Drag you Down...Part One
I have to put this somewhere for safe keeping - so why not here?
Although, I shouldn't really write anything more 'till I've updated/finished 'Hush'...but there you go!
My medical beta has gone awol - so that's my excuse for not updating that particular fic lately!
That, and the fact that this fic requires no real medical knowledge, and is a lot more fun to write!
It's based on a book called 'The Touch' by F. Paul Wilson, which is a fantastic read.
This doesn't really have spoilers for anything...well, nothing I'm aware of.
It's intended to be a little horror mixed with a little drama - you'll see...
Comments and suggestions are very welcome
House weaved his motorcycle recklessly through the late night Princeton traffic; feeling the damp spray from the road clinging to the bottom of his pant legs and seeping through his sneakers. It simply contributed to his already miserable mood. It had been a particularly crappy day. In fact, it was turning into a pretty crappy week.
He’d managed to successfully misdiagnose the same patient three times; he was still stumped as to what was actually wrong with him. Foreman had been the one ordering him to go home in the end - Foreman!
It was bad enough having Wilson nagging him all day, forcing him to take a break when it got to his thirty-third hour without sleep; but to have Foreman ordering him around too… “Ridiculous” he muttered irately, pulling up to a red light and bracing himself, and the bike, with his left leg.
He yawned and gave his arms a stretch, flexing his fingers and feeling a satisfying crack from his knuckles. He really should invest in a good pair of gloves; the rain was giving him all kinds of aches, and the fact that he was getting older didn’t help. You do realise that if you fall off, you’ll have no skin left on your hands, whatsoever He groaned, blocking out the sickly mental image that was daring to form in his head.
Maybe a little sleep will do you some good…he thought, struggling to keep his eyes open now that he was stationary. The hum of the engine was lulling him into daydreams of better ride outs; thoughts of cruising down winding country roads and feeling the heat beating simultaneously from the road and the sun.
A car horn jolted him out of his musings with a start. “Jesus!” He looked left, over to the offending vehicle, which was swerving out of the way of a homeless guy.
“Get out of the road Grandpa!” came the angry call as the driver drove past the, apparently, drunk man.
House shook his head and glanced back up at the lights - still red; something moved in the corner of his eye. It was the wandering man, and he was slowly making his way over towards him. Oh great…
He revved the CBR’s engine in the hope that this would startle the old man away. It didn’t work; the tramp seemed desperate to get to him. The only thing hindering his efforts seemed to be an extremely pained gait and a severe limp. I know how you feel, buddy… House thought as he kept a wary eye on the man.
He was narrowly avoided by another two cars; two more sets of horns did nothing to deter him from his tracks. It was as though he was on a mission; he was close enough now, House could see the whites of his eyes. Which actually weren’t that white, but were tinged with yellow. The vagabond seemed to be mumbling inarticulate sounds, getting louder as he grew closer.
“I have no money on me” House shouted, holding his hands out. The elderly bum kept on coming, dragging his left leg behind him, almost close enough to touch. With one last look at the lights, House threw caution to the wind; better to get a ticket than to get pulled off your bike by a crazy man. He kicked the bike into gear and sped off over the lights, leaving behind the desperate looking vagrant, who cried out angrily…
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By the next morning, the whole incident was forgotten about. The hours of exhausted slumber had cleared his mind for the time being. Although, not for long…
“Okay!” House exclaimed as he backed through the conference room doors, a cup of takeout coffee in one hand, and a bag of bagels in the other.
“Give me some good news. Tell me the patient died last night!” He put on a pleading face and watched Cameron for a reaction. To his disappointment, she merely ignored his comments and helpfully took the coffee and bagels from him so he could take off his jacket and unhook his cane from his arm. Some people just can’t help being nice he thought, shaking his head at her in annoyance and sitting at the table with his team.
Foreman threw a file down under House’s nose, opening it to the last page. “His BP is still in the tank, he’s now on a respirator and he’s still paralyzed” he rattled off, sounding very peeved. He didn’t add that he’d been at the hospital all night desperately treating the poor guy for anything and everything, but House knew. It wasn’t hard to tell from the slightly unkempt clothing, red worn eyes and empty coffee cups strewn about on the table.
House smirked at his underling’s frustration, “Damn, and there I was thinking that me going home last night would actually cure the guy…” he feigned his own irritation in the form of slapping the table with the palm of his hand and shaking his head.
The fact that Foreman seemed to be wrong about his suggested treatment was almost comforting to House. It still gave him a chance to solve the case himself, making him feel less of a failure. “Let’s try again, shall we?”
He stood and grabbed his bag of bagels out of reach from Chase, who was eyeing them hungrily. “You don’t get a treat ‘till you come up with a diagnosis” he stated childishly whilst placing the bag on top of the bookshelf.
“What can we get rid of…?” he muttered to himself, crossing diseases off the list. Chase and Cameron called out a number of conditions that had been ruled out by Foreman’s treatment. Well, at least one good thing came out of him staying here all night House thought.
“So…” he turned to face his team and stopped short at the sight of a man standing at the conference room window. Not just any man - the Homeless guy.
“Shit.” His team turned to look at what had their mentor so spooked. They half expected it to be Cuddy, but were instead faced with a dirty, bearded old man.
The vagrant was trying to force his way through the window, either too stupid or too impatient to find the door. Foreman and Chase stood up to assist the guy before he pushed the whole pane of glass through; Cameron stayed back, seeing the demented look in the vagabond’s eyes and feeling uneasy.
House watched from the safety of the whiteboard as the tramp ignored Chase’s offer of help and Foreman’s restraining hand on his shoulder. He seemed to be focused entirely on House, as if nothing else mattered in the world. It was beyond creepy.
With a sickening howl, the elderly man grabbed his head and dropped to his knees. Chase stared open mouthed as the man collapsed further, writhed on the floor and eventually went still; Foreman held his hands up in an ‘I didn’t touch him’ motion. Cameron put a hand over her mouth and stayed rooted to the spot, only moving when she heard House ordering a gurney over the internal phone system.
If he was spooked by this, he certainly wasn’t going to let his team know in a hurry…
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Two hours after the tramp was admitted, House was still mystified over his own patient’s ailment. Sitting in his office, his mind kept wondering to the vagrant who seemed to be more than just a little intent on getting to him. He’d refused to physically examine the tramp after his collapse, stating that he’d rather spend four hours in the clinic ‘cos I’m less likely to catch anything.
Whoever this man was, House didn’t want to know. At least, he kept telling himself that. He was intrigued to find out how the man had found him, and why…This is just too weird he mused, flicking his glance up as Wilson entered, bringing food.
“Your homeless guy” Wilson started, speaking through a mouthful of sandwich; “Hepatocellular carcinoma and Alzheimer’s.”
“He’s not my homeless guy” House replied agitatedly, stealing a handful of chips from Wilson’s unguarded plate. “No matter how pleased he was to see me again.”
“Nice” Wilson acknowledged, pulling his plate onto his lap in an attempt at rescuing a few chips for himself.
House frowned, not sure if Wilson’s was praising his deftly chip-stealing ability or...“What?”
Wilson paused, mid-bite; “The homeless guy - he’s blind” he stated, matter-of-factly.
House was stunned. Blind. Blind? “He’s blind?” He hadn’t seemed blind…but then, he did almost get himself run over last night - but how did he find you if he’s blind? Coincidence? ‘Coincidence’ wasn’t a word House would use readily; it left a lot of unanswered questions and was generally the lazy answer.
“House?” Wilson repeated, trying to get his friend’s attention; “You okay?”
The older man nodded unconvincingly, leaning back into his chair with a glazed over expression before snapping out of it and meeting Wilson’s worried gaze. “Hepatocellular carcinoma isn’t a diagnosis. It’s most likely metastasised from somewhere else…”
“Yes, which is exactly why I came in here for lunch” Wilson smirked playfully; “I just wanted to hear you say, yet again, that you know more about cancer than I do.”
“You thought of that already.” House concluded, unable to hide his admiration for his friend’s inane ability to take him with a pinch of salt. “Is he still here?”
Wilson nodded, taking another bite of his sandwich. “We admitted him. He hasn’t got long left. He’ll be dead within a week - we can wait for the autopsy results to find out what specific type of cancer he has” he said confidently, yet covering his mouth with the back of his hand. Even when he was talking with his mouth full in an attempt at appearing rebellious, he was still haunted by the good manners and grace that declared him a ‘good boy’.
House pretended to be shocked at his little display of ‘badness’; “I thought you were the nice one…” he muttered accusingly.
“I thought you weren’t” Wilson countered, pointing suspiciously at his friend. “What’s got you so spooked?” He didn’t give House a chance to reply before he picked up on something else that was bugging him; “and why did you say: no matter how pleased he was to see you again?”
House sighed, “I saw him last night, on my way home. He came up to me when I was waiting at the lights, downtown. I thought he was after money or something…”
Wilson frowned, thinking about how long it would have taken the guy to walk from downtown to PPTH. It was at least four miles, and the man was in no shape to crawl, let alone walk. From the smell of him, no one would have accepted him as a hitcher. He didn’t come by ambulance. “Are you sure?” He hated questioning House, but surely he was mistaken this time?
“You’re right. Maybe it was some other homeless drunk who was desperate to see me.” House was becoming snappy and disgruntled; which, as always, was Wilson’s cue to either apologise or leave. “I usually get followed by a small army’s worth of tramps - this one must have broken free.”
“I’m just saying…maybe this is another guy.” Wilson reasoned, in an attempt at keeping himself in House’s good books. “The whole thing could just be a giant coincide-”
“Don’t say it!” House exclaimed, pulling himself out of the chair and grabbing his cane. Nothing was a coincidence - ever. The need to investigate was now too strong to ignore. His critically ill patient could wait; this blind, homeless guy was far more interesting.
Wilson furrowed his brow in confusion as the Diagnostician limped past him; “Where are you going?” So much for a quiet lunch…
“Well, I’ve got to see him now, haven’t I?” he huffed in reply, grabbing the paper plate from Wilson’s lap and dumping it in his bin. “Lunch is over.”
Wilson sighed, dragging himself up to follow the other man closely; his own curiosity was steering him to believe that maybe House was serious about this poor beggar. He called out the room number and let the limping man lead the way, unaware that House already knew exactly where the vagrant was; he’d been cautiously avoiding the room all morning. Something about crazy, ‘stalker tramps’ just didn’t do it for him.
In an act of extraordinary chivalry, House slid the door open and motioned for Wilson to enter before him. This warranted an amusing look of confusion from the Oncologist as he passed by and entered the quiet room.
There was something about the unconscious man positioned in the bed that worried the older Doc. So much so, he refused to follow Wilson into the room; he settled himself, leaning by the doorpost, trying to look casual as Wilson automatically double checked the nameless man’s stats.
After a few minutes of simply staring at the guys face from the sanctuary of the doorway, House had to move when Wilson got a phone call on the nurse’s station. This gave the Diagnostician a chance to indulge in his morbid curiosity without an audience; he didn’t want Wilson to think he was scared of the frail looking man, did he? He’s just a homeless tramp. He’s doped up on pain meds. Don’t be such a wuss he thought as he slid the door closed behind him. Just ask him what he wants from you, and then leave.
He circled the bed, slowly, glancing up at the monitors when the patient’s heart rate leapt dramatically. “What the-” he jumped back, though not soon enough, as a scarred hand grabbed him by the wrist. Oh crap!
His cane clattered to the floor as he struggled against the remarkably strong hold that the Vagrant had over him. “Let go!” he ordered through gritted teeth, unable to hide the crack in his voice as the grip merely grew stronger. It was getting to the point of his hand becoming numb with the force around his wrist. He managed to slide his hand partly from the grip; the tramp’s hand was now fiercely crushing his own. Bad idea...
He looked from his hand, to the tramp’s face, gasping in agony as he felt bones cracking in his left hand. Above the screaming of the heart monitor and the howling coming from his own lips, House heard the man try to speak. He grunted, forcing himself to stop making any noise, just so he could hear what the man was trying to say. He caught several words: “You’re him…the one…healer…touch.”
“What?” House had never been so confused in his entire life. He hated it. How the hell is he this strong? he thought desperately, struggling to rip his hand free from the intensifying hold. There goes the piano playing he thought, feeling another bone snap and grind against the mess of the others. Somebody get in here!
“You’re the healer!” the vagrant proclaimed in a hissed, manic voice, before his eyes rolled back in his head and his hand unexpectedly released House’s hand from his death grip.
House felt a sharp shock shoot up his left arm as he fell backwards; he inadvertently stumbled onto his bad leg, which buckled under him, leaving him to land flat on his back and gasping desperately for air. Almost immediately, he turned onto his side and retched pathetically. When the brief spurt of nausea passed, he protectively cradled his wounded limb against his chest and groaned wretchedly. This is why you don’t visit patients.
He distantly heard the high pitched wail from the O2 sats monitor calling out for help; he concluded that during his struggle with the crazy man, the clip must have been knocked off of his finger.
Within seconds, a tirade of nurses burst into the room, followed by an extremely concerned looking Wilson; the nurses tended to the now-unconscious patient and the doctor tended to his trembling friend.
“House! What happened?” he asked hurriedly, kneeling down by the older doctor. “Are you hurt?” he did a quick visual check, taking in House’s red faced appearance and wounded posture.
House gulped in a few deep breaths and held up his hand for Wilson to see; “Just my…” he trailed off as he saw the perfect, unbroken, left hand before his eyes. He gaped in astonishment… What the hell just happened?
TBC…
Although, I shouldn't really write anything more 'till I've updated/finished 'Hush'...but there you go!
My medical beta has gone awol - so that's my excuse for not updating that particular fic lately!
That, and the fact that this fic requires no real medical knowledge, and is a lot more fun to write!
It's based on a book called 'The Touch' by F. Paul Wilson, which is a fantastic read.
This doesn't really have spoilers for anything...well, nothing I'm aware of.
It's intended to be a little horror mixed with a little drama - you'll see...
Comments and suggestions are very welcome
House weaved his motorcycle recklessly through the late night Princeton traffic; feeling the damp spray from the road clinging to the bottom of his pant legs and seeping through his sneakers. It simply contributed to his already miserable mood. It had been a particularly crappy day. In fact, it was turning into a pretty crappy week.
He’d managed to successfully misdiagnose the same patient three times; he was still stumped as to what was actually wrong with him. Foreman had been the one ordering him to go home in the end - Foreman!
It was bad enough having Wilson nagging him all day, forcing him to take a break when it got to his thirty-third hour without sleep; but to have Foreman ordering him around too… “Ridiculous” he muttered irately, pulling up to a red light and bracing himself, and the bike, with his left leg.
He yawned and gave his arms a stretch, flexing his fingers and feeling a satisfying crack from his knuckles. He really should invest in a good pair of gloves; the rain was giving him all kinds of aches, and the fact that he was getting older didn’t help. You do realise that if you fall off, you’ll have no skin left on your hands, whatsoever He groaned, blocking out the sickly mental image that was daring to form in his head.
Maybe a little sleep will do you some good…he thought, struggling to keep his eyes open now that he was stationary. The hum of the engine was lulling him into daydreams of better ride outs; thoughts of cruising down winding country roads and feeling the heat beating simultaneously from the road and the sun.
A car horn jolted him out of his musings with a start. “Jesus!” He looked left, over to the offending vehicle, which was swerving out of the way of a homeless guy.
“Get out of the road Grandpa!” came the angry call as the driver drove past the, apparently, drunk man.
House shook his head and glanced back up at the lights - still red; something moved in the corner of his eye. It was the wandering man, and he was slowly making his way over towards him. Oh great…
He revved the CBR’s engine in the hope that this would startle the old man away. It didn’t work; the tramp seemed desperate to get to him. The only thing hindering his efforts seemed to be an extremely pained gait and a severe limp. I know how you feel, buddy… House thought as he kept a wary eye on the man.
He was narrowly avoided by another two cars; two more sets of horns did nothing to deter him from his tracks. It was as though he was on a mission; he was close enough now, House could see the whites of his eyes. Which actually weren’t that white, but were tinged with yellow. The vagabond seemed to be mumbling inarticulate sounds, getting louder as he grew closer.
“I have no money on me” House shouted, holding his hands out. The elderly bum kept on coming, dragging his left leg behind him, almost close enough to touch. With one last look at the lights, House threw caution to the wind; better to get a ticket than to get pulled off your bike by a crazy man. He kicked the bike into gear and sped off over the lights, leaving behind the desperate looking vagrant, who cried out angrily…
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By the next morning, the whole incident was forgotten about. The hours of exhausted slumber had cleared his mind for the time being. Although, not for long…
“Okay!” House exclaimed as he backed through the conference room doors, a cup of takeout coffee in one hand, and a bag of bagels in the other.
“Give me some good news. Tell me the patient died last night!” He put on a pleading face and watched Cameron for a reaction. To his disappointment, she merely ignored his comments and helpfully took the coffee and bagels from him so he could take off his jacket and unhook his cane from his arm. Some people just can’t help being nice he thought, shaking his head at her in annoyance and sitting at the table with his team.
Foreman threw a file down under House’s nose, opening it to the last page. “His BP is still in the tank, he’s now on a respirator and he’s still paralyzed” he rattled off, sounding very peeved. He didn’t add that he’d been at the hospital all night desperately treating the poor guy for anything and everything, but House knew. It wasn’t hard to tell from the slightly unkempt clothing, red worn eyes and empty coffee cups strewn about on the table.
House smirked at his underling’s frustration, “Damn, and there I was thinking that me going home last night would actually cure the guy…” he feigned his own irritation in the form of slapping the table with the palm of his hand and shaking his head.
The fact that Foreman seemed to be wrong about his suggested treatment was almost comforting to House. It still gave him a chance to solve the case himself, making him feel less of a failure. “Let’s try again, shall we?”
He stood and grabbed his bag of bagels out of reach from Chase, who was eyeing them hungrily. “You don’t get a treat ‘till you come up with a diagnosis” he stated childishly whilst placing the bag on top of the bookshelf.
“What can we get rid of…?” he muttered to himself, crossing diseases off the list. Chase and Cameron called out a number of conditions that had been ruled out by Foreman’s treatment. Well, at least one good thing came out of him staying here all night House thought.
“So…” he turned to face his team and stopped short at the sight of a man standing at the conference room window. Not just any man - the Homeless guy.
“Shit.” His team turned to look at what had their mentor so spooked. They half expected it to be Cuddy, but were instead faced with a dirty, bearded old man.
The vagrant was trying to force his way through the window, either too stupid or too impatient to find the door. Foreman and Chase stood up to assist the guy before he pushed the whole pane of glass through; Cameron stayed back, seeing the demented look in the vagabond’s eyes and feeling uneasy.
House watched from the safety of the whiteboard as the tramp ignored Chase’s offer of help and Foreman’s restraining hand on his shoulder. He seemed to be focused entirely on House, as if nothing else mattered in the world. It was beyond creepy.
With a sickening howl, the elderly man grabbed his head and dropped to his knees. Chase stared open mouthed as the man collapsed further, writhed on the floor and eventually went still; Foreman held his hands up in an ‘I didn’t touch him’ motion. Cameron put a hand over her mouth and stayed rooted to the spot, only moving when she heard House ordering a gurney over the internal phone system.
If he was spooked by this, he certainly wasn’t going to let his team know in a hurry…
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Two hours after the tramp was admitted, House was still mystified over his own patient’s ailment. Sitting in his office, his mind kept wondering to the vagrant who seemed to be more than just a little intent on getting to him. He’d refused to physically examine the tramp after his collapse, stating that he’d rather spend four hours in the clinic ‘cos I’m less likely to catch anything.
Whoever this man was, House didn’t want to know. At least, he kept telling himself that. He was intrigued to find out how the man had found him, and why…This is just too weird he mused, flicking his glance up as Wilson entered, bringing food.
“Your homeless guy” Wilson started, speaking through a mouthful of sandwich; “Hepatocellular carcinoma and Alzheimer’s.”
“He’s not my homeless guy” House replied agitatedly, stealing a handful of chips from Wilson’s unguarded plate. “No matter how pleased he was to see me again.”
“Nice” Wilson acknowledged, pulling his plate onto his lap in an attempt at rescuing a few chips for himself.
House frowned, not sure if Wilson’s was praising his deftly chip-stealing ability or...“What?”
Wilson paused, mid-bite; “The homeless guy - he’s blind” he stated, matter-of-factly.
House was stunned. Blind. Blind? “He’s blind?” He hadn’t seemed blind…but then, he did almost get himself run over last night - but how did he find you if he’s blind? Coincidence? ‘Coincidence’ wasn’t a word House would use readily; it left a lot of unanswered questions and was generally the lazy answer.
“House?” Wilson repeated, trying to get his friend’s attention; “You okay?”
The older man nodded unconvincingly, leaning back into his chair with a glazed over expression before snapping out of it and meeting Wilson’s worried gaze. “Hepatocellular carcinoma isn’t a diagnosis. It’s most likely metastasised from somewhere else…”
“Yes, which is exactly why I came in here for lunch” Wilson smirked playfully; “I just wanted to hear you say, yet again, that you know more about cancer than I do.”
“You thought of that already.” House concluded, unable to hide his admiration for his friend’s inane ability to take him with a pinch of salt. “Is he still here?”
Wilson nodded, taking another bite of his sandwich. “We admitted him. He hasn’t got long left. He’ll be dead within a week - we can wait for the autopsy results to find out what specific type of cancer he has” he said confidently, yet covering his mouth with the back of his hand. Even when he was talking with his mouth full in an attempt at appearing rebellious, he was still haunted by the good manners and grace that declared him a ‘good boy’.
House pretended to be shocked at his little display of ‘badness’; “I thought you were the nice one…” he muttered accusingly.
“I thought you weren’t” Wilson countered, pointing suspiciously at his friend. “What’s got you so spooked?” He didn’t give House a chance to reply before he picked up on something else that was bugging him; “and why did you say: no matter how pleased he was to see you again?”
House sighed, “I saw him last night, on my way home. He came up to me when I was waiting at the lights, downtown. I thought he was after money or something…”
Wilson frowned, thinking about how long it would have taken the guy to walk from downtown to PPTH. It was at least four miles, and the man was in no shape to crawl, let alone walk. From the smell of him, no one would have accepted him as a hitcher. He didn’t come by ambulance. “Are you sure?” He hated questioning House, but surely he was mistaken this time?
“You’re right. Maybe it was some other homeless drunk who was desperate to see me.” House was becoming snappy and disgruntled; which, as always, was Wilson’s cue to either apologise or leave. “I usually get followed by a small army’s worth of tramps - this one must have broken free.”
“I’m just saying…maybe this is another guy.” Wilson reasoned, in an attempt at keeping himself in House’s good books. “The whole thing could just be a giant coincide-”
“Don’t say it!” House exclaimed, pulling himself out of the chair and grabbing his cane. Nothing was a coincidence - ever. The need to investigate was now too strong to ignore. His critically ill patient could wait; this blind, homeless guy was far more interesting.
Wilson furrowed his brow in confusion as the Diagnostician limped past him; “Where are you going?” So much for a quiet lunch…
“Well, I’ve got to see him now, haven’t I?” he huffed in reply, grabbing the paper plate from Wilson’s lap and dumping it in his bin. “Lunch is over.”
Wilson sighed, dragging himself up to follow the other man closely; his own curiosity was steering him to believe that maybe House was serious about this poor beggar. He called out the room number and let the limping man lead the way, unaware that House already knew exactly where the vagrant was; he’d been cautiously avoiding the room all morning. Something about crazy, ‘stalker tramps’ just didn’t do it for him.
In an act of extraordinary chivalry, House slid the door open and motioned for Wilson to enter before him. This warranted an amusing look of confusion from the Oncologist as he passed by and entered the quiet room.
There was something about the unconscious man positioned in the bed that worried the older Doc. So much so, he refused to follow Wilson into the room; he settled himself, leaning by the doorpost, trying to look casual as Wilson automatically double checked the nameless man’s stats.
After a few minutes of simply staring at the guys face from the sanctuary of the doorway, House had to move when Wilson got a phone call on the nurse’s station. This gave the Diagnostician a chance to indulge in his morbid curiosity without an audience; he didn’t want Wilson to think he was scared of the frail looking man, did he? He’s just a homeless tramp. He’s doped up on pain meds. Don’t be such a wuss he thought as he slid the door closed behind him. Just ask him what he wants from you, and then leave.
He circled the bed, slowly, glancing up at the monitors when the patient’s heart rate leapt dramatically. “What the-” he jumped back, though not soon enough, as a scarred hand grabbed him by the wrist. Oh crap!
His cane clattered to the floor as he struggled against the remarkably strong hold that the Vagrant had over him. “Let go!” he ordered through gritted teeth, unable to hide the crack in his voice as the grip merely grew stronger. It was getting to the point of his hand becoming numb with the force around his wrist. He managed to slide his hand partly from the grip; the tramp’s hand was now fiercely crushing his own. Bad idea...
He looked from his hand, to the tramp’s face, gasping in agony as he felt bones cracking in his left hand. Above the screaming of the heart monitor and the howling coming from his own lips, House heard the man try to speak. He grunted, forcing himself to stop making any noise, just so he could hear what the man was trying to say. He caught several words: “You’re him…the one…healer…touch.”
“What?” House had never been so confused in his entire life. He hated it. How the hell is he this strong? he thought desperately, struggling to rip his hand free from the intensifying hold. There goes the piano playing he thought, feeling another bone snap and grind against the mess of the others. Somebody get in here!
“You’re the healer!” the vagrant proclaimed in a hissed, manic voice, before his eyes rolled back in his head and his hand unexpectedly released House’s hand from his death grip.
House felt a sharp shock shoot up his left arm as he fell backwards; he inadvertently stumbled onto his bad leg, which buckled under him, leaving him to land flat on his back and gasping desperately for air. Almost immediately, he turned onto his side and retched pathetically. When the brief spurt of nausea passed, he protectively cradled his wounded limb against his chest and groaned wretchedly. This is why you don’t visit patients.
He distantly heard the high pitched wail from the O2 sats monitor calling out for help; he concluded that during his struggle with the crazy man, the clip must have been knocked off of his finger.
Within seconds, a tirade of nurses burst into the room, followed by an extremely concerned looking Wilson; the nurses tended to the now-unconscious patient and the doctor tended to his trembling friend.
“House! What happened?” he asked hurriedly, kneeling down by the older doctor. “Are you hurt?” he did a quick visual check, taking in House’s red faced appearance and wounded posture.
House gulped in a few deep breaths and held up his hand for Wilson to see; “Just my…” he trailed off as he saw the perfect, unbroken, left hand before his eyes. He gaped in astonishment… What the hell just happened?
TBC…