Chapter Text
“What are they talking about?”
“I’m not about to get myself killed because you can’t shut up,” Foreman whispers back to him, which is more words than House said, so House concludes that Foreman isn’t willing to die to humor him, but he is willing to die to argue him. Interesting to know.
He can’t take his eyes off of Wilson.
The guy isn’t sitting too far away. Just down this crowded hallway, filled with terrified hospital staff and a few patients who chose the wrong time to address their sniffles. House can hear indistinct murmurs between the hostage-taker and Wilson. Wilson has his Earnest face on, which isn’t all that helpful for diagnosis, because this is a pretty god-damn earnest situation.
What does strike House is that Wilson looks relaxed. Everyone else in the hostage shuffle – back against the wall, legs straight out in front of them – look shell-shocked. Wilson has one leg crossed over his other, like he’s having a casual lunchtime chat. He tosses his head back in a polite laugh… even stranger, the hostage taker laughs alongside him. The rifle bobs in his hands in a way that makes House flinch.
If anyone in this hospital could talk down a hostage taker, it’s Wilson. That’s not a compliment, that’s not flattery: it’s objective fact. The if is just holding a heavy burden, there.
This is probably the most he’s seen of Wilson in three weeks. House doesn’t know why. Every time he’s popped by, Wilson has been out or busy. There’s a little meter in House’s head – when it’s full, he’ll start pounding down Wilson’s hotel room door at two in the morning. He figures it’s about 75% full.
Theoretically, he also knows that Wilson has a life outside of him. Okay, maybe not a life, but experiences and thoughts that don’t revolve around him. Maybe something happened. House doesn’t think so, but then again, he hasn’t done anything.
The cases he’s received lately have been banal. Sure, he’s gotten itchy underneath the epidermis, but he hasn’t been a nuisance. He hasn’t seen Wilson to be a nuisance, even if the rest of his team might be ready to quit.
Wilson’s ignored him before. Frankly, if Wilson gave him the cold shoulder every time he deserved it, they’d never talk.
He stares at Wilson now. God, does Wilson look exhausted. Despite the smiles, there’s deep shadows under his eyes. His shirt is wrinkled beyond salvation – and from a guy who tries to look his best every single day.
A major upset in the oncology department? House thinks. Maybe one of Wilson’s patients died – but plenty of Wilson’s patients die.
Abruptly, the door to the patient wing opens and a sniffly, red-faced medical student is pushed inside. Over his head is their other hostage taker. This one is a lady. A few bottle-blond curls are peeking out through the bottom of their mask; from the eyeholes, he catches a smear of mascara.
Her and the other hostage taker step away to exchange a few words. House tries his best to radiate what the hell are you doing to Wilson with a cold, hard stare. Wilson’s eyes flash briefly in his direction, inscrutable, before they return to the hostage takers.
He is being ignored. House practically growls.
Then, to the small gasps of the peanut gallery, the medical student is pushed further into the hallway. He stumbles, nearly falling on his ass, before going to cower along the wall with their associates. That frees up the lady hostage taker to sweep her gun (this one a pistol, but not a gentle-looking one) along the hallway. All the wusses in Geriatrics cower.
The man puts a hand on Wilson’s shoulder. Wilson, to House’s surprise, stands up and takes a few steps towards the woman.
No.
“Wait,” House mutters, getting his leg underneath him. “Wait, wait –”
A hand keeps him down. He looks to the side and sees Cameron impeding his progress with a sharp look on her face. House mentally tells her to go fuck herself before Cameron mutters, “You’re going to get him killed.”
That’s not an unfair point. The lady has her gun pressed right against Wilson’s spine. Any sudden movements and Wilson is, best case scenario, sharing his handicap spot.
Wilson gives him one last look before disappearing into the patient hall. House stays where he is, perfectly rigid, and stares at the gap that Wilson left among the hostages.
Wilson is a good guy, so much as House believes in good guys. It’s why he gets such a kick out of pressing his buttons. Plenty of room in the emotionally immature mud put. But he doesn’t think Wilson is such a good guy that he’ll switch himself out for another hostage. Nevermind that that medical student is starting to dry heave from the stress.
House doesn’t know what the situation is. Through murmurs among the hostages, he’s gathered that there’s a patient. Clearly, they didn’t want to wait in line at the clinic. He doesn’t know what their issue is, doesn’t even know who the patient is. That first year medical student probably wouldn’t have been able to find their ass with both hands, but… well, depending on the patient, an oncologist might not do much better. Unless it’s cancer.
Which, if they expect them to cure cancer in a day, they might as well blow up the hospital.
When Wilson returns – hard to know the time with no clock, by House’s estimation, it’s been ten years – he doesn’t seem fazed. He walks with a pep in his step. The male hostage taker greets him with a smile… and then Wilson doesn’t shut up, instead going on and on. He thinks Wilson is talking about sports. Wilson isn’t a sports guy.
“Why the hell is he so chummy?” House mutters, only to get hit in the shoulder by Foreman. Does Wilson think being nice will free them all? He isn’t that stupid. Being nice can’t be Wilson’s strategy, until…
On the floor. It’s next to his thigh, hidden from view of the hostage taker, but Wilson’s pressed his index finger onto the tile pointedly. In slow, deliberate movements, Wilson begins to draw.
It’s not easy, reading it upside down, on a tile floor, and across a hallway. He pictures each letter in his mind, tracing Wilson’s movements with his eyes. Though House misses a letter here and there, he gets the gist easily enough.
JAUNDICE.
ABDOMINAL PAIN.
ORGAN FAILURE.
That last one isn’t a good sign.
The hostage takers haven’t told them what will happen if the patient dies, but he doesn’t think they’ll be beating rush hour.
But what can he do? The symptoms sound like a progression, but those three could refer to any one of hundreds of ailments. Cancer, autoimmune, infection, bacteria, a really bad punch to the gut. House squeezes his cane and stares up at Wilson, eyes wide. And, and, and…?
A few more minutes of small talk and then the male hostage taker gestures towards Wilson with a gun. Wilson rises, and… points at House. The hostage taker raises an eyebrow, turns to Wilson to confirm, and Wilson responds by putting a hand on the hostage taker’s bicep and squeezing. House can only imagine they’ve just decided to kill and eat him for nutrients.
“Hey, you!”
House flicks a suspicious glance over to Wilson, but Wilson isn’t meeting his eyes.
“My friends call me Greg.”
“James needs some help getting a patient out of an MRI machine.”
He what in the what now.
Wilson finally meets his eyes. House swears that they’re darker than usual. As much as House hates being in the dark about things, he also can’t ignore the gun. So yeah, he’s going to stand. His leg spasms painfully as he does. There’s nothing House loves more than hunching over his cane and gasping in front of a few dozen medical staff. This doesn’t bode well for his temper.
Still, he goes along with it.
They’re taken through the double doors by the lady hostage taker, who doesn’t say a word as they start down the hall. Good, if he gets shot, he’ll get shot by a handgun. Who says lightning never strikes twice.
He forces his attention to Wilson. “They’re in organ failure?” He demands. “Why are they in an MRI if they’re in organ failure?” And then, he realizes what else is wrong with that statement. God knows he breaks every rule the hospital throws at them, but this is stupid. “Why are they in an MRI alone?”
“Making a diagnosis before you even see the patient, Dr. House?” Wilson suggests with a laugh. He turns towards the woman who has a pistol pointed at his back. “He can be a little eager. But he’s a good doctor.”
A good doctor makes House’s nostrils flare. He’s a good doctor in the way that Wilson is an average enabler. Still, Wilson winces when the gun digs into his skin, and for once in his life, House puts his ego to the side.
No, maybe he shouldn’t discuss these things out in the open. He falls silent and walks, occasionally stealing a look at Wilson’s face. Hard to read. House figures that he’s been brought up to ¼ speed on the situation, but it doesn’t look good.
Nothing is immediately obvious when they enter the MRI room, other than the fact that the MRI isn’t actually on. The lights sure, are, and and it’s moving, but House can tell from the doorway that it’s not actually imaging anything. For the best, too, because Wilson has put the metal patient bed right next to the MRI.
Buying time. Of course. Smart, actually.
“House, can you get on the other side? Help me lift her into the bed.”
It’s a kid. House’s heart clenches in sympathy. She looks like she weighs eighty pounds, maximum, and is entirely unconscious. Wilson could toss her around like a ragdoll. For the best, because House isn’t exactly getting picked first for kickball. Just trying to get me in the room, House thinks.
He does what Wilson brought him here for. Her skin is the sickly yellow of advanced jaundice, waxy underneath the overhead lights. There’s a slight puffiness to every inch. Yeah. He doesn’t know why, yes, but this kid doesn’t have much longer to go. Forget the jaws of death, the kid is down the gullet.
“Alright, up on three,” Wilson mutters to him. And then: “Oh, shit, your cane. I forgot.”
“You forgot I have a cane?”
It’s play, of course it’s a play. House doesn’t know what the play is for. He can vamp, though.
“Okay, why don’t you take her by the wrist. We’ll each take an arm, help her into the bed. Go on, go,” Wilson encourages. From here, House can see the inflamed veins in Wilson’s eyes.
Take her by the wrist.
House does, and the entire situation shifts. He knows what Wilson wants him to know.
This patient has no pulse.
She hasn’t been dead for long. Her body is still warm, her joints aren’t stiff. She probably died while Wilson was in the hallway recruiting him. He looks over at Wilson, his eyes wide, but Wilson has abruptly broken eye contact. “One…” He starts, and House puts the patient’s lifeless arm over his neck. “Two…” He gets one arm under the legs.
As expected. Dead people are dead weight, but they have no problems. Wilson is meticulous in tucking her in, putting her hands underneath the blankets. In a few hours, though, that isn’t going to matter. Decomposition is going to start before their very eyes.
What is the plan, here?
Wilson begins to push the gurney, with the lady holding the door open. House doesn’t miss how her eyes linger on the patient’s body. Mother, he realizes. Shit. Daddy’s probably out there with the hunting rifle.
“The sedative won’t wear off for another few hours,” Wilson tells her. “But she’s not in any pain, I promise.”
“And the MRI will tell you what’s wrong with her?”
“Well, Dr. House and I can take a look at them. It’s his specialty.”
House blinks. Alright. He guesses that MRIs are his specialty, now. It’s like saying that a nurse’s specialty is vital signs. “You might need to give us some space,” he warns, fishing. “It’s a very delicate –”
What a good reminder that he is human. House wants to piss himself when the gun is raised to his eyeline. Wilson gives a short, severe jerk of his head. Alright, it looks like they won’t be getting any alone time. Looks like they’ll have to start passing notes in class.
It’s bizarre to walk through the empty halls. They only have their own footsteps and the squeaky metal gurney to listen to. This entire floor is locked down – nobody else permitted in or out. If he had to wager a guess, given the usual state of this wrong, they’ve got three people destined for the morgue that shouldn’t be.
That’s not counting the two dead and three injured back where they’re holding the others. A scuffle, when everything first went down. It was enough to make everyone hunker down, instead of planning for violent revolution. People are scared.
They enter the hospital rooms. Looks like they’ve also designated this as a staging area. Some boxes of ammo are stacked in the corner, a few additional guns piled on the counter. House eyes them momentarily, but he doesn’t think he’d make it three steps before it’s lights out, Princeton-Plainesboro.
“Alright, House,” Wilson grunts. “Are you ready?”
House only nods. They shift the patient back to the hospital bed. Wilson takes over from there, hovering and prodding. Through a critical eye, he can see it for what it is: play-acting. He’s taken the pulse at the neck and the wrist, he’s pressed his stethoscope to her chest, he pricks the edge of her fingertip with a needle. It oozes.
At the last, the hostage taker’s gun is pressed to Wilson’s back. House can’t catch his breath.
“I’m just testing her bleeding, Sheila,” Wilson says, his voice nothing but patiently gentle. “I promise, she doesn’t even feel it.”
“O-Okay.” The gun retreats. “Sorry.”
The relief makes him stupid. “ Sheila? You know the name of the woman pointing a gun at you?”
Wilson looks at him in warning, a sharp contrast from the kind mask he had on. “She’s worried about her kid, Dr. House,” he warns sternly. “She’s not a bad person. She just wants to make sure her kid gets the best care, that’s all. That’s what a good parent would do.”
It’s scary how well Wilson can lie when he has to. He just doesn’t know how far it can carry them.
“Sorry,” he mutters to Sheila, looking over her shoulder. It’s a last ditch effort. He can’t be as calm as Wilson is, because as far as House can tell, this is a no-win situation. The kid’s fucking dead in the hospital bed. They can buy minutes. They can’t salvage this. There’s no plan. “We need to get back and examine the MRI. Is Sheila going to be fine if we leave the kid here, or –”
“There’s nobody else in this wing.” That’s a reassurance meant for Sheila alone, House realizes. “Your husband’s out with the others, making sure nobody else will get in. Nobody’s going to hurt your daughter.”
Nobody’s going to hurt your daughter? Jesus – they need to get some time alone. Maybe they can make a plan if they talk. Wilson can be nice, but they’re going to have to push for this.
“Unless her own lingering illness,” House chimes in helpfully. “Maybe you should stay –”
The gun moves to him, again. Scares the hell out of him, but he is willing to risk his life in a way that he isn’t willing to risk Wilson’s. I just need to make her see. “What, you just going to turn your gun on anyone that says something you don’t like? We’re just trying to help your kid and you won’t even listen to us. We’re doctors –!”
And she fires.
Maybe her aim is off. Maybe her aim is good, but she aimed for the most steady part of him: the arm that clutches his cane. Either way, his upper arm explodes in a starburst of pain. Every last ounce of smugness and bravado is blasted into bits. Pain burns in a way that even fire can’t. House has never been able to describe to doctors how the pain makes him feel like he’s burning up internally, that the pain eats and eats and eats and only a hollow shell of himself is left.
The blow makes him stagger backward until he hits the wall. His cane falls next, his leg screams in protest, and then gives out entirely.
At least he catches himself against the wall as he goes. It’s still too fast, and his ass isn’t a fan of the impact. He swings his arm around to clutch at his shoulder. “Fuck –!” God, it hurts. House scrabbles to pull his t-shirt sleeve up.
A graze. No bone, no muscle, no artery. Just hurts like hell. This bitch just shot him. Fuck.
His pounding heart makes him taste blood. Gasping for air, he raises his gaze to his friend on the other side of the room.
Wilson is still standing by the bed. His eyes are perfectly wide, hand poised over the patient. The realization hits them both at once: she’s not bluffing. She’ll kill us both. She’ll go through that entire hallway of staff without thinking of it.
His view of Wilson is abruptly obscured by Sheila stepping forward. She raises her gun to House once again – god help him, he cowers. Her gun-hand doesn’t shake.
“There are plenty of doctors in a hospital,” she says evenly, echoing his thoughts. “Dr Wilson said you were good at what you do, but you’re not the only good doctor in here.”
His mind furnishes a reply – Cuddy doesn’t keep me around because I have a nice ass – but his racing heart and pulsing blood can’t haul it to his mouth. For good reason.
“Try that again, and it’ll go through your head.”
“Okay.” It’s a soft response of defeat, submission. “Okay, okay.”
“I think he’s got the picture, Sheila.” Wilson finally speaks up. She turns to look at him. The gun lowers almost immediately. “He’ll behave. Could I take a look at his arm before we read the MRI results?” Before she can protest, he adds, almost apologetically: “We have time. She’ll be sleeping for a while, and we’ll be able to read them quicker if he’s not distracted.”
Even then, Sheila mulls it over. House feels a stab of panic at the idea of making a plan while his arm bleeds freely, a deathly distraction – but she ultimately steps aside. She waves Wilson over with the gun. “I don’t like him. You have five minutes.”
“Believe me, you’re not the only one.”
Wilson heads to the supply cabinet first. Five minutes. House figures he could do stitches in five minutes, if he really had to, but it’s not Wilson’s area. Wilson gets on his knees next to him with a bottle of disinfectant and some bandages.
House finally looks at his upper arm. It needs stitches, but it also doesn’t need stitches. For however long this lasts, House will have to deal. If Sheila snaps and kills them both, then his arm wound is going to be the least of his concerns.
He looks away and abruptly meets Wilson’s gaze, no more than a few inches away from him. The sincerity of his gaze – the tenderness – and, most of all, the fear – strikes House straight to his core. After weeks of being ignored, it’s enough to make him breathless. Might be a minor case of shock setting in, though.
“ Please,” Wilson pleads quietly. He cracks open the bottle of disinfectant and pours some on a cotton ball. “ Just – just go along with this. She will kill you.”
He’s pissed off.
What he wants to ask is why the hell did you bring me here, why did you get me involved in this, but the last thing he wants is to cast aspersions on his credentials. He’ll be whatever Wilson tells Sheila he is, but Jesus, he also wants to strangle Wilson. If Wilson hadn’t brought him here, he wouldn’t be shot, would he?
And yes, maybe he shouldn’t have said that. Maybe.
His frustrations are only made worse when Wilson finally presses the cotton ball to his arm. He doesn’t bother to bite back the howl of pain, maybe louder than he needs it to be. Sometimes it feels good to scream, to really get it out in a way that’s socially unacceptable. Sometimes House just goes into an empty patient room and bellows his lungs out when he’s having a particularly bad day.
What he doesn’t like, though, is the tears pricking the corners of his eyes when Wilson pulls it away. In contrast, Wilson tying the bandage around his arm feels like a caress from a lover. Even better is when Wilson reaches into his coat pocket and presses his Vicodin bottle into his hand.
God, yes. He wants to chew the entire bottle down. All he does, though, is pull two pills into his hand and chuck them back.
Wilson stares at him a moment longer. A sweat has broken out across his brow that wasn’t there before, his fringe has fallen in front of his forehead in a way that would have Wilson complaining about looking slovenly.
Why did you ask me to do this? He wants to ask. Why did you, James Wilson, put me in danger?
It wouldn’t be the first time. Wilson’s done it plenty, but mostly because he thought he was acting for House’s greater good.
But this? The danger is so much more real, so much more tangible. He can’t figure out Wilson’s play with it, even as Wilson stands up and offers him a sweaty hand.
“You’re sure she’ll be alright, Dr. Wilson?” Sheila asks nervously. Why does she seem so much more meek in front of Wilson? This is hardly the body language of a woman who just shot a man. “If we leave her alone?”
“Yes, Sheila, of course.” House’s blood is still on Wilson’s hands as he turns around to soothe her. He takes three steps towards the hospital bed and reaches for the IV stand. He flips open the compartment for the morphine pump, bends over to examine it – and then, bizarrely enough, takes out his pager.
House wants to go forward and get a better look at what he’s doing, but he doesn’t think he’s received passing in front of Sheila privileges.
Quickly, Wilson leans back up again. “Okay,” he says, turning back towards Sheila. This is all for her. “This IV pump will also monitor her heartrate. If it gets below a certain level, I’ll get a page and we’ll come rushing right back. It will be fine,” he insists.
Sheila looks towards the IV pump and the pager. How much medical knowledge is taught in a high school biology class, he wonders? Because Sheila clearly isn’t working with too much more than that. Still, Wilson lies so well that Sheila doesn’t even question it.
“P-Put it in your front pocket, please, Dr. Wilson,” Sheila urges. Though she raises the gun, it’s half-hearted. “I-I don’t want you to miss it.”
“Right against my heart, Sheila.” He does as she asks. “But I’m almost positive that she’s going to be okay for the next few hours. I gave her a strong sedative.”
“But – But, before…”
“I know. It was bad, before.”
What happened before?
“But we took care of it, both of us did, and we bought her a little time to figure out what’s wrong with her. And we will, Sheila. We’ll make your daughter better.”
And that’s all it takes. House keeps his tongue still as Sheila wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. With a wave of her elbow, she urges them to go in front of her, and they do.
Wilson walks like he always does. He might as well be strolling for coffee. House is using a cane in his off hand and trying not to start gagging from the pain in his shoulder. The Vicodin hasn’t kicked in yet.
“We were talking – earlier,” Wilson suddenly says. “You said you’ve been here before? With your grandmother?”
“Yes.” Sheila is quiet behind them, but when House peeks back, the gun is still up. “Six, seven years ago. She… she was… what’s it called? An inpatient. She had liver cancer.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Can I ask who treated her? Dolores Green… I’m afraid the name doesn’t ring any bells for me.”
“Dr. Hessian? He’s, um. He was old, I don’t know if he’s –”
“I know him, yes! We, we co-authored a paper together, a decade ago. He’s retired now, but he… did you like him?”
“He was very nice to Nana. He –” And then, House hears the woman make a god-blessed sniff. Like he’s going to feel sorry for her when she’s got a gun-minus-one-bullet pointed at his head. “I, Nana was… she bled a lot, and she - she vomited a lot. I can’t, um. I’m not good in a hospital –”
“Not good in a –”
Wilson elbows him so hard that House is pretty sure he’s broken a rib, but it gets him to shut up. He might even be grateful about it one day.
“I thought, back in the hospital room, but I didn’t want to ask,” Wilson instead sympathizes. “You know, they’re thinking that might be a genetic thing. Some people just can’t. It’s… uh, instinct you know? Some part of your brain telling you that it’s dangerous, even in a hospital.”
“But she’s my daughter – I should be close to her,” Sheila moans. “I should be holding her hand, not… not…”
No, you really shouldn’t be. House hastens a glance to Wilson.
“Sheila – !” There’s a sort of loving exasperation in Wilson’s voice. “Look at all you’re doing to save your daughter. Nobody can say that you don’t love her, genuinely.”
Yeah, look at all the people you’ve killed, all the patients that are dying. That’s true love, right there. Probably why House never got married. Maybe he should keep an eye out on Wilson.
“You’re doing great,” Wilson says.
He’s never understood… this, though he’s seen that devotion plenty of times. He doesn’t think his mother would’ve held up a hospital for him if he was deathly ill. Hell, he doesn’t think his mother would’ve come to the hospital if his father told her not to.
They don’t even stop as they pass the MRI, instead heading for the side room in the back. Again, House has to wonder what the hell they’re going to do. That thing wasn’t even on, they don’t even have a –
“You can wait by the door again if you want, Sheila.” Wilson says kindly. “Me and House will take it from here. Dr. House, could you take a look at this scan with me?”
“Well. Yeah. I am the expert.”
He sits down next to Wilson, pulling a chair up close to him. And then – uh.
Well, he doesn’t know whose MRI scan this is, but they have one on screen. Sheila has her back against the door like they’re going to bull-rush her. Which isn’t a bad idea, actually, but not one he thinks Wilson will go for.
He brings his chair closer to his friend - though keeping Wilson between him and Sheila. After all, it’s Wilson’s fault for him getting shot.
It’s extremely subtle, but as he pulls his chair close to the desk… Wilson lets his forearm shift. Just enough so that it’s pressing against House’s. He stares at the computer screen passively.
Sounds like Wilson. Meaningless sentimental gestures are his specialty.
House nudges him back.
Together, in front of them is a perfectly healthy brain. There’s a patient name on the bottom left hand corner - no, that dead girl in the bed doesn’t look like a Frank. He looks over at Wilson, trying to judge whether the man has a game plan. If Wilson needs him to fake a brain tumor, House can. They just need to communicate, but how can he even write when…
“What do you think of the tissue thickening?” Wilson asks. He brings up the mouse cursor over a vividly un-thickened lobe. “Here.”
“Uh, yeah.” House sucks in his lips, blows them out. “Certainly looks… uh, thick.”
“Thank you for your esteemed diagnosis, doctor, but I’m mostly interested in what we can do to prevent it. To stop it from spreading, even. If it’s just here –” He encircles the lobe with the mouse. “Then that’ll be okay. She won’t even notice it. But if it spreads…” In aggressive stabbing motions, Wilson indicates a space outside the lobe. “To the periphery,” he insists, “Then she will notice. And that will be bad, won’t it, Dr. House?”
Oh. Oh. Oh.
The thickening.
House’s mind reels. He hadn’t even considered that far; his mind has mostly been stuck on dead patient. He hasn’t been thinking six to eight hours in the future…. Well. Two hours for the facial muscles, but six to eight for everything to move into the periphery, as Wilson suggested.
Rigor mortis. Sheila is no doctor, but she’ll notice when her allegedly living daughter goes limp as a board. Sure, afterwards they’re going to have to worry about swelling and decomposition… but if they’re in here for days, then someone out there has really, really fucked up.
House tries not to think about how likely that possibility is.
“Is this why you asked me out here? To deal with a thickening issue?”
It’s not the cocking of the gun, but he hears the sound of metal being handled. Aw, does Mommy not like House’s implication that her child’s issue isn’t worth it?
“It’s an unusual case,” Wilsons chirps. “And you deal with unusual cases.”
Yeah, okay. He gets what Wilson is implying. So this is why Wilson has risked his life - because he’s not smart enough to think about how to prevent rigor mortis. Granted, House has never had to before, but.
“And… we work well together,” Wilson admits.
… He has no idea what Wilson is implying there, but it’ll click soon enough.
He takes a deep breath. “If this… state hasn’t developed very far… certain muscle relaxers will do it,” he says, and then over his shoulder: “The brain is a muscle, remember to eat your breakfast. That should keep them loose enough for a while… until we figure out what the underlying cause is.”
Wilson gives a slow nod. “Alright. And how do we determine if the state has developed very far?”
That’s… a good question.
Thing is, the blood is dead. The brain is dead. The heart is very dead, and has been for… probably fifteen minutes. Some cells might be holding on yet, but they don’t have long to go. There’s nothing they can do about that.
They definitely didn’t teach that sort of thing in med school, nor has House read about them in the fun medical journals. It’s not even something he considered as a point of philosophy. House likes to think that every halfway decent doctor had a Herbert West period where they considered stopping death, but it’s really hard to get past the ethics board on that one.
Now, he is considering it. He might have to.
His mind pulses with thoughts of decay. He’s heard it enough from people, from other doctors - how quickly the body goes from a living, breathing organism to a series of disconnected leaky tubes when they die. The more sentimental among them will even say that they can feel when a person’s spirits leave the body.
House thinks those people are stupid.
It’s all a machine. Before death, after death. It doesn’t matter. The engine stops working eventually, and you’re stuck on the ride, sure - but it’s still just a machine. And sure, the heart might be an elegant engine, but it’s still just an engine.
He remembers when his bike engine quit on the side of the road. Cold, winter. Just up and died. He remembers pressing his foot against the gas, listening to the engine growl and gurgle and choke.
Wilson saved his ass on that one. He wasn’t able to get the engine working. But he remembers that noise…
His foot twitches against the floor.
“We’re going to need to stop by the pharmacy,” House says, blankly staring at the opposite wall. “And the blood bank. How many pockets do you have?”