CHAPTER THREE: Testing

House has eaten all of his lunch, and is now happily channel-surfing, apparently looking for the loudest, most combative talk show he can find.

Wilson's made arrangements with Princeton General for the studies of House's left leg this evening. He's had to call in a couple of favors, but it'll all be done after hours, and they'll have the preliminary results before they leave the hospital. Now his concern is how House will tolerate the trip and the procedures.

House really doesn't seem to understand yet just how weak he is, nor how long it's going to take for him to regain his stamina. That's fine when he's just taking a few steps around the apartment and Cuddy or Wilson can covertly observe, and casually give assistance as needed. It's another story to add in a car ride and long hospital corridors, as well as the stress of the tests themselves. It's obvious to Wilson that a wheelchair will be necessary; he isn't looking forward to laying down the law on that one.

Wilson's ordered an MRI and radiographs of both legs, as well as an MRI and CT scan of the spine. He's also arranged for an electromyography and nerve conduction study of the left thigh, should it be necessary. Wilson's not mentioning these last tests to House; he's hoping fervently that the painful EMG studies won't be needed.

When the phone rings, Wilson is in the kitchen putting away a grocery delivery, so he almost yells to House to answer it. Then he remembers that they're awaiting lab results on this morning's blood draw. He doesn't think that House's new condition is another infarction, but he knows that House fears it might be—House's anger at mention of a possible infarct had been out of proportion; Wilson had better take this call himself.

After hanging up the phone, Wilson goes directly to the living room, and isn't surprised that House already has his eyes trained on him as he enters. "It's not an infarct," he says without preamble. "I had them run every blood chemistry in the book, and absolutely everything is within normal limits." Now he allows himself to smile at House as he continues, "You are, in fact, amazingly healthy, considering you're so sick."

"Told ya," House responds, as he returns his eyes to the television screen. "You worry too much."

Wilson pretends he doesn't hear the deep, relieved sigh at the end of the sentence, pretends he doesn't see House's eyes close briefly as his mouth curves into a smile. "Nice to have it confirmed, anyway," Wilson says over his shoulder as he returns to the kitchen.

At 7:00pm, Wilson hovers as House makes his way slowly, carefully, out of the apartment and down the concrete steps to the car. By the time he reaches the car, House's hand is trembling on the cane as he waits for Wilson to open the passenger door, and once House is seated he leans his head back and closes his eyes.

Might not have as much trouble over the wheelchair as I thought, Wilson thinks. Even I didn't expect him to be this worn out, this quickly. Maybe I should've let Cuddy know what's going on; looks like I could've used her help.

Wilson had mentioned updating Cuddy earlier; House had been adamantly against it, and, in the interest of peace—and assuring House's continued cooperation—Wilson had agreed not to say anything to her until they had the test results. Now he's regretting the decision. House has been putting on such a good show the last couple of days; guess I forgot how far he still has to go.

When they arrive at the hospital, Wilson pulls up to the door of the doctors' entrance; the wheelchair he'd requested is there awaiting them. He shoots a quick glance at House. They have a five second battle with their eyes, and then House looks away and nods curtly.

When they enter Radiology for the x-rays, House's good behavior is already making Wilson nervous. Wilson is the one who has to speak up when the tech wants House to stand for the first set of films; House was actually going to try to obey the request. He helps House get settled, as comfortably as possible, on the hard metal table, and then he requests a lead apron for himself.

The tech rolls her eyes at him. "Usually, we only let parents stay with kids. I don't think your friend qualifies."

I do. And I'm not leaving him. "Just get me the apron, please," Wilson tells her politely, in a tone that will brook no argument. Had the apron not been so heavy, he's sure she would have thrown it at him.

The first set of films goes smoothly, but as Wilson is helping to reposition House for the second set, he sees him wince sharply. "You okay?" he asks, and is not reassured when House simply nods. Wilson moves reluctantly away from the table.

Before the tech can start shooting the films, House gasps and grabs at his left thigh. The tech commands him, "You need to stay still, sir. Please move your hand." As House attempts to obey, Wilson sees sweat break out on his forehead, and notes that House is biting down, hard, on his lower lip.

Now it's Wilson's turn to issue a command. "Stop. Now," he tells the tech as he moves toward House.

"I need to get these shots, Doctor. Please move back from the table and let me do my job." Her voice is irritated.

Wilson continues to House's side, not even sparing a glance toward the technician. "You will wait," he growls at her. "I'm seeing to the comfort of my patient; that takes priority right now."

"It's okay, Jimmy," House almost whispers; his voice is strained. "I'll be okay; let's just get this done." He's still trying to massage his left thigh.

Wilson shakes his head. "No. You're not going to be uncomfortable unnecessarily." He removes two syringes from his pocket. "It's morphine, five milligrams," he tells House as he swabs the port in the PICC line. "It'll make all this a lot easier." He pushes the medication slowly, then flushes it with the syringe of normal saline as House, slightly puzzled, stares at him.

"What?" he asks House. "If you suffer now, I'll be the one to suffer later; just lookin' out for my own interests." The admiring smirk on House's face means almost as much to Wilson as the gratitude in his eyes.

Wilson waits five minutes, gets a pulse and a respiratory rate, notes that House is no longer holding his body so tensely. "You can continue now," he tells the tech, who sighs theatrically but resumes shooting the x-rays.

As he escorts House into Nuclear Medicine, it's immediately apparent that Wilson's newfound reputation has preceded him; here, the techs treat House like royalty, and look, in deference, to Wilson for his instructions on how to handle this VIP. Wilson is glad of their kindness, but even happier that House is so clearly amused by the techs' fear of mean ol' Dr. Wilson. The remainder of the scheduled studies go smoothly, and House, feeling comfortable and cared for, dozes off in the wheelchair as Wilson anxiously awaits the results, alone.