in a time of extreme need, come to him for help in a very weird, Housian, slightly psychotic way.

If it wasn't so pathetically depressing, it would be almost . . . heartwarming.

House though still denied the actual hallucinations, screaming at him once Cuddy had made good her threat, signing him up for a month of observation, twice her original threat. I'm not hallucinating anything. You just don't want Cuddy to know this patient was all just me doing you a favor. That's what I get for being nice. Here endeth the lesson!

Wilson stripped and crawled beneath the covers, his stomach growling to remind him that he still had not eaten. But House had divested him of any appetite anyway and instead his only craving was easing the fire in his long empty stomach. Wilson managed another trip to the bathroom where he swallowed two an-acids, washing them down with a glass of tepid water he'd left sitting on the counter since the morning before. It was not sanitary but he didn't much care.

He wondered if he had the beginnings of an ulcer. Not entirely unexpected in a struggle where House-born collateral damage was practically a given. So when the rolling fire-pit beneath his rib-cage didn't ease right away, Wilson stumbled down to the kitchen and poured out an ice cold glass of milk with a pinch of bicarbonate of soda.

Wilson felt grubby and remembered he had not showered in over twenty-four hours. He felt sure his armpits were in need of a good de-smellifying. Loathing the idea of returning to bed in such a scummy state, he stepped under a warm shower to wash away a few layers of stress along with the dirt.

His so-called patient was no longer so-called nor a mystery. It was House and he was sick and Wilson believed it was mostly his fault. Heart attacks didn't cause this kind of brain damage when the victim is only down for a moment.

The bar of moisturized soap slipped through his fingers and he bent to fish for it in the few inches of water that had built up around his ankles. Wilson fumbled for the elusive lump and thought of bus accidents and concussions. But even mild brain swelling wouldn't make a person nuts unless the damage was severe to begin with and Houses' hadn't been.

Wilson rinsed off the suds and stepped from the shower. Trying to rub some feeling back into his body, he remembered the electrode, the head-vise, the screws against Houses' skull to hold it perfectly still while he had Chase assault the finest brain in New Jersey with electric jolts. Wilson dried himself with angry impatience, leaving his skin raw and pink. He stamped his foot again and felt a tingling. Pinched nerve. Too much sitting around worrying.

But the long metal probes he'd requested that Chase drive into Houses' living brain tissue that then caused him to suffer a massive seizure - that can cause brain damage and probably had. They just failed to notice it. No one hardly ever paid attention to House beyond his usual antics that only appeared crazy. So House as really crazy had been missed.

House was ill and because his so-called best friend had insisted on Houses' suggestion of a dangerous and ill-conceived brain probe House, never being not crazy enough to change his mind and say No, had let it be done to him and now he was paying dearly.

Wilson was clean but felt dirty. He knew he would have to pay as well somehow because no amount of soap and water would ever wash away his selfish indulgence in making the request to begin with or his guilt at what it had done to House.

He should be at the hospital right now. He should be by his side every minute because House had done nothing less for him. House had risked his health and his life for him. And in gratitude here he was relaxing at home instead of being there to say the words House himself had said when by Gods' own providence he had come out of that brain drill still temporarily whole -

"I'm so sorry."

XXX

Part IV ASAP