Sunday Brunch - Chapter 4
Author: zeppomarx
Pairing: House/Wilson friendship
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
The story up till now:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
SUMMARY: When a jazz musician collapses on stage, House has only a short time to diagnose and treat.
TEASER: He was lying in the forest, a panther perched on his chest, its hot breath in his face. His leg had been ripped off. The panther licked its lips as a few drops of blood-his blood-dripped from the panther’s mouth onto his face.
___________________________________________
Sunday Brunch
Chapter 4
House was just young enough and just lucky enough to avoid getting drafted for Vietnam. But not all of his friends were that young or that lucky. David Alberghetti had been shot to hell. Alan Simms had been blinded. Petey Lantz had lost an arm. Others came back tormented by what they’d seen and done, unable to live their lives as planned because they’d been dragged off to war.
And now, in his drugged dream, House was there, too, lying in a pool of his own blood, his right leg shredded by shrapnel. He looked down at it, noting calmly that his foot seemed very far away. Then he realized why. His shoe, his foot and his leg were about three yards off to the side, his leg torn off just below the hip.
The dream morphed. Now he was lying in the forest, a panther perched on his chest, its hot breath in his face. Again, his leg had been ripped off. The panther licked its lips as a few drops of blood-his blood-dripped from the panther’s mouth onto his face.
As Cuddy re-entered House’s room, noting that only the girlfriend remained, he suddenly opened his eyes and began to howl.
Janet’s eyes snapped open. She’d been dozing in the chair next to his bed, but now she was fully awake.
House, however, wasn’t. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t there. He was somewhere else, somewhere far away, where something terrible was happening.
“Greg! Greg! Wake up!”
Cuddy ran to his other side. Quickly, she put her fingers to his neck. His pulse was racing, and he was panting.
The girlfriend-what was her name again?-was beginning to panic as he continued to yell, his unfocused eyes staring at something she couldn’t see.
“House,” said Cuddy quietly in his ear. “It’s okay. Calm down. You’re having a nightmare. It’s okay.” Gently, she rubbed his back. His breathing slowed, and finally he shook his head. Still frightened, his gaze went from Janet to Cuddy and back again.
“My leg!” he cried.
“We know,” said Cuddy soothingly. “We’re working on it.”
He looked down as if he expected to see something horrible. But clearly outlined under the blanket were both of his legs.
Where was he? Oh, yes. The hospital. His leg.
Nightmare. Okay. Settle down. Not real.
But something was real. The pain was real. Even with the morphine. Something was very very wrong.
* * * *
“Something is very very wrong,” Cuddy was saying to him. “The problem is, we don’t know what it is.”
Tell me something I don’t know.
House just nodded. It was mid-afternoon, and he’d been living with this pain for close to thirty hours. Sometimes, after getting more meds, the pain receded… a little… but it was always there.
Right now, the pain had backed off, giving him a chance to think.
She came closer, leaning over his bed. He smelled expensive perfume. Her brilliant blue eyes, set amidst all that long, black hair, were what had attracted him to her all those years ago. Her overriding ambition was what had driven him away.
He heard the door open again, and the other doctor slipped into the room. Wilson. He looked like a nice enough guy, and House had certainly been grateful that he’d been at the club. Was it only yesterday?
Janet stood up to give Wilson access to the bed.
“Greg,” said Cuddy softly. “I know this is unusual, but we need your help to figure out what’s wrong with your leg.”
Buraku, he thought, smiling. I choose music, and medicine chooses me. Can’t get away from it.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Janet, looking worried. Damn. Even turning his head made his leg hurt. He looked over at Wilson, who seemed to be trying to talk.
“Uh… Skins, I mean Dr. House…” stuttered Wilson, not quite sure what he wanted to say. “Uh… Dr. Cuddy seems to think… uh… that… you would actually… uh… be the best person to… well, diagnose your condition.”
Amused by the man’s nervousness, he wondered how Cuddy had convinced Wilson-if she had convinced him-that only he could diagnose himself. For a moment, he imagined their conversation, and smiled to himself.
“No Department of Diagnostics?” he asked, testing.
“Nope. And we’d rather not send you to Manhattan General, unless we can’t help it.”
Ah. Hospital procedure and policy. Forget about getting the patient the best treatment. Just follow the rules. That’s why he wasn’t practicing medicine.
“Okay. What do you want from me?”
“Your brain,” said Cuddy. “Just your brain. Tell us what we can do to help you think.”
House took a breath.
“Can you get me a whiteboard? Then we could write things down.”
“I’ll get it,” said Wilson, relieved to finally have something concrete to do.
Wilson returned half an hour later rolling a whiteboard into the room. By this time, Cuddy was seated on House’s other side, with Janet holding one of his hands and Cuddy the other. House was asleep.
“He asked me to wake him up when you got back,” said Cuddy, touching House on the shoulder.
After a moment of disorientation, House woke up. When he saw the whiteboard, he looked at Wilson. Their eyes met for a moment, and then he nodded.
“Okay. Let’s get started. The way this is going to work is that we’ll all throw out ideas, and I’ll tell you when you’re being idiots. We’ll keep going until we figure it out. Or until I die from the pain, whichever comes first.”
Wilson was startled. Patients seldom made jokes about pain. This guy was in anguish, and yet he was making jokes about it… and about exactly what might happen to him. He found himself examining House more closely than he had before, wondering what made the guy tick.
Within an hour, the whiteboard was full of notes, all written by Wilson, at House’s directive.
“Thigh Pain” was written at the top of the board.
Underneath, were written:
Muscle strain
Tendon/muscle tear
Leriche Syndrome
Adult hypophosphatasia
Axial osteosclerosis
Iliotibial Band Syndrome
Meralgia paresthetica
One by one, over the course of the next five hours, they eliminated every one. Wilson found the process fascinating. All four of them-Wilson, Cuddy, House and even Janet-participated. Janet, although she was an attorney and not a doctor, was actually very helpful, because she asked basic questions and kept them focused.
Cuddy was right. The guy was brilliant. Brilliant and quick. Before Wilson could even consider some of the options, House had verbalized exactly why they didn’t apply in this case.
Unfortunately, by ten o’clock, they had eliminated everything on the whiteboard.
“Clear it off,” growled House to Wilson, who complied. “What did we miss?”
Wilson cleared the board.
Suddenly, it didn’t matter what they missed. The pain was back, and it was going to run things for a while.
“Ohhhhh, God!” roared House without warning, bending double to grip his thigh. Suddenly, he threw up, far too unexpectedly for anyone to grab the emesis basin.
Janet gripped his hand tightly as she looked up pleadingly at Wilson and Cuddy. Help him! she seemed to be saying. Help him!
Cuddy jumped up, unlocked the controls for the morphine drip, and upped his dosage. At this rate, he was going to OD before they figured it out.
In the meantime, he continued to throw up. Normal response to extreme pain. Didn’t mean he had to like it.
Slowly, House released his grip on his thigh, sighing cautiously as an orderly began to clean him up
NEXT: Chapter 5
Pairing: House/Wilson friendship
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
The story up till now:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
SUMMARY: When a jazz musician collapses on stage, House has only a short time to diagnose and treat.
TEASER: He was lying in the forest, a panther perched on his chest, its hot breath in his face. His leg had been ripped off. The panther licked its lips as a few drops of blood-his blood-dripped from the panther’s mouth onto his face.
___________________________________________
Sunday Brunch
Chapter 4
House was just young enough and just lucky enough to avoid getting drafted for Vietnam. But not all of his friends were that young or that lucky. David Alberghetti had been shot to hell. Alan Simms had been blinded. Petey Lantz had lost an arm. Others came back tormented by what they’d seen and done, unable to live their lives as planned because they’d been dragged off to war.
And now, in his drugged dream, House was there, too, lying in a pool of his own blood, his right leg shredded by shrapnel. He looked down at it, noting calmly that his foot seemed very far away. Then he realized why. His shoe, his foot and his leg were about three yards off to the side, his leg torn off just below the hip.
The dream morphed. Now he was lying in the forest, a panther perched on his chest, its hot breath in his face. Again, his leg had been ripped off. The panther licked its lips as a few drops of blood-his blood-dripped from the panther’s mouth onto his face.
As Cuddy re-entered House’s room, noting that only the girlfriend remained, he suddenly opened his eyes and began to howl.
Janet’s eyes snapped open. She’d been dozing in the chair next to his bed, but now she was fully awake.
House, however, wasn’t. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t there. He was somewhere else, somewhere far away, where something terrible was happening.
“Greg! Greg! Wake up!”
Cuddy ran to his other side. Quickly, she put her fingers to his neck. His pulse was racing, and he was panting.
The girlfriend-what was her name again?-was beginning to panic as he continued to yell, his unfocused eyes staring at something she couldn’t see.
“House,” said Cuddy quietly in his ear. “It’s okay. Calm down. You’re having a nightmare. It’s okay.” Gently, she rubbed his back. His breathing slowed, and finally he shook his head. Still frightened, his gaze went from Janet to Cuddy and back again.
“My leg!” he cried.
“We know,” said Cuddy soothingly. “We’re working on it.”
He looked down as if he expected to see something horrible. But clearly outlined under the blanket were both of his legs.
Where was he? Oh, yes. The hospital. His leg.
Nightmare. Okay. Settle down. Not real.
But something was real. The pain was real. Even with the morphine. Something was very very wrong.
* * * *
“Something is very very wrong,” Cuddy was saying to him. “The problem is, we don’t know what it is.”
Tell me something I don’t know.
House just nodded. It was mid-afternoon, and he’d been living with this pain for close to thirty hours. Sometimes, after getting more meds, the pain receded… a little… but it was always there.
Right now, the pain had backed off, giving him a chance to think.
She came closer, leaning over his bed. He smelled expensive perfume. Her brilliant blue eyes, set amidst all that long, black hair, were what had attracted him to her all those years ago. Her overriding ambition was what had driven him away.
He heard the door open again, and the other doctor slipped into the room. Wilson. He looked like a nice enough guy, and House had certainly been grateful that he’d been at the club. Was it only yesterday?
Janet stood up to give Wilson access to the bed.
“Greg,” said Cuddy softly. “I know this is unusual, but we need your help to figure out what’s wrong with your leg.”
Buraku, he thought, smiling. I choose music, and medicine chooses me. Can’t get away from it.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Janet, looking worried. Damn. Even turning his head made his leg hurt. He looked over at Wilson, who seemed to be trying to talk.
“Uh… Skins, I mean Dr. House…” stuttered Wilson, not quite sure what he wanted to say. “Uh… Dr. Cuddy seems to think… uh… that… you would actually… uh… be the best person to… well, diagnose your condition.”
Amused by the man’s nervousness, he wondered how Cuddy had convinced Wilson-if she had convinced him-that only he could diagnose himself. For a moment, he imagined their conversation, and smiled to himself.
“No Department of Diagnostics?” he asked, testing.
“Nope. And we’d rather not send you to Manhattan General, unless we can’t help it.”
Ah. Hospital procedure and policy. Forget about getting the patient the best treatment. Just follow the rules. That’s why he wasn’t practicing medicine.
“Okay. What do you want from me?”
“Your brain,” said Cuddy. “Just your brain. Tell us what we can do to help you think.”
House took a breath.
“Can you get me a whiteboard? Then we could write things down.”
“I’ll get it,” said Wilson, relieved to finally have something concrete to do.
Wilson returned half an hour later rolling a whiteboard into the room. By this time, Cuddy was seated on House’s other side, with Janet holding one of his hands and Cuddy the other. House was asleep.
“He asked me to wake him up when you got back,” said Cuddy, touching House on the shoulder.
After a moment of disorientation, House woke up. When he saw the whiteboard, he looked at Wilson. Their eyes met for a moment, and then he nodded.
“Okay. Let’s get started. The way this is going to work is that we’ll all throw out ideas, and I’ll tell you when you’re being idiots. We’ll keep going until we figure it out. Or until I die from the pain, whichever comes first.”
Wilson was startled. Patients seldom made jokes about pain. This guy was in anguish, and yet he was making jokes about it… and about exactly what might happen to him. He found himself examining House more closely than he had before, wondering what made the guy tick.
Within an hour, the whiteboard was full of notes, all written by Wilson, at House’s directive.
“Thigh Pain” was written at the top of the board.
Underneath, were written:
Muscle strain
Tendon/muscle tear
Leriche Syndrome
Adult hypophosphatasia
Axial osteosclerosis
Iliotibial Band Syndrome
Meralgia paresthetica
One by one, over the course of the next five hours, they eliminated every one. Wilson found the process fascinating. All four of them-Wilson, Cuddy, House and even Janet-participated. Janet, although she was an attorney and not a doctor, was actually very helpful, because she asked basic questions and kept them focused.
Cuddy was right. The guy was brilliant. Brilliant and quick. Before Wilson could even consider some of the options, House had verbalized exactly why they didn’t apply in this case.
Unfortunately, by ten o’clock, they had eliminated everything on the whiteboard.
“Clear it off,” growled House to Wilson, who complied. “What did we miss?”
Wilson cleared the board.
Suddenly, it didn’t matter what they missed. The pain was back, and it was going to run things for a while.
“Ohhhhh, God!” roared House without warning, bending double to grip his thigh. Suddenly, he threw up, far too unexpectedly for anyone to grab the emesis basin.
Janet gripped his hand tightly as she looked up pleadingly at Wilson and Cuddy. Help him! she seemed to be saying. Help him!
Cuddy jumped up, unlocked the controls for the morphine drip, and upped his dosage. At this rate, he was going to OD before they figured it out.
In the meantime, he continued to throw up. Normal response to extreme pain. Didn’t mean he had to like it.
Slowly, House released his grip on his thigh, sighing cautiously as an orderly began to clean him up
NEXT: Chapter 5