Chapter One

The pressure, oh Lord, the pressure.

Sweat pouring down each and every one of their faces blocked their vision slightly as it rolled down into their eyes, while some droplets pricked themselves on their eyelashes. A riot of panic-stricken fear and worry flowed through their ears as House watched from the outside. They bustled around, trying to save the aged man's life.

Harry Manison was aged, but only middle-aged; in his late forties, early fifties. Father of two—a son and a daughter, both out of the house. It was only him and his wife, Guinevere. But now he was diagnosed with heart failure. Severe heart failure.

The clicking of machines and tools could be heard below the many voices.

"Do it now!" an Australian accent ordered. Foreman placed the shockers on Manison and did the procedure, which in turn was ineffective.

"Damn…" he muttered, throwing the shockers onto the ground. They landed on the floor with a loud crash that made everyone jump. As everybody put fingers to their foreheads in great frustration, Emmanuella kept her stare on the patient, who was trembling violently. The steady beeping noise that was penetrating their ears became nothing but one solid sound.

Cameron put her head against the clear, glass wall as everybody else sighed heavily. But Emmy still kept a constant stare on Manison. And all of a sudden, she blurted, "He's not dead."

Each person turned to her. "Emmy," Chase sighed, "you can't do anything now. He's gone."

"No…no, no, he's not," Emmy objected, stand up straight. Hastily, she put on a stethoscope and commanded, "Cameron—get a needle. Keep shocking him."

"Just a plain needle?" Cameron confirmed, inching toward the door. She was confused, but knew that Emmy had spent her whole life training and studying medical conditions. She trusted her knowledge, even if it was far-fetched.

"Yes," answered Emmy, putting the stethoscope on Manison's chest. Foreman shocked him once more, and the beeping rhythm started up again. Fast.

"Chase…what are we doing?!" Foreman demanded, puzzled, and putting the shockers away.

"The problem's not in his heart; it's in his lungs," she responded quickly, taking the stethoscope out of her ears and replaced it around her neck. The tension had returned in the room when Cameron reentered.

"We've got to somehow get air back into his lungs," Chase continued. "They collapsed when we shocked him. The excitement caused him to stop breathing; he had a heart attack."

"And you're sure this is going to work," her husband panted, holding Manison down by his pelvic bone and arm. He was hard to keep retained.

"Ninety-nine point nine percent positive," replied Emmy, grabbing the needle from Cameron. "The other point one percent…he dies."

"Didn't he die before?" asked Cameron, aiding Robert in holding Manison down.

"He stopped breathing," Chase informed her, eyeing his wife. "One is officially dead when the brain stops working." All eyes zoomed to a scanning screen, above the patient's head, that was keeping track of his brain waves and function. It was fluently marking. He was alive.

"As far as I'm concerned," Emmy casually broke the silence, holding the needle up, "I'm not stopping until I know for sure what Manison is."

Chase, Foreman, Cameron, and House all stared at Emmy in admiration. She never gave up. Never. She always fought for her patient's lives until the bitter or sweet end—which ever way it turned out.

Emmy, embarrassed at the gaze she was receiving, took in a large breath. "God, forgive us," she sighed, and speared Manison's skin. It went through his skin to his lung, and punctured it. Feeling the needle go through two layers, Chase announced, "It's through. Get a tube."

Foreman rushed to a tray and snatched a long, clear tube, and gave it to Emmy. Hearts beating fast, suspense building, hardly able to be withheld, the doctor gradually slid the tube into the patient.

Cameron bit her lip. Foreman held a sweaty clenched fist. Robert played with the seam of his coat. The tube seemed to move in slow-motion as Emmy got it through the first hole.

Onto the next one.

Outside, watching intently with great pleasure, House smirked, leaning slightly on his cane.

At last, the tube had gone through both Manison's skin and the lining of his lung. It inflated, and a loud gasp for fabulous, refreshing oxygen was heard in his direction. At uproar of triumph echoed in the room as the team celebrated. Robert raised his arms up, thrilled, while Cameron and Foreman embraced. Emmy, on the other hand, was smiling and gasped for air, leaning on her elbows on the table Manison was on, her forehead in her hands. Robert grasped her waist and held her up, twirling his love once as she beamed, looking down at the people below her.

Interrupting and perhaps ruining the moment, House staggered into the room and said, "Nice work, Chase. But your job's to help patients, not have your partner long for sex when he gets home tonight from you being the hero."

Emmanuella looked away and flushed. "Sorry," she apologized softly as House walked past her and tended to Manison, putting tubes into his nose so he could breathe.

"Go take five," said House. "All of you—while I make sure this guy gets drugged. I'm sure he needs some extreme kick-ass pain killer."

As the team began to pile out the exit of the room, Robert slowly turned his head to Emmy. "You know," he mouthed, "not might be an excellent time to tell him."

"Rob, please," Emmy pleaded out loud, almost in a whining tone. "I'll tell him…in my own good time."