Chapter 27
"My nature isn't what it used to be. The little man has lost some bounce to his step. He needs to crank it up, have some fun on the weekends." The hefty man leaned forward conspiratorially. "He wants the blue pills."
Sometimes helping House with clinic duty wasn't a particularly pleasant experience. This was one of those times.
"You're talking about your penis in the third person," House observed.
The man lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "Me and him, two people."
"Separate vacations? That would be a drag for one of you." House narrowed his eyes at the man. "I don't think you need the pills. I think you have a conflict in medications. You need to up your insulin to chocolate chip ice cream levels."
"Insulin?" the clinic patient repeated.
"Yeah, you remember. That's the stuff you take for the diabetes that you forgot to tell the nurse about."
The man pursed his lips, but said nothing.
"Your hands," House said. The man lifted them, examining them with a confused expression. "No hair, which means nerve damage. And your shoes look about two sizes too small, which means you've lost sensation in your feet… and then there's your pants."
"My pants tell you that I have diabetes?"
"There's powdered sugar on your pant leg," I called, already having lost interest in the situation at hand, knowing that it was going to come to an end as soon as House had lorded his skills of deduction over the clinic patient. I doodled absent-mindedly on the blank sheet of paper attached to my clipboard.
"And there's two napkins sticking out of your pocket," House tacked on as he began filling out a scrip for the Viagra the diabetes-ridden man so badly wanted. "Meaning you've already had a few donuts today." At that moment, House's beeper went off. He flashed it at me. John Henry, Code Blue.
"Better get going," I said.
House handed the clinic patient the scrip. He accepted it, looking stunned. "You're giving me the pills?" he asked, incredulous.
"Sure. Why not? If you've got heart disease for ignoring the diabetes, they'll kill you. Otherwise, you two have a fun weekend," House explained over his shoulder before promptly exiting the room and leaving me with Mr. Third Person Penis.
He examined the scrip, as if to make sure it was real.
"If you want some advice, I would throw that in the trash can and start getting your diabetes treated," I advised. "Because you can't have sex if you're dead, unless you've got a lady friend who's got a thing for necrophilia."
The man frowned deeply. "This diabetes, it could kill me? Make my heart stop?"
"It could do all kinds of horrible things to you. It's a severe, chronic disease. You've already lost feeling in your feet, and the tissue there could die completely. You'd have to get them removed. Same goes for your hands."
He seemed disturbed by that. "And the Viagra, that could kill me, too?"
"If your diabetes is as severe as it appears to be, yeah," I informed him. After a long moment, he handed me the scrip.
"I ain't taking it," he announced. "Unless there really are seventy two virgins up there, it's just not worth it."
"That's a very… uh, mature way of looking at things," I replied, crinkling up the scrip and tossing it into the nearby trashcan. "Have a nice day, sir. And please see your regular physician."
"Can't I just talk to Dr. House about that? The diabetes?"
"Uh, House doesn't really see patients in an appointment setting, or provide regular care," I attempted to explain.
"What does he do, then?"
"It's… difficult to summarize. He usually takes only atypical cases."
"What about you? You a doctor?"
"No," I said quickly. "I mean, I'm a student." Or at least I'm pretending to be one.
"Oh." The man stood with a heavy sigh. "Well, thanks for seeing me, I s'pose. Thank Dr. House for me, too."
I wanted to question the wisdom of thanking a man who had just given him pills that likely would've killed him, but I decided not to say anything. "I'll let him know."
Mr. Third Person Penis exited the exam room, leaving me alone. I couldn't very well follow House, as I knew he was in the process of resuscitating John Henry at the moment, so I was going to have to otherwise occupy myself until he was finished saving John Henry's life – which would, of course, earn him a restraining order and a law suit.
I took off the lab coat House had stolen from the laundry for me and rolled it up into a ball, stuffing it into one of the nearby cupboards for the next time I found myself in the clinic with House. So far, no one had raised a stink about me doing clinic duty with House – though I was fairly sure that the only person who knew was Nurse Brenda, and for whatever reason, she hadn't expressed any issue with it, or really acknowledged it. I strongly suspected that she didn't report House and I to Cuddy simply because the clinic had been receiving less complaints about House since my arrival. After all, once House had thoroughly offended his patients and dramatically exited the room, I often did damage control.
I noticed that House had left his DS behind, and I grabbed it, hopping up on the exam table and stretching out. I entertained myself with Legend of Zelda, keeping an eye on the time. I would head up to House's office in about an hour once the smoke from the code blue had cleared.
Ten minutes shy of three, I went to head back up to the third floor and House's office. However, I was waylaid by Cuddy once I reached the lobby. She'd just exited her office, looking harried. I gave her a little wave, but she called my name, halting my progress.
"Are you going up to see House?" she inquired as she caught up with me. I noticed an envelope clutched in her hand.
"I am."
"Good. Can you give this to him?" She handed me the envelope, and I took it. "Also, if you could tell him that he's an idiot, I would be grateful."
"I'll make sure to let him know," I said, slightly amused. I knew that the missive must've contained John Henry's restraining order against House, and the order for House to appear in court for a charge of battery.
"Thanks." Cuddy was rushing off in a different direction, the staccato click-clack of her heels echoing in the lobby.
Shipper's resentment aside, I had a massive amount of respect for Cuddy, a respect that had only been increased by living in the House universe and seeing that the woman never seemed to take a breath. She handled power with grace and skill. It was impressive, to say the least.
I took a crowded elevator to the third floor. Once I was in the hallway that contained diagnostics, I saw Foreman storm out of the diagnostic offices. His eyes met mine as he tore down the corridor, but he didn't say anything. He passed me, leaving me in the dust. Well, it certainly seemed that Foreman was pleased that House violated the DNR. I was grateful that I'd arrived following the fight that apparently just occurred, rather than in the midst of it.
I pushed through into the differential room, arriving just in time to hear the remaining ducklings and House resume the differential on John Henry.
"It could be Wegener's granulomatosis," Cameron suggested.
"House," I said as the door swung closed behind me. I held up the letter. "You've got mail. Also, you're and idiot."
House ignored the insult and made a 'gimme' gesture. I stepped forward, standing beside Cameron, and handed the envelope over.
"There are case reports of Wegener's hitting both the lungs and the spine," Chase reasoned, supporting Cameron's theory. House tossed the envelope onto the glass table, not bothering to read it.
"Well, it's not great, but it's better than ALS. At least it's treatable."
"House," I said. "You need to read that."
"Love letter. I'll look at it later."
"It's a restraining order," I said flatly.
"I know you don't like it when I leave my socks on the coffee table, but a restraining order's going a little overboard, don't you think?" House asked.
"It's a restraining order from John Henry," I elaborated. "You're not allowed within fifty feet of him. On top of that, they've asked the DA to file criminal charges for battery."
House turned around, and he picked up the letter and opened it, reading over the contents inside. Once he'd read the letter, he looked back to the ducklings and I. "Cameron, test the blood for c-ANCA."
"House, those are criminal charges," Cameron protested, eyes wide with worry. "They're not going to let you take blood to make more tests."
"He has blood left in the lab," House told her. "Just add on the c-ANCA. Does Foreman still have you doing bronchoscopic suctioning for the pneumonia?"
Cameron looked between Chase and I, waiting for one of us to point out the insanity of House trying to treat a man who'd just filed a restraining order against him. Chase seemed confused and somewhat distracted, staring at the open letter on House's table.
"Every four hours," Chase provided, answering House's question.
"Well, while you're down in his lungs, grab a biopsy. We'll need it to confirm Wegener's – and move the patient to the second floor ICU," House instructed.
"Why?" Chase asked.
"It's right above the clinic," I told Chase with a begrudging smirk. "Fifty feet in any direction. House now has a court order that says he doesn't have to do clinic duty."
"Ding ding, give that girl a cigar," House said before departing into his office, restraining order in hand. The door swung shut as he sank down into his Eames chair.
"Anya, make sure your father really does stay away from John Henry," Cameron told me. "I think sometimes he forgets the fact that he's got someone he's responsible for. He can't afford to get thrown in jail."
Huh. I'd actually never thought of that. What would happen to me if House got himself thrown in jail, or worse, killed? I was eighteen and had a job, so I supposed I would just live on my own. I was far past the age where I needed someone to watch over me. I wasn't exactly a paragon of self-sufficiency, but I could certainly get by without adult supervision.
Still, if I had my way, House would never got to prison. Especially not eight years earlier than he did on the show.
"I'll keep him away from John Henry," I assured her. "No worries."
Cameron let out a weary sigh, and then left to undoubtedly test John Henry's blood for c-ANCA. Chase remained behind, as John Henry wouldn't need suction for a few hours yet, so Chase would have to wait for this opportunity to perform the sneaky lung biopsy on the jazz musician.
Chase still seemed confused. He was watching me with narrowed eyes. I felt the usual thrill of anxiety that I did when Chase's attention was on me. I could feel my cheeks heating up. God, what was I, twelve? Why did he have to be so pretty?
"Something wrong?" I asked, trying to appear nonchalant and no doubt failing.
"How did you know what the letter said?" Chase inquired, still watching me.
"What?"
"The envelope was sealed shut, but you knew everything the letter said," Chase elaborated.
Shit. Oh shit. I'd slipped up. I'd slipped up bad. "I – uh, well, Cuddy gave the letter to me. I asked her what it was, and she told me. I guess she figured that House would've just told me anyway."
Not a clean lie. Not even a good one. Chase's brow furrowed, but after a moment, he shrugged. "Alright. I suppose that makes more sense than you steaming open House's mail and reading it."
It also made more sense than me being from an alternate future reality in which this entire universe was a fictional TV show, too.
"Yeah," I laughed nervously. "I didn't really inherit House's penchant for violating people's privacy."
"I don't think you inherited much from him at all," Chase said with a small smile. "Polar opposites, really."
"Should I take that as a compliment, or no?" I asked. Chase patted me on the shoulder.
"Take it as a compliment," he said, before exiting the room. I didn't know where he was going – probably to help Cameron run the c-ANCA test.
I watched him go, letting out a huge and slightly overdramatic sigh of relief. That could've gone south. I needed to be more careful about flaunting my future knowledge. People finding out who I really was and what I was here to do… absolutely nothing good could come of that.
I headed into House's office, where he was still in his Eames chair, reading over the restraining order and legal notice in its entirety.
"I nearly tipped Chase off," I told him without preamble, seating myself on the edge of his desk.
"The letter?"
"Yeah."
"Be more careful next time."
"I will."
House was silent for a few moments. "Why didn't you tell me?"
I tilted my head. "You're going to have to be more specific. There are lots of things I don't tell you."
"Why didn't you tell me that he was going to have an adverse reaction the IVIG? Or about this?" He held up the letter. "If the DA charges me with battery, that means a court battle that I could lose. My license could be taken away. I could go to jail."
House didn't seem mad, necessarily, more curious with an edge of irritation.
"I honestly forgot about the IVIG," I admitted. "And as for the legal stuff… just don't worry about it, okay? Things will work themselves out."
House scrutinized me. "You're a crappy guardian angel, you know that?"
"Just you wait until I really start saving your ass, you'll change your tune." I gave him a bright smile, which he unsurprisingly did not return.
"Somehow I don't think I'll feel that way when I'm drinking toilet wine in a six by six cell," House commented, and I had to keep myself from cringing at his joke. Little did House know that if he followed his pre-set course, that's exactly where he would end up.
"Don't get worked up. You do realize that Cuddy's got over fifty thousand dollars set aside for you, just for your legal expenses?"
House put down the letter. "Seriously?"
"Oh yes. She knows you're insane, House. She came prepared."
"Your Honor, on behalf of Gregory House, we have convened an emergency session of this court to bring a motion requesting that John Henry Giles remain on life support.
Somehow, I'd been swindled into attending court with House. He'd said something along the lines, "It's your fault that I was charged in the first place, so it's only fair that you have to sit through the boredom with me." I wasn't sure how he'd convinced Wilson, who sat by my side, to come. Then again, Wilson might've come on his own just to provide moral support, because that was the kind of guy Wilson was.
I pulled at the collar of my blouse, wishing that I hadn't had to wear formal clothing to attend House's hearing. I wanted to crawl out of my skin.
"Mr. House faces criminal charges against… John Henry Giles?" The judge looked at House incredulously. "You beat up a guy in a wheelchair?"
"Dr. House is alleged to have forced a tube down Mr. Giles's throat against his will," said House's lawyer, Ross Pearson. House had introduced us a few hours ago. He seemed nice enough, but there was still the base personality flaw of him being a lawyer, so...
House rose. "A medical tube, saving his life."
"Dr. House, please let your attorney speak for you."
Pearson cleared his throat and gave House a pointed look.
"I'm sorry, your Honor. I was way out of line." House gave the judge a wry smile, and then sat down once more.
"So, your client forced the patient into this position, and now he wants a court order to force the patient to stay that way."
"Without the tube, there's a high likelihood that Mr. Giles will die," Pearson reasoned.
"Well, I assume he knows that. The patient has a DNR. That's why your client is facing criminal charges, right?" Judge Winter inquired.
"Exactly, and Mr. Giles's death will violate my client's sixth amendment right."
"His right to face his accuser. That's clever, huh?"
"Your Honor, in Commonwealth of Pennsylvania v. Hoselton, the Third District ruled that a defendant may not use that status to rule against a felony charge…" The opposing lawyer began, and I quickly lost interest in the steady stream of legal jargon that poured from his mouth. I'd never been a Law and Order fan.
Wilson cleared his throat, catching House's attention, and House looked back at us, pulling the remainder of my attention away from the court proceedings.
"Why are you doing this? It's not gonna keep you out of jail," Wilson said.
"No," House agreed.
"Even if you win, the restraining order and battery charge stay in place… so what have you gained?"
"Time," House said simply.
"To do what? You can't get near him."
"I don't want to be near him."
"Well, some doctors have the Messiah complex – they need to save the world. You've got the Rubik's complex. You need to solve the puzzle."
"Are you done, or do you have more references to 1980s fads?" House snapped. "I'm trying to listen to this."
"Jesus was a 1980s fad?" I whispered, but House's full attention was already back on the lawyer that was opposing him. Wilson looked at me, arching an eyebrow.
"Did you try to stop this?"
"No," I said with a shake of my head. "There was no point."
"No point? He might go to jail."
"Wilson, try to think like a writer for a primetime TV show for a moment," I murmured. "Are they really going to send the protagonist to jail halfway through season one?"
Wilson seemed to think for a moment, and then nodded. "Okay, so you know that this turns out alright."
"I do."
"But how?"
"Spoilers, sweetie," I said in a mock British accent. Wilson didn't seem to catch the reference. I tuned back into what was going in the court room.
"The DNR order was witnessed by Dr. House's own staff, Dr. Foreman," Judge Winter said.
"My staff are idiots," House declared, standing up again, and I stifled laughter with my hand. "I'm sure you know what it's like, your Honor."
"Sit down!" the judge ordered again.
And, once again, House sat down, looking like a chastised child.
"The validity of the DNR if a question of fact. Dr. House should have the opportunity to make his argument at a full trial," Pearson declared.
"And this poor guy has got to stay on life support until we can schedule a trial," the judge said with a frown.
"Your Honor-" House was back on his feet.
"Dr. House, I will hold you in contempt if you don't sit down."
"I have a medical issue," House protested.
"If it pertains to this case, your attorney-"
"It doesn't," House cut across Judge Winter. House's lawyer shot him a confused look. "Do you have any history of heart disease in your family?" House asked.
"Your Honor!" John Henry's attorney cried out, indignant.
"Your fingers," House said, grabbing the judge's attention once more. "They show signs of clubbing, which indicates a heart problem. Remember Bart Giamatti? Same thing. Just dropped dead one day. Please see your doctor."
In another life, I believe that House would've made an absolutely fabulous lawyer.
"He's admitted this isn't relevant," the opposing lawyer said. "Can we get back to the motion?"
The judge nodded, but he was now thoroughly distracted by his fingers.
"Of course," House nodded. "I'm sorry." The words sounded almost comically foreign coming from House.
"Your Honor, a person's right to control the treatment of their own body is fundamental to understanding this case. A long line of cases, both federal and state, stand to prove that it to take away someone's decisions regarding their own health and being is to take away their fundamental rights as a United States citizen. This is not suicide: this is a man choosing to die with dignity, rather than be forced to remain alive by machines and tubes."
It was a passionate speech, and I was quite sure that the judge hadn't heard a single word of it.
Wilson leaned over and said into my ear, "I don't see any clubbing on his fingers."
I smirked. "That's because there isn't any."