House's head

A.N. As with the previous entry, this chapter is inspired by the S4 episode of the same name. It's interesting how trippy the series actually is.


Wilson's discreet cough from the chapel doorway caused Cameron to turn instantly, the question already on her lips: "is he alive?".

"Yes. Cuddy just heard from Wildermuth. The procedure was a success. We can see him in fifteen minutes".

She exhaled loudly, letting out a sob of relief. "And the leg?".

"The leg…", murmured Wilson, moving to sit next to the woman in the pews, "…is a little less clear. It's not amputated. From what I've gathered, it wasn't a complete wash, and-".

"-just, how bad is it?".

"Pretty bad, but still there".

This was not great news, but it could have been so much worse. "D'you think the ketamine treatment will still…be a thing?".

"Anything's possible; far too early". Wilson kept his eyes down.

"But unlikely", Cameron sighed.

"I agree with that", he nodded slowly. "Assuming he pulls through the next few days, this injury will change his life. It remains to be seen by how much".

She fidgeted with her necklace. House had survived which, fundamentally, was the most important thing. And yet she could still remember the day he had told his fellows (and a lecture hall of students) how traumatic his infarction had been, and how torturous the diagnosis and treatment. He had survived, but what of his quality of life? Having tasted liberation from pain these last few months, would he be able to accept a new reality of consistent medication and frequent grimacing?

"This is so unfair", she muttered.

"It is". Wilson plunged his hands in his pockets, realising that he still had the napkin from the bar, the evidence, presumably, of House's intentions. If he gave it to her now, and House took a turn for the worse, or didn't remember having written it, that would do no good at all. He needed to talk to his friend, observe his state of mind, and reassess.

"Why weren't you with him?". An undercurrent of accusation.

"I should have been", he admitted softly.

Cameron recognised guilt, and her own decency compelled her to add: "sorry".

"There's nothing to apologise for". With that, both their beepers triggered, piercing the stillness of the chapel. "Let's go", he said, getting to his feet and walking to the door.

Glancing for a final time at the altar, Cameron followed.


When the pair reached House's room Cuddy was already in the corridor talking to a nurse. She turned at their approach. Her face had recovered some of its colour, though her mouth remained in a tight line. Clearly this evening had taken its toll. "Hey".

Cameron's heart, meanwhile, began beating rapidly. "Is he…is he in there?".

"Yes. Thanks, Gladys", she added to the nurse, "can you give us a sec?". The woman nodded and left. "He's in there", resumed Cuddy once the trio were alone, gesturing through the glass, which had its blinds drawn across, "but he's still asleep. Wildermuth thinks it's best that we keep him under for a couple of days to allow his body time to…to recover. And I don't want either of you-, either of us", she corrected, "contributing to his care. We're too close to it. Whenever we step through this door, we are not doctors. Understand?".

The others nodded. It made sense.

"Good. Now, I've already seen him and I have to get back downstairs. Wilson, I've given Cameron the night off. Since you've been drinking you obviously can't work, but I do need to speak to you concerning one of the crash victims. The bloods threw up some weird results and I wanted your opinion".

Wilson glanced at Cameron before replying. "Sure. I'll drop by your office in ten".

Cuddy's radio squawked and she made an apologetic noise before heading to the elevators. The pair wasted no more time and entered House's room, mentally preparing themselves.

The seriousness of his condition was immediately obvious and Cameron, who had been tentatively holding on to a thread of hope that, maybe, it was a mistake all along, took a sharp breath: cheeks swollen and bruised, eyebrows and nose bloody, hands displaying large cuts. Bandages everywhere. His lower body, though, was covered by the hospital-issue sheets. Neither dared lift them to inspect the leg cast.

For a time, both stayed quiet, listening only to the gentle hum and beeps of the machines.

"You OK?", asked Wilson eventually, handing over a Kleenex.

Cameron, who didn't even realise that she had been crying, wiped roughly at her eyes. "No, I'm not OK".

"Mmm".

Each of them, in their own way, felt crippling guilt—Wilson because he had been the one to suggest karaoke and because he had not been there to provide the voice of reason when House had taken the bus; Cameron because the last conversation they had shared ended so abruptly. House had grabbed her arm and asked for a chance to explain himself. But rather than listen, she stormed out. This reflection caused her to bury her head in her hands.

"Hey", Wilson murmured, resting his own hand on her shoulder. "House'll pull through. He's too stubborn not to".

Cameron pressed her palms into her eye sockets. "He better. What's the chart saying?", she nodded towards the end of the bed. "Actually, no, I don't want to hear it". Ignorance is bliss.

The oncologist glanced at his wristwatch. "I need to head down and see if I can help Cuddy".

"Yes. I'm going to stay here". She had taken up position in the single chair at his bedside.

"Will you let me know if his condition changes? I know it won't, not yet, but…". The words drifted off.

"Yes".

Wilson departed quietly. Cameron's gaze never left House's face.


House opened his eyes. The first thing he noticed was his prone position and the steady beep, beep of a machine which he could not see. Cautiously, he ran a tongue over dry lips. When he tried to shift his arms, though, they refused to move. That was slightly worrying. He had arms, right? Most people had arms. And fingers? He tried flexing them but nothing happened. Not ideal.

One thing he noticed as he blinked a couple of times was that the ceiling wasn't a pure white colour; more like cream or beige. The machine still beeped annoyingly in the corner but it did at least suggest that he currently lay in a hospital bed (normal rooms didn't have beeping equipment). Information was always valuable because it helped towards planning a course of action. Whatever passed for 'action' in this place, anyway.

Weirdly, the lights were dim. Maybe it was nighttime.

He felt thirsty but, crucially, warm. The body needed warmth to survive. It also needed water, of course, although he knew deep down that humans could live without it for about a week.

"You survived, then". The voice, that of a woman, emerged from somewhere to the left, but his body still couldn't move. How strange that she should mention surviving, given that he had been thinking about just that. "Hello?", she asked. "Are you there?".

House attempted a response but his throat constricted.

"I'm trying to talk to you and you're ignoring me. Why are you such a rude bastard?". Still this woman lingered just out of his sightline.

It felt a little unfair to be criticised for something over which he appeared to have no control. The voice sounded familiar, though he couldn't quite place it.

"Thinking about it", the woman continued, "it's probably best that you can't talk. I have some news".

Normally House liked news (information, obviously), but there was something unsettling about her tone. Again he tried to turn his head. Again he met with failure.

"The truth is, House, you're a failure. And I've decided that I'm done with you".

Failure at what? He didn't fail very often because he hated the feeling and what it represented. Ever since he was a boy, and his father insisted on reading every homework assignment and picking out each little error, real or imagined. I'm only tough on you, son, because we're representing America out here. You don't want these guys to think Americans are stupid, do you? Now do it again. They had to salute the flag every morning in that house that wasn't really a home.

"Look at me, failure". Closer, almost in his ear.

House squinted. Details remained hazy; a yellowish aura filled his vision, but no matter what he did, focus wouldn't come.

"Good enough", she grunted. "As I was saying, I'm done with you. To be honest, I thought about getting you fired or arrested. I even thought about blackmailing you. Or having someone else blackmail you, y'know?".

He felt afraid at that admission. Such things were illegal, and when he broke the law, he always had a justification. Someone needed to come in here and take this person away.

"But then I realised that you're just not worth it. Speaking of someone else, that brings me to my news. Listen closely, buster".

House tried to swallow. Only one person had ever called him that. What was her name?

"That's right, baby", she cooed in his ear. "Look at me!".

His head did now turn, miraculously, and he saw a blonde-haired woman standing over the bed smirking down at him. There was a cruel twist to her mouth, and her regular white teeth reminded him of tombstones. "I'm not gonna hurt you, House. I'm past caring. I just came here to tell you that I've found someone else to keep me warm at night. Would you like to meet him?".

Why did his body not work? No, no, no. I need help.

"Come on, just say 'hi'. It'll help. Here". The woman held out her hand, and a man took it, the pair of them now standing there over his prone form. "This is Sebastian", she announced proudly.

House knew that name.

"Yeah, we're getting married, can you believe it? I'm already pregnant. Soon, there'll be lots of little ones running about. Can you run, House?". This woman glanced pointedly downwards to the foot of the bed.

For the first time since he had awoken House realised that he couldn't feel his legs. He tried moving them, over and over, panic increasing with every millisecond.

"I thought not. You're a cripple, aren't you?". The pair seemed almost pitying. "Well, see you round, Greg. We have a ceremony to plan".

House, wide-eyed, watched as the visitors retreated. He needed his legs back; he needed to run after her. But nothing worked. Even the machine had stopped beeping.


Cameron sat by herself in the room, just she and House, the way it was always meant to be. When they were still together, they had done a few things 'as a couple': bowling with Wilson and Cuddy, attending the departmental gathering, going to a concert. All fun, of course. But really she enjoyed it most when it was just them, together, sitting at home (preferably his apartment, but hers worked, too) watching TV, or reading, or talking, or arguing.

So now, even though her anxiety was through the roof, even though she felt sick to the pit of her stomach and kept replaying mistakes committed recently or months ago, there was at least a degree of comfort in the fact that it was just them again, finally. The beeping of his heart rate on the machine proved reassuring; actually fairly slow, it spoke to the fitness he had acquired in the months since his ketamine-inspired liberation. Having understood the happiness exercise had given him, it made her sad to consider that, when he woke up, things would likely change. But at least he lived.

Cameron reached out and took his hand in hers, intertwining their fingers the way he used to do. "Come on, you", she whispered. "I know you had a bit of a bump, but there's no need to be a big drama queen about it".

A few deep breaths, swallowing down tears before continuing: "you're just doing this to be annoying, aren't you? I mean, you don't even take the bus. Well, it's not gonna work. I ain't falling for that crap".

She bowed her head, resting it on his arm. "Just give me some hope, House. That's all I want. I'm sorry for everything. When you wake up, I'll do whatever you want. I'll…I'll keep my distance, if that's what it takes. I'll change jobs if it would help. Just tell me what to do. Wake up and tell me what to do".

"It's him, then?".

Cameron glanced over quickly. Sebastian Charles stood there. Ridiculously, he was holding a bouquet of flowers and a flask.

"Huh?", she managed, somewhat confused as to how he had entered the room without her being aware.

"You didn't answer my texts", he gestured to the phone in his pocket, "so I came in to see if you needed a coffee. Dr. Cuddy said you were here".

"Umm, but why the flowers? Stuff's happening downstairs". She couldn't think of a more inappropriate thing than flowers.

"Dunno. Just a whim".

"Right".

"So…it's House?".

"Yes, he is badly injured from the accident", she enunciated deliberately, becoming annoyed that this needed spelling out.

"But, I mean, you like him?".

"No, I love him".

"You love him?".

"Yes", she replied matter-of-factly. "Was there anything you wanted? Otherwise, I'd like to be alone".

Charles smiled mirthlessly. "I guess not. I'll, er, just leave these here". He swished the bouquet and leant it against the wall by the door. "Bye".

"OK, bye".

Charles left and Cameron faced House again. But once more she heard the door slide open. "For God's sake", she hissed, thinking he had returned for round two, "just take the damn hint".

"Excuse me? I'm checking on my patient".

For the second time in as many minutes the immunologist's head snapped across in surprise. A different intruder. "Oh, sorry, Wildermuth. I thought you were someone else".

"And I thought I was perfectly clear with Lisa Cuddy that I didn't want interference from anyone outside my team", he sighed, walking over to check the various displays by the bed. "We traditionally don't need an audience for this bit…".

"Ah, OK". Cameron got gingerly to her feet.

Wildermuth must have seen something in her face, because he added in a softer manner: "I just need fifteen minutes. You can come back then".

"Right, thanks". Cameron shot House one last furtive glance before leaving quietly. The corridor was all but deserted. It was pretty late. What to do for fifteen minutes? She turned and saw the flowers leaning against the blinds inside the room. This gave her an idea.


The man sat on a beach watching the sun sparkle off the clear blue water. He got a sense that he was waiting for something, or someone, but quite how he knew this he…didn't know. Rather than retreat into overthinking, he decided to just enjoy the scene: sunshine on his face, sand between his fingers, the gentle caress of the breeze. The beach was pretty empty—a scarce few couples and families lay dotted around. Some people splashed in the shallows. Idyllic.

He was on the point of lying back and going to sleep when he saw a figure emerge from the waves. At this distance it was impossible to say who this person, a female, was. As she paddled through the surf and onto the beach, though, he couldn't help but admire her form from afar. Dressed in a pure white yet modestly cut bikini, her skin and hair glistened from the water, and she spent a few moments flicking off excess moisture. For some reason he thought of Aphrodite rising from the Cyprus sea foam.

Thanks to the dark sunglasses, the man felt safe to stare as this woman journeyed up the beach. She was heading in his direction, presumably to one of the clusters of people who occupied spaces behind. When she drew nearer he covertly dipped his head, as if inspecting something in the sand. But instead of passing on by, she sank down next to him.

Before he could register surprise, the woman spoke: "the water's warm. You should take a dip".

"Erm, hello?". He looked askance at her, avoiding eye contact.

"Hey, buster", she grinned. "Would you pass me that water, please?".

There was a bottle half-buried in the sand by his left hand and he pulled it out. "I think there's been some mistake, er, miss".

"'Miss'?", she repeated, tilting her head curiously. "That works, I guess. The water".

He handed it over and watched cautiously as she took a long draught. When she returned it, he didn't know what to do, so buried it back into the hole. "I don't know who you are", he continued. "There's been some confusion".

The woman laughed. "That's funny. I need you to do my back, Greg; don't wanna burn, and the sun's already dried me out".

Greg. He knew that name. It formed on his lips, which grappled with this word both familiar and not. "My name is Greg House", he whispered.

"Uhuh. My back?". She held out sunscreen and he took it quietly. "Make sure you do my shoulders properly".

"Umm, OK". Greg squirted lotion and began to apply it liberally to her skin, whose smoothness contrasted with his own calloused hands. To distract from this embarrassing reality, he asked her a question: "so, ah, how was the water?".

"Great. Surprised you didn't join me, considering how much you love swimming". The woman swept her long blonde hair to the side so he could reach her neck and shoulders.

"Yeah, well…".

"I remember you saying how good a swimmer you were in college: 'I was the new Mark Spitz, Cameron'. But I'm yet to see it!". She threw him a smile over her shoulder.

"Cameron. Allison Cameron". His hands stopped their movements. "Your name".

"Even though I've made it perfectly clear that I dislike you calling me that", she sighed. "Do lower".

"Right". Greg cleared his throat and rubbed more lotion into her back. "That better?".

"Under my strap, too, please. Actually, I'll just unhook it for you". Cameron reached round and unclasped the top, holding it loosely to her body with a spare hand.

"I don't think-".

"-oh, relax; no one can see".

With tender care he did as instructed. "There. You should be protected for about ten minutes, then I may need to apply another layer".

"Fine by me", she laughed, retying herself. "I'm too pale for the beach".

"I think you're perfect". The compliment left his mouth before he could think. It felt like something he would not normally say.

But Allison merely grinned. "I'd believe you were it not for the fact that everybody lies, House".

She had smiled a lot since sitting down. He decided that he wanted to make her smile more. "I do say that frequently", he nodded.

"I fancy ice cream. D'you fancy ice cream?".

"Yes".

"Pass me my thing. I'll head for that van", she pointed into the middle distance at a white truck already attracting a steady stream of customers.

House saw a dress folded up neatly on the sand. Odd for it to have escaped his notice. He handed it across and she slipped it over her swimsuit. "What flavour d'you want?".

"Whatever you're having", he replied. "I'd give you some money but I…I can't seem to find my wallet".

"Don't worry; got you covered".

"Thanks".

"You don't need to thank me, buster. We're in this together, remember?".

"I remember", he murmured softly. "I remember everything".

Cameron threw a salute and sauntered across the sand.

"Will you return quickly?", he called.

"Always!", she shouted back. "You know I can't do without you for more than five minutes".

House snorted, sinking backwards, basking in the sun and this unexpected slice of paradise.


Cameron had used the enforced departure to secure a key to Diagnostics from Herb the janitor, who worked Friday nights. With Herb's help she had transported from her old stomping ground a number of items—various balls, the cracked globe, some trashy magazines. Only House's red mug remained unaccounted for. This motley collection she set about installing in his room. Charles' flowers were unwrapped and placed in a serviceable plastic vase, which now rested on the windowsill. A better use for them than the waste basket.

Satisfied that everything was deployed appropriately, the immunologist stepped back to admire her handiwork. The room was House's now, as far as it could be. Such things likely made no difference, of course, but one could never discount the role of morale in recovery. When he awoke maybe it would bring him comfort to see his things. Even if not, and he called her a sentimental moron, then that was fine, too.

The cricket ball, which had been perched precariously on the bedside table, rolled to the floor. Rather than replace it, she threw it from hand to hand. This thing had been with its master for many years, long before her own arrival. Now it would be her lucky charm.

"You wanna watch some TV?", she asked him. Ordinarily she would be a little embarrassed talking to an unconscious man, but studies had shown that a sense of hearing persisted in coma patients. And House wasn't even in a coma. So if there were a chance that he could register sound, she would take it. "I have Real Hospitals of Los Angeles or Prescription Passion".

No answer.

"Real Hospitals it is". She stuck it on low volume.

Cameron glanced at her wristwatch which read just a little past three in the morning. Then she pulled out her book and started reading quietly to herself.

The gentle hums and beeps of the machines, the occasional turning of a page, the subdued voices on the television—all accompanied House as he slept.