A/N: Hi, kids. As a few of you already know ('cuz I do love to whine), I am currently battling The Cold From Hell, hereafter referred to simply as TCFH. And TCFH is winning, hands down. I've been trying to write, but I'm getting sicker (as a matter of fact, I guarantee that House could beat me right now in an O2 sat contest). So I'm gonna try to give TCFH what it wants, and just rest tomorrow. I'll try to post, but if I don't, please address any nastygrams to TCFH! mjf

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Results

In the morning, House feels well enough to complain about the oxygen, and the aerosols, and the scheduled chest x-ray. Wilson, relieved that they've turned the situation around before it could become serious, tolerates the griping good-naturedly, and even agrees to decrease the O2 to two liters. This pacifies House only until the mobile radiology service arrives.

"Why do we need a chest x-ray?" House asks. "We know it's pneumonia; two out of two department heads agree. Can't we skip the unnecessary dose of radiation?"

When the radiology tech starts to explain that the radiation exposure is minimal, Wilson quickly informs her that House is not the department head of the Housewares section, but of Diagnostics. She wisely refrains from further explanation, but Wilson hears her mutter under her breath, "Doctors are the absolute worst."

Wilson leans over and whispers back to her, "And I assure you, Dr. House is the worst of the worst." The tech completes her work and makes a hasty retreat.

Wilson raises a questioning eyebrow at House, who's been snickering since Wilson's comment to the tech. "Housewares," House explains. "I love a bad pun, 'specially when it pertains to me!" Wilson can only shake his head and groan.

House eats a good lunch, then settles on the couch to watch his soaps. The TV hasn't been on even five minutes, though, when he falls asleep. Wilson's noticed that—since the discussion of House's recurring nightmare—House has shown no further reluctance to sleep. The naps that he'd previously been denying himself during the day are now becoming a regular part of the routine. In Wilson's opinion, that can only help speed up House's recovery.

But this time, it's different. As Wilson walks through the living room, a glance over at the sleeping man causes Wilson to freeze where he stands. House's face is contorted, his teeth are clenched, and there's a line of sweat above his lip. He's pulling his left leg up towards his chest. As Wilson watches, House's eyes open wide and both hands go to the left thigh. But before Wilson can cross the room, House's hands relax, and he straightens out the leg. He shakes his head at Wilson; he looks puzzled.

"What was that?" Wilson asks quietly as he approaches the couch.

"Not sure. I guess I was dreaming that my leg hurt. But when I woke up, it was fine. Weird." House moves to a sitting position, and rubs experimentally at his left thigh. "Doesn't hurt at all."

"Do you remember what you were dreaming about when it started?" asks Wilson as he checks the muscle; it seems fine.

House thinks about this, then says, "No idea." His expression becomes mischievous, teasing. "I got it! I've been grieving the loss of the pain so much that my subconscious decided to make me feel better by letting me dream about it. Too cool!"

Wilson is not amused. "No. I saw your face before you woke up. You looked like you were in agony. It was real."

"Oh, relax! Maybe I hit my leg on the couch or something."

Now it's Wilson's turn to be amused. "Yeah, those sofa cushions and all those pillows can be murder on the joints. Gotta be real careful near those soft, round objects." He grows serious again. "Everything I've ever read indicates that pain incorporated into dreams is actual pain that's disrupting REM sleep. You're certain you're okay?"

The look on House's face can only be called patronizing. "Let me get this straight. You're upset because I'm not having a problem. You're concerned that I'm not currently in pain? Sorry that I'm… uh… comfortable. If it'll make you feel better, I'll try to arrange for an abscessed tooth or something…."

Wilson has to laugh at that. "You're right; it's ridiculous to worry that you're not in pain. But that was… strange."

House shrugs and turns to the television, the odd occurrence forgotten.

But just half an hour later, Wilson thinks that the weird dream may simply have been a harbinger—as he enters the room with a fresh bag of TPN, House is rubbing angrily at the left thigh, and this time he's definitely awake.

House looks up at Wilson's entrance. "Hurts for real this time." He tries to smile. "Happy now?" House asks, but the weak attempt at humor dies on his lips when he sees the concern etched across Wilson's face. So he looks away, and decides to be honest. "It's gonna be a bad one."

Wilson wonders if House is asking for the morphine to be administered before the spasm can get out of control. "Should I--" Before he can finish the question, House nods sharply.

Before he leaves to prepare the med, Wilson goes to the couch to see if he can help House position himself more comfortably.

"Don't touch me," House grinds out, as he curls himself protectively over the leg. "Just get it." And Wilson knows this is going to be the worst one yet.

Wilson returns as quickly as he can with the morphine. He's got two 5mg syringes. He'd like to keep the dose to a minimum; this is not the time to be depressing House's already-compromised respiratory effort. But it's also not the time to be second-guessing his degree of pain, so Wilson's prepared, either way.

House has already reached the point in the spasm where all ten fingers are still and white, dug deeply into the muscle. His eyes are tightly closed; he's trying hard to control his breathing, but it's coming in anguished gasps.

Wilson knows that House will hear him only peripherally, but he speaks calmly anyway. "I'm pushing the med now," he says as he swabs the port and inserts the syringe. "It'll start to ease up soon." He murmurs all the soothing nonsense he can think of as he watches House's face and continues to administer the dose.

"You're doing real well controlling your breathing; keep it up. Got about 3mg in now; should be hitting the spasm. Breathe. I'm right here; you're doing good. Relax your hands, let the med work. Just go with it. And breathe again…."

House obediently pulls in a breath, and his hands move slowly away from the leg. His eyes are still tightly shut, but the lines of his face are beginning to relax. He takes a few more breaths before he speaks. "Okay. It's bearable. Wasn't as bad as I thought." He opens his eyes and looks at Wilson. "Thanks."

Not as bad as you thought? Bearable? Oh, God, House—you can't live like this! It's not fair; gotta find out what it is. Gonna fix it. Wilson tries to imbue his voice with confidence as he answers. "We should get the test results back today; we'll know what it is. We'll take care of it. Promise. Just… hang in there, a little while longer."

House smiles sadly. "Shouldn't make promises you can't keep," he says softly, and the discouragement in his voice twists at Wilson's heart.

House looks directly at Wilson. "Been thinking. There's been no improvement; if it were an injury, it'd be better by now. If the tests don't show anything, I… want you to do a biopsy."

"No! We'll figure this out; that won't be necessary! House, I--"

"Be objective," House interrupts flatly, harshly. "If I were any other patient, what would be your next move?"

"But you're not any other…." Wilson's voice trails off. He lowers his head, pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Ten seconds of absolute silence pass, and then Wilson sighs. "A muscle biopsy. We'll have to wait about ten days because of the EMG. That'll give me time to find someone to do the procedure."

"No. I said I want you to do it." There's a plea in House's eyes that he can't voice, and that Wilson can't turn down.

"Okay. I'll do it. Maybe… maybe it won't come to that. We've still got ten days for this to resolve." But Wilson doesn't even try to put hope in his voice; he won't insult House that way.

Both House and Wilson are subdued the rest of the day. When Cuddy arrives, shortly after 6:30, Wilson pulls her into the kitchen and updates her. She, too, is shocked and saddened by House's request, but she understands why Wilson has agreed to it.

"I'll take care of him this evening, get him settled for the night," Cuddy offers. "Try not to worry too much. Call me optimistic, but ten days is a long time; something might still change."

Wilson gratefully accepts her offer—and her optimism. Now that the initial shock has worn off, he's daring to hope again for a less drastic answer.

When the courier arrives that night, Cuddy is just leaving House's room, and she's smiling. She'd allowed House to remove the oxygen an hour earlier, and he's maintained his sats at 95 percent on his own. He'd managed a good cough effort after the aerosol treatment, he's moving air well—and he'd gone contentedly to sleep after trouncing Cuddy soundly in a game of gin.

Wilson's happier, too. He's made use of the time Cuddy's given him to do extensive research into the differentials on House's leg pain, and he doesn't think that even the muscle biopsy will reveal anything that can't be treated. So when the courier hands him an envelope containing the test results, he feels no sense of foreboding.

Wilson closes the door and moves to the couch to open the envelope. He quickly scans the cover page, and his face goes pale as Cuddy hears him whisper, "No!"

Cuddy starts towards him as he tears almost frantically through the pages of final results. As she's about to ask him what they show, he stands abruptly, scattering the papers, and heads to the kitchen. He's shaking his head, and repeating, "No; it can't be. No!"

Alarmed now, Cuddy reaches over and grabs the cover letter. She skips rapidly to the last few lines, where she's aware any diagnoses and recommendations will be. Her eyes widen as she reads, then she lifts her head, and listens. And she hears Wilson pick up the phone.