As he lay there, Gregory House had nothing to do but think. Which was fine. Apart from playing, thinking was what he did best.
Muscle strain? Had he pulled something? He thought back over the last couple of days. Nothing out of the ordinary. Hadn't felt anything at the time. But today—that was different.
It started as they were warming up backstage. At first, just a twinge, then a sharp stab… then onstage it became excruciating. The kind of pain that rips you to shreds and leaves you weak and helpless.
He only vaguely remembered falling off the piano bench onto the stage and then off the stage and onto the floor. All he could remember was the intensity of the pain. Probably had some bruises from where he landed. Gingerly, he felt his buttocks and back. Yep. Big ugly bruises.
Looking over at Hot Lips, he remembered something.
"Shit!" he said suddenly.
Hot Lips leaned forward.
"What? What is it? Are you hurting?"
"No… yes. Janet. She'll show up at the club to meet me and hear it from someone else."
"Fuck," said Hot Lips, whose real name was Dwayne Simpson. "I never even thought. She's gonna be upset I didn't call her sooner."
"Hey, give her a call, would you? My cell's in my pocket. She's speed dial one."
Dwayne rooted around till he found the cell. When he looked up, Skins was asleep.
He felt a soft hand on his cheek.
"Hey."
"Hey."
Somehow, in the few seconds his eyes were closed, Janet had gotten here. Or maybe it wasn't a few seconds.
A tall, soft-featured brunette he'd met two years ago at a high-priced gig in lower Manhattan, she was a New York health law attorney specializing in patients' rights, which was a good fit with his background.
From the first moment, she was attracted to the lanky, scruffy musician, appreciating his biting wit as well as his talent. Although he had a medical degree, her folks were not thrilled that their overachieving daughter was dating, then living with, a musician who really should have been a doctor, but was just too lazy.
"What time is it?" he asked groggily.
"About five," she replied, looking at him with concern.
"Been here long?"
"Two-three hours, more or less. How you feeling?"
"Just call me Dopey."
"Well, I usually call you Grumpy, so I guess this is an improvement."
He smiled at her. Life had been pretty good since she moved in with him. They were well matched—both extremely bright, with sharp senses of humor. And the sex wasn't bad either.
She squeezed his hand.
"Hungry? Someone came in asking a while ago, but I didn't want to wake you up."
He thought about it a moment, then shook his head. Not hungry. Not sleepy. But that pain was still there, still gnawing at his leg. Maybe he could distract himself.
"Tell me about your exceedingly boring day. Start from when you left the house."
As she talked, he felt the pain increasing. Soon he couldn't concentrate on what she was saying. He tried, but all he could think about was the pain.
"Nurse! Nurse! Help!"
The door whooshed open.
The patient was crying out, his anguished howls wafting into the hallway.
More Demerol was injected into his IV line, but it wasn't enough.
"Better?"
"A little," said House.
"Let me get the doctor," said the nurse.
Wilson's pager went off, and within a couple of minutes, he'd returned to the room. He found the patient writhing in pain while a woman—girlfriend maybe—held his hand tightly, looking anxious. Two men stood helplessly by, one a scruffy little red-haired fellow in his mid-30s wearing a vest and a battered fedora, and the other a tall African-American in his 50s dressed casually in a t-shirt and jeans.
The nurse pulled Wilson aside.
"I gave him more Demerol, but it didn't seem to help. I've upped the dosage to the maximum, but… well, look at him…"
Wilson looked.
The man's gaunt face was contorted with pain.
Quickly paging Cuddy, Wilson came further into the room, approaching the patient. Theoretically, someone else should be handling this case. As an oncologist, he shouldn't be the attending on this case. But he was there when it started, and somehow he felt responsible for seeing it through.
Another few minutes later, Cuddy entered the room. Suddenly, she froze. Her face grew pale.
"I-I thought you said he was a musician," she whispered to Wilson.
"He is," replied Wilson, confused. "He's a drummer."
"No, he's not. He's a doctor. A good one. A really good one." Her heart was beating a little too fast.
Wilson grabbed the chart from the end of the bed. Sure enough. It said that the patient had a medical degree. Double specialty in nephrology and infectious diseases.
"How did you know?"
"He… I-I… We… uh…. went to school together."
She approached the bed. The man with whom she… uh… went to school was groaning, clutching at his right thigh.
"Greg?"
He looked up. For a moment, he couldn't seem to focus his eyes. Then he recognized her.
"Lisa?" he managed to spit out.
"What's happening? What are you doing here?"
The girlfriend glanced quickly from House's face to Cuddy's. She was sharp enough to figure out that these two had some kind of history together, and wise enough not to be bothered by it.
"My leg… oh, God! It hurts!"
"We've just maxed you out on Demerol. Still hurting?"
He glared at her as a small moan escaped him.
"Duh. What do you think?"
Morphine was slowly added to his IV, and eventually the pain faded to a more manageable level. House drifted off into a drug-induced sleep.
"Still think it's muscle strain?" asked Wilson, a little sarcastically.
Cuddy shook her head. Her stomach was in knots.
While she was lost in thought, Wilson's cell rang. It was Bonnie, tired of waiting, saying she was leaving and that he'd have to find his own way home.
The two doctors stepped outside the room, walking together down the hall toward the waiting room. When they arrived, they were surprised to find the area full of people—all ages, all ethnicities—all asking questions. As word had spread about Skins, his fellow musicians, as well as some of the fans, had flocked to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. There must have been ten or fifteen of them altogether, all wanting information about House's condition. Their anxiety showed on their faces.
"Sorry," said Wilson. "We still don't know what's causing the problem. We'll keep you posted."
He hated to leave them hanging. At least with cancer, there were fairly clear-cut answers—either it was benign or it was malignant, cancer or not cancer.
Cuddy's frustration was evident. As she and Wilson headed back down the hall toward House's room, she began to fidget, picking at her manicured nails.
Suddenly she stopped, a few yards from the room.
"I know only one person who could figure this out," she said.
"Who?" asked Wilson, wondering if she was going to suggest importing a specialist from another hospital. The board of directors generally frowned on that, and the hospital administrator wasn't likely to approve it.
"House," she said.
Startled, Wilson stared at her.
"But he's the patient."
"I know," replied Cuddy, taking a deep breath as she headed toward the door.
"But he's the patient!" repeated Wilson, reaching out a hand to stop her.
Cuddy looked him in the eye.
"Wilson, he's the best there is."
"But he's a musician. If he's so good, why is he playing piano downtown?"
Annoyed, Cuddy hissed at him.
"Listen, you want to know how good he is? Here's how good. When I went to school with him, he started a contest, a game really."
"A game?" What did this have to do with his abilities?
"He challenged everyone in the entire medical school to beat him diagnosing rare diseases based on symptoms chosen by the faculty."
Wilson was intrigued, by both the audacity and the unconventional attitude.
"Once a week, the symptoms were posted. The first person to correctly identify what the symptoms added up to got $100. By the end of the school year, House was $1,800 richer, and no one else had any money. No one else even came close."
Now Wilson was more than intrigued. He was impressed. Okay. He'd go along with this.
"You convinced me. Let's go talk to him."