My Foe Chapter 2 Part II, a house, m.d. fanfic

My Foe

A/N: Here is the second part to My Foe. This story will only have three parts, but there may be further stories submitted in the future following the "My" theme.

Warning: This story involves adult issues that involve illness, adult issues and strong language. Reader Discretion is advised.

Part II

Most of what happened between the time I passed out in my bathroom and I became lucid and aware in the Emergency Room of PPTH I don't remember. All I have to go on is what I've been told by those who were present, most notably Wilson and Chase and the odd flash of memory that occurs to me from time to time which I can't confirm was accurate or figments of my neurological breakdown. What follows is a synthesis of what I have been able to compile from these and other sources.

My best friend and roommate Dr. James Wilson finds me collapsed in a heap on the tile floor of my bathroom. I have just finished being sick with vomiting and diarrhea both of which I am soiled with. My body is dripping with sweat, my graying chestnut hair is pasted to my scalp with it. I'm trembling uncontrollably from head to toe, and moaning after I've knocked a glass soap dispenser to the floor with a shattering crash and have collapsed in vertigo on my ruined leg, releasing a bloodcurdling scream of agony. My mouth is full of saliva which I'm drooling all over the floor; my breathing is labored and I appear to be nearly oblivious to the fact that he has come to my rescue and is down on his haunches next to me, trying to help me up when I pass out.

Just before I fall unconscious I tell Wilson, "This is not the flu!" Flu had been my self-diagnosis when I first became ill at work earlier in the day—obviously I was wrong. Pruritus (itching) and paresthesias (burning, painful pins and needles) of my lips, mouth and tongue are not your typical symptoms of Influenza; neither is vertigo and excessive sweating unless a high fever is present which Wilson says was not the case. It was something else, something more acute and serious with which I was afflicted.

After I pass out Wilson does what has been drilled into him through years of training and experience and checks my airway, my heart and looks for any obvious serious injuries. I'm still having difficulty breathing and my heart is racing—a hundred and forty beats per minute—with arrhythmia. My skin is clammy, my pallor a sickly pale greenish grey. Fearing that I'm dying he hurries to the nearest telephone and calls for an ambulance and then calls ahead to the hospital to let them know that we are on our way in. When he returns to my side I'm semi-conscious and murmuring things that are only partially intelligible but I'm still oblivious to the fact that he is there with me. I'm complaining about the burning, how much it hurts, how much my mouth hurts and something about my mother which Wilson tells me he doesn't understand.

He tilts my head to the side so that I don't drown on my own drool or vomit should that start up again. There is absolutely no tension in my body anywhere, no resistance, no muscle tone which also worries my friend. At one point I think I recall him placing his hand on my head and whispering something but I don't remember what it was that he said. I fall into deeper unconsciousness again. Soon after I stop breathing and Wilson has to perform Artificial Respiration.

The ambulance arrives after what Wilson describes as an 'eternity' and the paramedic begins to bag me, giving Wilson a break and a chance to catch his breath. Riding along Wilson allows the ambulance crew to do their jobs but holds my hand throughout, ready to act should I crash on route. When the ambulance arrives at the hospital an Emergency Room crew is waiting for us to take over my care from the paramedic team. Also waiting is Dr. Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine and the woman I have loved consciously and subconsciously for twenty years, the woman who rejected me and wounded me more than she ever possibly could have known. The significance of the fact that she has returned to the hospital during her private hours with Lucas and her baby daughter Rachel is lost on me for a very long time after.

The ER staffers have difficulty stabilizing me. My heart rate is too fast and erratic; my blood pressure is in the toilet. I am terribly dehydrated and they stick me with an IV and pump isotonic saline into my vein as quickly as it will go. At one point my heart begins to fibrillate and then seizes completely and I have to be pumped full of epinephrine and shocked twice for it to start and return to an acceptable rhythm again. Eventually I'm stabilized as well as is possible and taken to ICU while test after test is taken and processed. Standard blood and urinalysis labs come back inconclusive or clean. Mild elevation in my creatine phosphokinase (CPK) and lactate dehydrogenase (LDL) levels indicate the possibility of muscle tissue breakdown but nothing of any real significance. I have been intubated to aid with my breathing and I remain, for the most part, in a deep unconscious state.

Cuddy calls in my team around midnight to take on my case. Both she and Wilson are part of the differential as they try to breakdown the possibilities of what I could be suffering from based on the symptoms. Chase, Thirteen, Taub and Foreman sit around the long conference table while Cuddy sits where I usually do at the end when I'm not up at the white board. Wilson has replaced me there with the dry erase marker in hand. He writes down my symptoms in the order which they presented themselves: nausea, headache, irritability, abdominal cramping, profuse sweating, vomiting, diarrhea, tremors, weakness, chills, complaints of generalized myalgia (muscle pain)and arthralgia (joint pain), possible pruritus (Wilson noticed my scratching at my arms and legs), ataxia (loss of coordination), semiconscious comments of lingual and circumoral paresthesias, excessive salivation, hallucinations, decreased levels of consciousness, bradycardia (rapid heartbeat), dyspnea (labored breathing) followed by pulmonary depression and finally cardiovascular failure.

The suggestions begin to fly around the table: septic shock, ischemic stroke, snake envenomations (snake venom poisoning—despite the fact that there is no evidence that I've even been around a snake), and a slew of different possible toxicities (poisonings) including heavy metals (arsenic, lithium, mercury), Beta-blocker, calcium-channel, Carbomazepine, disulfram and Isoniazid, organophosphates and Carbamate poisoning, and various mushroom related poisonings, and finally food poisonings including botulism and marine (fish, shellfish or seafood)poisoning.

Chase argues against heavy metals stating that standard tox screens have ruled them out. He also counters beta-and Calcium channel blockers for the same reason. Foreman suggests a CT scan of my head to rule out the possibility of stroke or tumor. Wilson points out that lithium is not one of the psych meds I'm on (I hate the fact that he had to mention to my team that I'm on psych meds), that I don't take beta- and calcium-blockers, I won't touch a mushroom unless it's a magic mushroom and even those I've given up for my sobriety. He also points out that the closest I get to gardening products is the produce section of the local supermarket and even there only when he makes me pick up vegetables and fruit for something he is preparing.

"What about fish poisoning?" Thirteen suggests, "or seafood?"

Wilson turns from the board. "I haven't cooked anything with fish or seafood as ingredients in a while and I can't recall House eating anything out this weekend that wasn't a hamburger or fries."

The team agrees to test for the lesser common heavy metals and toxins and for common forms of food poisoning while treating my symptoms and keeping me as comfortable as possible. Also, Foreman gets his way and books me for a head CT. As the team disperses to their tasks, Wilson and Cuddy stick behind. Together they try to puzzle together where and to what I have been exposed. The tension between the two of them is great; Cuddy towards Wilson for not offering her the information concerning our appointment with Nolan and Wilson towards Cuddy for the past six months of her attitude and behavior around not only me but also towards him.

"There has to be something that happened that you're missing," the Dean of Medicine says to my best friend, almost accusatory.

"Yes, of course," Wilson retorts with annoyance, "because I don't live in the same loft with House and cook ninety per cent of the meals. I've only spent the past three days trying to hold him together…." He stops himself, realizing that he has probably said too much. He cringes and looks at the floor, hoping that she doesn't pick up on it—but of course she does.

"What do you mean by 'hold him together'?" Cuddy demands, a concerned frown crossing her face. "What happened?"

Wilson hums and haws as he is prone to do before he relents and spills the beans. "Your little tete a tete on Saturday…you know, the one where he asked you to come alone and you brought Lucas anyway? The one where he told you the one thing he finds the hardest to say to anyone? The one where you lead him on, kissing him back and then slapping him and running back to Lucas?"

Cuddy looks dumbstruck and shakes her head in disbelief. "He told you all of that?" she asks softly. Wilson glares at her without sympathy.

"You have no idea what that did to him," the oncologist tells her. "Look, if you don't return his feeling that's fine. That's your prerogative. But did you have to return his kiss? You led him on only to humiliate him! The Lisa Cuddy I used to know wouldn't have done that to him. I don't even know who you are anymore!"

She is quiet for a moment and her face becomes a blank slate and Wilson has no idea what she's thinking or feeling, if anything at all.

"What happened after we met?" she asks quietly, avoiding his gaze.

Hesitant to tell her everything, knowing that whatever he says is likely to make its way back to her miscreant boyfriend, Wilson hedges a bit. "He fell into a depression, one bad enough that Nolan called us in for a special session. I was there to be instructed on how best I can support him during this time. That's all you need to know—in fact, I've told you too much already."

"I didn't know it would affect him that strongly," Cuddy murmurs more to herself than to Wilson.

"How could you not have known?" Wilson demands in disbelief. "Do you think House goes around and tells people that he loves them every day? He can barely admit to himself that he has feelings at all! I spent the rest of the weekend watching him for fear he'd do something to self-destruct!"

Her eyes widen in alarm, "Like what, Wilson? You had to have had something in mind when you said that!"

"His sobriety was in jeopardy," he admits with his big mouth. "He didn't slip, really…but he could have and nearly did. So help me, Cuddy, if this conversation gets to Lucas or to anyone else, I will never speak to you again, do you understand me? You've hurt him enough."

"You think I would leave here and go running straight to Lucas with this?"she exclaims. How can you say that?"

Looking at her pointedly Wilson reminds her, "You told Lucas about his hallucinations, didn't you?"

The Dean of Medicine looks away from my best friend. She has no other choice but to admit her guilt, but rather than do just that she mumbles, "Lucas never meant to hurt House with that information. He would never intentionally hurt him—they were friends--."

"Bullshit!" Wilson nearly screams at her but then clenches his fists and looks at the floor, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. It takes him a minute but eventually he looks up at her. "Lucas has done nothing but try to hurt House from the day he was discovered in your suite at the medical convention. There are three reasons why you don't know that: one—House hasn't complained or allowed me to do so because he doesn't want to hurt you or create even more distance between the two of than that you've created; two—you have been so cut off from your friends lately you have no idea of half of what is going on around this hospital and you don't appear to care to find out; and three—Lucas isn't going to tell you truth about anything because he is conning you, lady! He is not the stable, dependable, innocent good guy you seem to think he is—in fact, you're the only one in this hospital who sees him that way. Even staff here that have no use for House know what a low-life jerk your boyfriend really is!"

"How dare you!" Cuddy exclaims in fury, her grey-blue eyes blazing. "How dare you slander Lucas with nothing to back up your claims?"

Wilson shakes his head at her in dismay. A bitter smile cracks his face. "Are you really that dense? Are you telling me you haven't heard anything through the grapevine about the rotten things Lucas has done to House and me since we moved into the loft?"

Hands on hips, Cuddy shakes her head. She is indignant. "I don't know what you are talking about? What things?"

My friend the oncologist hesitates, appraising her for a moment. Once he is convinced that her ignorance isn't some kind of elaborate hoax he debates whether or not to tell her about that which I have shied away from telling her myself. He decides to do so. He pulls out a chair from the table for her.

"Sit down," he tells her as opposed to asking her, "and get comfortable, because there's a lot to tell."

With a sigh of frustration she takes a seat and Wilson sits down at the table opposite of her.

"A few weeks ago someone started pranking House and I at the loft," he begins, "except that these weren't your average harmless pranks. First someone put an opossum in my bathtub. Those things are incredibly vicious. I had to hire someone to come in and capture it—but not before it cost a couple hundred dollars in damage. I thought it had been House who did it because of an argument we had concerning my bath tub but it wasn't. Next someone loosened a safety bar that had been installed by said bathtub to make it easier and safer for House to get out of the bath. House was using the tub and pulled on it to get out when it gave way and he went flying backwards. He could have been killed you know? He was lucky that he only was cut on the face by the bar. After that, someone rigged the sprinkler system in the loft to go off in the middle of the night, causing thousands of dollars in water and property damage. Even after that we didn't suspect Lucas until the lowlife tripped House in the hospital cafeteria and set him flying to the floor. Then Lucas stood up in front a dozen witnesses and admitted to tripping House and pulling all of those pranks as payback for our buying the loft out from under you—which, by the way, was my idea and my doing—House had absolutely nothing to do with it! He also did it to mark you as his territory and to threaten House to back off and leave you and him alone."

"That's ridiculous!" The Dean of Medicine begins to protest, even though the expression on her face is one of horror, not disbelief. Wilson doesn't allow her to finish.

"I knew you wouldn't believe me and so did House, that's why he didn't bother to tell you or file criminal charges which he had every right to do," the oncologist tells her. "That and the fact that he didn't want to hurt you because he genuinely wants you to be happy, even if that means you're with Lucas instead of him. I was going to press charges for felony property damage but House asked me not to. He hasn't even retaliated with pranks of his own—do you know why?"

When Cuddy didn't answer Wilson tells her anyway. "Because he really has changed! It's not an act, or fluke. It's not superficial, either. He's no saint and he's still pretty much of a jerk, but he's trying and succeeding. To retaliate he would have to stoop to Lucas' level. If you don't believe me I can give you the names of no less than six people who were in the cafeteria that day and offered to testify on House's behalf should he decide to press criminal or civil charges. If that's still not enough for you, check the security camera records—I'm sure they're still stored somewhere in the hospital system. A picture really is worth a thousand words. Think about it, Cuddy! If Lucas had been the recipient of even one of those pranks from House you would have known about it immediately, because Lucas doesn't care about you or your feelings—he just cares about Lucas." Wilson took a breath. "I wouldn't be surprised if he was the one who made certain you didn't get my message yesterday morning, but I can't prove that—yet."

Cuddy says nothing. She has no argument, no protest. Her face is a carefully crafted mask of impassivity. The only evidence of her emotional turmoil inside is the stiff set of her jaw and the mist in her eyes. Wilson expects her to say something in response to his revelation-slash-tirade but she doesn't. Instead she rises gracefully to her feet and pushes her chair in before striding quickly and confidently out of the conference room. Wilson has no idea what to think about her reaction and decides to put it out of his mind for the time being.

Because he has surgery the next morning, my best friend makes the tough decision to go home for a few hours to get some sleep. After checking in on me--I'm still unconscious but my vitals are a good deal better than they were even an hour before—he drives home, leaving instructions to be notified the moment something in my status changes; he has my medical proxy—they would contact him anyway. As soon as he arrives at home he heads straight to bed, completely exhausted.

* * *

Over night my treatment is largely supportive and symptom driven. My respiratory depression continues and I remain intubated and on a respirator. My bradyarrythmias respond well to the atropine I'm given, as does the myalgia and arthralgias with a cocktail of acetaminophen/parecetamol and Indomethacin. Neurologically, however, I am not doing well and before dawn slip into a coma. The CT scan of my head shows no sign of a tumor, aneurysm, bleed, blockage or inflammation to explain my condition. Labs on atypical heavy metal toxicity come back negative as do those checking for organophosphates and Carbamate toxins. As far as the various forms of food poisoning are concerned the labs haven't returned. The best the team can do is continue to treat my symptoms, fight to keep me stabilized, and keep working at the puzzle.

Sometime around one a.m. Cuddy enters my ICU cubicle and sits with me for about an hour until she is paged and leaves quickly without a word to anyone.

* * *

Wilson is awakened around five thirty in the morning with the news that I have entered a coma with no conclusive results on any of the labs that have come in so far. Unable to sleep after that news, he gets up, showers, dresses and heads to the kitchen for a quick bite before heading back to PPTH. He skips making coffee and grabs a bowl of cereal instead—some bland multigrain mixture that I won't touch with a ten-foot pole. He goes to the fridge to grab the carton of milk. His eyes fall on the partial six pack of beer; he notices two things: one, that he forgot to get rid of the booze in the house immediately after arriving home yesterday and two, that there is one less bottle than before and he hasn't had any beer in the past two days.

Sighing in disappointment, he grabs the milk and closes the fridge door and checks the recycle bin under the sink and finds an extra empty bottle.

"God, House," he whispers to himself, and instantly feels guilty. He knows that I'm an alcoholic who has been drinking recently so while he is disappointed that I snuck a beer after we returned home from seeing Nolan, he blames himself for neglecting to do as he promised and chucking the booze as soon as he could. Later, when he tells me about this I tell him that I am responsible for my own behavior whether or not the alcohol is around.

He takes the milk and bowl of cereal to the table, grabs a spoon from a drawer and then sits down. He pours the milk over the cereal and then scoops up a spoonful and puts it into his mouth. Immediately he tastes something odd and spits the mouthful out back into the bowl, making a face. He gets up and goes to the sink, grabbing a glass of water and rinsing his mouth out. He tries to identify what it is about the milk that tastes off and that's when he remembers what I told him the day before at lunch. I told him that the milk tasted fishy and warned him not to drink it. It begins to dawn on him what is wrong with me. He grabs the milk carton and hurries to the door; grabbing his coat and car keys, he and the milk head to his car.

Traffic is still fairly light so early in the morning; the morning rush hasn't quite started and he makes record time getting to the hospital. Along the way he calls ahead to Chase and tells the younger doctor what he thinks I may be suffering from. He parks in my disabled stall and puts the placard in the window; since I ride with him to and from the hospital more often than I don't, he parks closer this way so I don't have to walk any further than I have to with my bad leg. At a run he enters the hospital and heads directly with the milk to the lab where my Aussie Fellow is waiting for him to run the tests to determine whether Wilson's theory is true. While waiting for the results he heads to ICU to sit with me for a while before he has to prep for the surgery he has to perform that morning.

As he sits there Wilson thinks about how many times in the past he had found himself doing the exact same thing he is now. Each of those times he had feared that this time would be the time I wouldn't make it. Last night he felt the same way, wondering if I'd ever wake up again and if I did what I would wake up to. What permanent damage would I have done to myself this time (I regret every moment of grief I have caused him in the past; knowing now the kind of grief and guilt he felt after Amber's death and my coma following the DBS doesn't mitigate it. What that knowledge does, however, is reassure me that he didn't abandon me out of hatred for me). Sitting here now, he has hope, however slim it may be that I will survive this as I have the other events in the past.

Word doesn't arrive before my best friend is forced to leave me to prep for surgery. Results don't come back until he is in the operating theater in the middle of the procedure. A nurse comes into the OR and says simply that Dr. Chase says to tell him it's Ciguatera. Wilson sighes and smiles behind his mask. He gives the messenger a nod of acknowledgement. It is now known what is wrong with me and although there isn't some magical antidote to the fish toxin wreaking horror with my gastrointestinal, cardiovascular and neurological systems they do now the best way to help me pull through until the toxin has made it through and been eliminated from my body.

Ciguatera poisoning is caused by ciguatoxins produced by Gambierdiscus toxicus , a species of dinoflagellates (algae) eaten by sea fish that live in and around coral reefs that include those found in and around Hawaii, Guam, other South Pacific islands, the U.S Virgin Islands and Puerto Rico in the Atlantic. With the advent of lightning fast shipping and advanced preservation techniques has come the availability of more exotic sea fish to areas of the world that at one time had limited to no access of the varieties that feed upon G. toxicus and then pass the toxin up the food chain. Fish like the Barracuda, grouper, sea bass, mullet, and snapper are the most prone to carrying the Ciguatoxins, particularly the more mature, larger fish that are the preference of fishermen. Fish carrying high enough concentrations of the toxin can cause the illness I am experiencing in human beings. Usually the symptoms experienced are milder than I am experiencing but I happen to be among the minority that reacts strongly to the toxin.

The question is how that toxin ended up in the carton of milk in Wilson's and my refrigerator. Since tropical reef fish and domesticated milk cows do not share the same environment and food in common, and there are no dairy farms that I have ever heard of that process fish alongside milk, the carton was contaminated somewhere after the processing and packaging. Since there have been no other reports of individuals coming down with ciguatera poisoning in the Princeton region, chances are our particular carton was tainted somewhere and sometime after it was purchased at the grocery store and brought to the loft. In other words, someone somehow deliberately poisoned our milk with toxic fish effluent obtained from God knows where.

So, who has the motive and means to do such a thing? Those are the questions I hear being discussed by two male voices as I begin to emerge from my coma and through the layers of unconsciousness, pausing at the level of consciousness just above unconsciousness and just below wakefulness. I can hear the speakers, I know who they are, but I am passive, unable to formulate my own ideas, unable to let them know that I was nearly awake.

"Who would want to do such a thing to House?"

"I have a pretty good idea, but I have no way to prove it."

"Who?"

"This stays in here?"

"Yeah, sure."

"I'm willing to bet it was Lucas Douglas."

"Cuddy's boyfriend? The guy House hired to spy on his team?"

"That's the maggot."

"Obviously there's no love lost between you and Lucas."

"There's a good reason for that. The man is an evil, conniving manipulator and a con artist extraordinaire who's had it out for House since he came back from Mayfield."

"How do you mean?"

"Did you hear about House being tripped in the cafeteria a few weeks ago?"

"Who hasn't…wait, that was Lucas?"

"It was. I know because I was standing there when it happened. Witnesses were everywhere and a security camera was aimed right where it took place. He didn't even try to hide the fact. He proudly proclaimed it for everyone around to hear. He was asserting that Cuddy is his territory and House was to back off or face further demonstrations of his 'superiority'. Little pissant!"

"Why hasn't House filed charges against him?"

"It's complicated."

"You mean Cuddy?"

"Exactly."

"Cuddy can't retaliate if it can be proven--."

"It's not that."

"Then why?"

"…"

"You mean, House is interested in Cuddy?"

"That surprises you?"

"Nah. The sexual tension between the two of them has been blatant for years. Then there was that incident in the lobby last spring."

"Yes, well, House wasn't exactly doing so well then."

"I didn't mean anything derogatory by bringing it up."

"I know."

"But still, he should say something."

"He doesn't want to hurt her. Despite popular belief, House isn't a completely unfeeling bastard."

"I know."

"You do?"

"Well, since this is just between you and I…since Allison left, well, I haven't been dealing with it well. I've become pretty well acquainted with the bottom of a liquor bottle. House caught me alone in the elevator once and in his unique way showed his concern by telling me to see someone about it."

"You mean a therapist?"

"Yeah. He checked up on me a couple of times to see if I'd done it."

"Seriously? Wow. Have you?"

"Nah, not my style. He cloaked it in sarcasm and a threat but I got the impression that he really was concerned about me."

"Thanks for telling me."

"Yeah, well, whatever…Come to think of it, not long before Allison left I got a visit from Lucas. He was hanging around the doctor's lounge. He was encouraging me to fix things with my wife because somehow that would be good for the hospital which would be for Cuddy and somehow House was part of it. I got this bad feeling about him…like he was plotting something."

"I'm sure he was. What I didn't tell you was that his tripping House was the culmination of a series of pranks one of which came damned close to killing him. Each time Lucas had to break into the loft to carry them out. We changed the locks and I called to have a security system installed but they screwed up and now they don't come until Thursday. It wouldn't be such a stretch for Lucas to have broken into the loft again to taint the milk."

"Is he that insecure about how Cuddy feels about him that he'd be willing to risk killing House? Because he came damned close to doing that."

"I don't know…maybe he's just an idiot who's too stupid to know how dangerous his behavior is. It's all moot, really. I have no evidence that he did it, just a suspicion. Yesterday House told me that Lucas can't be beaten by direct onslaught, he has to be tricked into destroying himself."

"Makes sense. So…what's the plan?"

"The plan?"

"Yeah. How do we get Lucas to expose himself as the snake in the grass that he is?"

" 'We'? Does that mean you're willing to help?"

"What else do I have to do with my free time except drink? We'll call it therapy."

"Sounds good to me!" (Laughter) "I wish we could ask General House there what to do. If anyone knows how to plot an operation like this, it's him."

"Oh yeah!"

As I'm listening I am continuing to wake up and somewhere in my sleeping consciousness I understand what they are saying and now I'm trying to wake up. The heart monitor above my head begins to show this as my pulse rate begins to increase, slowly at first but growing.

"Wilson, I think he's trying to wake up," Chase says.

I open my eyes slowly; they move from the back of my head to look blearily up at the silhouette standing right above me. I can feel the lenses of my eyes work at focusing.

"House?" Wilson says softly, giving me a lopsided smile. "Hey, welcome back!"

Without thinking clearly I try to talk and begin to choke on the breathing tube down my throat. I begin to panic, unable to remind myself of what is really happening.

"Easy, House!" Wilson tells me. "You're intubated! Relax! I'll take it out, okay? As I pull it out just keep swallowing, remember?" He skillfully pulls the tube out as I swallow as instructed. I cough a little after. Almost immediately Wilson grabs an air mask, connects it to oxygen and places it over my mouth and nose. "You have to wear this…I'm still concerned about your sats."

"What's…diagnosis?" I ask in a weak murmur, still unable to focus.

"Ciguatera poisoning," the oncologist tells me. "You contracted it from the milk you drank at lunch yesterday. Do you remember?"

I can't remember much of anything for the next day or so. "No…Milk?"

"Yesterday you had milk with lunch back at the loft," Wilson tells me patiently. His face is still contorted with concern. "You said it tasted like fish but I didn't think anything about it until the team started to look into various toxicities including food poisonings. I went home to get some sleep and for breakfast I went to have some cereal and tasted the fish in the milk so we tested it. Someone tainted it after we bought it and brought it home."

"You sick?" I ask after hearing him say he consumed the milk. Things aren't computing exactly right in my brain.

"No," my best friend assures me with a small smile. "I spat it out before swallowing. I'm feeling fine."

I smile, unable to pre-think my actions and keep my feelings of relief to myself. In better health I would not be so obvious. "Lucas?" I ask. I see Chase appear in my visual field. He appears relieved as he looks down at me.

"Can't prove it," Wilson answers grimly, "but yeah. That's who I think did this."

Somewhere in my poisoned brain I think the same thing. "Need to prove," I tell him. "Plan."

"We were just talking about that," Chase tells me. "Any ideas?"

I try to think but as I said, my brain is too scrambled to come up with anything more than, "Have him…prank in front…Cuddy."

"You're not up to another one of his 'pranks', House," Wilson argues, frowning and shaking his head at me in negation.

"No," I say, shaking my head slightly. I'm feeling winded. My O₂ sats have to be dropping without the tube in, in spite of the oxygen mask. "You prank. Frame Lucas. Past pranks…back you up. Call cops—milk, too. Check his trunk… for fish…."

I see Wilson glance at the pulse oximeter display. "House, you need to stop talking now, okay? Your O₂ saturation is down to eighty-six and we'll have to intubate you again if it doesn't rise over ninety again."

I nod, and feel myself fading again. "It will work." I can't stay awake any longer and fall asleep.

Once I'm out, Wilson and Chase look at each and shrug. "What do you think?" Chase asks the oncologist. "Do we go for it?"

My best friend hangs his head for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck and then looks back at Chase with a broad grin crossing his face and making his brown eyes sparkle deviously.

"Hell yeah!" Wilson replies, laughing, extending his hand out to my Fellow. Chase grins, grabs his hand and they shake on it.

"Let the games begin!"

To Be Continued….