Things always get worse before they get better. At least that's what House kept telling himself. Wilson's condition had remained fairly steady for two more days. Blythe tried her damnedest to help take care of the sick man, but House had refused. Wilson would have a very bad week, but he would live. However, pneumonia is one of the leading causes of death in the elderly. Her just being in the same apartment was risk enough. House attempted to keep her busy with housework or ads for apartments nearby. She grabbed pillows and clean linen when House asked for it and made a different kind of soup for every meal. This was more due to a lack of groceries than anything else. Shopping was next on the "Effective Ways to Keep Mom Distracted" list.
Cuddy had even been kind enough to allow him time off to take care of Wilson. The diagnostics department had been going through a bit of a dry spell as of late, and she figured pneumonia was serious enough to warrant a little bit of a break. It wasn't like he was actually doing any work at the hospital anyway. Plus, House figured, it was a great way for her to escape any potential teasing he might have up his sleeve about her eggs being injected with his sperm. Hey, he had to pleasure himself him a tiny room that smelled like masturbation and antiseptic, then aim for a tiny plastic cup at what should have been the most enjoyable part of the entire process. Cuddy would survive a little private humiliation.
However, three days, four hours, and thirty-seven minutes after House had first diagnosed pneumonia, things took a rather disconcerting turn. Wilson's temperature spiked overnight, 105.3 and rising. Getting the young man in the shower was one of the hardest things House had ever done. He could no longer deny his mother's attempts to help, but still kept her as far away from the sick man as possible.
"Mom, I need you to run a cold shower then go and grab some towels and some clean blankets," he instructed as calmly as possible while Wilson tossed and turned and cried out in fevered delirium. Blythe nodded wordlessly in response before taking off toward the bathroom. House waited until he heard the water running before throwing the covers off of Wilson and lifting him into a fireman's carry over one shoulder. His right leg screamed in protest, not quite ready for the extra weight, but House ignored it. He had to.
Once in the bathroom, House threw open the shower door, eased Wilson down, wrapped his arms around the sick man's chest, and drug him carefully inside. Wilson reacted immediately, thrashing and screaming as the water hit his skin. Not that House could blame him. The water was freezing. House held Wilson tightly, placing his back against the wall and sliding them both to the floor as James begged him to make it stop. House tried to calm him, but his efforts were useless. Wilson was lost somewhere inside his own diseased mind.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there, holding an exhausted Wilson and shaking with the cold. After a while, the younger man had calmed down and simply lay moaning and whimpering in House's arms. His temperature had gone down, but House was still concerned. Something wasn't right.
"Well, Wilson, I hope you're happy. I looked enough like a Raisin already, but this is ridiculous," he attempted to joke. Wilson's breath hitched in response, and House froze, listening carefully. There was another hitch then a drawn out silence before Wilson began to wheeze painfully, his hands suddenly clinging to whichever part of House he could reach. House immediately switched into doctor mode, holding the panic at bay.
"Mom!" he called, knowing the woman would be waiting right outside the door. As expected, she rushed inside with an aura of concern encompassing her.
"Right here," she announced needlessly.
"Turn off the water," he instructed in a slow, calm tone. The last thing he needed was for her to panic. Blythe did as she was told while House slid out from under James and on the ground carefully, his breath still coming in strangled wheezes. House took a hold of the other man's face and tapped it a little harder than necessary in an attempt to rouse him.
"Wilson, hey, hey! Wake up! Look at me! Wilson?" he spoke loudly, his face only inches from his friend's. The wheezes turned into harsh rasps, and House's voice took on a slightly angrier tone. "Damn it, Wilson, come on!" James' lips began to take on a faint bluish hue, and House paused, simply watching as Wilson struggled for breath. His chest wasn't moving. He was in respiratory distress. House turned his head to face his mother, keeping a cool countenance.
"Mom, I need you to get on the phone and call for an ambulance. He's not breathing," he said in the same slow, calm tone he'd used before. It didn't matter, though. Blythe had panicked all the same, running with the speed of an Olympic athlete to fetch the telephone. House then turned back to Wilson, hands still gripping the sick man's face lightly.
"Jimmy? Jimmy, listen to me. You need to breathe. Calm down and take a breath. Come on. Just breathe," House coaxed in the same tone he'd used on his mother. There was no use. Even if Wilson were lucid enough to understand, there would be nothing he could do.
Six minutes and twenty-three seconds later, House had never been so thankful he lived so close to the hospital. He'd dried Wilson off as best he could and wrapped him in the clean blankets his mother had brought, but James' breathing was getting worse by the minute.
"How about driving a little slower next time?" House shouted automatically as the paramedics rushed into his tiny bathroom. The EMTs ignored him, pulling out their portable oxygen supply. House decided they were moving much too slow and ripped the mask away from them.
"Okay, Wilson, breathe," House switched back to his previous tone while placing the mask over the sick man's nose and mouth. House listened as he continued to wheeze, but the rasp eased noticeably.
"Dr. House?" one of the EMTs asked as the others lowered a stretcher to the ground. House looked at them and nodded before backing away to let them work. He spotted his mother watching from the doorway and made his way over to her.
"Mom, I need to go with them. EMTs are idiots by nature. Will you be okay here?" he questioned quickly.
"You go ahead, honey. I'll drive and meet you there," Blythe replied, placing a hand on his arm.
"No. It's three in the morning. You don't need to be driving right now," House protested.
"Gregory, I will be fine, and you are not going to stay in that hospital all night alone," his mother insisted. House made a move to object, but the look on his mother's face halted the idea.
"Fine," he relented. He had no time to fight. "Take Wilson's car. Be careful."
"Always," she agreed. "Don't you want to change your clothes?"
"No time," he replied, gently ushering her out of the paramedics' path as they rushed Wilson from the room. "Listen, wait a while before you take off. Get dressed, get some coffee; calm your nerves. Don't rush. I'll see you there." He kissed her cheek and ran as fast as he could without a brace through the front door before she had a chance to respond.
One hour, thirty-two minutes, and fifty-three seconds after Wilson's impromptu shower, House found himself sitting, soggy and exhausted, beside his best friend's hospital bed with his trusty cane once again by his side. Going too long without a cane or his brace was still a bad idea. Wilson was breathing on his own, but House didn't like the sound of it. All of the important, healthy doctors were at home asleep, so he didn't have to worry about being bothered by any annoying visitors. And it gave him time to think. Something wasn't right. Wilson had been given the absolute best care possible. It couldn't have been better if he'd been in the hospital. He should be getting better, not worse.
"Greg, honey?" Blythe whispered from the doorway. House lifted his head out of his hands and turned to face her.
"Hi, mom," he greeted tiredly. Blythe gave him a wary grin as she stepped inside the room and stood next to his chair.
"How's our boy doing?" she asked quietly.
"Not so good," he replied vaguely. Blythe nodded, knowing it was all the answer she would get for a while.
"Here, I brought you these," she held out a change of clothes and his brace. "Go and change, get a cup of coffee; warm yourself up. Don't rush. I'll stay here with James. You worry about yourself for a little while."
House didn't smile or say thank you. He simply took the offered objects, stood carefully, and made his way out of the room without looking back. Blythe watched him leave, shook her head, then took the seat her son had just vacated.
"I tell you, James, that boy of mine is one great mystery himself."
"Please tell me you have a good reason for us to be here at five o'clock in the morning," Foreman groaned grumpily from his chair in the conference room forty-two minutes and twelve seconds after Blythe's arrival.
"Would I wake you all up in the wee hours of the morning for the sole purpose of torturing you for my own personal amusement?" House questioned in a fake hurt tone.
"Yes," Foreman responded with an expression that said, 'Duh!'
"Well your right," House smirked. All three ducklings gave him a look and moaned in exasperation. "But that's not why we're here." Their expressions were questioning now. "Got a new case." House tossed each of them a copy of the file.
"Why are your clothes wet?" Cameron asked, staring at the garments he had tossed aside as he entered the room.
"What would true love be without a song and dance number in the rain?" House replied in an overly sarcastic manner.
"It's winter," Cameron pointed out.
"Fine. You caught me," House raised his hands in surrender. "Wilson wanted me to take a shower with him this morning, but I told him we couldn't see each other naked until he makes an honest woman out of me. So we decided to just jump in, clothes and all."
"Do you really have to tell us these things? You're giving me nightmares," Chase complained, running a hand through his messy early morning hair.
"Tell your girlfriend to stop asking stupid questions," House shrugged. "From now on, every time one of you asks or says anything that doesn't relate directly to the file in front of you, I'll reveal another naughty little fact about my hot, sweaty, homoerotic sex life."
"Welcome to hell," Chase whispered more to himself than anyone else as he dropped his head into his hands. House ignored him and uncapped his dry-erase marker.
"All right, thirty-eight year old, otherwise healthy, Caucasian male. Symptoms thus far: high fever, severe headaches, muscle soreness, weakness, nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite, fluid in the lungs, and more recently," he left the sentence open as he wrote 'Respiratory Distress' at the bottom of the list. "Differential diagnosis?"
"It's flu season. He probably caught the flu, which in turn led to pneumonia. Simple," Forman said complacently.
"Too simple," Cameron replied. "House wouldn't call us down here at four in the morning for a case of pneumonia."
"Thank you, Cameron, for saving me the trouble of shooting down such a ridiculous suggestion," House told her.
"It's not ridiculous. The symptoms fit," Foreman defended.
"True, but the sudden onset of the symptoms combined with the fact that the patient has been getting treatment for pneumonia for the past three days begs to differ," House argued.
"So they called you in in the middle of the night? It couldn't wait until morning?" Chase questioned, still not quite sure why he'd come in so early. "And you came willingly?" House got a thoughtful look on his face.
"I didn't really have a choice in the matter," he responded. "And since I was already here, I figured we might as well get a head start."
"House, this is Wilson's file. We're diagnosing Wilson?" said a suddenly shocked Cameron.
"Damn. Did I forget to white out his name?" House questioned sardonically.
"You can't treat Wilson," Cameron continued.
"Yes, I can," House argued. "Read the name under Primary Physician."
"That was before you started sleeping with him," Cameron pointed out.
"Except I'm not sleeping with him, so there's no problem," House turned back to the whiteboard.
"Wait a second. You and Wilson aren't sleeping together?" asked a suddenly interested Chase.
"That depends on your definition," House turned back around in frustration. "We sleep in the same bed, together, in the literal since. But if you're talking figuratively, our asses are still virgins." House suddenly looked thoughtful again. "Well, at least mine is. You never know about Wilson. The man is quite the compulsive liar." He turned back to the marker board again.
"Then why did you –" Chase began.
"Because I wanted to annoy you! Kind of like what you're doing to me now! Differential diagnosis," House was rapidly losing any patience he may have had.
"House, you can't take this case. Sex or no sex, Wilson is still your boyfriend. It's unethical –"
"Oh, will you shut up about ethics already!" House turned to her in anger. "I don't give a damn! James Wilson is a patient in this hospital who is suffering from an unknown illness! Now, to me, that sounds like something that a diagnostics team should probably be handling, how about you? Differential diagnosis!"
"I'm calling Cuddy," Cameron would not back down.
"No, you're not," House didn't shout, but kept a dangerous tone.
"You can't take this case," Cameron insisted, standing up slowly.
"It's already mine," House argued.
"Not for long. I'm not gambling Wilson's life on the off chance that you might magically be able to summon up enough impartiality to be able to do what's necessary," Cameron glared sternly then turned on her heels, swung the door open, and marched quickly down the hallway. Chase and Foreman watched her go then turned back to House questioningly.
"I didn't think she'd ever leave," House answered, his voice nearly back to normal. "Now one of you give me something useful."
"How certain are we that this isn't pneumonia? It can become this severe," Foreman offered, glad to be rid of the drama.
"In eighty-year-olds, snotty-nosed preschoolers, and the immunocompromised, not in young, healthy adults. This isn't pneumonia," House insisted. "However, Cuddy is going to want proof, and since you're so adamant about the pneumonia diagnosis, you can go get a sample of the fluid in his lungs as soon as we have at least one better idea."
"All right, meningitis and encephalitis could account for most of his symptoms," Foreman offered.
"Except for the whole drowning in his own fluids thing," House mentally rolled his eyes.
"Not if he had the flu to begin with," Foreman pointed out.
"Yet again your suggestion is ridiculous on more levels than I can count, but, thanks to Cameron, I have very little time to argue. So, on the board it goes."
"Tuberculosis is pretty likely," Chase suggested. "And psittacosis. The children's ward has a pet bird in one of the play rooms"
"I like TB," House said as he wrote it down. "Psittacosis is a long shot without anything similar being reported with the children or staff down there, but it's no worse than Foreman's brilliant idea."
"Typhoid fever or rheumatic fever could do it as well," Foreman ignored his boss' sarcasm.
"Or toxic shock syndrome," Chase added.
"Okay, I like it," House said as he finished writing and turned back to face them. "Here's what we're gonna do, you suggest it, you test for it. If you need me, I'll be in Cuddy's office making sweet, sweet love," he ordered the remainder of his team. Both of them stood and left without question.
For a moment, House simply stood staring at the words on the whiteboard, hating it for the first time. He knew he'd be getting a page from Cuddy very soon. She was going to be pissed over the eminent rude awakening she was no doubt receiving. His leg had been giving him hell ever since his little moment of heroism earlier that morning. The weakness was starting to get to him; the last thing he needed was more stress. Giving a heavy sigh, House picked up the cane he had leaned against the table before his fellows arrived and gave it a few frustrated taps on the ground. Using the thing was the absolute last thing he wanted to do, but he couldn't keep Wilson's overly concerned voice out of his head until he did. Ignoring the pager beeping loudly against his hip, House lifted his marker, and, on the top of the board wrote, "No one".
Well, there it is. I hope you enjoyed it. Any feedback would be wonderful! It keeps my muse happy! Thank you for your time. Chapter 13 coming very soon!