Sunday Brunch - Chapter 7
Author: zeppomarx
Pairing: House/Wilson friendship
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
The story up till now:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
SUMMARY: When a jazz musician collapses on stage, House has only a short time to diagnose and treat.
TEASER: Cuddy fought the desire to punch Brenda Previn in the face. But as she stuffed down her anger, her mind heard House’s howls of pain, and remembered her own thoughts: At this rate, he’s going to OD before we figure it out.
___________________________________________
Sunday Brunch
Chapter 7
Well, it was official. Lisa Cuddy now ruled the world. As of this afternoon, she had been appointed the hospital’s new administrator and Dean of Medicine, one of only three females to hold that position in the country.
“Congratulations!” said Brenda Previn with forced enthusiasm. Privately, she wondered if this slight woman was a little too obsessed with her appearance to be up to the task.
“Congratulations!” said her predecessor, who had recommended someone else for the job.
“Congratulations!” said Wilson, who doubted she had enough political skill to make the changes necessary to turn Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital into a first-rate facility.
* * * *
By the time Cuddy got back to House’s room, it was three hours later. The room was empty.
“Where is he?” she asked Brenda Previn, on duty.
Brenda looked startled. Startled and nervous. Startled and nervous… and guilty.
Why guilty?
“What’s happened here?” asked Cuddy, trying not to get alarmed.
Had his kidneys failed? Cardiac arrest? Coma?
Brenda glanced away, then down toward the floor. She pulled herself together as if facing a firing squad, and looked straight at the woman who was now in a position to determine her future.
“He started screaming,” she began, slowly. Then the words tumbled out. “I-It was… terrible… I-I… oh, hell! I upped his morphine dose without checking to see how much he was already getting.”
Cuddy stared at her a moment before saying anything.
“You OD’d him? You OD’d Greg House?”
Mutely, Brenda nodded.
“He’s in the ER.”
“Fuck,” said Cuddy, less than professionally.
She fought the desire to punch Brenda Previn in the face. But as she stuffed down her anger, her mind heard House’s howls of pain, and remembered her own thoughts: At this rate, he’s going to OD before we figure it out. And although she knew what the nurse had done was unacceptable, it was also understandable. Anything to stop the pain. Anything to make it go away.
She held a deep breath, exhaling before speaking, her voice deliberate and quiet.
“You’re never going to let something like this happen again, are you, Brenda?”
Brenda let out a sharp sigh, whether from surprise at Cuddy’s reaction or relief that she hadn’t been fired, Cuddy wasn’t sure.
“Hell, no,” she said.
Cuddy smiled, knowing she had ensured Brenda Previn’s ongoing loyalty, and headed to the Emergency Room.
* * * *
A few hours later, stabilized and back in his room, House stared at the ceiling. Then he stared at the floor. He stared out the door, watching an orderly pass by. He’d have stared out the window, but there wasn’t one. He stared at the monitors. He stared at Janet, asleep on the couch in the corner of the room. He stared at the equipment surrounding the bed. He stared at the IV bag dripping sweet sweet morphine into his system. He stared at Wilson, sitting in the chair next to him.
Unlike the ceiling, the floor, the door, the orderly, the window, the monitors, Janet, the equipment or the IV bag, Wilson stared back.
“What is it, Dr. House?” he asked, leaning forward.
“Forget that doctor shit,’ came the terse reply. “Call me House.”
“House. Okay. What is it?”
“Thinking. Just thinking. If it weren’t for these drugs, I’d have figured this out hours ago.” His voice seethed with frustration.
Was he really that good? wondered Wilson. Was he really so good that without drugs in his system he could have figured it out by now?
He looked at the lean, strained face and the thoughtful blue eyes, searching the face in an attempt to understand the mind behind it. In House’s presence, he felt stupid, the way he had as a first-year med student listening to 20-year specialists talking with ease about things he hadn’t yet learned.
House reached for the cup of juice on the tray next to him and placed his lips around the straw. As he sucked on it, orange pulp got lodged partway up, keeping the juice from getting through to his mouth. He pulled the cup away from his mouth and stared at the straw.
A faint smile crept across House’s face.
“Not an infection,” he said quietly.
Now it was Wilson’s turn to stare.
“But that’s the only thing left,” he said.
“The only obvious thing left,” corrected House.
NEXT: Chapter 8
Pairing: House/Wilson friendship
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
The story up till now:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
SUMMARY: When a jazz musician collapses on stage, House has only a short time to diagnose and treat.
TEASER: Cuddy fought the desire to punch Brenda Previn in the face. But as she stuffed down her anger, her mind heard House’s howls of pain, and remembered her own thoughts: At this rate, he’s going to OD before we figure it out.
___________________________________________
Sunday Brunch
Chapter 7
Well, it was official. Lisa Cuddy now ruled the world. As of this afternoon, she had been appointed the hospital’s new administrator and Dean of Medicine, one of only three females to hold that position in the country.
“Congratulations!” said Brenda Previn with forced enthusiasm. Privately, she wondered if this slight woman was a little too obsessed with her appearance to be up to the task.
“Congratulations!” said her predecessor, who had recommended someone else for the job.
“Congratulations!” said Wilson, who doubted she had enough political skill to make the changes necessary to turn Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital into a first-rate facility.
* * * *
By the time Cuddy got back to House’s room, it was three hours later. The room was empty.
“Where is he?” she asked Brenda Previn, on duty.
Brenda looked startled. Startled and nervous. Startled and nervous… and guilty.
Why guilty?
“What’s happened here?” asked Cuddy, trying not to get alarmed.
Had his kidneys failed? Cardiac arrest? Coma?
Brenda glanced away, then down toward the floor. She pulled herself together as if facing a firing squad, and looked straight at the woman who was now in a position to determine her future.
“He started screaming,” she began, slowly. Then the words tumbled out. “I-It was… terrible… I-I… oh, hell! I upped his morphine dose without checking to see how much he was already getting.”
Cuddy stared at her a moment before saying anything.
“You OD’d him? You OD’d Greg House?”
Mutely, Brenda nodded.
“He’s in the ER.”
“Fuck,” said Cuddy, less than professionally.
She fought the desire to punch Brenda Previn in the face. But as she stuffed down her anger, her mind heard House’s howls of pain, and remembered her own thoughts: At this rate, he’s going to OD before we figure it out. And although she knew what the nurse had done was unacceptable, it was also understandable. Anything to stop the pain. Anything to make it go away.
She held a deep breath, exhaling before speaking, her voice deliberate and quiet.
“You’re never going to let something like this happen again, are you, Brenda?”
Brenda let out a sharp sigh, whether from surprise at Cuddy’s reaction or relief that she hadn’t been fired, Cuddy wasn’t sure.
“Hell, no,” she said.
Cuddy smiled, knowing she had ensured Brenda Previn’s ongoing loyalty, and headed to the Emergency Room.
* * * *
A few hours later, stabilized and back in his room, House stared at the ceiling. Then he stared at the floor. He stared out the door, watching an orderly pass by. He’d have stared out the window, but there wasn’t one. He stared at the monitors. He stared at Janet, asleep on the couch in the corner of the room. He stared at the equipment surrounding the bed. He stared at the IV bag dripping sweet sweet morphine into his system. He stared at Wilson, sitting in the chair next to him.
Unlike the ceiling, the floor, the door, the orderly, the window, the monitors, Janet, the equipment or the IV bag, Wilson stared back.
“What is it, Dr. House?” he asked, leaning forward.
“Forget that doctor shit,’ came the terse reply. “Call me House.”
“House. Okay. What is it?”
“Thinking. Just thinking. If it weren’t for these drugs, I’d have figured this out hours ago.” His voice seethed with frustration.
Was he really that good? wondered Wilson. Was he really so good that without drugs in his system he could have figured it out by now?
He looked at the lean, strained face and the thoughtful blue eyes, searching the face in an attempt to understand the mind behind it. In House’s presence, he felt stupid, the way he had as a first-year med student listening to 20-year specialists talking with ease about things he hadn’t yet learned.
House reached for the cup of juice on the tray next to him and placed his lips around the straw. As he sucked on it, orange pulp got lodged partway up, keeping the juice from getting through to his mouth. He pulled the cup away from his mouth and stared at the straw.
A faint smile crept across House’s face.
“Not an infection,” he said quietly.
Now it was Wilson’s turn to stare.
“But that’s the only thing left,” he said.
“The only obvious thing left,” corrected House.
NEXT: Chapter 8