I'm back! Finally! I'm sorry it took me so long to update! Everything in my life is going insane right now! But here's this chapter anyway. The section by House is very lyrical and reads more like an unrhymed poem, in my opinion, than as prose. But tell me what you think!
Thanks so much everyone who reviews!
All my love
Love and Music are Forever
House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D.
Chapter Seven
Midnight, the hospital was mostly silent, except for the outer part of the office of Gregory House. Four very sleepy-looking people were gathered around the desk, they nursed cups of coffee with the distaste that only came from drinking bad coffee far too early in the morning. And the only reason they kept bringing the bitter, dark liquid to their lips was so as to not succumb to their exhaustion.
The fifth occupant of the room was the only one not drinking coffee, probably because he had been the one to make it and knew that it tasted horrible. And also, because some inner fever was keeping him awake.
Half of the white board was filled with his quick, scrawled writing, while the other half remained blank. The heading "differential" was placed at the top, urging some suggestion to be written in the clean space below.
House was anxious. If you couldn't read it on his face, by the half-crazed look in his eyes, then it was obvious from his stance. The way he kept shifting from one foot to the other, well…not exactly the other foot, seeing as he couldn't truly stand on his injured leg, but he would instead lean all of his weight on his cane, then, back again to his good foot.
He held the erasable marker in two fingers and was tapping it against the wood of his cane in time with the clock. The movement was reflexive and he didn't even realize that he was doing it.
The incessant tapping however was driving Chase insane, and he decided that he needed to say something anything, just to get House to write it down so that the clicking would stop for a few moments.
"It could be meningitis." He piped up.
"Wonderful, Chase, seeing as that explains only a few of his previous symptoms, and absolutely none of the ones he's currently suffering from!" House hurled the marker across the room at Chase, who ducked, even though the shot feel terribly short and landed in his coffee, spraying him with the scalding liquid.
"Ow."
"Baby!"
"Shut up, and do the differential." Cameron snapped.
"Ooh," House grinned at her. "Snippy now are we."
"Why are you so comfortable with all of this! He's in there and we don't know what's going on and you're…you're…pretending he's any other patient."
Maybe because that's the only that way that I'll be able to get through this. He thought, but didn't say this aloud.
The caffeine seemed to finally have kicked in for Cuddy, she glanced up and her eyes no longer had the glazed, "I'm-not-really-conscious" look. "RMSF" She suggested.
"One point to Cuddy for actually suggesting a disease that explains a few of the previous symptoms as well as the current ones, you've got one up on Chase…two, actually, you're sexier."
Cameron glared at House again; he faked an admonished look and wrote down Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever on the white board. "Presents with fever and what we've called petechiae could be the traditional rash that it presents with. Possible, but unlikely seeing the platelet count." He said.
"Septic Thrombophlebitis." Foreman said, without ever opening his eyes, he seemed to have the least trouble dealing with this case would any other patient. "Disintegration of the vein that produces platelets would explain his low platelet count."
"A platelet producing problem caused by an error in the platelet production center!" House mocked, writing down the idea anyway. "No shit, Sherlock! Oh, wait, wasn't Holmes white?"
As usual, Foreman ignored the racist comment and went back to dozing.
"Wegner's granulomatosis." Cameron suggested, tersely. "Presents with fever, fatigue, respiratory symptoms, rash, and sometimes heart problems."
"Show-off." House grumbled, but scribbled down her suggestion anyway.
Epstein-barr virus, cytomegalovirus were added to the list after suggestions by Foreman and Chase, respectively.
RMSF
Septic Thrombophlebitis
Wegner's Granulomatosis
EBV
CMV
Each one of them like a warrant for Wilson's execution, a death sentence. Again House had the feeling that the walls were closing in on him that his world was shutting down but he couldn't let that consume him. Not now. He would fight it. He had to find the answer.
He glanced at the board, rubbing his temples hard with his right hand. He was trying to stave off the panic welling inside him.
Concentrate.
"Do a blood culture to check for RMSF, EBV, and CMV, take a chest x-ray and look at the nodular infiltrates and get a CT scan, and an MRI."
Covering all the bases? He asked, that normally wasn't something he did. Testing was going to waste valuable time. He should select the most likely diagnosis and simply begin treatment.
No one argued with him.
They all stumbled away from the table to follow his orders. Wilson would have been the one to stay and talk to him.
He wished he was there.
House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D.
House
What would you say to me?
What would you tell me to do!
Please!
You're always the strong one.
You're the one who knows what to do when I get lost.
Well, I'm lost now.
I feel like you abandoned me.
You were weak.
You can't be.
I'm weak enough for both of us.
You held me when I fell.
And now you're expecting me to pick up the pieces.
You need me.
Need me to be the one to hold you up.
I can't do it!
Don't you understand?
I can't be there for you.
That's not how it works.
I'm the dependent one.
I'm the one who needs you.
I can't be alone like this.
I can't help you.
I can't help myself.
I can't…
I can't…
I can't…
I'm weak…
I'm crippled…
I wish I could do better.
Wish I could be more for you.
I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
Don't look at me.
I can't look into your eyes and say it.
I can't face you.
I can't walk in there again.
I'd feel the world close.
I'd hear you breathing nearby.
Such shallow breaths.
I'd blame myself.
And I can't take that on.
I can't believe that this is my doing.
Even if it is…
I can't do it!
I can't help you!
You need me!
But I can't do it.
I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
I'm so weak.
House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D.
Wilson
He wasn't going to come back, I knew that. I knew he wasn't going to return. So it would be alright. My decision was the right one, I knew it. My heart was so set upon the goal.
He wouldn't be the one to find me.
He'd never be able to come to terms with it if he was.
But I couldn't do this to him.
It tore him apart inside.
It was killing him.
I had to stop it.
I would stop it.
The pills were so close. A finger's length away. It would take no effort for me to reach out and take them. I wouldn't even have to roll over. You'd think that they wouldn't leave so many dangerous things around a terminal patient. Don't they know that we all want it just to be over with?
Maybe some people can fight.
I can't.
I have no one from which to draw strength, I'm alone.
So very alone.
And my existence hurts him.
I reached out. My cold hand clenched around the bottle.
It would be so easy.
The cap snapped off—child-proof? For what child?
Dozens of pills spilled into my hand.
It would be so easy.
…
It was so easy...