An old friend
A.N. Apologies for the delay in updating. I had to read a new novel (The Ink Black Heart by Robert Galbraith), then I was in Sicily, and then the Queen died, so I didn't feel like writing. End of an era.
"Right", said Cameron, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I'll be back as soon as possible. Remember, if you need-".
"-I'll be fine: literally gonna go back to sleep. What time is it?", muttered House, eyes still closed.
"Nearly eight in the morning", she replied with a quick glance at her wristwatch. "I'm hoping that my neighbour is just panicking for nothing".
"Stuff like that doesn't just happen on its own, Cameron".
"True, but it's an old building. The wiring is probably screwed or something".
"Only one way to find out". Now House did open his eyes and he flashed her a quick smile.
"Your pills are just here", she tapped the bedside table, "I hung your cane over the headboard here", she tapped the cane which was, indeed, hanging up within grab distance, "and the wheelchair is-".
"-there. Yes, I can see it", he noted patiently, aware that Cameron was only displaying an abundance of caution because she cared. "Honestly, I'm just going to sleep. I'll see you when you get back".
"Good, yes, sorry. But if you're in any trouble, call me, and I'll return at warp speed".
"What if your apartment's in the middle of burning down or something?", he mused.
"Who cares?". She waved a hand in the air dismissively. "There's little in there I care about. A few photographs, maybe, but that's about it". Besides, it would give me an excuse to stay here forever. The thought shimmered through her mind so quickly that it scarcely even registered.
"Hmm, well, off you go, blondie. Gonna get some more sleep in before the guys come round to fix the bathroom grabrails. Since it's all on the hospital's dime I'm opting for the gold-plated chrome".
"Shall I leave them a key under the mat or something so you don't need to get up? Could text them right now". Cameron's hand drifted to the phone in her pocket.
"Nah. It'll do me some good to stretch my metaphorical legs".
"Fine, but don't overdo it. See you later". With that, she left with a little wave.
House smiled faintly after her, but as soon as he heard the front door close, he released a loud groan and rubbed his leg in its cast. Last night's sleep had been absolutely horrific, thanks in no small part to the pain, also, being absolutely horrific: his leg, his ribs, his shoulder. Weirdly, the old bullet wounds on his abdomen and neck were throbbing. Though he could distinctly remember having his cheek smashed into the window as the bus crashed, the severe bruising had died down after a couple of weeks, and his neck was supposed to be relatively unscathed. But even that hurt now.
Cursing quietly to himself, he reached gingerly across to the bedside table and downed three Tylenol.
Like that's gonna do anything.
He reached across for the water glass and took some laboured sips.
Just breathe. This will pass.
It felt like his leg was on fire. But at least Cameron remained oblivious. He didn't quite know why he had hid the pain from her. Part of him, a large part, admittedly, disliked this situation they were in. She was seeing him at his weakest, rolling around, eating dinner one slow forkful at a time, struggling with dressing and going to the bathroom. There was nothing sexy about any of that. He needed to be strong somehow.
House sank back into the pillows and urged the pain to lessen.
Easy, Greg, easy. This is pain; an old friend. You know him. You have his measure.
Cameron had said it to be approaching eight. Handymen were due here around eleven. He needed some sleep before that because those guys were likely to be banging and scraping around for a while. He shut his eyes and tried to drift off.
House awoke to the sound of knocking. "Fuck it", he grunted to himself, wishing that he had done as Cameron advised and left them a key because his body still hurt. Unhooking the cane from the headboard, he used that to pull the wheelchair closer. Slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain, he planted the flame cannon on the floor and dropped unceremoniously into the seat, leaving the cannon on the bedsheets. Then he wheeled out of the room, down the hallway, and opened the front door.
"Morning, my dude. You Dr. Gregory House?". The guy held a toolbox in his left hand and looked at House with sympathy. "I'm fixing up some railings for you?".
"Uhuh. The bathroom is just…". He gestured in the general direction of the hallway, swallowing a surge of agony which had just lanced up his leg.
"Gotcha". The man ambled past and followed House's point, talking over his shoulder: "I believe you spoke to my colleague the other day about a shower seat as well? Let's see what we're working with first, we'll discuss exact positioning, then I'll head back out to the truck and bring the gear in. Sound good?".
For the next twenty minutes, they discussed the logistics and location of the various bars and shower seat, the latter even proving to be adjustable in height. House was annoyed at the necessity of these aids but could do nothing about it. At least with the seat he would be able to direct the shower head and so keep his leg cast dry. Rather than risk having to contribute to a conversation, House rolled into his study, closed the door, and booted up the computer. Logging in, he reached into the desk drawer and pulled out the little piece of card, rotating it between his fingers as the sound of a drill reverberated through the walls.
He had known about Cameron's looking for other jobs following her departure after Vogler because she had asked him for references at the time. Rather than writing them, though, he had cut short an interview, driven to her apartment, and requested her return. The rest was history. What he didn't know was why this was in her handbag. It could represent anything from a job offer to a meaningless contact. He examined the name again, neatly embossed in raised lettering on pale nimbus:
Prof. Genevieve Taylor. Mount Sinai Teaching Hospital
It sounded vaguely familiar, but, unusually for a business card, the thing did not reveal a job title. Clicking into Google, he searched for the name. Ah, yes. He had heard of this woman before, the author of an interesting article a couple of years back on certain S proteins increasing cardiac pericyte migration. Tabbing through to his notes folder in the Cloud, where he kept all research-related paperwork, he recognised G. Taylor. Huh. For some reason, he had thought her a man. The one comment he had made on the file: this is good.
A pulse of intense pain screamed through his leg and he rested his forehead on the desk for a full minute while he recovered.
A few deep breaths and a couple of Ibuprofen later, House spent some time trawling through the Mount Sinai pages. It soon became apparent from the number of recently closed job postings that the place had just finished a comprehensive recruiting drive. By the looks of things, Sinai had advertised for doctors in most major departments and even one or two minor ones. Cameron's card must have been in relation to that; a suspicion all but confirmed by the full suite of job descriptions and person specifications for immunology, all now earmarked 'filled'. Most of them paid less than her current salary, but a couple, one pure immunology the other a joint programme, were on a leadership pathway.
Given that Cameron had headed straight to the ER after leaving Diagnostics it was clear that she had decided against applying for these positions. This was a shame, especially because the fact of this card suggested that she had been approached directly. He himself frequently received inquiries from head-hunters, so it stood to reason that his fellows did, too. Certainly, Foreman had made it clear recently that he had been considering other options for a while, not least with Marty Hamilton in California.
Cameron, though, had evidently kept her counsel.
Despite the pain radiating through his body, House smiled. She was a secretive woman, a fact that never ceased to turn him on. From the day he had hired her, a beautiful but mysteriously damaged individual, he had wanted to know more. In any case, this was not about him. These jobs would have been a fantastic opportunity for her to progress as a doctor. An opportunity missed. He followed through to the research pages at Sinai and spent some time browsing more or less randomly, though as he went an idea began to form in his mind.
Later that afternoon, House was in the bathroom observing the results. "And it's chrome?".
"Yes, sir. All the bars are highest grade chrome plating over a stainless steel core. The seat itself is a patented blend of New Zealand leather and GORE-TEX weave—fully waterproof and immune to warping. NASA uses similar stuff", he added.
"That's good", nodded the other. "My butt will be giving it a pounding".
"Well, trust me, it'll take whatever you throw at it".
House wheeled to the shower cubicle and ran a hand over the material. It felt expensive.
The man gave a discreet cough. "If you're happy with the work can we discuss payment? Fair warning…it isn't cheap".
"Sure. Send the invoice to my secretary and she'll take care of it. Here, I'll give you her email". He dictated the address and the guy noted it in his phone.
"That's a strange name", he mused. "'Cuddy'".
"Jewish", explained House, now examining the grab bars.
"Ahh. Well, if that's all, Dr. House? I have another job across town".
"OK. If I plan on breaking any more bones I'll be sure to let you know so you can just adapt the whole place".
"Right on".
As soon as he was alone again House wheeled into the kitchen, grabbed himself a Coke from the fridge, and came back out to the living room. Instead of turning on the television he went to the bookcase and selected a volume at random, taking it back to the sofa, onto which he sunk with the help of the flame cannon. Before he could get started, though, his phone buzzed.
Cameron. Hey, how're you getting on? Really sorry about this.
I'm fine, he typed back. You don't need to check on me.
The reply came quickly. Actually, I do. I'm your nurse, remember?
Could've fooled me. You don't even have a uniform. A vision of Cameron in a nursing uniform flashed before his mind's eye and he swallowed softly: that was not safe ground.
Hmm, you're right. Anyway, I'll be back as soon as I can. Do not overstrain yourself.
House smiled to himself—he found it pretty cute when Cameron bossed him about. Yes ma'am.
The grin, though, was quickly replaced with a grimace as bursts of pain radiated throughout his body. Scrunching his eyes shut he sank back into the leather, feeling a film of sweat on his brow. Gingerly, he ran a hand over bruised ribs. Only when he felt vaguely in control did he reach for his book and begin to read. But barely two pages later, the phone buzzed again. A call this time.
"Hello?", he snapped, having jammed the thing to his ear.
"Bad time?". Wilson.
"Yeah. Your great aunt Mabel is dancing for me".
"Gross".
"Is this an official charm offensive? Cameron checked up on me a minute ago".
"She isn't with you? Where is she?".
"Relax. I sent her to pick up a few new entries for my porn collection. So this isn't an orchestrated intervention?".
"Nope. I rang because I needed a consult. If you're up to it", Wilson added tentatively.
"Go ahead—beats fondling my stick".
"For God's sake, why-".
"-my fire cane, moron".
"Why not just say that, then?", scowled Wilson down the line.
"Less fun?".
"Are you ready or not?".
"Hit me with it, Jimothius".
For the next twenty minutes the two friends discussed Wilson's case, running through the symptoms, treatment so far, and possible diagnoses. It was fun for House to do medicine again, even if only indirectly. One of the worst things about this situation was that he could already feel himself getting bored without the intellectual stimulation of diagnostic puzzles in his daily life. Computer games were all well and good, but they were not a long-term fix. Plus, and this could not be discounted, he needed regular distractions from both the pain and the dangerous knowledge that he and Cameron were currently sleeping under the same roof separated by nothing except a door and a hallway.
"Hmm, OK", murmured Wilson eventually. "I'll do as you say and hopefully Cliff will respond. If not, he's up the proverbial creek because we have no idea over here".
"You should try not caring as much. Works wonders".
"Yeah, right".
"Well, thanks for the talk, but I need to take a break. Nurse's orders".
"Uhuh. Hey, I was thinking Cuddy and I could come over Friday and we just hang out, maybe play some poker if you're up for it? I can also tell you about the woman you saw on the bus; managed to track her down".
"Ah, nice. Wondered where you were with that". House suffered a sudden flashback to the crash and his leg throbbed menacingly.
"So…Friday?".
"Sounds good".
Tossing the phone onto the coffee table, House finally settled down to read, urging the pain, an old friend, away.
