-7-

"Shift"

She wonders why things work out the way they do. Why three children from different parts of the state were brought in today, all suffering from the same symptoms, each one's parents hoping to get an audience (an audience!) with House?

These thoughts are Cuddy's constant companions as she sifts through the paperwork on her desk.

Fevers that seemed to arrive and depart on some strange set schedule had stymied the children's pediatricians. After running series after series of inconclusive tests, they were probably more than happy to send their patients and their parents to Princeton-Plainsboro, with implicit instructions to consult with the venerable Dr. House.

"He's on vacation," Cuddy told each one in turn, which prompted them to squawk in disbelief like disgruntled barnyard fowls. Her office seemed to shrink a little with each complaint batted her way.

After assuring them their children would be cared for by the most able physicians on staff, she passed the cases on to Foreman and the rest of House's team. The doctors were more than up to the task, she told herself. After giving them the file folders and a pep talk, she high-tailed it out of Diagnostics. She was not in the mood to bear witness to a passel of long faces and mutterings of misgivings. You need to be confident, she told them. Your diagnostic skills have been honed by the best and now it's time to put that education to good use.

What she wants is to call House and get his take on these cases. Instead she pages Wilson and asks him what he thinks she should do. He enters her office looking tired, swiping a lock of hair from his brow. He leans his hands on her desk and in a weary, emphatic tone tells her House is on vacation and to leave him be.

"Make too much of these things and he gets to thinking he's indispensable," Wilson continues. "We'll never hear the end of it when he comes back."

"But this case is right up his alley," Cuddy murmurs, then asks, "Don't you wonder what he's up to?"

He presses his lips together and looks away. For a moment she thinks he might leave her office without replying. But then he lets out a long breath, swipes that errant lock of hair away again.

"Yes," he tells her.

There should be stars, he thinks, floating in the blackness. Stars, the moon...throw in the other eight planets...how 'bout the Milky Way?

He floats. The universe turns.

Closing his eyes would be nice. Maybe then the vertigo would leave him, that rumblin' in his tumblin' might ease. But he can't seem to do it.

Palms clammy...breathing shallow...

He decides he wants out but doesn't know how to make it happen. He is afraid to look down.

Afraid what you might find?

He shivers against the cold as he drifts...and slowly...goes...numb.

After what feels like a millennium plus an hour or two he hears a voice. It is indistinct and he can't quite make out words but he has a feeling that voice has been here all along. It's just now soldering the wires, plugging in the leads.

He has to admit, it's good to know someone else is out there.

You think? That voice could be the introduction to your worst nightmare.

If he has to make a choice, he'll take the voice over being lost in the void.

Dr. House?

The voice knows him. Ni-ice. Maybe it can 'splain some things: like why the last thing he remembers is following the jittery Asian guy through a doorway behind the cash register. Big mistake. After that it was lights out, night, night.

Dr. House?

He blinks at the face floating into view.

It's okay. You're okay.

If you say so. He can't seem to find his lips, his tongue, his vocal cords...

It will all come back to you momentarily, this guy tells him, as if reading his mind. Take deep breaths, concentrate on my face...I'm holding your hand...can you feel your hand in mine? Just...breathe...concentrate...

The guy has a shock of curly black hair, a nose like Judd Hirsch and big cow eyes. His smile is supposed to be a comfort but it's somewhat twisted, self satisfied, a smirk, as if he just got away with robbing First Federal.

House's hand twitches. He feels the warmth of a meaty palm against his, the weight of a hand on his brow. His mouth opens, a soft moan emerges. This is cause for celebration.

"Very good."

His leg throbs. Needs his pills.

"Deep breath. In...and...out."

The realization hits him that something about the voice is wrong. It seems to come at him from nowhere yet everywhere, a ping pong ball from an ancient video game, bouncing wildly around the blackness.

He does his best to disregard this as he does as he is told, breathing in the air that smells like metal and chemicals and heat. After a few moments he feels better, more grounded. His extremities have weight and substance; his heart pounds, assuring him this deep black hole is not death's door but simply a page ripped from his itinerary. Despite the pain, despite little nips and twinges of fear, he is excited...his interest piqued, its needle trembling in the red. With his new friend's help he manages to wobble to a standing position...

...and immediately throws up. His breakfast spew makes a glorious slow motion arc into the void. Those retching sounds are like cries of an animal left out in the wilderness to die.

His pal gives an amused yet sympathetic click of his tongue, seemingly unperturbed, like this is something that happens all the time. Eyes watering, chest burning, House reaches for something...anything to steady himself against the unrelenting pain in his leg, the weakness assaulting the backs of his thighs and knees. But there is only The Nose, this curly haired geek, who has now become his only ally against this alien landscape.

"I'm Garrett. We spoke on the phone." The guy has him around the waist and is turning him toward the light, toward the

cotton candy

six oh, so delicious looking squares of orange, green, pink, blue, red and yellow.

"I'm dreaming," House sways and Garrett steadies him.

"No. This is what you came here for."

Turning to face him, a giggle rises from House's throat, mixing with the lingering taste of barf. "You sound like you just took a pull of helium."

"And you sound like you're in an echo chamber."

"Uh huh..."

"Funny old place, ain't it?" Garrett says. "Look at the lights."

"Explain," House says but does as he's told.

"We'll have time for that later, when you're not so insane in the membrane."

They're both laughing now, the sounds swirling and twirling like cherry lights on a squad car.

"Pick a color," Garrett waves a hand at the Cubes, reminding House of a game show host offering up a magnificent prize. "Any one you like."

Blue...cool as the sea, a place to rest your head...but green is a forest...good place to hide ...trees and scrub, and...orange...taste of a Creamsicle...or a fruit of the grove...orange liqueur...Wilson uses it for cooking...sometimes...makes the chicken sweet...orange chicken...

Wilson...what's he doing now...what could he be-

"Wakee, wakee, Dr. House-"

House's head jerks up as he snorts back the tail end of a snore. One hand grips Garrett's sleeve. Right leg throbs a reminder.

...red is for pain, for passion, for cool cars, for Bob Mitchum's noir gal (say ahhhhh...), mingle red with black for a taste of mystery

"Red," House croaks.

"Go for it."

Garrett steps back, giving House room. House dips into his jeans pocket, wraps his fingers around his vial, takes it out and shakes it. The sound is like the deep chug-a-chug of a locomotive rattling down the tracks.

"Give it a few minutes before you medicate yourself, Doctor."

House gives him a look.

"You may not need to."

"Are you're going to tell me to walk it off? Sorry, mama's old time cure-alls don't work on chronic pain from muscle death." He palms two pills, readies them for take-off.

"If you want to get the most out of this experience," Garrett's eyes are huge, as black as the surrounding floors and walls, "you're going to have to trust me."

House opens his mouth to receive the pills. He lifts his hand but finds to his dismay, the meds have vanished. With a start, he jabs his hand into his pocket and nips the end of his tongue to squelch a cry.

The vial, she is gone.

His gut clenches as he attempts to tamp down a slowly rising panic. "I've made a mistake."

"No, you haven't."

"Give me my meds. I'm leaving." House strains to see through the blankness and finds nothing. Down is up, up is down, except for those Cubes, which glow softly, pulsing with life, drawing him near. The red one beckons, a beacon brighter than the rest. So alive...Before he realizes it, he is nearly there.

"Trust me," Garrett says, "Take a step. You won't be sorry."

"So you've said."

Garrett seems to float through the dark, one hand extended toward House. "You won't need your cane. I'll take care of it."

"No, thanks." House's fingers wrap around the crook of his cane in a death grip, while his other hand makes a trip across the surface of the cube. The exterior is smooth, cool and responds to his touch with a series of bumps and a kick, like a fetus pushing against a womb. There is no opening. None that he can see, anyway.

Take a chance...

Surrender comes easy when the situation is so...out there.

Calypso Is Like...So

He hopes his records are safe behind that counter; he hopes Wilson is toiling under the weight of another boring day. He hopes whatever is next in this rabbit's den of acid flashbacks is even more intriguing. Weird is good. If that weirdness will be sustained and honed and maintained...even better.

Vacation? You scoff at the thought of it. You don't take trips, too much time, energy and effort for very little gain.

Ah, yes, but this looks to be a trip of a different sort.

The Cube has suddenly become his friend, growing warm, malleable, flowing around him, embracing him. Do your worst, he thinks before giving in completely.