The ghosts of Christmas crack 4
No sooner had Gabe and his sofa disappeared around the corner that a heavy hand suddenly clamped down on House's right shoulder. House jumped forward in reaction; Steve scampered to settle on his human's head just as his human made a hasty 360-degree turn to glare at the third visitor.
"Let me guess," House said dryly. "Darth Vader, I presume?"
For House, it was quite an ordinary reaction upon seeing a stranger of medium height wearing a long black cloak. The hood covered the upper half of the stranger's face—what House was able to see looked like it was covered in a shiny back scarf. There was no visible reaction to House's wisecrack; with a twirl of the cloak, the visitor makes way for the entrance to the hospital.
House opted to run for home, but something made him follow the cloaked stranger, who opened the glass-paned entrance into the hospital and gestured for him to step inside.
--
"Well, this is a shocker," House said derisively as he stepped into the reception area of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. "Nothing's changed here—same boring hospital. I want my money back!"
House looked behind him expectantly, but no such luck—the cloaked visitor gave nothing away. What he—House would have to guess that the new tour guide was a male for now—did was to raise a gloved hand to the direction of the elevators. Right on cue, the doors opened and two familiar men stepped out.
House jerked his head up in surprise; Steve squeaked as he momentarily lost a foothold on his owner's head, scrambling to reposition himself on a shoulder.
"Foreman and Chase really let themselves go," House remarked as Foreman passed him. The neurologist was clean-shaven and bald; his smart white shirt and black slacks were now three sizes bigger in order to accommodate the extra thirty or so pounds of fat he had accumulated. The slim, prematurely graying blond intensivist was dressed in a black shirt and faded blue jeans. Chase's hair was cut shorter and he was now sporting a moustache—somehow, the graying and the facial hair added to his appeal, if the fawning brunette receptionist behind the counter wasn't proof enough.
The two men stopped at the reception area as Chase knelt down to tie the shoelaces of his trainers; Foreman placed his suitcase on the floor and started to put on his coat, beret and scarf.
"Weird day, huh?" Foreman asked softly.
"Yeah," Chase replied gruffly. He seemed very intent on his shoelaces.
"Hey, you wanna have dinner with Wendy and me? She making her famous—"
"No thanks, Foreman. I'm good."
Foreman looked concerned.
"You can't beat yourself up about Olivia, Chase—not after five years. Even if you were there, you wouldn't have been able to do anything. Do you think she wants you to live the rest of your life beating yourself up about her death?"
Chase suddenly stood up, hissing in Foreman's face: "How the hell would you know what she wants?"
Chase grabbed his bags from the floor and strode briskly out of the hospital. Foreman ran a hand over his smooth head. "Nice going, Eric," he muttered to himself, shaking his head before he put his gray beret on it.
"Five years," House whispered as Foreman strode through the automatic doors of PPTH. The cloaked guide took him by the elbow and led him to the elevators.
--
"So, Foreman's fat and married, and Chase is turning into an Australian version of myself," House said aloud during the ride to the fourth floor. "I knew he was angsty the moment I saw his handlebar moustache. Remind me to sue him for stealing my look the moment he starts using a cane."
Ping!
"We're here—thanks for the stimulating conversation, Darth."
House followed "Darth" out of the elevator and into the hallway. They passed a familiar glass-walled room, but—
"What the hell?!"
The Department of Diagnostics conference room was—not a conference room anymore. The glass partition was painted with sunflowers and daisies and dark green hillocks. Over the acrylic-painted scenery, House could see bright blue carpeting, miniature plastic houses, rocking horses, three television sets connected to three Playstation consoles and two children running around inside.
House turned to his guide, eyes flared wide in a combustible mix of shock, horror and outrage.
"Cuddy turned it into a daycare center?!"
The visitor nodded.
"Wait'll I get my hands on—"
"Brian, Zoey, your mommy's here," a perky voice called out. It didn't break House from his tirade, but the husky voice calling out "Hi babies!" did.
House turned around and saw Cuddy walking towards him from the other side of the hallway. She was wearing a bright red sweater and tight-fitting jeans—nothing in her figure suggested that she was the one who gave birth to the adorable, dark-and-curly haired toddlers running towards her.
Cuddy knelt down and opened her arms, engulfing her children in a tight embrace. "Had fun?" she asked them after placing a kiss on each child's cheek.
"Yup!" Zoey said brightly. "Claudia and Brian and me played with Blues Clues and played chef and cops n' robbers and then you came!"
"What she said," Brian said solemnly. "Are we goin' home now?"
"Yes we are," Cuddy said, matching her young son's tone. A brief look of gloom settled on her face, which disappeared immediately. "We're going to pick up Grandma Louise from the airport and spend Hanukah with Uncle Matt and Aunt Ruth at their place. Sounds good?"
The twins squealed in delight all the way to the elevators. It was only when the squealing died down that House broke his silence.
"Did she breastfeed them?" House asked "Darth". "Darth" shrugged before walking back towards the elevators.
--
The elevator doors opened just as House was finishing his monologue.
"—so you see, it would be really cool to find out if people noticed that this elevator was in use by other forces when no one else is using it."
As House and "Darth" stepped out of the elevator, the elevator next to them opened as well. Drs. Cameron and Wilson stepped out of it, walking briskly ahead of the phantoms.
"Cameron—and Wilson?" House said softly. Without any prompting from the guide, House ran up the familiar-looking hallway until he was behind them.
Cameron had cut her hair short; it barely reached her slim shoulders, and House could see some strands of gray through the rich dark auburn tresses. She was holding a box wrapped gaily in red and white. Wilson was walking strangely; House wondered why his lab coat was a bit long in the sleeves, reaching up to cover half his hands when his arms were down.
And he was walking stiffly, like—
"Are you okay, Wilson?" a concerned Dr. Cameron asked. Wilson nodded and said curtly, "Slipped on some ice on the pavement—nothing terminal."
Cameron and House went "Hmmm."
"Are they in there with him?" Cameron asked.
"They left to get some air. I told them we'd be coming around and watch over him until they get back," Wilson said. He raised his right hand to rub his left wrist in soothing motions.
"What happened to your wrist?" Cameron asked.
"Oh—uh, the new leather strap of my watch, it gave me a rash," Wilson replied furtively. "I'm going to give the repair place a piece of my mind after the holidays. I got a cream for it, no worries."
The two doctors and phantom stopped in front of room 710.
"Ready?" Wilson asked.
Cameron nodded. She reached out and took Wilson's hand into hers. The action made the sleeve hitch up, uncovering a small part of Wilson's wrist.
"Wilson, Wilson, Wilson," House chided behind them, wincing as he beheld the small section of rope-burned wrist on his friend. "When did you start swinging that way?"
A snort of amusement suddenly exploded behind him. Half-expecting a psychiatric patient loose on the floor, House raised a sardonic brow when he found no-one else behind him but "Darth". "Darth" had cut off his snorting, but his shoulders were still shaking in amusement.
"So, you do have a sick sense of humor," House said snidely. "Somebody get the champagne, quick."
"Darth" kept on shaking in silent mirth.
"Or we'll wait for the New Year's visitor. I'm not pushy."
Cameron opened the door and entered room 710. Wilson, House and "Darth" followed her inside.
House had not been able to peek through the glass walls of room 722 since the vertical blinds were drawn, but when he stepped into the room, he suddenly realized why the hallway was niggling at the back of his mind.
This was the floor—the area, whatever—where he'd been confined after he was shot.
And room 710 just happened to be the ICU.
A feeling of dread settled heavily in the pit of House's stomach as he followed Cameron and Wilson. Wilson blocked his view of the lone patient lying on the bed in the farthest end of the room. Cameron stood on the other side of the bed—the red and white wrapping paper was lying in a small crumpled heap on the end of the bed, between the feet of the mystery patient.
House had a feeling that the patient wasn't so mysterious. He didn't want to pass Wilson and confront the prone individual on the bed, connected to an oxygen tank and assorted medical equipment that were beeping softly, monitoring the patient's vitals. He turned around and was about to walk towards the door when an invisible force started to push him towards the bed.
"I don't want to see—I know who that patient is…" House cried out. He planted his slippered feet on the floor of the room, but it wasn't enough to stop him from involuntarily moving towards the bed.
"Darth" began to laugh hysterically as he began to remove the black scarf from his face.
"I DON'T WANT TO KNOW MY FUTURE, GODDAMMIT!" House yelled.
From the corner of his eye, House could see Wilson's back. The oncologist was oblivious to the hysterical phantoms behind him, looking on as Cameron opened the lid of the unwrapped box. The invisible force began to twist House until he was facing the silent figure lying on the bed.
It was him—Gregory House, lying battered and broken in the intensive care unit of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in a Christmas yet-to-come.
"When are they—who's going to––?" Cameron whispered haltingly. She could not complete her query; she decided to take out the red tie from the box she brought with her and laid it next to House's limp right hand.
"Tonight," Wilson said quietly. "I'm going to pull the plug after Mr. and Mrs. House arrive from their walk."
"Oh God," Cameron choked out. She placed a trembling hand across her face to stop her sobs from coming out. Wilson moved around the bed and placed comforting arms around the young woman. Cameron moved her head into Wilson's ready shoulder and broke down.
Meanwhile, phantom-House turned his head at his guide, who was now laughing like a deranged hyena.
"Shut up! Who the hell are you anyway?!" House yelled.
"Darth" threw back his head, making the hood fall back. House's rage ebbed slightly as he looked into the ruddy face of Joe Luria, the police officer who was brought laughing into PPTH and died screaming in pain.
House swore under his breath.
"WHAT A HOOT, EH, DR. HOUSE?!" Joe screamed hysterically, laughing maniacally. "WHILE YOU CONSIDER WHAT YOU'VE PUSHED AWAY, ALLOW ME TO GIVE YOU THE ULTIMATE IN EXPERIENCING YOUR FUTURE—TODAY!!!"
With that, Joe jumped behind House and pushed him towards his near-lifeless body, making him scream all the way as Joe continued his psychotic laughing…
--
"ARRRRRRRRRRRGH!!!"
House sat up straight in his bed, his heart pumping frantically as he gasped in lungfuls of air. When a large hand was placed on his back, he thought he was about to have a stroke.
"Easy there, boy!" a familiar deep voice said lightly, sending House scrambling to the far edge of his bed until he ended up tumbling on the floor. "You might want to cut down on the coffee, eat some more greens—I thought my worthless brother-in-law paid for your tuition in med school?"
A hearty chuckle followed this query. House carefully reached up and pulled himself to a sitting position, peering at the newcomer over his rumpled blanket.
"Uncle George?!"
"The same," the older man said jovially, rubbing Steve McQueen behind the ears as the rat nibbled on a cracker. He was as House always remembered him: sporting outrageous, graying sideburns and dressed in dark blue jeans, a red checkered shirt and a brown belt. "Get your ass back on this bed and talk to me like a grown man—you're acting like you've seen a ghost."
"Ha, ha, ha—very funny," House said curtly as he hoisted himself up carefully on his bed. Uncle George looked at his grown nephew from head to toe, shaking his head as House reached over and picked up his bottle of Vicodin, taking out two to dry-swallow.
"You letting that white stuff rule your life, boy?" Uncle George asked sternly.
"Well, it keeps the pain away, helps me to function and heal people," House replied, swallowing a bit more saliva to help ease the two pills down their path. "You wouldn't want a doctor who's in pain to treat you, would you?"
"Guess not," Uncle George admitted. He placed Steve on the bed before continuing, "But neither do I want a crackhead for a nephew."
"OUCH."
"It's true, and don't deny it. Just because you're a doctor doesn't mean you're smarter than me, brat."
House just grunted in reply. Uncle George snorted and cuffed his nephew gently on his bewhiskered chin.
"Missed you, brat."
"Missed you too, Uncle George," House replied, and he meant it. Uncle George smiled briefly before turning serious. He reached into his back pocket and produced a folded piece of white paper, which he proceeded to unfold.
"You've been on quite a trip these past few hours," Uncle George began. "The first two are quite solid, but the third isn't set in stone yet. I don't have to tell you that it means it might not come true, but that doesn't mean it won't happen. It can."
"So, why are you here? Are you going to try to turn me into Cameron?" House asked brusquely.
"Don't sass me boy."
"Sorry—force of habit. I blame Cuddy."
"Don't lie to me either," Uncle George said. "But, because you're my favorite sister's only child, I have to do what I can, spare her as much as possible from heartache that you might make in that particular future. So, here."
Uncle George handed over the white paper to House. House took it and read the following:
A Personal Guide
Rehabilitation
Turn around
House looked up at his Uncle in confusion.
"You get to choose," Uncle George explained. "Personal Guide is someone who's going to help you for the rest of your life."
"My own Jiminy Cricket?" House asked skeptically. "I think I've got Wilson covering that."
"Really? After how you treated him these past few weeks?" Uncle George said wryly.
"Right," House replied, rubbing his forehead like he'd had a headache. "The Rehabilitation?"
"Let's say we call this a 'Christmas miracle' and leave it at that?" Uncle George said in a mysterious tone of voice.
"And the Turn around?"
"You get to go back at a certain point in your life and try to make things go better from there."
"And what if I don't choose?"
"Much as I'm tempted to choose for your own good, I'm afraid that the future presented to you by Mr. Luria—what is he, Italian?—will be quite definite," Uncle George said gruffly. "I could also haunt you and make you do crazy things until you see reason."
"No thanks, Uncle George," House said. "I'll pick something from here."
"Good."
Uncle George reached into his other back pocket and produced a silver pencil. "Cross out your choice, then give the paper back to me."
House accepted the pencil, laid the paper flat on his good knee, and considered the options presented to him for a minute. He crossed a line on his choice, folded the paper up and returned it to his uncle.
"Am I going to regret it?" House asked.
Uncle George smiled. "I know you, son. You'll do better."
House smiled back, and settled himself back down on his bed.
"Merry Christmas, Uncle George."
"Merry Christmas, brat."
Coming soon: the alternative epilogues. Happy Holidays!!!