A/N: The Spanish in this chapter was made possible by the wonderful translation site Babelfish. Hopefully utilizing that site and the smidgen of six years of high school Spanish I still remember helped me get it right.
Thanks to everyone who is just reading (that's fine) or reading and reviewing (that's good too!).
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
-2-
The corridor is bustling with activity. Over here, two nurses rush into Room 23, their faces masks of solemn intensity. More commotion in Room 25: a small group of Plainsboro's finest work to revive some wretched wreck. An aide barrels past House with a crash cart. More rushing, pummeling footfalls. House does his best to hobble/skitter out of the way, hoping no one will grab him and attempt to do something really dumb like enlist his aid.
He keeps moving. Somewhere a monitor squeals a death knell, making the little hairs on his arms stand straight and tall. He whips his head in the general direction of the sound, but doesn't allow himself to stop, afraid what he might see will give credence to his fear. But aww, too bad. The Smell grabs him in a choke hold. He gags, shuts his eyes tight, sees a great gray field dotted with skulls, skeletal torsos, smoky remnants of a blaze long gone.
Death.
His eyes snap open. His breath hitches in his throat. With one finger he wrenches his collar away from his neck and stumbles back into the wall. His breaths escape him now in slow, sharp bursts.
Keep breathing, just keep breathing.
"Dr. House." A pudgy nurse, whose name escapes him grabs his arm. "Can I help?"
Removing his finger from his collar, he leans forward, so close he is almost nose to nose with her, and gives her a somber, bemused look. "Can you smell that?"
She studies his face, her expression a mix of surprise and something else. Pity? Fear?
"I'm sorry, Doctor. What kind of smell?"
"Forget it. Just...forget it." He pushes off the wall, nearly colliding with Nurse Whose Name He Has Forgotten, weaves an uneven pattern through the tumult and heads toward the elevators.
--
"Nice of you to grace us with your presence." Cuddy stands behind her desk, those dark eyes searing through him. House has long surmised that with the right leather teddy and whip she'd make a perfect dominatrix. Now is not the time to tell her so.
"Got caught up in a little traffic jam."
Each member of his team has found a place to idle. Foreman leans against the bookshelf, Chase rocks on his heels over by the ficus tree, Cameron has settled by the wood paneled wall, which is boasts a collection of photos, diplomas and citations.
"Where?"
"Second floor. Lots of hustle bustle up there."
"I thought you were in your office," Foreman said.
"I was."
"Then what were you doing on the second floor?"
Hmmm, diagnostics is on the-sixth floor. All that crazy, kooky death stuff is on floor number two...two...two. How'd you get there? Elevator? Stairwell? Don't remember? Woah, you're losing it, kiddo...
He considers allowing that low moan lounging at the back of his throat to escape, to clue them all in to how debilitating this fright is. But he doesn't need their questions or an overload of Cameron's compassion. Instead he presses his lips into a thin line, tightens his grip around the head of his cane and seats himself in front of Cuddy's desk. "Got a nose for trouble. Figured maybe I could help," he lies, making his tone as light as he is able. "Speaking of noses-" His gaze soars to Cuddy, then the trio, before landing on Cuddy again. "You smell that?"
"What?" Cuddy sighs, shifting on her heels.
"Bad smell." House shakes his head. "Very ba-aad."
"I don't know what you're talking about, House." She rolls her eyes. "There's no bad smell."
"Good." House smacks his hands together, leans back, gracing them all with a wide grin. "That ends that. So what's up?"
Foreman edges closer, leans in slightly to give House a ten second once over. "What's it smell like?"
A shot rings out, then another. "Come on." You try to keep up with your father as he races ahead in search of the buck he has just killed. The heels of your hiking boots crunch against dried twigs and dead leaves as you run, run, run. You're almost out of breath but you can't slow down. It's important, no...imperative, to keep up the pace as your dad barrels along. Your eyes are set firmly on the old man's orange hunting jacket as he deftly navigates around tree trunks, disappearing into the thicket before reappearing in the brush. You don't want to lose him. The thought of being lost in the woods terrifies you. But you're slipping behind. Don't fall behind. Don't fall-
But you do fall...sliding into the rotting carcass of a deer. Some animal got to it before you but never finished the job. The remains smell impossibly putrid, unbelievably foul almost like...
"...a body that's been left out in the desert heat for about a week, then sprayed with some unbelievably potent cologne," House tells Foreman.
"Phantom smells? Foreman hitches a brow. "How long have you had them?"
"They started today." He waggles a finger in Foreman's face. "Ah, Herr doctor, you're thinking brain tumor."
"You could have one." Foreman shrugs, fingers dancing over the penlight in his lab coat pocket. He pulls it out, clicks it on. "Let me do an MRI, check you for a Parosmia. If a tumor is pressing on part of your olfactory-"
"Shut up and put that damn light away," House grumbles. "We're not here for me."
House knows his staff, and the neurologist is not interrogating him out of the goodness of his heart or because he truly cares about big bad Greg's well being. Foreman smells a case. And treating his boss...well, that would be one hell of a coup.
"Besides," House continues, "It doesn't matter."
"Sure it does."
"House, you will let Foreman schedule the test." Cuddy folds her arms across her chest. "Stop being such an ass."
"It's a waste of time." Of this he is suddenly certain. "But bless you, Mistress," he coos. "It's good to know your love is true."
Cuddy snorts, looks at each of them in turn. "We have something of a dilemma on our hands."
No kidding. House bumps the nub of his cane against his sneaker.
We've had three patients die over the past couple of hours." The administrator rubs her brow before continuing. "Not one of them was critical when admitted. But all of them ...went in the exact same way, within minutes of each other."
"How?" House asks. The tremor in his voice is slight, almost indiscernible.
"Respiratory failure, heart failure, kidney failure. Everything shut down at once." She pauses, straightens some papers, which were already in a neat and nice stack on her desk. "It's like they were clicked off, like someone decided to...flick a switch."
That grating laughter plays in his head again. Like fingernails down a greenboard, the whispery hiss sends chills joyriding up and down his arms.
"There will be autopsies, of course. But I'd like you and your team to go over the patients' files." She lifts a stack of folders from her desk and walks them over to Cameron. "See if you can find some kind of common denominator."
House shifts in his seat, raising his eyes, not wanting an answer but asking the question anyway. "What happened on the second floor?"
Cuddy shakes her head. "There were five close calls. No one died. Mr. McMurphy in Room 27 flatlined for a little over a minute. They got him back."
House grips the edge of Cuddy's desk, pushes against his cane to bring himself to his feet. "Start going over those files," he tell his team on his way out. "I'll meet you upstairs later."
"Where are you going?" Foreman asks.
He stops at the door. "Thought I'd check in on the flatliner. Maybe he can clue me in to what they're wearing in the afterlife." He adds, "There's something to be said for being prepared. Having style is oh, so important." He winks. "Anywhere."
No one even chuckles as he walks out.
--
The janitor with the gauze wrapped hand pushes the cart past the reception desk. Secured to the cart is an aluminum pail; ammonia scented water sloshes up and back against its edge. A mop sits in the water, its handle slanted eastward. The man sighs and slows to a stop in front of the expansive picture window, causing the mop handle to pong once against the inside of the pail. He rubs two calloused fingers of his good hand on the base of the crucifix around his neck. Occasionally his lips move in what is perhaps a silent prayer. From the look of it, today hasn't been one of the guy's better days. He has been hurt, burned. Sterile pads dot his neck, the bony area just beneath his ear, on his cheek, just above his brow.
House takes it all in as he ambles toward him. The plan is to pass him, head to the elevator that will bring to the second floor. But as he moves along, he can't help catch the man's entreaty to a god that, if He exists, probably has better things to do than listen to such nonsensical babble. Murmuring his prayer in an anguished mix of Spanish, English and Portuguese, the man might have spent the rest of the day in reflection if House hadn't whapped his cane against the side of the cart.
"Where the hell is my WD40?"
"Madre del Dios," the man exclaims. He fixes House with a despairing look, then bursts into tears.
"Oh, stop it" House takes a quick step back, flustered. More tears. Damn. Why do they have to cry? What good does it do? "My chair squeaks. I need the damn thing-"
"El olor," the janitor whispers.
House's heartbeat accelerates. His temples pound in time. He would like to leave, just get on his Honda, gun it and roar off down the road.
"El olor." This time the words are an entreaty of a different kind.
The smell.
"What's your name?"
"Manuel."
"Manuel." House moves closer. "What do you smell?"
The janitor gives him a blank look.
"House tries again. "Qué huele usted?"
"Putrefaccion," Manuel's voice cracks, his gaze moving past House, toward the entranceway.
Rot.
"Hedor putrido."
Putrid stink.
"Muerte."
Death.
"Y perfume enfermizamente dulce."
And sickly sweet perfume.
"Where?"
"Por todas partes!" Manuel lifts his hands then drops them to his sides.
Everywhere.
Manuel sobs again, his gaze accusatory, livid. Scared.
House's right hand trembles as he puts a bit more pressure the cane. Forcing himself to maintain an air of calm, he keeps his gaze steady on the janitor. "Tell me what happened to you."
Manuel rambles, waving his arms, his words spilling and tumbling out in a Spanish/English/Portuguese mess. From what House can piece together, Manuel had been in the supply closet with two other maintenance workers, gathering his buckets, disinfectants, brooms and mops for the day's work. Suddenly a terrific stench filled the room, which neither of the other workers smelled. How could such a strong, terrible odor go unnoticed in a room so small? This frightened him. He wanted to leave but the door was stuck. It was stuck! And the smell was so bad. The others just kept working, talking about their wives, their ninos, not listening when Manuel cried that they were trapped in the supply closet with the very bad smell.
That was when one of the jugs of lye soap, way on the top shelf, started to jiggle. The jug jiggled harder and faster, dancing a happy little dance. Oh, but Madre del Dios, Manuel knew there was danger in this. Muy peligroso. Maybe the jug next to it caught the madness, la locura, since it started dancing too. Manuel didn't know what to do except hide in a little corner and hope the jugs didn't fall. But they did fall; their bottoms cracked and lye splashed all over the floor, splattering skin, trouser legs, darkening the light gray cotton of his uniform. There were screams and terrible, terrible cries. His friend Joaquin got the worst of it, burns all over his arms and face. His lungs were hurt bad too and he is in the hospital now. Dominick had to have all his hair cut off because of the burns. Some of the lye got into his eyes. He can't see out of one of them.
"I am lucky, Dr. House," Manuel says in passable English. "I can work. The others?" He shrugs. "Quien sabe?"
Who knows?
House responds with a small grunt, watching two twentysomething women and a seventysomething man stroll into the reception area. They smile at each other, chat about the lovely weather, complain goodnaturedly about the traffic they were forced to endure to get here. The old guy makes a joke and the women titter like birds. They are having a good day.
"Dr. House." Manuel hands him a small yellow can. "I am sorry."
House studies the WD40 Manuel has given him, turning it this way and that like it is some alien artifact. "Come to my office." He holds the can in the flat of his palm, foisting it at the janitor. "Fix the chair."
Manuel shakes his head and sobs again. "I am sorry," he breathes, moving on, rolling the cart, bucket and mop down the hallway. "I am sorry."
--
The stench is so awful, House must steady himself against the wall outside of Room 27 and wait for the churning in his gut to abate before he can consider venturing inside the room. He swallows hard, presses the can of WD40 to his chest like a talisman. He thinks, he puzzles, wracks his brain over the smell. Bad, horrible, abysmal, each of the adjectives apply. But not knowing why the smell exists is even worse than the odor itself.
The head nurse passes him, three LPN's tagging along behind her. They go about their business as if it's just another day in paradise and that, la-de-da, nothing is wrong. Their attitude is infuriating but, more than that, it scares the crap out of him. The urge to smack each of them upside the head with his cane is nearly irresistible. As they saunter past, they grace him with their curious, somewhat acid tinged glares but nothing more. No compassion, no "How can I help you, Dr. House?" Nothing. Years of intimidating and alienating almost the entire nursing staff (except Pudgy No Name Gal and Night Nurse Myrna) has given them every right to treat him with disdain. But he wishes they could make one small exception-just for today.
He is surprised by his internal sniveling, but rationalizes it by telling himself that fear really has done a job on his head.
Getting your own back is no fun, is it? And did you really think this would be easy?
The underlying sweetness, that flowery (funereal) scent makes the putrescence that much worse. But at least now he knew he wasn't the only one imagining things. Manuel confirmed that for him.
"Es tiempo, Dr. House." Manuel's voice plays in his head.
It's time.
House swallows thickly, his heart beating a mean series of paradiddles against his ribs. A thousand unlikely scenarios of what he'll find when he enters the room take residence in his head. He ambles one step closer then stops to stare at the group of nurses disappearing down the corridor, Slowly, he reaches into his shirt pocket, his fingers brushing the empty Vicodin vial. Shit. He forgot to renew the scrip. He considers making a quick trip to the pharmacy, but something tugs at him,
(seductive, irresistible)
moving him closer, closer, until he is a breath away from Room 27. Softly he counts to ten, allows himself a tiny, tremulous groan...and pushes open the door.