(Untitled)

[myownluck]

When, after his lunch with 'Poison Ivy,' Harvey ends up not getting immediately ill, vomiting or hallucinating or passing out or... any of those symptoms one typically associates with poison, he's more than happy to assume that she'd either been lying about doing something to her fries, or whatever she'd done hadn't been very effective

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[housepital]

House finally does have it set up the way he wanted it when he started in this position; If anyone from that particular ward is on the sick list, he gets paged. Before the usually useless asylum doc.

So hi, Harvey. Your doc has a cane, a baseball cap, and a ratty blue backpack.

[myownluck]

Harvey still doesn't care for hospitals, or anything like them. Especially when he's cuffed to the damn bed. He can't even try and sleep -- beyond the itching and the warmth and the weight in his lungs, every time he closes his eye, and someone goes by, he has, has to look. Just in case something bad is about to happen.

While there are those who would, no doubt, put House under such a heading, he's a little low on Harvey's scale, yet. Even if the ex-D.A. isn't quite sure whether the man in question is a doctor, or an escaped patient. "Can I help you?" he asks, sounding tense and a little hoarse.

[housepital]

"Yeah. Don't give me what you've got." He sets his backpack down on the folding chair by the door, fishing out a thick folder. "Harvey Dent, voted Most Likely in your class to catch necrotizing fasciitis. Right?"

[myownluck]

Great, the guy thinks he's funny. ...hopefully, and that's not a roundabout way of giving him his diagnosis. Ugh.

"Yeah." Cough. Cough. "And you are..."