Return of the king

Since he had confessed to Wilson his Cameron-centred hallucination, House had been feeling slightly less miserable than usual, if nothing else because it had helped clear his brain for a few days. He would never venture to full happiness, of course. That particular emotion was to be viewed with considerable distrust, not least because it was so hard to pin down— happiness for one man is pedestrian for another. But more than this, he considered the pursuit of happiness to be a pointless exercise, if only because it implied that it was a state to be achieved through constant self-betterment, like enlightenment, after which you were done. As boring as it was futile.

Much more interesting for House was the quest for satisfaction. By its nature, satisfaction was transitory and hence more valuable for its achievement: satisfaction in solving a particularly knotty case, in looking down Cuddy's shirt, in slipping pickles into Wilson's drink when his attention was elsewhere. These things mattered because there was always a chance that the next time things wouldn't be so easy, or so satisfying. The patient might die without a diagnosis, Wilson's gaze might never leave his drink, Cuddy might cover up her funbags. OK, bad example.

But as he mounted his bike, fixed his helmet, and revved the engine, House had cause to think back on Wilson's words, a possible dampener to his satisfaction: you're in trouble, House. He knew that his friend was just looking out for him, attempting to anticipate a potentially dangerous emotional entanglement with a view to minimising the fallout when it inevitably came crashing down. House couldn't blame Wilson. Not only was the latter a caring man anyway, but he had witnessed first-hand the disintegration of the former's relationship with Stacy and, to be sure, the disintegration of House himself. No doubt he wanted to avoid a repeat.

But the current predicament was much different: Cameron was unlikely to shear off his leg the moment he fell asleep and then claim that it was for his own benefit, for example. The woman who did that was trouble. House knew he was being slightly unfair on Stacy here—if she had refused to act, he might be dead. Regardless, this was his own mind and his own conversation. In this space he didn't have to be fair to anyone but himself. Frankly, he didn't have to be fair to anyone outside this space, either.

House continued his internal monologue as he weaved seamlessly in and out of traffic, the throaty roar of the engine a soothing accompaniment to his thoughts. Enough of Stacy. If he were honest (and it was a big if), he knew that he found Cameron physically attractive. Cuddy had insisted on a female hire following Chase's appointment, so it was always bound to be a woman. There had been several exceptional candidates, though, and although Cameron had graduated near the top of her class, won a prestigious internship at the Mayo Clinic even, he knew that Cuddy had been surprised that he had settled on the immunologist. Except that she hadn't been surprised—not once she had seen the pale beauty of the face, the mischief of the green eyes, the curve of the mouth, the flowing chestnut hair…

Steady.

House shook his head slightly as he waited for the lights to turn. Cameron was extremely pretty. He had told her this himself. But prettiness was not enough, at least not for him. The whole question needed more thought.

As far as he understood it, there were two central problems to be solved before he could achieve any kind of closure. The first concerned his feelings towards Allison Cameron—did he truly like her or was it simply a passing fancy stirred up by near death? The second followed logically from the first—what to do about it, if these feelings did exist. There were many variables to think through, but this was where he excelled, and making problems tangible was the only way to arrive at a solution. Wilson had complained that it was impossible to carry out a differential diagnosis on attraction. We'll see about that.

Content that he at least had a tentative plan of attack, House gunned the accelerator, leaving a cyclist spluttering on his fumes. A familiar destination awaited.


The two men glared at each other. "I'm telling you, you're wrong, and that's all there is to it". Foreman got up from his chair and crossed over to the kitchen area where Cameron was preparing coffee. He took a cup, inclined his head in thanks, and began stirring in milk and sugar.

"I just don't see how you can even say that, Eric. You don't know enough to make an informed diagnosis. If you'd just sit down and listen, you'd see straightaway that I'm right". Chase was angry. His surfer blonde hair was becoming increasingly ruffled as he ran his hand through it and his eyes were bright. He started tapping his right foot on the floor in agitation.

"I don't need any more information, Robert. I've seen enough. Diagnostics is an inexact science—you'd know this if you spent more time observing yours truly…", Foreman pointed to himself to make doubly sure Chase understood, "…and less time salivating after the nurses".

Chase got up from his chair so suddenly that it rocked back on its legs. He rolled up his shirt sleeves as if preparing for a fight but instead placed both hands firmly on his hips, widened his stance and jutted his chin. "Oh, that's rich. You're not impressing anyone, OK, House isn't here. And while I agree that diagnostics is an inexact science, in this instance, all the relevant facts are on the table if only you'd let go of your stubborn refusal to see them!".

From her position at the side of the room, Cameron thought he looked like a peacock. She didn't say this out loud.

"Like I said, I know enough", Foreman enunciated the last three words slowly and deliberately, as if speaking to a petulant child.

"So, let me get this straight". Chase was really getting into it now. Tiny flecks of spittle were forming at the edges of his mouth. From her position at the side of the room, Cameron thought he looked like a Rottweiler. Again, she didn't say this out loud. "You honestly believe", he paused in disbelief, "that baseball takes more skill and fitness than cricket? I just, I just don't know where to begin with that. It's plain wrong on so many levels".

"Nope. You're wrong", Foreman paused, and then added in what the watching immunologist thought to be a surprisingly passable Australian accent, "mate".

Chase clenched and unclenched his fists but ploughed on regardless. Cameron also clenched, but not for the same reason. "I mean, for one thing", he fumed, "you Americans insist on wearing gloves to catch the ball—what is that? Your professional athletes need help to play their own sport because the ball is so hard it'll hurt their poor hands. And don't get me started on the bases—you need breaks after every run. There's a reason no one plays baseball outside America—it's for fat people to play and for fat people to watch".

Foreman raised his eyebrows. "Hey, it's one thing to abuse our sport but another thing to abuse our country, man". He was reminded to take a sip of his cooling coffee as he saw Cameron blowing on her own.

"It's not abuse if it's true", retorted Chase as he walked over to claim his drink. He poured in some milk and offered it to Cameron.

"No thanks", she deadpanned, "I take it black. Like my men".

Chase's mouth dropped open and Foreman choked into his mug.

Cameron's eyes twinkled. She had grown bored of the conversation and the overflowing testosterone. It was enough that she had to put up with sports metaphors from House, her boss, but an entire debate? And a debate with her colleagues? That was completely uncalled for and had to be shut down in case they got the insane idea that sport was a viable topic in the office.

Neither man could think of anything to say after this, so instead the three fellows drank in silence. They were aware that the tension, if it could even be called that, derived more from the fact that this was the first time in a while that they had, firstly, been in this room and secondly, that they had been together.

Following the shooting, Cuddy had put them all on mandated leave pending psychological assessment. Upon receiving clearance from the professionals, Cuddy had redistributed the trio around the hospital: Chase to surgery, Foreman to neurology, and Cameron to the ER. The Diagnostics department had been officially suspended whilst the offices were refurbished, and its Head recuperated at home. Though neither of them would likely admit it, they were secretly thankful to the Dean for organising it so. It had been refreshing to get away from familiar terrain, familiar colleagues. The fellows had rarely seen each other over the course of the last few weeks, and when they had, it had been only a nod here or a glance there. They had not met for lunch or dinner. It had still felt too raw.

For her part, Cameron was glad to be back. Certainly, the ER was fulfilling in many ways: the cases tended to be serious and as a result she had always returned home after a long shift confident in having made a real difference. And she had to admit that she enjoyed the respect and attention she received as a fellow of the mysterious and brilliant Dr. House. She had not yet spoken to Chase and Foreman about this, but it had quickly become apparent that the cane-wielding curmudgeon—no more cane, Allison—held a kind of sadistic allure for the nurses and doctors of PPTH. And as a member of the inner circle, she had been asked many times: so what is he really like? One young resident had explained the situation almost apologetically:

"You see, Dr. Cameron, you are a Ring Wraith to House's Sauron". She had looked at him blankly. "The Darth Vader to his Emperor?". Again, no response. "The Crabbe and Goyle to his Draco Malfoy…?". Now she understood.

But although the ER had been a welcome diversion, it didn't hold the same appeal as diagnostic medicine, which by its nature was obscure and challenging. Patients only made it to House's door if other doctors had been unable to unravel the mystery. Consequently, working in this office felt at times like cracking a code or heading up a top-secret investigation, the details of which available only to a select few. It was exhilarating.

And then there was the man himself. In truth, Cameron had struggled to deal with House's condition, and though she had considered doing so, did not confide in her counsellor that she had been having nightmares. She thought it best to work through the problem in her own time, at her own pace, without external pressure. She would be methodical and thorough, just as she had been taught to work by House. If she couldn't be with him, then following his method was the next best thing.

Foreman finished his coffee first and started to wash the cup in the sink. Seeing this, the other two quickly gulped down their own remnants and placed the empties besides Foreman's, who merely chuckled and set about soaping up the water. "Hey, Cameron", he asked with a glint in his eye, "do you really like black guys? 'Cos if so…".

"We live in twenty-first century America, Foreman. I do not discriminate, no, sir".

"Don't I know it", muttered Chase.

Cameron glanced at the Australian, but let it slide. It was the first day back at school, after all. "But I'm afraid, gentlemen, that I have learned the hard way not to mix work and pleasure. So, unfortunately, you two don't stand a chance".

"And what kind of chance do I have?", inquired a deep voice.

The three fellows started at the interruption and turned to see a familiar figure in the doorway.

House had come home.