"Before all masters, necessity is the one most listened to, and who teaches the best." ―Jules Verne
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House shoved french toast into his mouth as quickly as Wilson slid slices onto the serving plate. Sprinkled with powdered sugar and stuffed with warm cream cheese, they were better than his favorite hooker's two-for-one special. He should have been in a state of bliss except Wilson had gone disturbingly quiet
House dropped the silverware on the plate so they made a sharp clank. Wilson never turned around. He drummed the knife repeatedly against the rim. Still nothing.
Before opening his mouth, he considered the outcome of a well-placed verbal volley. Wilson might cloak himself in shock and hurt, and leave. After hunkering down on his couch for nearly six months … not awful. Except, he eyed the food. No restaurant with delivery service came close to what Wilson prepared.
On the other hand, if he played nice and made the right kind of noises, Wilson would spill his guts. Definitely not how House wanted to spend the rest of his day, and night, and following day.
There was also that piece of folded parchment lying at the bottom of his bedside drawer. The Detector had predicted another divorce. That had come to pass. Next, depression, which clearly Wilson had been struggling with since he showed up at his door suitcase in hand. Until now, House had tiptoed around Wilson's monthly periods. This mood swing seemed different. Perhaps it was time to feed peanuts to the elephant in the room.
He cleared his throat. "You've been pissed all weekend. What's eating you? Have your groupies stopped coming to class?"
Wilson slowly turned from the stove with a saucepan in one hand and a skillet in the other, and a scowl stretched across his face.
Okaaay. Flippancy might not be the best approach, but House had used his sympathetic, best friend voice. That should have counted for something. "Never mind, we can talk later." He hastily doused maple syrup over the remaining slices and moved to the couch.
Wilson dogged his heels and sank into the cushion alongside him. "My lectures are growing stale. How many ways are there to liven up Pharmacology?"
"Hand out free samples."
"Not helping, House," Wilson sighed. He ran his hand along the back of his neck, and spoke haltingly. "That's not the real problem. It's Vogler. He's exerting pressure on the board to drop your program."
Winged dollar bills flying out the lab's windows flitted through his mind. "Vogler is pushing his designer meds over my automata. No surprise. My program drains cash and doesn't add a cent to the bottom line."
"He said blood panels and scans pinpointing 90% of the cases were good enough." Wilson gesticulated wildly with his hand. "That's not what medicine is about. Training med students with your automata has closed the margin of error another 5%. Vogler said it was trivial. Foreman agreed." There was a hiccupped chuckle. "I'm not going to repeat what Vogler said about my contributions."
"You lived with me for six months. How could you let Vogler get under your skin?"
Wilson smiled humorlessly. "No. You don't understand. He voted me off the board. I was forced to turn in my resignation." His fingers plundered his well-groomed hair. "I've got no family, no home, and because I believed in what you're doing, no job. I'm finished there."
House was at a loss. He wrapped his hands around his cane and said nothing. Wilson was a free agent when it came to defending him. Nevertheless, House felt responsible.
As for the future, it looked bleak. In search of job, Wilson might move away, possibly out of state. And if the detector was right, he'd die before fifty because House wouldn't be around to catch any warning signs. "Come work for me," he said quietly.
"What? I don't know the first thing about automata."
True. Anything larger than a can opener and Wilson was out of his element. And, as close as they were, House didn't want him privy to all his lab's secrets. So, what could he offer? "You'll run the clinic."
Wilson frowned. "I haven't worked with patients since that conference…"
"But you still have your license. A moment ago you were moaning about classes, and you hate sitting at a desk all day. Trust me, you were on the road to burnout."
"What are you saying? I should be happy Vogler forced me out?"
"Yes. With Vogler in total control of his fiefdom, who's to say PPTH's rating won't nosedive?" He levered himself up from the couch. "Let's find out. I want to show you something."
Living where you worked had its upside. Before Wilson could put up any resistance, House had whisked him down to his office and emancipated the Douglas Detector from its case. "Voila! Moi boule magique de huit!"
"Magic Eight Ball?" Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not in the mood for one of your games, House."
"Not a game. A window into the past and the future. Have you heard of the Douglas Detector?"
"Yes. Used in the same sentence with unicorn and Bigfoot." Wilson poked a key with his finger, which House immediately slapped away. Wilson seemed undaunted. "As I recall it was also referred to as the Snitch."
"By people who can't handle the truth." House wired the device to the console and fed Vogler's information into it. "Watch and learn."
As the machine started to print, Wilson leaned over his shoulder. "I don't see anything relevant to―"
House held up a finger. "Wait for it…"
There was the familiar kerchunk and the page filled with red ink.
"Here comes the good stuff," House said with false cheer, at least he hoped so. A bully like Vogler couldn't possibly have lived a charmed life, dying peacefully in his sleep at the ripe old age of 120, give or take a decade.
"Aha! All of Vogler's marriages flounder." House glanced over his shoulder. "A seven time loser. Makes you look like an amateur." By the way Wilson was biting his lower lip, he wasn't impressed. House prayed for more and much, much worse.
And when it came his jaw dropped open.
A long series of legalese and headlines told the story. Stripping his assets to the bone, Vogler flooded the courts with lawsuits and class actions against every humanoid automata maker. House's corporation, Baker Street Labs, was listed first on every suit. Furia's name popped up. Many other "patients" still on the drawing board were named as well. Bill Koppelman stabbed a doctor. A "Jason" Doe held patients and medical staff hostage and shot them.
House shook his head disbelievingly. Fake rabies was one thing, but no one was supposed to suffer permanent harm. He stared at his hands in horror as if they dripped blood.
"You didn't know?" Wilson said gently.
"No. The detector won't run if the owner or operator feeds personal information into it. The only exception is when that person affects the subject's life in a significant way."
"If you want me to beg for my old job back and spy for you, I will," Wilson said.
"Forget it. Vogler's cunning enough to know what you're up to. He'll have you in the morgue, mopping floors."
Wilson's term for the detector, Snitch, was apt. All it did was drop problems in his lap. Ones that were overwhelming and seemingly unstoppable.
House spun his chair around and watched a thick cortege of clouds march across the sky. Wilson rested his hand on his shoulder and squeezed it consolingly. The cupped palm felt soothing. "There must be a way to stop this," House thought aloud.
"Right. Fix a situation that hasn't arisen yet," Wilson scoffed. "Isn't that what got you in trouble in the first place? Your robot patients?"
Suddenly, the forest compressed into one tree. Ignoring the use of the 'R' word, House swung his chair around, not realizing his hand was covering Wilson's until he let go. "I'll change the way I do business. Downsizing is the key. But I'll need you more than ever."
"In the clinic? How can working there save your business?"
"Not just the clinic. I'm voting you onto my Board. You'll speak for the corporation. When the media comes knocking, you'll do the talking. If I do it, I'll only muck it up, but cameras love you. You're the doctor everyone loves. That is, except for the small minority of women you married. Don't propose to any patients or journalists, and we should be good."
Wilson stood quietly, ruminating.
While Wilson might not be the coveted X factor in House's equation, he was definitely the reliable constant, Y. Desperate to get him on board, House was willing to play the brother card gleaned from the Snitch. "I'll sweeten the pot by installing a cafeteria in the space across the lobby from the clinic. You can offer food vouchers to patients who can't afford a square meal let alone health care. What do you say? In?"
Wilson's face brightened considerably. "All in."
House pointed a finger at his new Director of Communications. "Your first duty is to purge 'robot' from your vocabulary."