Wake up

Cuddy did not normally work weekends but, given the enormity of the circumstances which occurred at the hospital Friday evening, she came in Saturday morning. A few snatched hours of sleep at home before making the journey back. Hanging up her coat and bag, she looked around the office. In times like this it would be handy to have a pull-out bed installed. But then it might actually encourage her to stay overnight, and that would be a step too far.

Following a lengthy conversation with the duty nurse, she ventured to the cafeteria to pick up a strong coffee. The plan was to drink it, catch up with enquiries regarding the crash, and attend an emergency incident meeting called for later this morning. These things always took place as soon as possible after the event, and her doctors appreciated that, in this case, Saturday would have to serve.

The most important item on the agenda, though, was House's status. Quite how he had managed to get himself caught up in this mess was still unclear, and Wilson had not had time to explain everything. The opportunity would arise in due course. Regardless, according to Wildermuth, House was in a critical but stable condition. What that meant for his long-term prognosis and quality of life was anyone's guess.

Cuddy reached House's room expecting to find it empty. But, curled up on a chair, was Cameron, a book on the floor where it had fallen. The sight caused a little smile, and she briefly considered making an inspection later so as not to disturb the woman's slumber. But she really did want to see her friend.

As quietly as possible the Dean entered and stood at the foot of the bed, turning off the television which still hummed away. Mindful of Wildermuth's instructions, she refrained from examining the screens too closely, confining herself to a cursory glance at the patient notes. Nurses had attended him throughout the night. Cameron had presumably been here for those visits. Satisfied that he appeared in good hands, she prepared to exit.

"Oh, hey". Cameron, presumably sensitive to the change in background noise, stirred and peered up at her.

"Morning".

"Is it?". The immunologist examined her wristwatch. "Huh".

"You been here all night?", she asked, knowing the answer.

"Mmm", replied Cameron, stretching out her arms and legs.

"You should go home, grab a shower, some clothes".

She shook her head. "I'm not leaving".

"He's still under, and will be for a day or two yet".

"I'm not leaving until he wakes".

"He may not wake for several days".

"Then I'll be here for several days", she responded instantly. "It's the weekend, anyway; my spare time". Cameron's voice took on that flinty quality which was House's trademark. It would be futile to argue.

"I'm just concerned about your health is all".

"Don't be. I'm fine. Anyway, the nurses'll be in for his ablutions soon so I'll go to the shower room then".

Cuddy nodded but handed over her coffee. "Here".

"Honestly, it's-".

"-just drink". Now it was her turn to be stubborn, and Cameron duly took the cup with an appreciative tilt of the head.

"Have you rung his parents, by the way?".

"Yes. They're down south, though, so can't get a flight back for a couple of days". Cuddy had leant against the glass, casting an eye over House's prone form every now and then.

"Foreman and Chase?".

"Actually, no. I figured just the nearest and dearest. You think I should?".

Cameron shrugged. "They'll be pretty surprised come Monday and House is nowhere to be seen".

When she said 'House', Cuddy noticed her hand drifting to his on the bed sheet, tubes emerging from little nodes attached to his skin. It seemed almost an involuntary movement. How had things got so bad that these two had broken up? It took an effort to remember. "I guess that's true. Like what you've done with the room, by the way. He'll feel at home".

"Yeah, well, you say that, but there's only so many soaps I can watch before things start to mesh into one".

"Mmm. Nice flowers", she nodded towards the vase by the window.

"Charles got them for me".

"Oh?". Cuddy raised her eyebrows. "How's that, er, going?".

"That never got going", she replied with a scowl. "I can't believe I ever thought it a good idea".

"You don't need to second guess yourself. He's a good-looking guy".

"None of that matters anymore!", Cameron snapped suddenly. "Only one thing matters; only one person matters".

"Noted".

"Sorry, I shouldn't get upset with you; it's not fair".

Cuddy held up a hand. "No worries, no worries".

The two lapsed into silence, listening to the machine sounds. Eventually Cameron asked: "House's leg's not going to be the same again, is it?".

"Well…Wildermuth was very pleased with the surgery outcome, but-".

"-but that doesn't translate into a magically cured limb", she finished.

"No", admitted the Dean slowly. "But the truth is no one knows what's happened. Once he's awake we'll get a better idea. As for the crash, everything indicates that it was a complete wipe out. Multiple deaths".

"In a way House is lucky…to still be alive", muttered Cameron softly.

"In a way", agreed Cuddy. "Though he's unlikely to see it from that perspective".

The immunologist nodded morosely and took a sip of coffee. Further conversation was pre-empted by the arrival of the nurses. Cuddy made her farewells, aiming to continue her rounds in time for the post-crash meeting. Cameron, meanwhile, headed for the showers and a spare change of clothes in the locker room before the resumption of her vigil.


House awoke to find himself on a train, swaying slightly with its motion. Outside the windows green fields swept by, and there wasn't a single cloud in the sky. Not again, he groaned. The carriage seemed barely half full, though there was a fellow reading a newspaper in the chair opposite, a cup of coffee in the holder. He tried to read the headline on the page facing him but found it inexplicably hard to focus on the words.

"Would you care for anything from the trolley, sir?".

He squinted up at the voice which belonged to a young woman wearing a uniform. "Umm, coffee, thanks. Black, one sugar".

She poured the drink and set it on the table. "Four dollars fifty".

"Ah, I haven't got my wallet on me, sorry".

"Sir, the beverages are not complimentary".

"I understand that, but I can't find-".

"-it's on me", interjected newspaper man, who duly handed over the money.

The woman nodded tightly and moved off with a disapproving glance.

"Thanks", muttered House, taking a swig.

The man inclined his head in acknowledgement but said nothing further as he returned to his reading. House, meanwhile, sat back in the chair and closed his eyes briefly, trying to figure out what was going on. Strangely, he couldn't remember having boarded this train. Given that it had catering provision, the route must be long, but given that he had no wallet either, he also didn't know how he had paid for a ticket. He was fairly sure he was hallucinating. Real life rarely began in medias res.

"So who are you meant to be?", asked House suddenly.

"Excuse me?". The man, who actually appeared somewhat younger than he had first seemed, lowered his paper.

"I'm assuming I'm tripping ballsacks. So I'm asking who you're meant to be".

"Who says I have to be anyone? I'm 'guy reading paper'".

"Uhuh, uhuh. So, I'm thinking that you…and this", House gestured around the swaying carriage, "are a figment of my imagination".

"Hey, man, I'm trying to read here", the other replied, taking a sip of his own coffee.

"Just cut the crap. I'm not in the mood".

"Why not?".

"Why not what?".

"Why are you not in the mood?".

"I thought you were trying to read. But now you ask a question", House smirked.

The man shrugged. "I simply had a sneaking suspicion you wouldn't let it slide. So: why are you not in the mood?".

"Oh, you know…had a few too many flights of fancy lately".

"I see", he nodded sagely, as if completely expecting the answer.

"The way I see it, you are either God or a reflection of myself. And since God doesn't exist…".

"Whoa, whoa, no need to blaspheme. I just bought you a drink, after all". He rested his newspaper on the table and fixed House with a steady gaze.

"People have near-death experiences, thanks to the prolonging effects of modern medicine, by the way, and chalk it up to God. I've seen it a hundred times".

"You should have a little more faith in the human sense organs, my friend".

"Faith", snorted House. "The most overrated of the virtues".

"Actually, we're in agreement there: the ability to believe anything without evidence isn't hugely impressive. The question is, Dr. House, what kind of evidence do you think this conversation presents?". The man had given up all pretence and leaned forward in his seat.

"I'd say it's pretty good evidence for my tripping ballsacks, as I said". House was beginning to lose patience.

"Let's say you're right. Why would that be happening?".

"I…I, can't remember", replied House, for the first time uncertain. "Maybe you should tell me".

"What makes you think that I know?".

"Stop with the fucking Socratic questions and tell me how to get out of this thing".

"This train's moving. You can only get out when it stops".

"And when'll it stop?", he sighed.

"Hard to say".

"Give it some thought".

"I think it's probably best that you do the thinking".

"And why's that?".

"Like you said: if I'm not God…".

"…then you're me", finished House softly.

"Well, a younger, smarter, groovier, reflection of you. Best drink that", the man pointed at the coffee, "else it'll go cold".

House waved a hand in annoyance at such a trivial observation and asked a proper question: "is Cameron here? We were just at the beach…".

"Do you know how batshit crazy you sound, man?", he laughed.

"I'll take that as a compliment coming from you".

"Suit yourself".

The train entered a tunnel which plunged the carriage into almost darkness. House was already on edge, but the lack of light combined with the echoing noise enhanced his confusion. If this were all in his mind, then what the hell did a black tunnel and a rattling locomotive signify? He needed to wake up before he psyched himself out completely.

When the sunlight finally reappeared his conversation partner was smiling at him. "To answer your question: no, she isn't here. I'm afraid it's just you and, er, you".

"What's the point of this interaction? Because I really am insufferable".

"Why does it need a point? Maybe we're just taking a time out, two guys discussing the issues of the day over a friendly cup of coffee". He picked up his drink and toasted House with a tilt of the head.

"OK, well, I'm ready to wake up now". Enough was enough.

"Yeah? We're just gonna sweep this…interaction…under the carpet?".

"Just tell me what you need to tell me before I lose the will to live", sighed House.

"Who says you're alive?".

This response caused a tremor of terror.

"Oh, sorry, that was cruel", the other laughed. "You're alive. Probably. Remember, I know only as much as you do".

"Then you know that I'd like to get off this train".

"Off you go, then". The man nodded towards the exit door and, sure enough, the train began to slow.

House got to his feet and stepped into the gangway. "I'd say that this has been a pleasure. But it hasn't".

"Oh, and Greg?", he asked conversationally.

"What?".

"You were right before. You, yourself, are insufferable. All these people on this train to talk to", the man gestured widely, "and your own mind conjures up…you. Maybe, if indeed you are alive, you need to, ah, get a life".

"How do I do that?", House asked, genuinely curious.

"Oh, I'm sure that, when it comes to it, the answer will be close to hand. In the meantime, this is where you get off". With that, the man picked up his newspaper and started to read, just as the train pulled into a station.

Through the glass, House could make out its name: Princeton.


House opened his eyes tentatively. The beeping of that ubiquitous machine made him afraid. As before, he tried flexing his fingers. This time they definitely moved. So far, so good. Next he gingerly turned his head. Cameron was asleep on a chair, head slumped to the side, book spread on her lap in such a way that the pages were crinkled. As soon as he saw the book House whimpered and shut his eyes. It reminded him of his first hallucination all those months ago after the shooting. Back then, he remembered it to be a Dan Brown thriller. If this book was the same as that previously, then he was still hallucinating.

Please don't be Dan Brown, please don't be Dan Brown.

He opened his eyes and traced the name on the cover. Not Dan Brown. This filled him with relief but he wasn't out of the woods yet. So far he had been on a journey through this room, on the beach, on a train. Now could simply be a return to square one.

In any case, even if this were an imaginary scenario, the fact that he was alone still afforded him some time to think about what had happened, both in reality and in his head. The crash itself remained ill-defined. He could remember getting on the bus and sitting down, the force of the collision hurling him around like a ragdoll, and blinding pain before darkness. In a sense, the brutality made it simple and thus boring. Given the bandages on his body and pleasant haziness in his mind, he assumed, firstly, that he had serious injuries; and, secondly, that he was currently dosed up on painkillers. This latter observation caused a tinge of sadness, for he had purposely avoided such things recently. But presumably the situation called for it.

As for the hallucinations, they were par for the course. The question, as it had been the first time around, was what to make of them: could they be discounted as meaningless synaptic by-products of a febrile mind attempting to control the uncontrollable? Or did they speak to deeper held beliefs that needed comprehension? Two of the three imagined scenarios (assuming that he was, now, safely back in reality) had contained Cameron. The first involved her moving on with that slimy bastard Sebastian Charles; the second involved them both in a wonderfully domestic setting, on a beach and, presumably, on holiday.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the significance of these visions. The night of the crash he had intended to see her, to talk to her, and…what? His action plan had been somewhat nebulous. Certainly, however, his subconscious seemed to have made up its mind: conjuring such scenes, by turns traumatic and idyllic, scarcely needed further interpretation. House's head wanted to get back together with her.

But what about House's heart? He couldn't tell at the moment how serious his injuries were, but the fact that he could feel no pain at all did not bode well. Either parts of his body were missing or they had pumped him full of chemicals. Neither scenario had particularly happy implications. And if this were true, it needed adding to the emotional pot, because he absolutely refused to saddle Cameron with a cripple. That had always been his prime misgiving, the one true deterrent. Differences in age and outlook could be overcome. Permanent disability or disfigurement, however, was a deal-breaker. He knew this in his heart.

And yet…

There was a stirring in the seat as Cameron stretched herself with a sigh.

"Are you real?", he asked softly, opening his eyes.

She started in surprise and leapt to her feet, moving immediately to embrace him. "House! Oh, House…".

It felt nice to be hugged again and he sighed into her hair which did not smell like pineapple anymore.

Cameron must have taken his sigh as indicating discomfort, either at his injuries being squashed or at the close contact (they were not together, after all), and began to withdraw: "sorr-".

"-no, don't stop. Don't stop".

She said nothing further, hugging him as best she could. It was an awkward position: he lay immobile while she almost leant over him, burying her face in his shoulder, yet still trying to support her own weight. He wished he could move his arms but they were still proving difficult to budge. Instead, then, he simply relaxed.

Eventually Cameron had to sit up and she regarded him with a tear-stained face. "How do you feel?".

"Are you real?", he repeated, still not quite believing it.

"Yes, I am real".

"How do I know?".

"Here". She reached out and caressed his cheek. "You feel that? It's my hand".

"But, I, I felt your skin before when I was applying sunscreen…ah, no, no, that wasn't-, that didn't happen". House screwed his eyes shut. It was important that he distinguish between truth and illusion. Think!

"I don't know what happened before, Greg. But I'm telling you that I'm here now". There were tears rolling down her face but she was smiling lopsidedly.

"That's good", he murmured, suddenly feeling a wave of overwhelming exhaustion. "That's good. I need to-, I need to sleep. I'd like to sleep. I feel tired".

"Then you sleep", she replied softly, still cupping his cheek.

"Will you be here when I wake up? You don't need to go?".

The words were hopeful, timid, and completely unlike the man she knew like the back of her hand. "I'll always be here, House. I'm not going anywhere".

"That's good".

As he dropped off, he knew that the hallucinations would not return this time around.