MGS/House: House Call (1/5)

[what_we_dream]

Title: House Call (1/5)
Fandom: MGS/House
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: None

Summary: When Hal falls ill with something other doctors are quick to push off as the flu, who's left for Dave to turn to?

 

The name on the glass door of the office read "Dr. Gregory House M.D., Department of Diagnostic Medicine." The lights were out and the blinds on the outside windows pulled, which made a seven in eight chance of House not actually being in. There was always the possibility that he was sleeping on the floor behind his desk in order to shock the unwary, although in the hot summer months this was unlikely. The adjacent door, which led to the conference room, the room where work actually got done, was unlabelled. Dr. Alison Cameron considered this unfair, sometimes. It was the only office space which House's assistants had to call their own, and given that they did the complete share of his grunt work a placard at least seemed merited. At other times, the times when angry patients or their relatives showed up with semi-automatic weapons, she was thankful that their names went unadvertised.

Behind her, Chase and Foreman jogged to catch up, having caught a later elevator. They were chatting about last night's football game, or maybe baseball? House had probably seen it too, then. That meant more sports metaphors. Cameron hated sports metaphors.

Fortunately like the office, the lights in the conference room were out. This was not surprising. It was nine am on the dot, and House tended to on average show up at ten thirty. Eleven on days following game nights.

Cameron stepped into the conference room, flicking on the light, and noting that while the table was piled high with all the odds and ends left over from yesterday- newspapers, medical journals, printouts, a half-full coffee mug- there was no tell-tale red folder. No new patient. That too was unsurprising. Their last patient had checked out yesterday morning. Unless something of extreme interest showed up, House wouldn't let himself be bullied or conned into taking on another case for several days. At least this meant she would have time to edit the article she was working on.

"Good morning, sports fans." A low, gruff voice came from somewhere inside the apparently empty room. Cameron jumped. "About time you lot showed up."

House's head stuck out from under the far end of the conference table. Chase and Foreman crowded forward to stare at him over her shoulders. "Have you been experimenting on yourself- again?" It seemed like the most likely solution as to why her employer would be lying under their conference table in the dark at nine in the morning.

"Pft. I wish." He scowled at her, and then took a swipe at her legs. Used to his sometimes erratic use of his cane, she sidestepped easily, and then noted that he in addition to wantonly attacking her shins, he was prodding a laminated red file at her. A patient file. She crouched down and took it from him.

"Why are you on the floor, then?" Chase's voice, Australian accent slightly more prominent soon after waking, after less contact with Americans.

"Got a patient." He said it as if it explained everything.

"If you were worried about the patient- which is an unfathomable thought to begin with- you would be out running tests, or bugging nurses, or calling us with puzzling messages at 2 in the morning. Not sleeping under the table." Foreman, still leaning over her shoulder, pointed out. She opened the file, scanned through quickly.

36 year-old male, Caucasian, admitted by Dr. Gregory House yesterday at 6:38- half an hour after he would have finished his clinic duty, after they had all left- with complained symptoms consisting of fever, stomach ache, mucosal bleeding, exhaustion, weight loss and as of last night, seizure. There were also several files attached from various other clinics and doctors. Common consensus, she noted upon flipping through them, was that it was a bout of influenza resulting from either stress or depression.

Foreman finished reading before her, and made a scoffing noise in his throat. "There's nothing here, House. Guy's got the flu, possibly immune system is down due to weight loss- 5'10 and only 135? Could be resulting from either stress or depression, like the charts say. Seizure's weird, but could be late-onset epilepsy."

"I know what the charts say. I'm not interested in what the charts say."

"Are you interested in what he says?" asked Chase incredulously from the back row.

"Nope." House began tapping his cane on the floor, somewhere under the desk. "Strike one."

"Did Cuddy make you? Is he some kind of big philanthropist?" Foreman's tone was sceptical.

"Nope. At least, not in the sense you mean. Strike two. And skinny steps up to bat." He leered at Cameron. She rolled her eyes.

"I don't care why you admitted him. If he's sick, he's sick. Let's find out why."

"Spoilsport."

--------------------------------------------------------------

Two days earlier.

"You done in there, Hal?" Dave, wearing only his boxers and an old t-shirt, leaned against the bathroom door and wiped the sleep out of his eyes. He wasn't used to having to wait for the bathroom in the morning; Hal usually slept almost midday. It balanced out with the engineer's tendency to stay up almost until dawn. Sometimes they met each other in the wee hours of the morning, Hal turning in while Dave rolled out.

There was no answer from the bathroom, and no running water to account for it.

"Hal?" He knocked harder. The bathroom was in the middle of their 14th story apartment and was not graced with windows. No way for someone to have gotten in without having broken into the apartment first, which Dave certainly would have noticed.

"I'm coming in, Hal.' Dave turned the knob, wiggling it to unstick the ill-fitted door from the frame, and met with resistance. He pushed harder, moving whatever it was out of the door's path. It turned out to be Hal's legs, sprawled on the cold linoleum. "Hal!"

The engineer was lying on his side, head on the floor next to the toilet-bowl which was filled with watery vomit. The cast of his skin was paler than usual, hair stuck to his face with sweat.

The bathroom, like the rest of the apartment, was smaller than standard, and Dave had to shove his feet in against the wall and cupboard to get in alongside the younger man. He reached out and placed his fore and middle fingers against Hal's throat, his heart slowing when he found a steady pulse there. "Hal?" He shook the other man gently, turning him onto his back. "Hal, wake up."

The smell of vomit beginning to sicken him, he reached over and flushed the toiled, while continuing to shake the engineer gently with his right hand. The shaking, the sound of the toilet flushing directly next to his head or the two combined caused Hal to turn slightly, eyelashes beginning to flutter. He was not, Dave noticed, wearing his glasses. Had he run in from his room to be sick in the middle of the night, and not bothered with them? Dave placed a calloused hand against Hal's forehead. It was hot, hot enough to suggest a high fever. Did they own a thermometer?

"Mmm?" Hal moaned, opened his eyes, blinked a couple of times. "Dave?" He looked around, then up again at Dave, squatting awkwardly above him in the too-small bathroom. "What's going on?"

"You passed out, after being sick, apparently. Do you remember?"

"Being sick?" Hal brought a hand up, wiped it across his face. It was shaking gently. "I- uh, yeah. Yeah. I woke up and felt really rotten, stumbled in here. I remember being sick- hate being sick- then... nothing. I must've gone back to sleep..." He trailed off.

"I think it's more likely that you passed out. Can you get up?"

"Sure, yeah." He pushed himself up into a sitting position, allowing Dave to step back and stand up properly, room now for him to place both feet next to each other in a relatively normal position. Hal grabbed the lip of the shower's lining- they really needed a bigger apartment, when your bathroom was too small for a bath, it was too small- and hauled himself to his feet.

Dave turned and began rummaging in under the sink, searching for the possibly-existent thermometer.

"Dave?" Hal's voice sounded weak.

"Yeah?" He began to turn towards the other man when a promising plastic box caught his eye.

"I think I need to see a doctor."

"Wha-" Dave turned his head in time to see Hal's eyes beginning to roll, and turned completely in time to catch him before he hit the floor. His pulse now was quick and thready, and as Dave watched a small trickle of blood began to flow from his nose. "Hal?" He received no answer. "Not good."

-----------------------------------------------------

The day before, 6:14p.m.

House was not having a good day. His last patient, an idiot who hadn't thought to get a tetanus shot after spearing his hand with a rusty nail and then, even worse, had subsequently erased the event entirely from his memory, had been discharged at 11. He had been hoping to leave early, listen to his new U2 CD, maybe catch the pre-game commentary, and had instead been cornered by Cuddy and cruelly forced to endure four hours of clinic duty. That was four hours of his life spent diagnosing 'flu and pulled muscles he wasn't going to get back. The lesson of this story was to escape while the going was good, not to hang around with Wilson in the cafeteria, an act equivalent to wearing a big target on your chest and back, and possibly even little shoulder ones as well. Cuddy had sharp eyes- he'd give her that.

But he had done his time, interspaced of course with generous breaks for General Hospital, E.R., and anything else which caught his attention while he channel-surfed. They needed better reception in the clinic rooms. And, having finished his shift- signed out and everything- he had returned to his office expecting to pick up his helmet and be out of Princeton-Plainsborough like a little winged mammal out of a big hot cave.

He had sure as that big hot cave not expected to find, when he flicked on his lights, that his office had been occupied. Twice over. What kind of idiot sat in the dark while waiting for someone?

The occupants of his office were two men. The one in his one interview chair- why did he even have that chair? It was nothing more than an invitation for a talk he wouldn't want to have- was obviously ill. His hair, dark and hacked badly into a short uneven cut, was damp with sweat, sticking to itself and his face. His skin was nearly translucent, cheek-bones too prominent. The way he slouched forwards slightly suggested abdominal pain or nausea, the irritation under his nose frequent wiping, either due to excess mucus or bleeding. In short, another bout of flu to add to his collection. The man perched in the shadows on the couch against his wall was not ill. But he was dangerous. House flicked on the light switch. Better visibility for him, and for anyone passing by his office in case of emergency. The man on the couch didn't flinch. He had longer hair, just as unkempt as his friend's, an ugly shade of blond, which fell down almost into his sharp, grey eyes. Although he wore a loose long-sleeved shirt and jeans, he was clearly well-built, strong and decisive looking. Soldier. Even before the cane, House might have worried. The fact that the face seemed familiar, and not in a good way, was another cause for concern.

"I'm afraid office hours are over for the day- week, in fact," it was Tuesday, "but if you come back later I'm sure our friendly clinic staff will have no trouble at all fitting you in." He paused, waited for movement. "Whenever you feel like going..." He held the door open, pointedly. The man in the chair- Sickie- turned in his seat, glanced at the other. "Anytime now..."

"You're Doctor House?" Couch-man spoke, voice lower and much more gruff than House's own. Guy'd better cut back on those cigarettes.

"I'm afraid he's gone home for the night, very busy, I'm just here to pick up some files." He limped over to his desk, grabbed the first file that met his hand and waved it around.

"You look like Doctor House to me," Couch-man didn't move, shot a glance at Sickie who settled back into his chair.

"Nonsense. He's much better looking. Nice having this chat, be sure to pick up some complimentary peppermints on your way out..." House made a break for the door. Couch-man was in his path before he got half way there.

"I'd like you to take a look at my friend here. We've been to several other doctors, with unsatisfactory results." A folder appeared in his hand; he must have had it behind him on the couch. He offered it to House.

"Well, you know, I'd love to, but the game's going to be starting soon and damn if my team doesn't lose every time I'm not there to cheer them on." House took a step forward, hand wrapped firmly around his cane's head.

"We should go, Dave. He obviously doesn't want to see us." Sickie spoke up from behind him, voice weak and raspy.

"We'll go when you can walk out of here on your own." Couch-man, no longer couch-man but now annoyingly-standing-in-Doctor-House's-way-man, glared around House's right shoulder.

"This whole good-cop bad-cop routine is real cute, guys, but if he can't walk on his own it's ER you're looking for, and if he can it's some bed rest. Either way, not my area."

"Every doctor we've seen so far says it's flu, caused by stress or depression. He's not stressed or depressed. He's passed out four times in the past two days, can't walk on his own, has significant changes in heart-rate, high fever topping off around 104.6, vomits after eating, sometimes before, gets random heavy nose bleeds and stomach pains."

"Ulcer." Time to appease annoyances, and get them out of the office. Annoying-man's face, back in the shadow of House's Ikea lamps, seemed to be more familiar.

"It's not an ulcer, second doctor ruled it out. Nothing wrong with his digestive system."

"Allergy." Unlikely to manifest with those symptoms, but possible, and common as well.

"He's not allergic to anything except coconut milk, which he doesn't drink. Besides, he hasn't been eating much of anything for the past couple of days."

"You know, there's no reason it couldn't just be stomach flu, or mono. Everyone reacts differently. Just because his immune system is obviously crap-"

"Tests on mono came back negative."

"There's no way those got run in a day."

"I had them rush." The way in which annoying-man said it made House believe him. Something clicked in his mind. Push the bad hair-cut back, dye the hair dark...

"Right." Was it? It was, wasn't it? House couldn't decide if this was terrifying, or just way cool. He had an international hero/terrorist in his office. This was even cooler than that time with the mob. He forcibly suppressed the urge to call Wilson. It wasn�t like he was a teenage girl who needed company in the bathroom. He could handle his gushing all on his own. "I can have him admitted for a day or two for tests. Give me that folder." He dropped the folder he was holding, some crap the hospital lawyer had been pushing him to sign, and took the one handed to him, flipped through it. "You're ... Henry Elder?" He looked at Sickie who nodded, pushed his wire-frame glasses up on his nose. The initials fit, at least. He scanned the file. Routine stuff, all tests negative, incompetent suggestions mostly for bed rest, one for acupuncture one for a psychiatrist- like that would help. "And you are?" He turned to the other man.

"David Shellby. We're roommates." He stuck out a hand. House, smothering a grin, took it. He was somewhat surprised when "David" didn't try to crush his hand. Just a reasonable, firm shake.

"Dammit." Sickie's voice, apparently actually that weak, broke House�s train of thought. He turned back to find the other man sponging up a nose-bleed with his sleeve. He looked up, not at House, the doctor, as expected, but at David.

"Can we get him into a bed, now?"

"Yeah, sure." House limped over to his desk, scribbled briefly on a free piece of paper, turned back and handed it to David, who had followed him over silently. He jerked back, but managed not to overbalance into his desk. "Whoa. Here, take him down to the front desk and give them this. They'll have him admitted."

"Right." David took the piece of paper, folded it quickly and tucked it away into a pocket. He bent down and grabbed Sickie's elbow. "Let's go," he said, quietly, and tugged. Sickie obediently stood like a dog hearing his name called, took a couple of steps, right hand still pressed to his nose to stem the blood flow. They almost made it to the door before Sickie's knees bucked. David caught him easily, laid him out on the floor. Even from across the room, House could spot the tell-tale muscle tensing, unresponsiveness.

"You're going to want to hold him down."

"What? Why-" David didn't have time to finish his question, as Sickie began to seize, body shaking and bucking uncontrollably. Always with the seizures. Just once, he'd like to have a patient who could get through an illness without them. House watched, wincing slightly, as the bigger man tried to trap Sickie's limbs, and stuck two fingers in his mouth to stop him biting his tongue off. Eew. What kind of freak used his own fingers for that? "Help him, already!" At least David was too busy stopping his pal from bashing his head into goo on the floor to turn and glare.

House sighed. At least his office had good reception.