Beautiful Lies

Thank you for the reviews! I rather like this chapter--I hope you do too.

Ch. 5

"I told you so," Amber said in a sing-song voice.

House had his eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched. His nails were dug into his palm so that they actually pierced the skin, and blood trickled down his wrist. Unfortunately, the pain from that was nowhere enough to distract him from the pain in his leg. His breath came out in ragged gasps.

Despite all of this, his head was getting clearer. Yes, he had hallucinated Cuddy. Yes, Amber was still here. But the withdrawal symptoms were almost entirely gone. He didn't want to throw up, and he'd stopped shivering. All that was left was pain.

And House had begun to even feel a tiny bit proud of himself. It had been degrading for a man like him to be so dependent on the little white pills. That had been the reason he'd tried methadone before. Now, he was clean. He wasn't an addict anymore. He had even managed to eat something after three days of near fasting. He felt that he could conquer anything, including his hallucinations, if only the pain would stop.

"Hello, House," a voice said awkwardly from the door.

House raised his head. "You?" He asked incredulously. "Why would I be hallucinating you of all people?"

Taub, looking short and bald as ever, stood in a pair of black pants and a grey shirt. "You're not," he said, waving a file. "I have a case for you."

"Do I look like I'm in a state to solve cases?" House groused, but his hand was already outstretched for the file. God, he had missed his medical puzzles. "Besides," he mumbled absentmindedly while browsing through it. "I was fired."

"I'm pretty sure you're not," Taub said, sitting down in Amber's chair.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Amber asked. "Who sent him?"

House ignored her. Nausea, vision loss, liver failure…

"They probably already solved the case," Amber pressed. "Which means he's only here to entertain you. They don't trust you with real cases. That's kind of insulting, don't you think?"

House looked up at Taub, who was sitting very upright in the chair, his eyes alighting on the mold and stains with obvious distaste. "What was the diagnosis?" House asked in an even tone.

"We didn't come up with one," Taub said.

House's eyes narrowed. "It's gotten to liver failure, and you still haven't solved it? Either you're lying or she's already dead."

Taub looked uncomfortable. "She died this morning," he finally said.

House stared at him. "I was gone for one week, and you already let a patient die?" he asked. "Good lord. Why did I hire you again?"

"We tried everything," Taub said. "She deteriorated too fast—"

"Everything isn't good enough!" House yelled. He could picture them saying that to him one day—We tried everything, but nothing worked. You're stuck in this loony bin for the rest of your life. Sorry. He tried to calm down. It wasn't helping his pain. "Did you do an autopsy?"

"The husband wouldn't consent," Taub mumbled.

"You'd think they've worked for us long enough to know to force consent," huffed Amber. "Especially when they let the patient die undiagnosed."

House sighed. "Leave the file here."

Taub nodded, and stood up. "Oh, I forgot," he said, reaching into his bag, "I brought you these. Thought you'd be bored." He held out House's iPod and Gameboy.

House took them. "Good move. I might rethink firing your ass."

"I'll come back," Taub told him.

"Before the patient dies next time," House said.

Taub turned to leave.

"Thanks," House called grudgingly.

Taub turned, smiled a little, and nodded. Then he left.

House settled back, popping iPod buds in his ears and turning up Jimi Hendrix. He opened the file. His pain was receding a little already.

--

"House was pissed off," Taub said, once back in the diagnostics room.

"Figured he would be," Thirteen said. "How could've we let that happen? Are we that dependent on House—we can't solve a single case without him?"

"It happens," Foreman said. "We did everything we could—"

"No!" Taub said, louder than he had meant to. Foreman turned to look at him, astonished. Taub took a breath. "House didn't seem to find that a good enough answer," he said.

"Because it isn't," Thirteen said, looking at Foreman reproachfully. "We shouldn't have let the patient die undiagnosed."

"Oh, undiagnosed," Foreman scoffed. "But it's okay if she dies, as long as it's with a diagnosis. You are getting as bad as House."

"House," Thirteen said coldly, standing up, "doesn't let patients die. You think you're as much of a genius as he is, don't you? House, only nicer. But as I recall, it was your treatment that made her worse. So don't talk to me about having done everything you could." She stormed out of the room. She knew what it was like to be dying and helpless to do anything about it.

Foreman looked at Taub, who only raised his eyebrows at him. He sighed, and ran out after Thirteen. "Remy!"

Taub was left alone in the room. He stood up. He was going to get that autopsy.

--

Cuddy was trying not to panic. The team's patient had died that morning. She fervently hoped that this wasn't going to become a trend. If she could still enlist House's help, she would. But they didn't allow personal phones at Mayfield—there was no way House could contact them if he had an epiphany.

She couldn't believe how much this hospital needed House. He was gone for a bit more than a week, and everything was falling apart.

Taub had gone to the psychiatric hospital with the file. House'll probably solve it within hours, even in his mentally unstable state. But it was already too late. They had lost a life simply because their best doctor was unavailable. This was unacceptable.

That's it. No more moping around, Cuddy decided, a familiar sense of determination taking over, the same sort of determination that enabled her to become the first-ever female Dean of Medicine. She wasn't going to let any personal crap impede her any longer. The hospital needed House better. She needed House better.

She picked up the phone and dialed Mayfield.

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