Chapter 29 of Anesthesia
This chapter is perhaps slightly shorter than the last one, but that's irrelevant. Guess what's hit the fan? Enjoy the chapter, and let me know what you think. :) Even a few words make me feverish and seizure-prone with delight.
"Is there a particular reason for this?" Foreman queried.
"Has he been acting oddly lately?" Cuddy asked.
"Sometimes he thinks he notices symptoms that aren't there. I mean, more than usual. Why?"
"When does he usually get in?"
"In about... now."
House limped in, whistling a tune to himself. "Morning, Raspberries. Morning, Bling." He dropped his backpack on the floor.
"Morning, Limpy," Cuddy said, tossing him some scrubs. "fMRI time."
"Ooh, first thing in the morning. You guys are getting right on this."
"It's almost noon. How's your leg?" Cuddy asked.
"Eight or nine. Not too bad."
Foreman raised his eyebrows. "You'd be screaming," he said.
"My personal pain scale is out of fifteen."
"So that translates to--"
"--a six. Do you realize, if there actually is any pain, you're going to have to let me break a two-by-four over your head for that whole Tritter incident?"
"Change into your scrubs--"
"And that thing where you switched the morphine for saline warrants a caning. Bend over."
"--and we'll take you down to Radiology--"
"Let's not forget the laxative incident."
"--for the scan."
House paused for a moment, then headed to the bathroom to change.
"So, what's the verdict? Does my leg hurt or not?"
"House, we haven't even turned on the machine yet."
"Come on, come on, I'm having lunch with Wilson later. Hurry up."
Cuddy was immensely glad that the MRI hadn't turned on yet and Foreman wouldn't be able to see the emotional reasons why House was looking forward to lunch so much. They kept him talking about random subjects. When, shortly into the procedure, Cuddy adopted an expression suggesting that he'd just witnessed a murder, Foreman asked, "What did you see?"
"Look," she said.
"Jesus. It's in his occipital lobe, too... and his limbic system."
"You're awful quiet," House said. "Has my actual presence of pain shocked you into silence?"
"House, we have to talk."
"That's not funny," House snapped, rising quickly to his feet.
"House, the fMRI showed decreased activity in several portions of your brain," Foreman said. His tone left little room for argument. "I'm sorry, but when you seized after the deep-brain stimulation--"
"Nothing happened."
"House, it's only slight damage, but it's enough," Cuddy said. "Foreman?"
"See?" Foreman showed House what the fMRI had seen--decreased activity in House's visual, memory, and sensory cortices and his frontal lobe (reasoning), as well as the limbic system, which controlled emotions. "I'm sorry, but if it's there, it's there."
House's brow furrowed slightly, and he had the look that meant he had shrewdly discovered something. "So does my leg hurt or not?"
Cuddy blinked, bewildered, and Foreman said, "Uh, well, I was a bit too distracted by the brain damage to worry about your leg."
"Did Cuddy point out the brain damage, or did you?"
"Foreman," Cuddy started to say, but Foreman interrupted, "Cuddy did. What does that have to do with anything?"
There was a look on House's face Foreman hadn't seen before. Somewhere between angry, scared, uncertain, and amused. "I'm flattered you want to get into my pants that badly," he told Cuddy, standing, "but using my leg pain to trick me into getting an fMRI so you can question my choice in significant other is a little overboard, I think. Almost stalker-y."
"This coming from a man who once had your underwear stolen," Foreman reminded her in an undertone.
"When was that?" House asked.
Foreman raised his eyebrows. "Memory center?"
"Screwing with you?" House wasn't--he had no idea what they were talking about--but he wasn't about to let them know that. "If I have dain bramage, why haven't I shown any symptoms?"
"You are," Foreman said simply. "You're solving cases slower than usual, your razor-sharp memory is a butter knife, and you keep thinking you see symptoms that aren't there."
"No, you just think they aren't there because you don't notice--"
"Occipital lobe? Visual cortex? Hallucinations? You don't think these are connected?" said Cuddy.
"I think you ran out of batteries," House said, "and my fMRI is connected to the huge, gaping space next to you in bed. Think I'm hallucinating that?" House tried to limp around them, but Cuddy stepped in front of him.
"House, I'm sorry, but until we determine the precise extent of the brain damage, we'll have to keep you under observation. For your own safety."
"I already have someone observing me, which is the only reason we're having this conversation," House snapped.
"And your treatment privileges are suspended under the circumstan--"
"Fuck you," House snarled, and shoved past her, heading for the door with speed Foreman had only seen when a mentally ill woman had tried to smother her baby. He was aimed in the direction of Wilson's office.
Foreman and Cuddy were silent for nearly thirty seconds. "Who is this woman he's dating?" Foreman asked finally, sounding almost awed. "I have got to meet her."
"No, you don't," Cuddy muttered, and followed House. Foreman shrugged and went to do clinic duty.
House and Wilson were not in Wilson's office. Cuddy frowned. Where else could they be? They couldn't possibly have crept out of Wilson's office without her seeing them, not with her watching from House's glass office... She checked the cafeteria, the morgue, the oncology ward, and they were nowhere to be found. They weren't with any of House's usual "coma guys" either, or in the fourth-floor janitor's closet, or in the ER. In fact, when Cuddy walked out to the parking lot and checked, House's car was gone. Several passers-by stared as she demanded (at a rather alarming volume) of the empty space, "How the hell could they have gotten out of there without me knowing about it?!"
The answer was really quite simple, but Cuddy was far too worried about what might happen when House told Wilson what she'd said to work it out. House had brain damage, which meant Wilson was about to be in some serious trouble with the law. It would be a simple matter to convince the judge that, due to House's newly-discovered condition and his state of mind, he couldn't reasonably be expected to testify, which meant that all Cuddy had to do was get House to agree to press formal charges against Wilson. The things she'd managed to get meant there was a good chance Wilson would be convicted whether House testified or not. Polaroids, to prove the injuries weren't fake or Photoshopped, taken while House was out on morphine and Wilson was banished from House's apartment. She'd also taken images with a digital camera, since time and date stamps were recorded in the file, to prove the timeline. She'd written up a full patient file, under the name of "Richard Dawkins," detailing House's condition, and a bedsheet of his, currently stored in a freezer in Cuddy's garage, would provide DNA. The police would know what Wilson did, who he did it to, and when he did it.
The trouble was, Wilson knew all this. And when House told him about the fMRI, and Cuddy's own suspicions...
Cuddy shivered, a weight in her stomach like an ostrich egg made of lead and a lump the size of a baseball in her throat, and called her secretary, explaining she had an emergency and had to leave, and headed for House's apartment, doing fifteen miles over the speed limit. As she drove, she repeatedly called his cell and home numbers. He didn't pick up on either line. Wilson didn't answer his phones, either.
When she got to House's apartment, it was a mess. Most of his clothes were gone, as were his medical supplies and a bunch of entertainment items. House and Wilson were nowhere to be found.
Cuddy pulled out her phone and dialed nine-one-one.
----
Thrilling! And, as a bonus, the first person to figure out how House and Wilson completely eluded Foreman and Cuddy (and no, they didn't just sprint down the hall. Strategy was involved) gets to make me write a oneshot for them . :p Leave a comment.
Chapter 30.
"Is there a particular reason for this?" Foreman queried.
"Has he been acting oddly lately?" Cuddy asked.
"Sometimes he thinks he notices symptoms that aren't there. I mean, more than usual. Why?"
"When does he usually get in?"
"In about... now."
House limped in, whistling a tune to himself. "Morning, Raspberries. Morning, Bling." He dropped his backpack on the floor.
"Morning, Limpy," Cuddy said, tossing him some scrubs. "fMRI time."
"Ooh, first thing in the morning. You guys are getting right on this."
"It's almost noon. How's your leg?" Cuddy asked.
"Eight or nine. Not too bad."
Foreman raised his eyebrows. "You'd be screaming," he said.
"My personal pain scale is out of fifteen."
"So that translates to--"
"--a six. Do you realize, if there actually is any pain, you're going to have to let me break a two-by-four over your head for that whole Tritter incident?"
"Change into your scrubs--"
"And that thing where you switched the morphine for saline warrants a caning. Bend over."
"--and we'll take you down to Radiology--"
"Let's not forget the laxative incident."
"--for the scan."
House paused for a moment, then headed to the bathroom to change.
"So, what's the verdict? Does my leg hurt or not?"
"House, we haven't even turned on the machine yet."
"Come on, come on, I'm having lunch with Wilson later. Hurry up."
Cuddy was immensely glad that the MRI hadn't turned on yet and Foreman wouldn't be able to see the emotional reasons why House was looking forward to lunch so much. They kept him talking about random subjects. When, shortly into the procedure, Cuddy adopted an expression suggesting that he'd just witnessed a murder, Foreman asked, "What did you see?"
"Look," she said.
"Jesus. It's in his occipital lobe, too... and his limbic system."
"You're awful quiet," House said. "Has my actual presence of pain shocked you into silence?"
"House, we have to talk."
"That's not funny," House snapped, rising quickly to his feet.
"House, the fMRI showed decreased activity in several portions of your brain," Foreman said. His tone left little room for argument. "I'm sorry, but when you seized after the deep-brain stimulation--"
"Nothing happened."
"House, it's only slight damage, but it's enough," Cuddy said. "Foreman?"
"See?" Foreman showed House what the fMRI had seen--decreased activity in House's visual, memory, and sensory cortices and his frontal lobe (reasoning), as well as the limbic system, which controlled emotions. "I'm sorry, but if it's there, it's there."
House's brow furrowed slightly, and he had the look that meant he had shrewdly discovered something. "So does my leg hurt or not?"
Cuddy blinked, bewildered, and Foreman said, "Uh, well, I was a bit too distracted by the brain damage to worry about your leg."
"Did Cuddy point out the brain damage, or did you?"
"Foreman," Cuddy started to say, but Foreman interrupted, "Cuddy did. What does that have to do with anything?"
There was a look on House's face Foreman hadn't seen before. Somewhere between angry, scared, uncertain, and amused. "I'm flattered you want to get into my pants that badly," he told Cuddy, standing, "but using my leg pain to trick me into getting an fMRI so you can question my choice in significant other is a little overboard, I think. Almost stalker-y."
"This coming from a man who once had your underwear stolen," Foreman reminded her in an undertone.
"When was that?" House asked.
Foreman raised his eyebrows. "Memory center?"
"Screwing with you?" House wasn't--he had no idea what they were talking about--but he wasn't about to let them know that. "If I have dain bramage, why haven't I shown any symptoms?"
"You are," Foreman said simply. "You're solving cases slower than usual, your razor-sharp memory is a butter knife, and you keep thinking you see symptoms that aren't there."
"No, you just think they aren't there because you don't notice--"
"Occipital lobe? Visual cortex? Hallucinations? You don't think these are connected?" said Cuddy.
"I think you ran out of batteries," House said, "and my fMRI is connected to the huge, gaping space next to you in bed. Think I'm hallucinating that?" House tried to limp around them, but Cuddy stepped in front of him.
"House, I'm sorry, but until we determine the precise extent of the brain damage, we'll have to keep you under observation. For your own safety."
"I already have someone observing me, which is the only reason we're having this conversation," House snapped.
"And your treatment privileges are suspended under the circumstan--"
"Fuck you," House snarled, and shoved past her, heading for the door with speed Foreman had only seen when a mentally ill woman had tried to smother her baby. He was aimed in the direction of Wilson's office.
Foreman and Cuddy were silent for nearly thirty seconds. "Who is this woman he's dating?" Foreman asked finally, sounding almost awed. "I have got to meet her."
"No, you don't," Cuddy muttered, and followed House. Foreman shrugged and went to do clinic duty.
House and Wilson were not in Wilson's office. Cuddy frowned. Where else could they be? They couldn't possibly have crept out of Wilson's office without her seeing them, not with her watching from House's glass office... She checked the cafeteria, the morgue, the oncology ward, and they were nowhere to be found. They weren't with any of House's usual "coma guys" either, or in the fourth-floor janitor's closet, or in the ER. In fact, when Cuddy walked out to the parking lot and checked, House's car was gone. Several passers-by stared as she demanded (at a rather alarming volume) of the empty space, "How the hell could they have gotten out of there without me knowing about it?!"
The answer was really quite simple, but Cuddy was far too worried about what might happen when House told Wilson what she'd said to work it out. House had brain damage, which meant Wilson was about to be in some serious trouble with the law. It would be a simple matter to convince the judge that, due to House's newly-discovered condition and his state of mind, he couldn't reasonably be expected to testify, which meant that all Cuddy had to do was get House to agree to press formal charges against Wilson. The things she'd managed to get meant there was a good chance Wilson would be convicted whether House testified or not. Polaroids, to prove the injuries weren't fake or Photoshopped, taken while House was out on morphine and Wilson was banished from House's apartment. She'd also taken images with a digital camera, since time and date stamps were recorded in the file, to prove the timeline. She'd written up a full patient file, under the name of "Richard Dawkins," detailing House's condition, and a bedsheet of his, currently stored in a freezer in Cuddy's garage, would provide DNA. The police would know what Wilson did, who he did it to, and when he did it.
The trouble was, Wilson knew all this. And when House told him about the fMRI, and Cuddy's own suspicions...
Cuddy shivered, a weight in her stomach like an ostrich egg made of lead and a lump the size of a baseball in her throat, and called her secretary, explaining she had an emergency and had to leave, and headed for House's apartment, doing fifteen miles over the speed limit. As she drove, she repeatedly called his cell and home numbers. He didn't pick up on either line. Wilson didn't answer his phones, either.
When she got to House's apartment, it was a mess. Most of his clothes were gone, as were his medical supplies and a bunch of entertainment items. House and Wilson were nowhere to be found.
Cuddy pulled out her phone and dialed nine-one-one.
----
Thrilling! And, as a bonus, the first person to figure out how House and Wilson completely eluded Foreman and Cuddy (and no, they didn't just sprint down the hall. Strategy was involved) gets to make me write a oneshot for them . :p Leave a comment.
Chapter 30.