Are you lost?

Hush...Part Six!

2007-06-27T10:22:40Z

A million apologies for the wait (I was ill, so what could I do?)

Wilson held his breath as they approached the nurse’s station. They’d made it this far without coming across any angry doctors or nurses…or security guards, and as he glanced round the corner to the lobby, he could see why.

“Damn!” he hissed, pulling back to hide from the collection of people currently congregating by the front desk. Not only was, what appeared to be, the entire nursing staff of the hospital waiting around by the front door, they were also joined by four hefty looking security guards. “What the hell did you do?” he asked the man currently doubled over in the wheelchair.

House pried his hand away from his face to look up and attempt a look of pure indignation at Wilson’s assumption that he’d done something. “What?” he croaked questioningly, settling for a weak frown. Indignation was too hard to pull off without some serious effort.

“They’ve virtually barricaded the door,” Wilson replied, whispering tensely whilst dragging his patient through to another corridor, “and they look like they’re waiting for something…” he stopped, sharply, as a thought occurred to him. “You never told me why they’re keeping you here.” Please don’t tell me you’ve been arrested…it would explain the restraints…but not the lack of an officer waiting with him…maybe that’s what they were waiting for. Oh crap.

“I know” House said, his reply muffled as he groaned miserably. Now is not the time for interrogation, Columbo – keep moving!

“Do I need to be worried about the fact that they’ve got this place ‘Fort Knoxed’?” the Oncologist asked, resuming his blind journey down the dimly lit hallways. He’d long since lost all sense of direction, and he only hoped he’d be able find his car once they were outside – if they ever made it outside. The maze of the hospital had yet to lead him to a possible escape route, save for alarmed fire escapes. I’m sure it was this direction…

“They’re probably more concerned with the fact that you’ve stolen a wheelchair, than a patient.” House admitted quietly, sucking in a breath as pain lacerated through his temple. The miserable migraine was putting on quite a show, tap shoes and all. “I’ll be happy to restore your confidence in me, by explaining how I got here, provided we make it out sometime tonight.” he added despondently, knowing that it wasn’t really Wilson’s fault that they were trapped in an overrated version of ‘The Running Man’. “Seriously, are we leaving today, or should I start picking out what I’ll be having for breakfast?”

“Do you think I’m pushing you around here for fun?” Wilson snapped back. The agitation from being pried from his bed at such an early hour, only to be griped at for his efforts, was enough to aggravate his frayed nerves. “Just…save your moaning for in the car, please!”

House begrudgingly stayed silent as he was pushed through, yet another, empty corridor. “Does this place actually have any patients?” the younger man asked eventually, peering around a corner to find a large window at the end.

House snorted in reply. If they treated half their patients as they’d treated him, then he wasn’t particularly surprised that they didn’t seem to be packing much in the way of patrons. He watched Wilson jog towards the window and peer out, clapping his hand against his leg in an apparent gesture of accomplishment.

“There’s my car!” Wilson said triumphantly, wincing as his voice echoed off the walls. He quietly opened the door to a vacant room nearby, and pushed House through. After sizing up his friend’s condition, the concerned frown crept back onto his face; he turned so House wouldn’t see it, focussing on his escape route. “How’s your head?” he asked casually, on the off chance of an honest answer.

“Throbbing.” House grunted in reply, lifting the said appendage to curiously watch the Oncologist pry open a window. “That’s your big plan?” he asked disbelievingly, “We’re gonna jump…out of a window?”

“We’re on the ground floor.” Wilson replied matter-of-factly, motioning for the Diagnostician to step out of the chair. He purposefully made eye contact, waiting for any indication that House wanted help, knowing for sure that House wouldn’t willingly ask for it. House seemed to acknowledge this as he stared back, measuring up his friend’s indifference for what it was. Just plain, old Concern.

“Well…aren’t you gonna help me?” he asked, using the most obnoxious tone he could muster. He couldn’t help but notice the look of relief that flashed over the other man’s face at his request. “You’re pathetic” he groaned, mostly to himself, whilst gently removing his right leg from the footrest of the chair. Wilson silently pulled House up and guided him to the window ledge, which would be their means of escape, provided House could climb through. Right now, it was looking unlikely.

The pain that scored through his damaged thigh threatened to push him to the verge of screaming. He settled for cursing profusely, aiming most of his torrent at Wilson, who seemed content at taking it. “Why…did I even…call you?” he gasped, tears streaming down his face from his stinging eyes.

“Because no one else would take this kind of abuse from you” Wilson explained dryly, grunting as he carefully dropped the chair out of the window. Something told him, he’d need it when they got out onto the parking lot. He can’t even stand! he thought worriedly, frowning at the sight of his trembling patient hanging onto the window ledge. How is he supposed to climb out of a window? This is the stupidest plan you’ve ever had…

House had felt pathetic before, now he felt downright wretched. Standing seemed to intensify the throbbing in his head to the point of complete blindness. Eventually colours and shapes began to swim back and he swallowed thickly, embracing the relief that came back with his vision. Yeah, you’re not worried about this at all, are you? he thought, realising that Wilson had stopped and was waiting on him to give the go ahead.

“Well, I c-can’t stand here all day.” he said shakily, silently begging Wilson to stop staring at him, like he’d grown an extra head, and just get on with the break out.

He couldn’t be sure if his uncontrollable trembling was down to: the fact that he was standing by an open window and the cool morning air seemed unnaturally brisk and bracing on his hospital-gown covered body; the pure physical exertion that simply standing seemed to have on his aching limbs; the sweat that seemed to be running freely down his back, face and ribs; the Narcan the doctor had been so generous with; or, the fear from maybe collapsing and waking up in another one of this particular hospital’s rooms. All good enough reasons to get the shakes in House’s opinion. None of them explain why your vision is so skewed…

“Right…” Wilson looked from House, to the window, and back again. The window ledge wasn’t particularly high, maybe 4ft from the ground. 4ft might as well be 12ft with his leg… “Can you get up there?” he asked tentatively.

“I’m not a midget, Wilson.” House replied shakily, rolling his eyes despite himself and regretting it instantly as the lightning bolt shot behind his eyes, striking each temple with an agonising intensity. Fuck

“I could go out and…assist you on the other side?” Wilson chose his words carefully, only to be rewarded with a snort as House decided that he didn’t need help, despite his current physical condition. The oncologist reluctantly stepped back, but stayed ready to leap forward if needs be. The way House was clinging onto the ledge for dear life wasn’t reassuring as to his ability to actually be able to get out by himself. In Wilson’s mind, it was like watching a car crash about to happen; he only wished that House would let him drive for a change...

The ailing Diagnostician used his elbows to prop himself up, gathering his strength to unattractively wriggle his way onto the ledge. His stomach muscles were tensed with the hard sill pressing into them; no doubt they wouldn’t thank him for the exertion in a hurry.

The sweat-soaked gown was doing nothing for his freezing body, and he couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering as the cold ledge chilled him to the bone. He swallowed thickly against the bile that threatened to make an appearance in the back of his throat; he could almost feel it burning in his chest, just itching to be brought up.

As he dragged his bare legs up onto the ledge, he heard Wilson ‘umm’ behind him, obviously having the same though cross his mind…How the hell am I going to get out the other side? You should have let Wilson go first, you idiot!

In the end, the urge to get home far surpassed his concerns over his health as he mustered up enough strength, and courage, to pull himself completely through the opening. The worst that can happen, he thought, as he heard Wilson gasp behind him, is that you land on your head, which could actually be the key to getting rid of this excruciating headache…

Wilson could only watch in horror, frozen to the spot, as his friend dropped, head-first, through the window; he winced as he heard the sickening thud of his body meeting the tarmac outside…

TBC…

Officially not dead...

2007-06-20T08:32:16Z

Just incase anyone wondered where I am...
I've got Glandular Fever. Been spitting into a pot and living on ice cream for the past three days, and it ain't letting up!
As soon as I feel better, I'll write more. Right now, I can't concentrate for more than two seconds...
x

Drag you Down...Part Four!

2007-06-15T13:23:09Z

Drag you Down - Part Four...enjoy!

The ride back up from the basement was silent and awkward. Wilson seemed lost in his thoughts, so House decided not to press matters further. He had to get things straight in his own mind before he started trying to explain things to his friend. He needed to get his team to run some tests on this miracle man first, he wanted proof – not some quick scans and an 'Oh My God, you're cured!' proclamation. Clinical proof.

It was due to his unfurling mind, he had the bad luck to run into Cuddy as he made his way back from checking his own patient, who was still critically ill. He glanced around, searching out an escape route before surrendering to her wrath. He considered suggesting that she tattoo 'House. Clinic. Now!' on her forehead, but soon changed his mind as she dragged him to the side of the corridor by his elbow. She did not look happy.

“Dr Cuddy-” he started, attempting to charm her.

“Listen!” she cut him off before he could even begin to talk his way out it. “Either you did give this patient something, in which case you're lucky he didn't die,” she pointed a menacing finger at him, “or, you're actually being honest, for a change, and you didn't.” she paused, taking in his non-committal reaction. “Either way, I've got the patient's family coming in an hour, Wilson is having a breakdown because he thinks he's going to be sued, and I need people in the clinic.”

“Dr Cuddy – I don't know what to say!” Cuddy rolled her eyes at House's show; she didn't have time for this. “I told you before – I'm just not into bondage! If you want me to do clinic duty, all you have to do is ask!” several nurses giggled at that exclamation.

“Just go.” Cuddy managed to growl through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to slap that smirk from his face.

House made his way, agonizingly slowly, down to the clinic. At least you'll be able to think down there, without being interrogated by your team every five minutes...

He picked up his first chart and entered the exam room, finding his first patient to be an overweight, forty something year old woman...with heartburn. Oh brother...

“So, lets recap,” he said after hearing her tale of pathetic woe, “You get a pain, near your heart, after eating and especially while you try and sleep...” the woman nodded. “So you thought it would be a good idea to take a day off work to come here, rather than spend ten minutes in a pharmacy?” the woman stopped nodding.

“Huh?” It was obviously a more complex question that House originally thought.

“You've tried the over-the-counter stuff?” he asked hopefully, twisting on his stool to grab a stethoscope.

“Oh no, I'd have to pay if I used that – if I get it here, I can claim it back on my medical insurance.” she replied matter-of-factly.

House stared at her blankly, snapping out of it when the woman cleared her throat. She was beginning to regret seeing this strange doctor. “What about the day you took off work to come here? I'm hazarding a wild guess here, but I think you've probably lost more money than you've saved.” he said, inwardly rolling his eyes in exasperation.

The woman frowned, apparently she hadn't thought of it that way. “Oh...”

“Since you came all this way, it'd be cruel not to examine you, wouldn't it?” the woman nodded again, not taking the sarcasm as it was originally intended. I'm surprised you don't have a bad neck too...dangerous thing, all that mundane 'agreeing with absolutely everything'.

He wheeled himself over to where she was positioned on the examination bed, motioning for her to pull her top down slightly. Just check her heart, give her a script and get her out. Or...he looked at his left hand, a thought suddenly occurring to him.

He pressed the stethoscope piece against her chest with his right hand, hesitantly moving his left up to hold it on. He felt the, now familiar, beginnings of something charging through his fingertips. This was it. The woman gasped as she felt a sharp jolt in her chest, House recoiled with his arm cradled protectively against his chest.

He quickly recovered, “Wow, did you feel that? I think it was static from this damned stool!” he feigned shock as he tore off a script. “Take this, twice a day.” The woman stared at the script, puzzled. “For your heartburn...” House clarified. The woman nodded, again. “Goodbye.” Take the hint! Leave!

As she left, House frowned. There has to be a better way to prove the theory. He didn't plan to follow the fat lady around just to see if the heartburn ever returned. He needed something physical. Something that he could see. Something like...

He grinned as the next patient hobbled in. Something exactly like that.

The young man had clearly sprained something, maybe even broken something. House had to stop himself from rubbing his hands together in anticipation as the boy limped unsteadily over to the gurney.

“What happened to you?” he asked expectantly, holding his hand out for the young man's chart.

“I, uh...broke up with my girlfriend,” the boy stammered, clearly in more pain than he wanted to admit, “and she – she...ran over my foot with her mom's car-”

“How big was the car?” House asked tentatively, yet unable to hide the gleam in his eye. Please be something big.

The boy looked a little confused. “It was – one of those – Ford Explorer things.”

“An SUV?” House couldn't believe his luck, this guys foot was broken for sure. “Oh yeah!” he said triumphantly, quickly putting his best serious face on to regard the patient. “There's a good chance there's no damage to your foot.” he said sincerely.

“Are you kidding, doc? I heard the bones snap!” the boy paled as he recalled the sound that came from his foot falling victim to the large car. “I think I'm going to be sick...”

“Were you wearing sneakers?” House asked, ignoring the peculiar shade of white that his patient had taken as he pulled the sock from his foot. The boy answered in the affirmative, stealing a glance at what the doctor was doing.

“It's fixable.” House lied. Whoa! Nasty – I'm surprised you managed to get here on this mangled mess! “Just tilt your head back,” the boy complied, staring up at the ceiling. “I'm gonna crack it back into shape, just don't pass out.”

Okay, this is it. Full, undeniable, physical proof. House took a deep breath and grasped the young man's foot in his left hand, ignoring the yelp of surprise that came with the contact. The pain shot up his arm with more force this time, almost choking him. When it became too much, he broke contact, slouching forward and gasping for air.

“Wow!” the boy's voice drew him back to reality. “What did you do?” he sounded elated. It must have worked. House looked up, squinting against the bright exam room lights. The foot. It was fixed. All that remained was some residual bruising.

He'd done it. Holy shit...are you sure you're ready for this?

He ripped off another script. “For the pain” he rasped, holding it out in his right hand for the youth to take. His left hand was taking it's time to recover, trembling and feeling uncomfortably numb.

“What pain? You fixed it.” the boy smiled, patting House on the shoulder before striding confidently out of the room, still wearing only one shoe.

House stared at his hand, willing it to stop shaking. The tremor was really beginning to annoy him. He looked up to find Wilson staring at him, a frown plastered over his face. “Was that guy smiling?” he asked, screwing his face into an even bigger frown at the possibility.

House smirked despite himself. “I gave him $20 to leave me alone.” he lied, rolling himself over to the far wall. “Do you need something? 'Cos some of us are trying to work here...” House desperately wanted to try out his new toy on more patients; Wilson's presence was getting in his way.

“I'm hiding.” Wilson admitted, closing the door behind him as he entered.

“Yeah, in a clinic. This is the last place anyone would even dream of looking for a doctor.” House stated, frowning at the way his friend simply nodded in agreement. “What?”

“You're not going to tell me, are you?” Wilson asked, folding his arms over his chest. “They're opening an inquiry, questioning my entire department – they want to know how I managed to screw up such a clear cut case...” he hissed, pointing to the door. Uh oh...this is one of those 'us and them' conversations House thought, avoiding eye contact with Wilson completely. Emotional blackmail;, Wilson’s own personal interrogation technique.

“I came here, hoping that you'd own up – admit to giving him something, or dosing him...or...” he blew out an annoyingly shaky breath. House managed to keep his tongue under control, refraining from telling Wilson to stop being so melodramatic. “The board is investigating my entire department, I don't even know what they expect to find!” Wilson sighed. He’d been mulling over it long enough, and it still didn’t make sense. He’d convinced himself that House would know what happened.

“You didn't screw up. The board has no right to investigate you, or your department.” House tried being reassuring, Wilson wasn't buying it.

“How can you explain a terminally ill man waking up from inoperable lung cancer? Cancer I diagnosed, myself!”

“Spontaneous Remission…?” House suggested quietly, ducking when Wilson threw his hands up in exasperation. Jesus, calm down before you have a heart attack!

“You – there’s no way…” Wilson spluttered, screwing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. His weepy pose.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” House said angrily, dragging himself from his sitting position and starting to pace. He faltered slightly on the first step, quickly recovering and using it to add to his apparent frustration at Wilson. “You want me to admit to something that I didn’t do, just so you don’t get sued by this ‘poor’ guy’s family?” he turned to face Wilson, who was watching him intently, “He didn’t die! They should be sending you a fruit basket, not serving you with a lawsuit!” Wilson was staring at him intently now, frowning at the Diagnostician’s anger.

“You haven’t even been to see him, since he woke up,” he started, slowly coming to his own realisation, “You’ve sent your team, you’ve asked for tests, you haven’t even asked about the patient…”

“Why would I? He’s healthy-”

“Because he’s healthy; because he’s cured; because you were the last person to see him dying; because he’s an anomaly.” Wilson was growing steadily louder, making House increasingly uncomfortable. “You haven’t been to see him, because you know why he’s cured.” he paused, waiting for confirmation.

House wavered his gaze between Wilson’s hideously ugly tie and a tuft of hair that seemed to be rebelling against his otherwise meticulous hairstyle. When he finally did make eye contact with his accuser, he spoke slowly and forcefully. “I did not give him anything. No amount of useless testing will change that fact. I don’t need to see him. He’s not ill.” he broke eye contact in favour of glaring at his left hand.

“Maybe you did make a mistake.” he concluded, missing the look of hurt that flashed over the Oncologist’s face before he turned to get out of the room. The fact that House was adamant about not giving his patient anything wasn’t convincing enough for Wilson. He had a feeling his so-called-friend was hiding something. If that’s how he wants to play it…

“Maybe that’s not the only mistake I’ve made.” he hissed in return, slamming the door behind him. No other statement shouted ‘You’re on your own, buddy!’ as much as that one.

House sat heavily back onto the stool, his mind screaming at him. What the hell are you doing? “If he doesn’t know about it, he can’t stop you.” And if he gets his license suspended? “For what? He’s done nothing wrong!” Yeah…that’s why you’re arguing about it with yourself… “Good point.”

House groaned. This wasn’t going well at all. Now, being on the wrong side of Wilson, he had no one to turn to. What if something goes wrong? Who’s gonna help you now?

TBC…

Hush Part Five!

2007-06-14T15:16:09Z

Here it is...Part Five!
I must say, I'm pretty disappointed - but I've slaved over it for too long to try and worry about it anymore!

If that hasn't put you off...

House groaned, swallowing thickly against another wave of nausea threatened to drown him. He couldn’t recall how long it had been since they’d pushed the Narcan through him, he’d lost count after twenty minutes and eighteen seconds. His body was eradicating all other thoughts with its insistent attention seeking behaviour, most notably, pain in his leg and head.

His suicide nurse was getting bored. She’d read through three magazines already, and was now engrossed in a book. She’d long since stopped worrying about the moans and groans coming from her patient. Sighing, she glanced up to do another visual check, raising her eyebrows at House’s intense glare. “Not my fault you OD’d” she said tauntingly, smirking as he squeezed his eyes shut and choked back another moan.

The true meaning of ‘uncomfortable’ was becoming agonisingly clear to him laying in that bed. The sweat covered sheets were making him cold. The hard mattress had ensured his butt was numb, his neck was killing him, and his shoulder’s were letting him know of their earlier ill-treatment. The fact that his arms were stuck out at such awkward angles, in the restraints, ensured that his hands had lost all colour and feeling too.

On a positive note, the thumping in House’s head was steadily decreasing; he could feel his heart returning to normal through the deafening sound ringing in his ears. He stared out of the window, out into the small courtyard reserved for the hospital staff who regularly nipped out for a smoke. It was deserted, of course, as it was too early in the morning for some, and too late at night for others. Where the hell is Wilson?

His head snapped round when he heard a click as the door to his room closed softly. An elderly doctor, who looked like he should have retired decades ago, stared down on his patient with unmasked bemusement playing over his wrinkled features. “You should be sleeping” he muttered lightly, crossing the room to get a better look at the silent heart monitor. Apparently, the nurse couldn’t read with it beeping so much, and she’d switched it off in disgust upon entering the room. I think we’ve established that the entire staff on the night shift are sadistically challenged morons…

House glared icily at his doctor, ignoring the droplets of sweat making their way down his temple. “It’s hard to sleep when some idiot doctor has given…” he gasped, remembering only at the last moment that he really didn’t want them to know about him being a doctor, “has drugged me.” He covered well; the old doc seemed to buy it.

“You’ve got an appointment at eight. I’d hate for you to be too tired…” the doctor chose to ignore House’s comment about the drugging, instead opting to talk at him as though he were simple. “Once you’ve been given psych clearance, you can leave.”

Psych clearance, oh great. “Don’t need to see a shrink – it was an accident.” Playing the dumb patient route seemed to be the safe bet right now. “So get me my discharge papers, and I’ll go.” The statement would have been commendable, had House not been shaking uncontrollably throughout it.

The doctor cocked his head, regarding the other man thoughtfully. “An accident?” he asked, unable to hide a smirk.

“Yeah…as apposed to ‘I did it on purpose’.” House spoke slowly, in the most annoying tone he could muster. This doctor was seriously creeping him out, and he almost felt like he was being cruelly toyed with in some way. Through the haze of withdrawal, it was hard to tell.

“And, you’d like to leave?” the doctor was fishing something from his white- than-white coat pocket, which piqued House’s interest just so.

God, you’re good. “Yes” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Do you realise how many overdoses we get here, Mr Barrett?” the doctor asked, keeping the light, dangerously playful tone in his voice.

House swallowed back a smart retort, settling for a quiet “no…” Something told him he wouldn’t get a prize for knowing the exact number.

“I’ll give you a clue…it’s less than twelve in a year” the doc fiddled with a syringe in his fingers, tauntingly showing enough of it to put House on edge. “Do you know why we get less than twelve overdose cases here per year?”

House had a feeling he was about to find out. “Why?” he choked, unable to stop his breath from coming in short, sharp gasps. Don’t panic – he’s just messing with your head!

The doctor leaned into House face and snarled, “Because this is a nice, clean town. We spent a long, long time getting rid of people like you and we don’t intend to encourage your return in a hurry!” he spat angrily, sneering as House turned his face away. “Consider this an ‘enjoy your trip’ present – I don’t ever want to see your face here again.”

With that, he plunged the contents of his syringe into House IV port, throwing the empty vial onto the bed. “You’ll be pleased to hear,” he started, returning to his smug, light tone, “you can’t OD on this stuff.” He chuckled; savouring the gleam of hatred in House’s eyes as he succumbed to the next dose of Narcan.

He can’t do this! It’s…its – its immoral! House’s inner Wilson was livid. House’s own inner voice was slightly in awe. He’d finally met someone who was as much of a bastard as himself…

Wilson cursed, loudly. This was the third set of lights that had turned on him. He waited impatiently, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He used the time to scan the road signs; he’d been lost too many times to simply ignore them now.

“Warren hospital…” he muttered as he drove up to the unfamiliar hospital. He’d gone over every possibility of how House had ended up so far away from home, coming up with nothing he wanted to dwell on for too long. He hadn’t ridden; his bike had been at his apartment. He wouldn’t have used public transport; too much for the leg…

Wilson pulled up in the large parking lot, easily finding a space. You’re the only person stupid enough to be out at this time of night…err, early morning. He jogged up to the main entrance, vainly convincing himself that House would appreciate him getting there that much quicker.

Leaning over the small desk at reception, he glanced down the deserted corridors. He almost expected to see a lone tumbleweed drift past at any moment, it was that quiet. He blamed the deep silence for the fact that he jumped like a startled idiot when someone cleared their throat behind him.

“Can I help you?” he turned to find a stern, sour faced nurse raising her eyebrows at him.

It took him a second to find his voice, after driving in silence for so long. “Uhh, yeah – I’m here for Mr, err, Barrett…I’m his doctor.” Damn, you sound more like a bumbling idiot!

The nurse’s eyes widened noticeably at the statement. “I’m afraid he’s asleep right now…if you care to wait a moment, I’ll see if I can find his attending doctor for you.”

Wilson nodded, politely. He didn’t believe for one second that House would actually be sleeping. Not unless he was unconscious, and the nurse had specifically said ‘sleeping’. Something’s going on…

The nurse disappeared down one of the empty corridors, leaving Wilson alone. He began his search for clues by leaning back over the small receptionist’s station, grabbing Mr Barrett’s file and walking briskly away. You can always lie and say someone offered to take you to see him.

Now all he needed was a plan of the hospital. Using his initiative, which had just about woken up from the journey, he followed signs through to a stairwell, glancing over some test results as he walked briskly up a flight to the next floor. He regretted not bringing his doctor’s coat. It would have been much easier to blend in if he looked more like a doctor, and less like someone who’d dressed in the dark, which he had.

It didn’t seem to be a problem though, as the floor where House’s room was located seemed just as deserted as the other floors. Room 402…

He heard a loud curse, followed by a crash coming from down the hall. House! He sped up, breaking into a brisk half-jog. As he approached the end of the corridor, a young nurse came stumbling out of room 402, scowling and holding her uniform as far away from her body as she could. She didn’t even look up as she passed Wilson in her hurry to get cleaned up.

He glanced around guiltily before quietly sneaking into the room. He blew out a shaky breath when he saw the back of his friend, sweating, shaking and generally looking like crap. He imagined the scene from the front was pretty similar. He’s not injured…why the hell is he restrained?

House was twisted uncomfortably onto his left hand side, the restraints denying him the ability to stay there unaided. His hand was grasping the handrail, taking his entire upper body weight while he retched over the edge of the bed. He had his back to the door and was still unaware of his visitor, even when the door clicked behind him.

“House,” Wilson crossed to the other side of the bed, wincing as he saw the miserable pile of vomit pooled on the floor. “You okay?” he mentally slapped himself for asking the question.

“No…” House squinted up at him, his eyes red rimmed. “You…took your…time” he gasped, his voice lacking in everything but pitch.

“We’ve gotta get you out of here…” House looked surprised at that admission. He’d expected Wilson to act all self-righteous and make him stay. Plus, he hadn’t gotten a ‘what the hell have you done?’ question, yet. He doesn’t know you OD’d…don’t tell him ‘till you’re in the car! Ah, one problem at a time…

“I’ve got no cane…or clothes…or pills.”

Wilson frowned. “So, you got here…how? Aside from being naked and pill-free.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied weakly, ignoring the interrogation, “get a wheelchair…and get me the hell outta here…before she gets back.” Please, just trust me for once!

Wilson stood firm, “You didn’t come by ambulance, unless you were already here – and since you don’t do anything but watch TV on a Wednesday night-”

“Jesus, Wilson!” House hissed miserably, recovering slightly from the retching, “if I wanted to be rescued by Columbo, there’s a good chance I would have called him!” he gulped in some deep breaths, struggling to keep his red rimmed, watering eyes open, being unable to wipe them himself. “Just get the wheelchair…please.”

“This conversation isn’t over” Wilson warned, pointing a threatening finger at his flushed friend before he retreated from the room. Whatever he’s being treated for obviously isn’t life threatening…maybe you could give him the benefit of the doubt, just this once. Just get him to Princeton in one piece.

House groaned, slamming his head back down on the pillow as though it might help fight off the nausea. It didn’t. Wilson could have taken the restraints off!

Wilson retuned, looking shifty and guilty. He’d taken the wheelchair from some poor man in the room next door. House better appreciate all this…

“Maybe I should have called Columbo,” House ranted groggily, the pain in his leg threatened him into delirium, “he’d have gotten this rescue over and done with by now…” Keep talking, don’t be sick. Keep talking, don’t be sick.

“Are you saying they’re keeping you here against your will?” Wilson asked, gently freeing House’s bruised wrists. Why? What did you do?

House gave him the equivalent of a disbelieving shake of the head, but minimising the shaking part so as not to disturb the angry migraine behind his eyes. “Gee, were the restraints too subtle?” he asked, “Should I have requested a set of irons instead?” Come on Wilson, take me home – please! Get me out of this place!

“Calm down!” Wilson whispered urgently, catching the questioning frown from his ‘damsel in distress’, “Your heart rate is in overdrive.”

“Is that a medical term I missed out on in college?” Or are you more fucked up than you initially thought? Wilson’s talking in gibberish…or you’re not hearing him right…

Wilson blushed, kicking out the footrests on the chair. “Sorry, I’ve got a patient who’s obsessed with space. He’s eight, and talking in code is the only way he’ll listen.”

“And you mistook him for me. Nice!” House replied, slightly relieved, wiping his damp forehead with the back of his hand.

“Seriously, your heart rate is abnormally high” Wilson said anxiously, keeping a close eye on the monitor. What aren’t you telling me? House rewarded his curiosity by pulling the pads from his chest. The sooner he told Wilson about the Narcan, the sooner he’d need to purchase some heavy duty ear plugs.

“Now it’s not,” he said, sitting up and grasping the sides of the bed unsteadily. “Personally, I think we should get the hell out of here before my attending comes back to check on his flat lining patient.” he added with ensued urgency. A whole choir of voices were singing out in his head now – Time to go! Time to go! Time to go!

“Can you get in the chair?” Wilson asked, quickly helping his friend remove the IV lines from his arm, though not before noticing the lack of pain meds. No wonder you’re so touchy…well, more than usual… He received an unhelpful, low growl in response to his question. You’ll have to be more specific than that, House! he thought as he desperately pulled the chair closer to the bed. “Ready?”

House rubbed his wrists tenderly, swaying slightly as he slid his legs off the side of the bed. His leg was crying out for attention, sending agonising jolts of pain ripping through his body. Wilson made no attempt at hiding his concern as the Diagnostician brought his hands up to his face and curled over, gasping and breathing shakily.

“House?” he moved across to put a hand on the other man’s shaking shoulder.

“My head,” came the muffled reply from behind the hands, “is killing me.” That’s not the only thing that’s killing you.

Wilson froze as he heard a door slam shut nearby. “C’mon, time to go.” This is a bad idea. He looks like he’s gonna pass out any minute now.

House placed a hand on Wilson’s shoulder, for support, and managed to hop, skip and drop into the chair with a grunt. The thought of what these lunatics would do if they found him mid-escape was enough to ensure he hurried as much as physically possible. He only hoped Wilson would feel the same way without having it spelled out for him. “Push. Quickly.” he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to push away the build up of nausea. How long since they gave you the last push of Narcan? Shit…you can’t remember can you? Not long enough…Wilson’s gonna kill you if you throw up in his car.

Luckily, Wilson didn’t particularly want to get caught smuggling patients from hospitals, mainly due to the legal complications that may arise if House had managed to do something stupid beforehand, resulting in police involvement.

He pushed them speedily towards the elevator doors, giving himself a figurative pat on the back for not divulging his name with the nurse from the hall. The reasoning behind House’s use of ‘Joseph Barrett’ would have to be discovered in the car. Right now, there were several sets of footsteps echoing in the hallway, heading for their direction that concerned him more…

TBC…

Writer's Block...

2007-06-11T20:12:45Z

I know what I want to write...I just lack the creativity to get it written.

Arghhh! Only twenty-four days left to post before I officially start my new job...

What the hell is going on with 'Hush'? Damned if I know...

Apologies, I just had to get that off my chest!

Mini-Rant over.

x

Drag you Down...Part Three!

2007-06-10T21:24:46Z

Part three for your pleasure...

Wilson frowned worriedly as House came to with a gasp. He tried, to no avail, to keep his friend from sitting up on the gurney. “House, just stay there - at least let us take a look at you-”

“I’m fine - get the hell off me” the Diagnostician snapped to the young intern who happened to be pinning his arms down in a restraining fashion. Wilson rolled his eyes exasperatedly, and moved over to help the stubborn man from the high bed. He also had the good grace to get rid of his two helpers before things turned nasty.

“In your hurry to leave, you forgot this” he said, handing House his cane. House at least had the decency to look embarrassed as he took it from his hands. “Are you going to at least tell me what’s going on?” he asked, regarding the other man’s silence with caution.

House looked everywhere but at Wilson as he mumbled some crap about a panic attack. He noted the familiar bathroom door, indicating that he hadn’t been out for long because they‘d only managed to get him out into the hallway. You were out long enough to get Wilson addled…

“House,” Wilson forced him to pause in his survey of the area. He snapped his head back and met the Oncologist’s worried eyes, waiting for a repeat of the inevitable question. “What’s going on?”

House measured up every possible answer before inwardly sighing. “I don’t know,” he replied quietly, “but I know someone who does.” He limped off towards the nearby elevator, albeit slightly unsteadily, and pressed the call button whilst leaning heavily on the wall for support. He felt as though he’d had an anvil dropped on his head. He waited for the roadrunner to show up.

True to form, it didn’t take long for Wilson to join him. “Who are you going to see?”

“An old friend,” House muttered, “he owes me an explanation, dead or not.”

“The homeless guy,” Wilson said disbelievingly, “You’re going to the basement, to speak to a dead man. You need to be checked over-”

“I’m fine. It was just a panic attack.” House insisted, glaring at a couple of nurses who were gawking at him from down the hall.

“Oh, cut the crap!” Wilson snorted angrily, making House flinch slightly. He couldn’t fool the younger man with that kind of brush off. “You haven’t had a panic attack in your life.”

House glanced up at the numbers above the elevator doors, willing it to arrive quicker. “What do you want me to tell you?” he asked, throwing Wilson completely with the question. That I think I’m losing my mind. That I think some homeless man cursed me?

“I want you,” Wilson began calmly, “to tell me what just happened back there.”

“I passed out-” House started, frowning as he caught Wilson shaking his head. Obviously not the answer he was looking for.

“Before that…what did you do to my patient?” he hissed, following House into the empty elevator as the doors opened.

“I didn’t - I only touched him, and then I tripped - had to get some air…” House stumbled over the words. You cant explain it because you don’t have a clue what you did to him - or what he did to you! he thought worriedly.

Wilson gave him a skeptical look. He was used to hearing his friend lie, but this was ridiculous. House hadn’t even decided what his story was. “What did you give him?” he asked again.

Realisation dawned on House. He thinks you actually did something to wake his stupid cancer patient up. “I didn’t give him anything” House whined pitifully. He felt like the child who’d been found peering over the surviving pieces of a broken vase and been dubbed the culprit by an angry parent, regardless of his innocence.

“I know you like messing with your own patients - but how am I going to explain to Mr Porter’s wife that he’s suddenly awake? I only told her last week that he would be gone soon. What did you give him? Drugs? I don‘t understand how you managed to get him up…No, I don‘t want to know…” he trailed of with a groan, putting his head in his hands.

“If you’re so worried, why aren’t you with him?” House asked, testily, wondering how he was possibly going to convince Wilson that he hadn’t done anything to his precious cancer patient.

“Brown’s with him,” Wilson replied, “I was more worried about you, running off without your cane and collapsing in my arms two minutes later in the men’s room.”

House winced at the thought. Yeah, I’m a little worried about that too…he thought, watching the numbers decrease steadily above the doors. 3, 2, 1, G, B…

The elevator completed its decent with a shudder. House pushed himself away from his position by the far wall, taking each step with suspicious caution as he tackled the small staircase down to the self-contained morgue. Wilson followed, failing to keep the mixture of annoyance, worry and exasperation from his face.

“What, exactly, are you hoping to find?” he asked, sensing House’s air of determination as he scanned the name cards for one ’John Doe’.

House ignored the question as he found the right drawer. He stared at it, swallowing nervously as he started to have second thoughts about wanting to see the guy again. “I hear you can see them a lot better if you slide the drawer open.” Wilson deadpanned, stepping forward to pull it open, but finding himself rewarded with a cane-jab to the chest.

“Hold this.” House ordered, keeping the cane up for Wilson to take. “You wouldn’t be able to pull this baby out, not with your back” he defended lightly, pushing his fear back to allow the false bravado to take over. How can you be scared of a dead guy? Didn’t you say the same thing about him when he was alive…

House slid the drawer open in one speedy motion, working on the basis that it was like pulling off a band aid. Do it quick, get it over with, get on with your life.

It didn’t stop him from sucking in a shocked breath as the Vagrant’s torso rigidly sat up straight without the inside of the cubicle to hold it down. Rigor mortis. Rigor mortis. Rigor mortis House’s mind was screaming at him, accompanying his racing heart. Luckily, he heard Wilson curse at the sight too, making him feel less like a jumpy idiot.

“Help me get him back down” he growled, using the new platform to lean his hands on for support. Wilson hooked the cane onto the handle of a nearby drawer, then stepped over to the other side of the body awaiting further instruction. “Heads or tails?” House called, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“You actually have a preference?” Wilson asked disbelievingly.

“No, but I thought you might, what with over half of your patients ending up here.” House replied, “Luckily, I don’t get down to visit these parts of the hospital…much.”

“Are you trying to insult me, or impress me?” Wilson muttered under his breath, moving to the Vagrant’s legs. He held them down as House started to gingerly push the nameless man’s shoulder back down on the cold, flat surface.

He paused for a moment to examine the subject’s back; the spine was a mess. It had all the characteristics of one that had been broken so many times, it had healed in all the wrong places. In fact, it didn’t looked like it had finished healing at all. The way it jutted out unhealthily from the subject’s back was particularly gruesome and gave House a twinge in his own back he could only put down as a sympathy pain!

He snapped himself out of his musings and forced the stiff body back into a prone position, doing his best to ignore the fact that the sheet had slipped down and the tramp’s face was far too close to his own for comfort. His last memory of that face was followed by bright light, intense pain and a lot of strange, unanswered questions. Not something he wanted to relive in a hurry.

Wilson cleared his throat, wanting to know what the next step would be. Hanging out in the hospital’s morgue wasn’t something he particularly enjoyed, and judging by the paleness of his friend, it wasn’t a pleasant experience for House either.

“Just want to sneak a peek,” House said, “It’s my new morbid fascination with death…”

“You couldn’t have chosen a hobby less…disgusting?” Wilson asked lightly, taking House’s deflection with a pinch of salt. He knew there was something going on, and he also knew House wouldn’t be down here if he wasn’t looking for something. The answer seemed to jump out at both of them when House pulled the sheet back a little further, revealing the vagabond’s battered torso.

“Shit…” The exclamation left his mouth without a coherent thought to accompany it. House couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen someone in such bad shape, even in a morgue!

The first thing to cross his mind was that this ‘old man’ wasn’t old at all. In fact, judging by the condition he was in, he couldn’t be a day over fifty - and in House’s books, that was young. Too young. Too old to rock and roll, but far too young to be homeless, have Alzheimer’s and metastasized liver cancer, then die.

The series of scars and severely mangled bones that jutted out at sickening angles were enough to ensure House’s curiosity felt generously rewarded. He wondered how to interpret these findings. He glanced up at Wilson, he also looked puzzled. “I, uh…they didn’t mention this in the charts…” he said, pulling his eyes away from a particularly crooked looking collarbone to look House in the eye.

“Why would they,” House replied, “he’s just some homeless bum, right? They probably assumed he got beaten for breakfast…literally” he saw Wilson’s jaw tense at this flippant remark. Oh crap, reminder to self: no matter how much he denies it, Wilson has a thing about homeless people he mused, thinking back to the little ‘act’ that Wilson had put on for his amusement earlier, flippantly telling House that the Vagrant would be dead within a week.

“These are old,” House stated, attempting to draw Wilson from thoughts of his own personal homeless demons by pointing to a jagged, sunken scar along the dead man’s abdomen, “really old.”

“Yeah…” Wilson agreed, sliding the sheet up to the man’s thighs to reveal more deep scars, bent bones and poorly manipulated joints. “How the hell did he walk from downtown?” he asked before being interrupted by an insistent beeping from his pager. “I’ve got to take this…” he said with a frown, stalking off determinedly to find a phone.

House barely registered the words as he mulled over the previous question. How the hell did he get here from downtown? From what House could tell from the meagre physical examination, the man had severely shattered at least one of his knee caps, the other looked no better. If he hadn’t witnessed it himself, he wouldn’t have believed that this guy could crawl, let alone walk.

He lightly traced his fingers up the inside of the vagrant’s calf muscle, noting the indents and apparent muscle waste, that should have crippled the man completely, especially coupled with the arthritic ankle bones. This unnamed bum had scars that put his own to shame. He stepped back, feeling a bout of nausea cloak him as he let his mind wander back to everything that had happened since this vagrant had appeared on the scene. He steadied himself on the side of the drawer, swallowing thickly.

Calm down, you idiot. Nothing’s happened, you’re just worrying over nothing. It’s this damned case, and three days of insomnia. This is your mind’s way of telling you to take a break! He blew out a shaky breath as he heard Wilson walking back down the steps. He managed to get it together as his friend returned to his position on the opposite side of the body.

“Okay, we came, we indulged - time to go!” House said light-heartedly, just about hiding the hitch in his voice. “You can push him back…” he trailed off as he looked up at Wilson. The Oncologist was back, in body, but his mind was clearly still on the phone. He was even paler than the guy on the slab, and that was hard considering the other guy had been dead for over twelve hours…

House frowned, “What?” he asked, taking in Wilson’s slacked jaw look. It was a look he received often, usually from his fellows, more specifically from Chase. Never from Wilson…

The younger man snapped out of it, as though he’d just realised he had company. “My…err, that was Brown - the patient is…has…showing no signs” he shook his head, House seriously reconsidered his opinion that Wilson was well articulated. “He doesn’t have cancer.” he finally announced, his voice falling to a whisper by the word ‘have’.

“Very funny.” House replied, getting a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach when Wilson failed to get to a punch line, or crack a smile.

“He’s gone into complete remission.”

“Brown’s an idiot, he probably hasn’t even tested-”

“They’ve done an MRI” Wilson interrupted, “and they’re not leaving Radiology ‘till they’ve found it.”

“So…he’ll find it, because it’s there - you found it to begin with, right?” House didn’t like what he was hearing. Maybe Wilson had misdiagnosed the patient…unlikely. How many tests did one patient have to go through to determine that they were going to die from a tumour? He assumed at some point, they’d double check…

“House…the tumour was inoperable. It was killing him. It was big enough to see with an ultrasound….and that’s the first thing they used.” Wilson said hurriedly, giving him another pleading look. “What did you do to him?”

“I didn’t do anything to him…” And yet, you managed cure him…

TBC…

Drag you Down - Part Two!

2007-06-07T19:37:27Z

Part Two - embrace the House!torture :)

House released a sigh of enormous relief as he finally entered his apartment. He didn’t know how he’d gotten through the rest of the afternoon after the shock of…Well, what the hell did happen he wondered, for about the hundredth time that day.

Wilson had caught him glaring perplexedly at his left hand, on more than one occasion during the afternoon; House had eventually gotten tired of his persistent questioning and had announced his leave at approximately three o‘clock. He’d showered at work after getting the distinct feeling that as soon as he arrived home, he’d collapse on his sofa, never to get up. He felt physically drained. Everything ached, and his head was killing him with a thousand questions he just knew he couldn’t answer.

He sighed, throwing his bike keys over to the bureau and missing completely. Jeez, you really are wound up…can’t even throw straight, let alone think! He leant over to pick up the offending keys, letting out an audible groan as his back punished him for the action. He imagined that there were eighty year olds who felt more mobile than he did right now.

He abandoned his cane by the front door, choosing to use the furniture to manoeuvre himself through the apartment. He spared his left hand another glance, just checking to see if it had fallen off yet. Nope, still normal…no bruising, no bones sticking out in random places…just normal.

He limped languidly through to the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers in an attempt at finding something quick, easy and dead to cook for dinner. Coming up trumps with a packet of macaroni cheese, that had been festering in one particular drawer for as long as he could remember; he slid a pan of water on the hob and lit it, ready for the boil. The instant snack should hold him through to breakfast; failing that, he could always pick up some more bagels…

Glancing over to Steve’s cage, he was gently reminded that he’d forgotten to feed him that morning; the gentle reminder coming from the fact that the rat had chewed through the top of his water bottle in protest. I’m pretty sure your stomach’s gonna find it hard to digest all that plastic.

Wincing, House reached over to pull the bottle from the cage, in the vain hope that maybe it was repairable. He’d fixed worse. It was at this point that his back retaliated against this range of motion, causing him to jerk forwards involuntarily and push the cage from its position on the counter.

House cursed angrily, straightening himself back up and using the tabletop to help him get over to the messy cage-carnage. So much for fixing things, you’ve just created a disaster area...he thought, hopping on his good leg.

It was at this point he heard the heart wrenching squeals coming from his only pet; his hand scrambled through the wrecked cage, eventually coming into contact with the furry rodent who was hiding under a pile of torn newspaper.

“Sorry…oh crap” he kept Steve gripped gently, yet securely in his left hand, using the right to prop his bad leg off the floor. The squealing was enough to pierce the hardest of hearts, no exceptions. House mumbled softly to the wounded animal, feeling helpless and guilty. He didn’t know much of the rodent anatomy, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to be able to feel his pet’s ribs so bent out of shape against his fingers.

“Sorry buddy…I’d fix you if I could…but I’m a doctor, not a Vet…please be okay…shit!” he felt the shooting pain in his arm again, and it blinded him, causing him to drop Steve on the tabletop and curse profusely. He found that when he shook his hand out, as if drying it, the pain receded enough for him to take a deep breath and relax a little.

Phew, what the hell happened there? he thought, leaning heavily on the table. He recognised the shooting pain in his arm as the same one that occurred earlier. It was enough to put to rest Wilson’s coincidence theory. Nothing is a coincidence. He straightened up, gasping as his body screamed out at him.

Now there was a new pain. It ran through his rib cage, up his shoulder and down his arm. Stranger than that, he spotted Steve running around on the table top completely pain free and content. What the hell…is going on? House wondered, staring at his hand as though it would drop off at any minute. The pain in his side steadily subsided, along with the twitch in his hand. Maybe you got an electric shock from something…maybe…but not likely. He stared at Steve, waiting for the inevitable squeal of pain to return. Nothing…He’s okay…but how?

Boiled water sizzling over the top of the deep pan onto the hob brought him out of his silent stupor and forced him to rush over to save what he could to cook his meal. After re-housing Steve and successfully cooking something resembling edible food, House slunk off to bed. His mind firing questions at him that couldn’t possibly be answered.

He soon found that his busy mind couldn’t compete with complete exhaustion, and sleep came only too easily. He drifted off, ears picking up the sound of the rat running on his wheel. He was perfectly content, and injury free.

When House awoke the next morning, he was no closer to the truth than he’d been when he’d settled down the previous night. He had to get to work; he had to tell Wilson…and he needed to find out just how crazy the homeless man really was. He must know what’s going on… “Yeah, I’m sure the whole dementia thing is just a clever ruse” he mumbled sarcastically to himself as he pulled on his pants.

He gave Steve a quick examination before leaving for work, just to satisfy his own curiosity. It almost disappointed him to see that the rat was perfectly normal. It still had one head, four legs and a tail. He hadn’t grown to preposterous proportions. He hadn’t shrunk to the size of a safety pin. He couldn’t talk, and he was still insisting on chewing his water bottle. Everything seemed...perfectly normal.

He finally left the apartment, dissatisfied with the finding that his pet hadn't turned into an alien overnight, but pleased he was still relatively healthy after his impromptu skydiving session. He couldn't silence the nagging voices in his head. They’d already determined that either something mysterious was going on, or he was losing his mind. He didn’t like either option.

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His team was onto him as soon as he entered the conference room. His patient was still dying, and none of them were any closer to finding out why. He was a faithful, active father of five, who also happened to be married to a lawyer. House had already come to the conclusion that he was miserable, and really knew what was wrong with him, he just didn’t want to be cured and go back to the hellhole that was his life. Unfortunately, this was neither a diagnosis, nor a cure.

“We ruled out cancer because it didn’t fit,” Foreman started, looking to House for answers, “but what if we’re not seeing the bigger picture?”

“Unless the bigger picture includes a painful and pointless death, I don’t think there is one” House countered, reaching out to take a cup of coffee from Cameron in a well practised manoeuvre. She walks one way, he walks the other, and at some point the red mug exchanges hands. No fuss, no thanks, no problem. Not today.

She pulled it back at the last minute, forcing House to stop, and then take a few steps back. “What happened to your hand?” she asked, just as he successfully grabbed the mug from her.

He opened his mouth to make a flippant remark, only to close it again when he looked down at his hand. It was bruised. It was so bruised, it looked almost looked completely purple. A cough from Chase brought him out of his silent stupor. “I trapped it in a drawer” he lied unconvincingly, earning a scoff from Foreman.

“Funny. We heard you got beaten by a tramp” Chase smirked, quickly pretending to be engrossed in the patient's file when he received a glare from his boss.

“Does it hurt?” asked Cameron, craning her neck to examine it without getting her head bitten off.

It doesn’t, does it? “No.” You didn’t even notice the bruise ‘till now…House abruptly clunked his red mug down on the table and stormed towards the door. If there was something strange going on, he could only think of one person who knew what it was. The Tramp.

“Where are you going?” Chase cried. He didn’t need another day of simply monitoring the patient in the hope that he’d get better without a diagnosis and treatment.

“Round Two” came the reply.

“What about the patient?” Cameron called, stopping House in his tracks.

He turned to face them all, and stated solemnly, “He’ll just have to wait in line.” Besides, he’s not nearly as interesting as this guy…

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After scouting the area surrounding it, House entered the Vagrant’s room. The man wasn’t there. He frowned, heading straight over to the nearby nurse’s station; he slammed his hand down on the desk to grab the elderly nurse‘s attention, wincing as it sent a shock up his arm. Ouch…don’t do that again!

“Dr House” the nurse acknowledged warily, inwardly praying that he’d stop making such a racket.

“Where’s the old guy gone?” he asked gruffly, hiding his panic by persistently bouncing his cane off the vinyl flooring. The nurse sighed, giving up on her paperwork; clearly she wouldn’t get any work done until she’d given this infuriating man everything he wanted.

“I’m afraid he passed away, last night” she produced a chart and noted the time, “at midnight, exactly.”

“Is he really dead, or did he just turn into a pumpkin?” House asked earnestly, attempting to cover his disappointment at the news with some snark. He’s dead…gone...and he's taken his damned secret with him...

The nurse glanced up, unsure whether she was supposed to laugh at the joke or not; she settled for a confused frown, relaxing her features as the gruff doctor abruptly about-faced and limp off down the hall.

“Wilson!” House called, bursting in on the Head of Oncology who was busy monitoring a patient. The Diagnostician did a quick mental scan of the room; dark room, no crash cart nearby, loads of pain meds, patient is comatose…obviously terminal. “Why didn’t you tell me about the homeless guy?” he asked accusingly, laying his cane beside the terminal patient and leaning arrogantly against the bed.

Wilson briefly glanced up from his charting; “I wasn’t aware you two were so close” he stated lightly, turning his back on the other doctor in favour of switching an IV bag over. “The way you were looking at him yesterday, anyone would think it was you that killed him” he added, missing the petrified look that came over House at that joke.

“Wilson…” C’mon Wilson…I need to tell you before I start to believe I’m going crazy here! “We need to talk.”

“Lunchtime, House” Wilson replied distantly, crouching down to check the urine output of his cancer patient. “It can wait ‘till then, right?”

No it can’t! This is the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me and you’re more interested in checking some almost-dead guy’s pee!

“Look…” House held up his hand and paused as the colour had once more returned to a healthy pink. “Uh...I need to ask you something...”

“Seriously, lunch is only a couple of hours away.” Wilson turned away again, taking readings from the monitors.

House sighed and made a grab for his cane, accidentally brushing his left hand against the comatose man’s hand in the process. If you were healthy, he wouldn’t like you, and he’d listen to me-

Ow! It was happening again. Despite House’s best efforts in removing his hand from the area, the flash of pain seemed to arc and paralyse his senses. He felt a cold sensation rush over his entire body as the buzz stopped abruptly, causing him to stumble back and land against the wall with an “Oomph!”

“House!” Wilson cried anxiously, making his way round the bed. He stopped suddenly when the monitors beside the cancer patient started screeching wildly. His patient was waking up…waking up? He shouldn’t be able to wake up with that amount of medication running through his veins. He wasn’t supposed to wake up…ever again. “House, what did you do?” he trailed off when he saw the space, where his friend had been, was now empty.

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House stumbled, limping as fast as his leg would allow him with no cane, to the male restroom. He practically fell through the door, almost unhinging it in his haste. After dragging his right leg over to the sink, he slammed his right hand down on the tap, switching the water on in a furiously fast flow.

He splashed the cool liquid over his face and stared at himself in the large mirror; his pale, panting reflection did nothing to calm him down. His left hand was trembling uncontrollably, and it felt almost...numb. What’s wrong with me? he thought desperately, unable to contain the hitch in his breath, and another…and another.

Everything in the room began to melt around him. Colours swirled, and then simply melded together into big, black balls of darkness. The spots that now danced in front of his eyes, reminded him of a time when he’d gotten knocked out during a lacrosse game in his youth. He could feel the realms of reality slipping away, dragging his strength with it.

It wasn’t long before he found it impossible to breathe at all. He was dimly aware of someone entering the bathroom and talking sternly to him before his legs gave way completely. He slumped against the tiled floor with the help of welcome, strong hands under his armpits. Darkness seemed to be the best place for him…unconsciousness seemed to be the only thing that made sense to him…cold, clinical and unavoidable unconsciousness.

TBC…

Hush - Part Four!

2007-06-06T20:14:50Z

Sorry for the wait...really, I am!

Hopefully it was worth it?

Let me know!

Special Thanks to med_anomaly

Part Three...here

Part Two...here

Part One...here

House groaned as his clouded vision cleared to reveal a starry sky above him. Either this hospital had an observatory platform in every room, or he was still in the parking lot. I’m guessing you’re still outside…He could feel a persistent pressure on his wrist, so he turned his head to find the source – it was a nurse, taking his pulse…a young, petite and very agitated looking nurse.

“Give me that flashlight” she instructed, looking away from the patient. House slowly followed her gaze and focussed on another nurse. This one was holding his legs up in the air, looking just as aggravated as the first one. Something tells me they’re not too happy with you he thought, letting his eyes close. Somewhere, deep down, he was aware of the dire need to be treated for shock; but he was far too out of it and tired to really care.

“Pupils are constricted.” He barely reacted as the first nurse shone the light in his eyes. “Puncture marks” his ears pricked up at that. I’m not a drug addict…well, not as such… Apparently, nurses can’t read minds, but their eyesight is as sharp as anyone’s. This particular nurse had zoned in on the marks on his arm and jumped to some pretty swift conclusions. Damn Foreman, can’t give an injection without bruising my entire upper arm. It didn’t occur to House’s lethargic mind, that maybe the nurse had caught sight of his self-inflicted marks on the crook of his elbow. Well, why should he believe this was his fault? He’d only taken advice from Wilson, after all! I... hear bowling is more fun than stalking.

Maybe bowling would have been the safer option tonight. Blow a ton of money on a plasma TV would probably have been even safer than bowling…Get a hooker. Anything. Clearly this was all Wilson’s fault. House bore no real responsibility; Wilson had suggested the hooker in the first place. Thanks Wilson.

In the distance, he could hear a gurney being wheeled over to them, mainly due to the fact that it seemed to have one extremely squeaky wheel that screamed tediously and rung in his ears. Finally, they were going to relieve him from this uncomfortable parking lot. His shoulders were killing him; the skin on his bare back was red raw from being laid out on the cold, hard tarmac, and he was cold...almost numb.

Through the dull pain emanating from his head, he felt warm hands grasping below his neck and below shoulder blades. In their infinite wisdom, the nurses had finally decided that the patient might not be too comfy in this position. Good thinking…I was beginning to think I’d die in a parking lot.

“Right, get him on the gurney” the nurse ordered sharply.

Something in her tone told him they weren’t exactly bringing out the big guns for him. With an old gurney, three nurses and no urgency, they’d probably already come to their own conclusions as to why he was there – drugged up to his eyeballs, no doubt. Their suspicions would only be further cemented in stone once his tox screen came back.

He seriously doubted his night could get any worse…

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Wilson awoke with a start. Something was vibrating excitedly from beneath his pillow…It’s your pager, you idiot his sleepy brain taunted, sounding a lot like House. He fumbled to grab the buzzing item before it woke Julie; he wasn’t ready for another lecture on ‘are you married to the hospital, or me?’ A part of him knew she had every right to get angry.

He slid carefully from the bed, being sure not to disturb his sleeping wife in the process. It wasn’t too much of a difficult task, especially now she’d taken to sleeping with her back to him. The first signs of a dying marriage he noted, recalling the way his last marriage had ended. It probably hadn’t helped that he was seeing that nurse on the side.

In fact, he might be correctly inclined to think that it just happened to be a major contributing factor to the breakdown of his last marriage. No…It was over way before you started that…affair his conscience insisted, as it so often did. Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, buddy came a snorted reply. Shut up House. Wilson was beginning to hear House’s ‘voice of dispirit’ more often. It was as though he was the voice of the little devil on his shoulder; a little devil who came complete with cane, drugs and snark. What does that mean? Is House my own personal Demon? It was a valid thought, and he didn’t dare ponder over it for long.

After grabbing some clothes, he quietly made his way downstairs. It was all automatic for him. He hadn’t even read the page yet; he just knew that any message at 1am was bound to be the hospital. It was all a well-worn routine, acquired from years of doctoring.

He sighed, reading the message in the moonlit hallway. Patient Joseph Barrett at Warren hospital That wasn’t good. “What have you done?” he hissed, pulling out his cell phone and dialling House’s cell phone number. It rang off after a ridiculously generous number of rings. Wilson tried the land line; House seemed to have found a way to set his phone to ring just three times before the answering machine kicked in. No answer there either.

“What have you done…?” Wilson mused once more, growing a little more anxious. He grabbed his car keys and set off to investigate. On one hand, he was worried that House was in serious trouble; on the other, he was wary that this was probably nothing more than a flash of House boredom, at his expense.

Luckily, the traffic was at its lightest and he managed the journey to House’s apartment was over in less than ten minutes. You’ll find him, watching TV, bored out of his head. Then you’ll see that this is some kind of elaborate joke. He’s okay…but he knows not to use that ID lightly. He’s not okay…he’s definitely not okay.

By the time Wilson had fumbled with the lock of House’s door, he was panicked and his stomach was wrought with anticipation. He stumbled into the apartment, checking everything. Lights are on. TV’s off. Empty glass on the coffee table. Cane…?

He picked up House’s cane and stared at it for a moment. It’s nothing, he’s probably got a spare – this probably is the spare! “House?” he called, immediately regretting it when he remembered what time of night it was – “Yeah, I’m sure House has a commendable relationship with all his neighbours, one that he wants to uphold and cherish forever” he reminded himself sarcastically as he made his way towards the bedroom.

More lights were on, but there was most certainly nobody home. “Oh great,” Wilson groaned. “A trip to Warren hospital it is, then…” Just one small flaw; “Where is it?”

As he charged back to his car, he immersed himself in the twilight zone that was ‘the PPTH out of hour’s automated answering service’ on his cell. Eventually, threatening to ‘blow the hospital up’ managed to get him put through to security, who in turn passed him onto the out of hour’s service desk.

The woman on the other end of the line was about as helpful as a chocolate hairdryer. She gave him vague directions to Warren hospital and reminded him, several times, that she ‘couldn’t disclose any specific information about the patient without confirmation of his doctor’s identity from his medical records.’

After some gentle persuasion, containing one particular sentence that involved her losing her job first thing in the morning, he was finally given an explanation that detailed the source of the call, which only served to confuse him further.

The caller claimed to be a girlfriend of the patient, and she’d called from a service station. Better yet, she didn’t even know what was wrong with the patient. He thanked the advisor for all her help, biting his tongue against the unpleasantness that threatened to spill out if she said ‘you’re welcome’ in that patronisingly sweet tone, once more. Hold on House, I’m coming…

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House was holding on. Or at least, he was frantically clinging on for dear life. Although, this time, he wasn’t trying to grab hold of consciousness. He was attempting to stay comatose, and for good reason.

The nurses had taken him from parking lot, to gurney, to ER. He recognised none of these places from the sounds emanating from the room he was currently trapped in. It was too quiet, save for the groans coming from his own mouth.

He’d tried to warn them, he’d even managed to stay conscious long enough in the ER to refuse all treatment. It hadn’t worked.

Without giving himself away as a doctor, he was unable to convince the staff at this desolate place to give him anything that simply treated his low BP. For some reason, they were more interested in the fact that his breathing was severely compromised and his pupils were the size of pinpricks. Nothing he could say was going to stop them from ignoring those particular symptoms.

They’d given him Narcan. Narcan! He didn’t want Narcan - no chronic pain sufferer wants Narcan! Sure, it was great for overdoses. It also proved to great for his low blood pressure. Yeah, pain will do that to you - shoots your heart rate through the roof, unless it‘s too low to begin with! He struggled to block out the pain from his leg. There was nothing else, just pain. Pain…fucking intolerable, agonisingly intense pain!

He’d already tried to rip out the IV, using his last measly ounce of strength. This had earned him a nice set of leather cuffs and a place in the desolate back room, away from the more ‘acceptable’ patients of the hospital. Was keeping his medical licence safe really worth all this? Too late to tell them you’re not actually Joseph Barrett now, they’ve got your fake medical records and everything up on their computer his mind taunted him mercilessly.

Despite its obviously pornographic advantages, the internet could be a tiresome resource sometimes. If you’d been admitted under legal circumstances, you wouldn’t need to use a fake name his inner voice reasoned. “Shut up Wilson!” House growled through gritted teeth, earning him a perplexed look from his ‘suicide watch’ nurse.

His voice of reason would have to be Wilson, wouldn’t it? I wonder what that means? he thought, gasping as another wave cascaded over him. Is Wilson your guardian angel? That’s a little gay…yet strangely comforting. A bout of nausea washed over him; a touch of projectile vomiting over the nurse who continued to hover over him, sadistically letting him suffer through this, seemed like a good idea. He swallowed painfully, deciding that if he wanted to survive the night in this hellhole, he’d better conserve his fluids.

Doubt niggled in his mind; What if Paula hadn’t called Wilson yet? What if he was riding this out for nothing? What happens when they get the results of your tox screen? He couldn’t call Wilson himself; he couldn’t talk without crying out in pain. He had no way of getting home without either calling the cops or…House struggled to think of anyone who could get him out of this mess. He slammed his head back onto the firm pillow, mentally cursing himself for the thousandth time that night. Wilson will be here soon…

He tugged mindlessly at the restraints. Even his red raw, bleeding wrists bought no release from the excruciating throbbing in his leg. Withdrawal’s a bitch he thought, letting out a racked snort of humourless laughter as his body shook and trembled uncontrollably. What he wouldn’t have given for a Vicodin at that moment in time, or maybe two…or ten. Fuck it - twenty will do!

The worst thing about the whole miserable, pathetically laughable situation…he’d only been on the Narcan for three minutes and thirty-two seconds…thirty-three…thirty-four…

TBC…

Drag you Down...Part One

2007-06-05T13:59:59Z

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…

Hush Part Three

2007-05-31T23:04:17Z

Argh!
Part three up and running (or rather...limping)

Wouldn't have posted this if I hadn't spent the last four hours up the pub...but there you go!

As uncomfortable as the journey to the car had been, it didn’t get any better when he was crudely thrown onto the backseat. He grunted painfully as he landed on his bare stomach; the mishmash of various tool bags, gas cans and his own limbs, making his entry all the more agonising. Through the dark haze that danced in front of his vision, he could vaguely hear Paula’s footsteps trailing up to the car; she was obviously coming along for the ride.

With strength he didn’t know he still had in him, House managed to pull his legs up in time to ensure they weren’t simply trapped in the car door by his new found bosom-buddy, Pete. He groaned wearily, knowing full well that he was being ignored by both Pete and Paula as they settled into the front seats. His first coherent thought was that he should keep his legs up to aid his meagre blood flow; his right leg wouldn’t tolerate further movement, so this could be the last chance he’d have to actively do something to prevent himself from passing out.

Taking in the dusty back seat smell, he found his headache on the increase, especially with the additional strong smell of gas combined with strong cologne that did nothing to eliminate the overpowering stench of the driver. ‘Trust Stinky-Pete to use his car as some sort of run around pimp-mobile’ he thought, dimly aware of the well-worn engine firing up.

House lay immobile as the car pulled away from the kerb; he languidly listened to the tense conversation coming from the front as driver and navigator argued over his well-being...or otherwise lack of. His pounding headache was receding slightly; although, he knew that really, it wasn’t a good sign.

“We can take him to Edison, right?” Paula’s question brought her a look of annoyance from Pete; ‘Obviously not…’ House thought indolently, fighting to keep his eyes on the couple in front. In his mind, if he could keep focus on something -anything- he’d be able to stay conscious long enough to call Wilson from wherever these idiots were planning on dumping him. He was alarmed to feel the car speed up as it headed out of town; they didn’t seem to want to dump him anywhere close… ‘Oh great.’

“We’ll take him out west a bit.” Pete’s growling voice cut through the tense atmosphere; the car swerved slightly as he attempted to retrieve a packet of smokes from deep within his pocket.

“He doesn’t look too good” Paula stated, watching the patient wincing in the reflection of the mirror in her sun visor. “Can’t you just drop him off somewhere a little closer?” House couldn’t be sure if she was genuinely concerned, or if she had another appointment she was keen to keep back home. He didn’t particularly care, as long as she was trying to have him dumped closer to home; ‘closer to my team.’

Pete huffed, clearly annoyed with his navigators lack of malice. “We drop him closer; we get caught – so feel free to keep him alive ‘till we get past Easton” he spat, fiddling around with a broken lighter in one hand, and steering with the other.

Paula gave him an incredulous stare as he successfully lit his cigarette; she shot House a few more worried looks in her mirror before nimbly climbing over the seat into the back to join him.

“Jesus, you’re freezing” she whispered, swiftly pulling her coat off and draping it over his shoulder. He couldn’t deny that the warmth felt good, and it stopped the shivering to some extent. The smell of her musk hit him hard, and he was instantly reminded of their introduction just an hour earlier; to him, it felt as though days had gone by since then.

“We’re getting you to a hospital; just hang in there…” she trailed off when Pete’s snort of cruel amusement broke through her calm encouragement; she was seriously regretting bringing him into this mess. ‘Maybe you could have sorted this out yourself…’

Cold air suddenly whooshed through the car as Pete lowered his window; the dangers of smoking in the fuel-intoxicated car apparently outweighing the risk of exposure to its occupants. The smack of coolness over House’s face seemed to wake him up a little; he decided he needed to play the sympathy card again and plead with his guilty guardian, Paula.

“I need…” he choked, unable to make himself heard above the howling of the wind. He grabbed Paula’s wrist with his own, shocking her with the action and the coldness of his skin against her own; it certainly did the trick at catching her attention. She leaned forward, keeping her eyes locked onto his. “I need Wilson” he mouthed, knowing he didn’t have the energy to raise his voice above the deafening noise as Pete put his foot down and the car sped up. Paula frowned as he continued slowly, simply repeating what he’d requested in his bedroom in the vain hope that she’d remember. “Princeton Plainsboro…Doctor Wilson.”

She glanced to the grouchy driver, seeing he was on the last drags of his fag – ‘not long ‘til he discards it and closes the window’ she thought; seeing her only opportunity, she leant forward and hurriedly whispered in House’s ear. “I’ll call him – I promise” she leant back just as quickly, as Pete closed his window and restored the car back into near-silence.

“He dead yet?” Pete asked casually, glancing in his rear-view mirror; he was starting to get a little annoyed with how close his member of staff seemed to be getting to ‘the burden’.

Paula scowled and turned to face him; “Not yet” she replied, trying to keep a level tone.

“Then get your skinny butt back in the front; don’t want to be pulled ‘cos you’re messing about in the back, do I?”

Paula sighed and pulled herself through to the front, though not before giving House’s shoulder a quick squeeze. ‘Maybe she was worth the tip after all’ he mused, gasping as his heart decided to palpitate uncontrollably within his chest in an attempt at pumping the blood through more efficiently. “Fuck” he groaned as he waited for it to pass; ‘at least your heart has more fight left in it than the rest of you’ he thought miserably, squinting as various illuminated signs over the highway filled the car with strong, artificial light.

To plunge House deeper into despair, Pete decided to fumble around with the radio and land on the worst R&B station in the history of music. Hearing his passenger’s discomfort to his choice in music, by way of a groan, Pete turned the music up with a malevolent chuckle. His amusement from this impromptu road trip would have to come from torturing the helpless bastard who was the reason for the unscheduled journey; after all, it was his fault he’d been dragged out of bed, it was also his fault he’d been forced to use his fuel to take the joker to hospital.

After several speaker shuddering versions of songs that sounded remarkably like recycled classic rock tracks, Pete seemed to grow tired of the mundane station and switched off abruptly, allowing a small measure of relief wash over House.

“How far is it?” Paula asked after a while, voicing the very question that House’s mind had been screaming for the past twenty minutes as he struggled to grasp hold of consciousness…and his sanity.

“I’ll drop him off at the next hospital if it makes you happy” Pete replied, soon pulling off the highway and heading towards lifeless streets; apparently he now felt far enough away to be safe from the suspicion of the local cops. They shot past a school, which was shortly followed by a signpost with a red ‘ER’ sign attached to it. Within seconds they passed a sign which read Warren Hospital: Experienced, caring, close to home…‘Not that close to home.’

Paula twisted in her seat to take a closer look at her patient; he wasn’t looking good at all. She distinctly saw the gleam of sweat covering his face and neck as they passed under the flickering street lamps; she imagined the rest of his covered body was under the same sheen. ‘So much for keeping him warm with your coat’ she thought regretfully. His skin was beginning to take a ghostly grey pallor and the anticipated arrival of the ER doors at ‘Warren hospital’ couldn’t come quick enough.

They pulled up in the parking lot, out of the way of other traffic and keeping close to the bushes. This wasn’t the first time Pete had ‘dropped’ somebody off at a hospital.

“Get in there and tell them your boyfriend collapsed” Pete ordered sharply, tugging his own door open and stepping out of the car, yet leaving the engine running.

“Hey” House gasped urgently, seeing that this would be his only chance to get some kind of message to Wilson. Paula’s eyes snapped to his, as she hesitated in opening her own door. “Tell them…my name’s…Barrett…Joseph Barrett” he grimaced, another palpitation followed by a brief stabbing pain in his head, cutting him short on any explanation he may have had left in him.

He hoped that Wilson would recognise the name and the urgency in which he was needed at this hospital; House was relying on Paula to get him help, and fast. As soon as they tested him for drugs, all kinds of ‘Psychiatric suicide bells’ would be ringing; House would be lucky if he got out of this in one piece; avoiding being committed or arrested would be an added bonus. All the more reason he wanted to be Joseph Barrett, right now, and not Gregory House!

Paula jumped as Pete swung her door open. “Anytime today will be fine” he snarled agitatedly under his breath; “preferably before someone catches our plates” he added.

Paula hurried out of the car and made a convincing job of jogging worriedly towards the ER entrance; her mind repeating over and over, with every step – Doctor Wilson, Princeton Plainsboro, Joseph Barrett. Doctor Wilson, Princeton Plainsboro, Joseph Barrett.

She let her eyes well up slightly, which wasn’t too difficult; the only thing she really wanted to do now was loath in some serious self pity – especially after her particularly shitty night. ‘Keep it together; gotta do this for him first – can’t let fucking Pete ruin someone else’s life’ she thought determinedly, knowing how bad this would look for the poor doctor who’d made the mistake of calling the agency shortly before collapsing in agony.

She didn’t know a lot about the establishment in which he worked; but she was sure the use of hookers would be frowned upon, which just left the poor guy to try and explain how he’d ended up in a hospital 60 miles away after a quiet night in by himself…‘he’d be sanctioned under the mental health act for sure’ she decided as she burst through the doors to the ER.

“Please help me!” she yelled breathlessly to a young, petite nurse standing by a coffee machine; “It’s my boyfriend – he just collapsed! He’s in my car…” she gave a good, solid performance, surprising even herself. ‘Maybe you’re more worried than you think…’

The nurse gave her one look, abandoned her coffee and grabbed a nearby wheelchair. As they swiftly made their way over the parking lot, Paula could see Pete with his hands under her patient’s arms, waiting for his cue to pull him out of the car. ‘Wait for it’ she thought desperately, not finding it easy to run particularly fast in her boots.

“Right,” the nurse stated as they closed the gap between themselves and the car; “what’s his name?”

“Joseph,” Paula replied eagerly, pleased that they were still out of earshot from Pete, who wouldn’t take kindly to information that may link them to back home; “Joseph Barrett.”

They approached the car; with one swift movement, Pete dragged House’s motionless body from the vehicle and onto the cold, hard car park, placing the upper half of his body in the nurse’s arms as she dropped down to examine him. He then returned to the car and motioned, silently, for Paula to follow; he’d effectively trapped the unsuspecting nurse under her patient, but Paula could hardly argue that he hadn’t gotten the guy some help.

“Joseph” the nurse called in a breathless, yet urgent, tone. “Can you hear me?” House didn’t respond right away, his head was swimming from the cold that came from losing Paula’s coat and finding himself on cold tarmac, semi-naked and soaked in sweat.

When he finally replied with a small grunt, the nurse’s attention was stolen away by the sound of Paula jumping into the car and the slight screech of tyres as the car sped away. The nurse looked astonished for a moment before catching sight of an EMT wandering across the lot.

“I need some help over here – now!” she called, just as the patient slumped forwards in her arms…

TBC…

Preview for second chapter of HUSH...

2007-05-28T13:29:10Z

The second chapter - Enjoy!

House felt a wash of uncertainty clamber into his mind as the pain from his head receded slightly; his survivalist instinct told him to stay in that pain free position forever, but it was his insistent curiosity that forced him to pry his eyes open eventually.

As he peered through the hazy fog that was clouding his vision, he became aware of movement beside him; Paula was obviously completely freaked out and was intent on leaving. 'You didn’t even get to do anything kinky,' he thought bitterly, regretting putting such a large tip out on the dresser.

He made a mental note to never tip again; at least, not 'till he'd gotten his money's worth – it wasn't a lot of use to him now though. On the bright side; if he died now, he wouldn't have to pay off the zillion speeding tickets he'd somehow accumulated over the past few months. Every cloud has a silver lining...and there was one hell of a cloud cloaking him right now.

'You should have gone for a drink with Wilson,' he thought miserably; 'you'd be in the ambulance by now, having your ear chewed off and being threatened with a furious Cuddy. Instead, you're struggling to breathe and counting dust mites on your rug, with a very beautiful, and very expensive, hooker freaking out over you,' he groaned as another sharp, stabbing pain broke out in his chest.

Paula angrily pulled her clothes on, muttering curses and glancing over to her ‘client’ in the process. She heard him groaning softly as she tugged her top from under his right leg; she swallowed nervously as she cautiously leant over him, checking for life. He was breathing so faintly, it seemed as though he was asleep; the only thing that told her he wasn’t were his eyes, flickering and his left hand, languidly trying to cover them.

Apart from that, he didn’t seem to be moving very much... 'Maybe he had a heart attack...' she thought idly, pausing in her dressing. 'But then, he did smell faintly of booze too. That would explain why he passed out,' she decided as she hurriedly grabbed the notes left out for her on the dresser; it was her tip, after all, and he was the one who cut the night short. 'He's just drunk himself into a stupor, he'll be fine by morning' He could hardly put in a complaint against her; she'd done her job up 'till the point where he collapsed; unfortunately for House, she wasn't particularly interested in what he'd done to himself, as long as she didn't get into trouble.

After giving a quick last check of the bedroom, she made it to the front door before she was rewarded with an assault from her conscience. 'What if he’s really ill? He looked a little sick before he collapsed…and he didn’t really seem drunk enough to pass out. Oh God, what if he’s OD’d?' she cursed loudly, remembering the short briefing she'd had before she started work.

There was a gang of thieves going round, posing as high class escorts; they'd been drugging their client's before taking off with their money. She'd been warned to be extra vigilant tonight; she should have left when she took note of his sickly complexion, especially after he seemed to fade in and out during her initial foreplay. 'Fuck, they're gonna think you drugged him...'

She hurriedly made her way back into the bedroom, approaching the man sprawled out on the floor. “Hey” she nudged his bare shoulder gently with her hand, jumping slightly as he flinched against the contact. “Hey” she repeated, pulling his hand from over his eyes. “Have you taken anything?” she asked, in the loudest voice she dared use at that time of night; as soon as he denied taking drugs, she could go and she’d know she wouldn't get an unwelcome call from the cops, who were bound to start investigating if he died. “Have you taken any drugs?”

House squinted against the soft light of the lamp; he could faintly see the outline of his female companion looking down over him. 'Thought she'd left...' he mused languidly, struggling to hear her over the wall of sound emanating from his inner voice. She was talking to him, asking him questions. Drugs? Has he taken any drugs? He hazily tried to remember what drugs he’d had pumped into his system over the past 48 hours…it would probably be quicker to list the ones he hasn’t had.

He nodded his head as much as he dared without crying out in pain; it was better than trying to reel off an insane sounding number of legal, and illegal, substances that he'd subjected himself to. Webber’s receptor, Nitro-glycerine, Sumatriptan, Verapamil, LSD, antidepressants, Vicodin and alcohol…alcohol. 'Oh crap, no wonder your blood pressure’s in the tank,' he thought indolently as he fought off another attempt from his body trying to shut down his mind. You will not pass out. You will not pass out. You will not pass out.

“Hospital” he gasped, fully aware that he needed to get help before he went into shock. “Princeton Plains…” he choked out, hoping Paula would use her initiative and translate his croaks into orders.

He saw the outline of Paula’s head shake in disagreement; he quickly determined that she wouldn't be the one to call him an ambulance. 'Of course she’s not going to call an ambulance…why should she? If you die, then that’s her life over too; the cops would think she drugged you, killed you and took your money. But then, cops are stupid like that.' He desperately wanted to tell her that he’d make sure no one knew she’d been with him; his voice refused to help him out, leaving him gasping at her instead. So much for his plan of telling her that he’d be fine.

“I can’t take you to a local, hun” she stated regretfully, referring to the hospital; “too many people know us around here – same thing happened to Janice the other day…” she trailed off when she realised that he wasn’t particularly worried about hearing what happened to ‘Janice’ the other day. “There's been a lot of drugging lately; not with our establishment, mind you – but if I take you in, the cops would be on it so fast...you should have told me about the drugs” she stated angrily, pacing the room in her heels and making his head hurt. House couldn't believe he was getting a lecture on drugs from a hooker; so much for a distraction – she was beginning to sound more and more like Wilson as each second passed by...

He tried to face her, using his arm to turn over, in an attempt at getting her attention, but failed miserably when his elbow buckled under the weight. If he could just get her to pass him his cell, he could call Wilson and then she could leave; unfortunately, that would involve actually having to find his voice, which had taken a short vacation somewhere down the back of his throat. 'Shut up!' his mind screamed as her voice broke through his plan making; he wasn't in the mood for poor reassurances and apologies.

“I know a place, few miles north of here – they don’t ask questions; they get this sort of thing all the time…sorry, but you'll have to trust me” she seemed to know that it wasn’t particularly reassuring to her client, but was too lost to know what she should really say to someone writhing in agony on their bedroom floor. “I’ll grab my cell and call Pete – just hang in there, okay?” she said hurriedly, before rushing off to get her cell from her car. There was no way she'd be able to get him out of the apartment alone.

House mumbled incoherently in reply, his own attempt at calling her an idiot. He needed to go to Princeton Plainsboro; he needed his staff, who knew what he’d taken. He needed Wilson to call him an idiot and get him help. He needed Cuddy to scream like a banshee and rush him through tests and treatment.

He did not need some incompetent ER doc, who didn’t even know him, to yell ‘suicidal intentions’ as soon as he got his tox screen back. Although, even if the doc did know him, he’d still have ‘suicidal intentions’ yelled at him, he thought dimly, all the more wary of why he needed his team…and not some bloke called Pete.

With great effort, he managed to roll himself onto his back; he winced as pain lacerated through his heart. He knew what he wanted to achieve, and that the hard part was yet to come. Grunting as he used his left leg to hook the right, he managed to stretch and balance his feet on the edge of the bed for a minute; his whole body shook as the exertion became too much.

Before he could stop the inevitable, his right leg dropped from the bed; his heel smashed against the hardwood floor, sending a shock wave up his leg and forcing a strangled cry from his lips. He arched his back, desperately trying to keep his left leg up on the bed; the last thing he needed now, was to curl up over his screaming right leg and lose what blood that had seen itself to his heart and, hopefully, his head.

As he choked back further cries, he had a stronger awareness of the deep throbbing in his temples; his plan seemed to be working for the time being. More pain means more blood getting to your brain, which equals less chance of brain damage. Pain is good. Pain is good. Pain is - “Fuck!” he spat through gritted teeth, bringing his hands from grappling with his pant leg and planting both of them firmly on his forehead.

There was a cruel competition conspiring between his leg and his head over which could cause him the most agony; so far, his head seemed to be in poll position, and his mind was still hammering it home, that this was a good thing.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, although he couldn't be sure with all the blurriness; he strained his ears, fighting through the sound of his own laboured breathing, to hear what was going on. He felt the vibrations in the hardwood floor from Paula's heels and determined she was in a hurry; Pete was obviously on his way, and probably pissed at being dragged out of bed to sort out a 'drugged out' client. 'Just fucking great.'

Paula grabbed the waist of his pants and pulled them roughly together, fumbling with the button-fly and his belt. A small part of House was relieved that he hadn't worn pants with a zipper; he didn't want to imagine what kind of damage a pissed off hooker could do with that as a weapon. Ouch...

“Can you get up?” she snapped, holding out his t shirt, but not really seeing how she was going to get in on him; House mouthed 'no' in response, still keeping his hands pressed firmly on his temples. He reluctantly pried one hand away and struggled to make eye contact with her; she wasn't going to listen to him if she really did think he was drugged out of his head.

“Need. Princeton...Plainsboro” he gasped brokenly, his voice seemed to be dancing around in his head whilst wearing steel toe capped boots and pounding the crap out of his temples; Paula frowned, glancing at the clock and making an effort of ignoring him completely.

House continued, knowing that she was listening; “Need...call. Wilson” he watched her glance at his cell on the dresser. “Please. Just call him” he gaped as the pain in his leg began to outweigh his headache. “He's. Doctor” he groaned miserably as he heard her cell ring, stealing his limelight.

Paula strode purposefully down the hall, House heard the snap of the lock on his door, followed by the footsteps of someone else...someone big. His assumption was confirmed when a monster of a man towered over him, sneering; this was obviously Pete... 'Hello Pete – get the fuck out of my apartment' he thought angrily as the man said something, condescendingly, to Paula and received a frown in response.

House had no time to react when he was roughly dragged off of the floor by the huge guy; he flinched feebly against the coldness of Pete's hands on his bare flesh before being thrown, like a sack of potatoes, over the tall man's shoulder.

As he was carried out of his apartment, he groaned weakly; Pete's shoulder wasn't very comfortable against his stomach, and his own belt was cutting into his waist. He hoped Pete was feeling just as much discomfort from it as he was; 'he deserves to be in agony, especially because he's being an idiot' was House's only logical thought.

If he was in a more coherent physical state, he'd have told Pete to 'get your fucking hand off my ass, and get me to Princeton Plainsboro!'

Unfortunately, all he could do was grunt with each of the other man's giant steps; savouring the fact that he could feel the blood somewhat rushing to his head, before he was roughly thrown into the back of a car...

TBC...

Preview for new fic...

2007-05-22T12:22:52Z

Now on Sick!House...eek!
This isn't anywhere near being ready to post yet; but hey, might as well use this journal thingy for something! Plus, we'll see if I can actually use this wierd system...
I need to tweak it slightly before I post it for real...Enjoy!
Just for info - it's set at the end of 'Distractions'...but that becomes obvious as you read it!

House poured himself a drink; the troubles from the last case plaguing his mind. Sure, he’d managed to prove that Weber was a bad scientist…but, it hadn’t brought the rapture he’d hoped it would. It was almost a disappointment to see his college foe angry at him for sending the email that shut him down; even having Cuddy there as a witness wasn’t enough to please him...

It wasn’t about Stacy…that’s what he kept telling himself; it has nothing to do with sending her away at all, despite what Wilson might think. The whole migraine inducing, LSD, antidepressants curing headache, shamble had absolutely nothing to do with her. Nor did the fact he’d called out to the agency for an attractive, dark haired young lady to join him in his celebration of Weber’s downfall…

He downed his drink after he heard a knock at the door; he hoped the alcohol would allow him to shut off and stop his inner voices from ruining what would be $580 well spent on one night. Actually it’s more likely to be one hour, his inner voice taunted mercilessly.

He paused at the door, shaking off the feeling that he’d stood up a little too quickly, by taking a deep breath and holding it for a moment. As he pulled open the door, he saw the person the other side move slightly; she was probably relieved that he’d answered. He wondered how many calls the agency got that involved pranks and false addresses; he concluded it would also be just as infuriating to find you’ve knocked at the client’s door and they’d changed their mind.

He refrained from looking her up and down; they’d be time for that later…if he could bring himself to do it, that is. “I’m Paula” she said, friendliness coming through in her soft tone.

“Hey Paula” he replied instinctively, warily keeping his tone as light as her own; it was better for the throbbing in his temples if they both kept it that way.

“How you doing? You work over at the college? Or are you full-time over at the-”

“I’m looking for a distraction” he cut her off rudely, her tone wasn’t that soothing for his head; “You don’t need to talk to do that, do you?” he asked, looking to her expectantly. She smiled and shook her head; stepping back slightly, he allowed her in, keeping his hand firmly on the doorknob as the sweet smell of musk passed by his nostrils. The agency had really outdone themselves; she was close enough to what he’d requested over the phone…and she’d be worth the tip for that alone.

Within seconds of the door slamming shut, she was on him. She crashed him into the frame with such force; it actually winded him for a second and he dropped his cane. No matter, he wouldn’t need it again – not until the morning.

He quickly came to the conclusion that she was either extremely attracted to him, or she found him repulsive and wanted out of there asap...he chose not to think about either option as he braced himself with one hand on the door knob and the other on her shoulder.

Her hands were the first thing to give away her inexperience as they fumbled nervously, torn between whether they found his arse, or the back of his neck, more comforting to hold while she roughly chewed on his earlobe; the rest of her body seemingly intent on pinning him against his own front door as though they were wrestling for the most dominant position in his living room. She was winning, easily.

Grunting as she found something far more interesting to handle down the front of his pants, House realised that maybe he'd gotten her all wrong. She wasn't inexperienced; she was playing inexperienced – that was her thing. He had to admit, it was much more fun thinking that she was new to the game, rather than an old hand; he cursed his bloody mind for roaming and ruining his pleasure so far. He wished that, just once, he could shut off the light in his head and relax like everybody else. This was supposed to be a distraction, after all! His distraction from work, Wilson, Cuddy...Stacy. The fact that he knew he'd either live through sending her away or he'd self-destruct and probably kill himself in the process was annoyingly brought up by Wilson in almost every conversation they'd had recently – it was sensitivity at its narrowest. Even when he wasn't here, Wilson managed to wind House up with his snippets of moral wisdom; he was supposed to be enjoying himself with Paula, not thinking about Wilson's lectures, Cuddy's worried chats, his teams dislike for his experimenting, Stacy's...Stacy. Fucking Stacy!

He vented his frustration through a series of aggressive kisses aimed at Paula's neck; he had the peculiar animalistic instinct to mark her skin, show that he had claimed her – even if it was just for one night...and he was paying. She seemed to welcome the belligerency with good nature; even going as far as to tilt her neck back invitingly and moan seductively as he nipped her skin.

The throbbing in his head was soon becoming secondary to another pressing matter as Paula teased him mercilessly by pressing her left thigh up, firmly, in between his legs. She carefully bit into his chest; even through his t shirt, the pain that emanated from the firm muscles in the area was enough to clear his mind of any thoughts that were plaguing him at that time.

With his mind blank, the next thing House knew, he was being dragged away from the door by his belt; apparently Paula was keen to find out what colour the ceiling in his bedroom was painted. He lurched after her as she made an educated guess as to the whereabouts of his bedroom; probably a skill that would only be put to better use if she'd joined the fire brigade, House thought indolently, as he watched her pull off her clothes, temptingly, from the doorway.

He waited patiently as she made a show of pulling each layer of clothing off and placing it in a neat pile by the bed; it wasn't as sensual as the first time he'd watched a lady of the night perform this particular little dance. It hadn’t taken him long to observe and pick up the little tips and tricks that the ladies had learnt to survive by whilst on the game; 'always check the money, give yourself an escape route from any situation and never kiss on the mouth' seemed to be ranked highly in the 'hooker's guide to the galaxy'...

He noted the way that Paula's eyes lingered a millisecond too long over the small wad of money he had set out on his dresser – her tip; she was obviously out for the more solid rewards coming from her night of work. She hadn't quite gotten the 'judging how much is there' glance down yet, instead favouring the all out 'count every last note' stare. She'd learn, in time – they all learn.

House shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, his sexually charged adrenaline was fading fast. The temporary euphoria from making out by the front door was giving way to another blinding migraine; he could feel it building up behind his red-rimmed, fatigued eyes. That, accompanied by the searing pain that was beginning to spark off in his right thigh, meant that he was quickly becoming agitated – and considerably turned off!

Paula must have sensed the change in atmosphere as she desperately tried to bundle her attention back to her client. She didn’t adhere to his awkward leaning position by the door as she pulled him smoothly over to the bed; House was happy to take her lead as the pain behind his eyes blinded him with white light. After today, he'd be happy if he never heard the word 'migraine' again...

He ungracefully fell to the bed, grunting slightly with the sudden jolts that shot through his leg; Paula straddled him as she worked on undoing his belt. House put his hands on her hips, feeling the insane need that he should be doing something – anything – to contribute to this show. Stroking his thumbs lightly against her bare thighs, he mentally reminded himself that he wasn’t likely to get a discount just because he 'got into the mood' and did his bit, so he let his hands fall to the bed.

He tilted his head back as he lay there; closing his eyes and breathing through his nose in an attempt at shutting out the infuriating pain in his skull. He was brought out of his meditation when Paula grasped his wrists, dominantly, and pulled him into a sitting position; she slipped his t shirt over his head, dragging her fingernails seductively over his bare flesh as she did it, adding to the shudder this brought upon his sensually charged body.

He frowned slightly as a wave of dizziness washed over him at the change of position, his BP taking a nosedive; although, he couldn’t be sure just how much of that could be attributed to the large bulge in his pants…! He blew out a shaky breath as he tried to stop his head from swimming; the alcohol really seemed to be kicking in, making him feel pretty drowsy.

Recovering, he glanced up to find Paula frowning worriedly at him; he grabbed her hand, which was resting on his shoulder in an attempt at keeping him stable. Pulling her slowly towards him, she once again found herself mounted over his hips – although, he still hadn’t gotten around to getting his pants off…a fact that she was extremely aware of as she let him trail kisses down her neck and breasts.

Trying not to seem too pushy, or eager, she let her hand wander down the front of his pants; the belt loosening, from her earlier assault, helping considerably with her access. She slid her legs off of his body and planted them firmly on the floor; he felt the change in position and cracked an eye open.

“Lights” he grunted commandingly. She glanced over to the door and headed over to switch off the offending item, finding only when she got there, that this wasn’t the switch for the lamp that was also on.

Sighing quietly, he placed his hand on the dresser; why did he leave the lamp on in the first place? It was an act of pure stupidity on his part. He knew he’d want the lights off; if not to hide the scar on his leg, then to stop the pesky headache that seemed reluctant to leave him alone.

Bracing himself using the dresser, he pulled his weary body up, gasping as the pain in his head magnified beyond belief; it was during this intense period, he felt all his energy leave him completely. ‘Orthostatic hypotension’ popped into his head, although not soon enough to stop him from blacking out and apparently landing on the cold, hard, laminated floor in an awkward heap.

“Oh shit” he heard Paula say; although, she didn’t sound particularly worried; she actually sounded annoyed. She must have had a few men pass out on her before, House mused as he struggled to breathe. He coughed desperately, knowing full well that he didn’t have any problems in the respiratory department. It was his heart that was really concerning him. His heart that was beating so slowly, he thought it might stop at any second. It was definitely his heart that was stopping him from even attempting to get up off his bedroom floor.

He gingerly moved his arm up and clamped his hand over his face in an attempt at shutting out the soft light from the nearby lamp, which felt like it was burning through his retinas; ‘what the fuck have you done to yourself?’ he thought desperately as he moaned agonisingly, and writhed with pain…

TBC...