The room was so crowded, there wasn't space for Wilson, so he sat himself down at the nurse's station and listened, closing his eyes for a few minutes.
At about one, he decided it was time to check on his patient. He wandered back into the room. The music was still going on, quietly, and Wilson was startled to see House holding a guitar and playing along. Every so often, his face twitched as if a pain spasm had hit him, but when Wilson glanced at the monitors, he saw with surprise that, unlike earlier, House's heart rate remained relatively stable.
Thinking back, Wilson realized he'd seen House play guitar before, in addition to piano and drums. He was usually so into the music that he didn't pay much attention to the musicians. No denying it. The guy was talented. Talented and brilliant.
He stood in the doorway, listening contentedly for a while, before apologetically shooing everyone out. The musicians reluctantly left the room, but not before each of them approached House and leaned over to whisper words of encouragement or gently touch his arm or his cheek.
"Bathroom," said House abruptly at about one forty-five. "I've got to pee."
Wilson helped House out of the bed and into a wheelchair. The man was unsteady on his feet, and not just because he hadn't used his lower extremities for a while. He was afraid to put any weight on his right leg, for even a few steps. Grunting, he lowered himself into the chair.
Wilson wheeled him into the bathroom, and then waited hesitantly.
"Do you… uh… need any help?"
House chuckled, the sound echoing off the bathroom tiles.
"Don't think so. Been doing this on my own for years—I'm pretty sure I remember how."
Starting to get the idea of how to interact with House, Wilson said, "I'm sure you do. It's like riding a bike… except that you're standing up and pointing. But you haven't been doing it with a compromised leg."
Although he heard another chuckle resonate off the bathroom tiles, Wilson found himself in a Mexican standoff. House stubbornly refused Wilson's help, and Wilson, just as stubbornly, refused to withdraw it.
Eventually, they came to a compromise. House got the privacy he wanted… but only just so much of it. The door remained partway open, and Wilson stayed right outside in case he was needed. It turned out he was.
"Fuck!" said House after a moment.
"What?"
"You'd better come in here," said House. "But give me a second."
By the time Wilson opened the door, House had washed his hands before re-depositing himself in the chair.
"What is it?" asked Wilson. "What's wrong?"
"That," said House, pointed at the toilet. "That's what's wrong."
Wilson looked and immediately saw what had caused House's concern.
He'd been peeing blood. And not just blood. Tea-colored blood. Waste. His kidneys were shutting down.
They were running out of time to figure this out.
By the time House returned to the room after the x-ray and the CT, so had the pain.
This time, he didn't care whose hand he held.
The whites of House's eyes were tinged with yellow, and the pain kept increasing. Although he could barely speak, he insisted on continuing the differential diagnosis.
Cuddy slipped back into the room mid-afternoon, in time for the results of House's tests. After looking at the x-ray and the CT, Wilson, the oncologist, ruled out cancer, and was relieved. He hadn't relished the idea of seeing this man become one of his cancer patients. But because he had actual cancer patients to attend to, he quietly took his leave.
About five minutes after Wilson left the room, House let out a groan.
"It's getting worse and worse," said Cuddy to no one in particular. She found it almost impossible to see House this way. All she could think about was the charismatic young medical student she had known at the University of Michigan, not this tormented, anguished man.
She closed her eyes for a moment and willed herself back into the present.
"Okay," she said firmly. "That leaves an infection."
"Or something else," said House between groans.
"Or an infection."
"Or something else."
"Or an infection," insisted Cuddy glaring at him.
"Elevated creatinine levels rule out infection," he said through gritted teeth.
"Damn it," said Cuddy, looking away.
Five minutes later, with no more answers in sight, Lisa Cuddy's pager went off, drawing her out of the room and away from Greg House.