House-fic: Altruism (A House/Saw crossover) 3/6
Title: Altruism (A House/Saw crossover)
Author: Silver
Website: http://silver.glasscases.net
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: FRAO (adult only) for intense angst and suspense
Spoilers: none. I'm just borrowing the concept of Saw, no plot details.
Warnings: This is a dark story. It features some grisly violence in later parts which is not for the faint of heart. I'll warn specifically when it comes up.
Disclaimer: The characters of House were created by David Shore. The concept of Saw came from the twisted minds of James Wan and Leigh Whannell. No profits are being made from this story. Read Part 1 for a more detailed disclaimer.
Summary: In the hands of the Jigsaw Killer, House finds himself faced with the biggest challenge of his life: finding out what's killing Wilson before it's too late. READ THE WARNINGS.
Crossposted to house_wilson ( here) and house_slash ( here).
Previous parts: Part 1 - Part 2
*******************************
Part 3
"Great!" Wilson exclaimed, rolling up a sleeve.
House looked at his friend warily. "Slow down, Jimmy boy."
With an impatient shake of his head, Wilson said, "You've got treatment now! Shoot me up with it!"
Frowning to himself, House examined the bottles further. "I haven't nailed the poison yet. I don't know which one of these charming little chemicals would actually cure you and..."
Wilson shrugged. "So give me all of them."
"... which ones are likely to finish you off." House shot Wilson a disbelieving look. "Are you serious?"
Another shrug. "Sure!"
"You know, if you're already not helping me with the differential you could at least try to not aggravate it! For someone who's constantly agonizing over the right drug combinations for his patients you're being incredibly eager to play Russian roulette with prescription meds. This kind of careless behavior is highly unusual for you."
"Well, I'd say this is a highly unusual situation, don't you think?"
House regarded him for a moment. Then he said, "You know, this is probably why I don't like you slowly wasting away from some mystery poison. Being a reckless genius with disregard for authority is no fun if you actually approve of everything I do. Where's the cheerful debunking of my mad theories, the ever so merry commenting on my complete lack of ethics and sanity? I miss my moral compass. If this keeps up I'll have to start training Cameron to be your replacement." Pulling himself up, House shook his head slowly. "Anyway, forget it."
Wilson gave him an incredulous stare. "What? Why?"
Sighing softly, House rubbed his thigh that seemed to be getting hot from the constant throbbing and hurting. He closed his eyes for a second, battling for the strength to walk the few steps over to the wall. "Because," he ground out, "there is no way to tell how you're going to react to all of them. Not in this state. There are side effects, counter reactions, contraindications..." He hissed as a wave of pain racked through him. "Paradoxical reactions. Or did you miss that class in med school?"
"So?" Wilson looked at him with burning eyes. "I don't care! It's better than slowly dying from whatever's inside of me. It's my body and I'm willing to take the risk!"
"Well, I'm not!" House yelled back. He felt angry. With his pain, with Wilson and most of all with himself.
Wilson fell silent, just staring at him for a while. Then he said, very softly, "You're willing to do this every day for random strangers fate has led into your department, but you're not willing to do it for me?"
House didn't reply as the crushing realization seemed to overpower him.
"Why?" Wilson demanded.
"Because you're not them!" House shouted, shocked to hear the anguish in his own voice. "When they collapse and crash, I don't care! I just go back to my whiteboard and try to find a treatment that works better. If it fails and they die, it's just another one for the statistics. But with you..." His voice broke and he looked down on the floor, hating himself for his lack of detachment.
The silence seemed to expand between them. After a long while, Wilson just said, "House..."
Drawing a strengthening breath, House leveled his eyes with him evenly, hoping to pretend that this outburst had never happened. "Listen, you need to give me time so I can figure out which of the drugs I can give you without causing more damage than benefit. Then you can yell at me for not caring enough all you want. But now I need time to think."
Wilson just nodded and turned around, retreating to the other side of the kennel.
Forcing all his attention onto his notes, House began another list, this time writing down all the drugs he had been given, how they could affect some of the possible poisons he had listed and how they could interact with each other. With a slight feeling of triumph, he registered that these drugs covered treatment for most of the poisons on the wall. That meant he wasn't completely off track.
As he was looking through the ampoules, the thought crossed his mind that perhaps there might be something in there for him that would help him with the pain, but he dismissed that idea almost instantly. Whatever was in this box he had to reserve for Wilson in case things got worse. His leg could wait.
After a couple of minutes that were interrupted by intervals of sickness and retching echoing through the room, House had managed to narrow it down to three drugs he could use without putting any further diagnosis at risk.
"Okay," he said firmly, closing the marker and putting it down on the trolley. "I've got a couple of drugs I can give you now."
"Yes?" Groaning, Wilson dragged himself to his feet and walked slowly across the kennel. His hair was sticking to his head and he was soaked in sweat. "Which ones are they?"
"Just a couple of..."
Wilson gave him a weary look, his flushed face pressed against the grid. "Please... I'm used to handling chemicals every day. Give me some credit."
Sighing, House nodded. "Dimercaprol to rule out arsenic and other heavy metals. Atropine to cover some of the pesticides and a possible nicotine poisoning. Some carbamazepine for the euphoric spells, and boy, do you ever need that. I'm excluding MAO inhibitors for several reasons, so I can give you that safely."
"Okay, sounds good..." Wilson let himself slide down the grid. When he plopped on the floor, he began rolling his sleeve up once more. His fingers were shaking.
House had been busy preparing the syringes for the injection. When he turned around, he noticed the shivering. "Are you still cold?" he asked as he placed the tourniquet, the syringes and the bottles on the floor.
Wilson shook his head lightly. "No, not really."
"Your hands are shivering."
Lifting his hands, Wilson looked at them. "Oh... you're right. Maybe it's exhaustion from the constant vomiting."
"Yes, maybe." House let himself down to the ground carefully, grinding his teeth to counteract the pain that was now reaching a near unbearable level. By the time he had managed to get down on the floor, his heart was thudding in his chest, seemingly pumping scaldingly hot blood down his spine with every beat. He had to sit there for a minute, panting and waiting for the red haze to leave his eyes. When he finally managed to see straight again, he saw Wilson looking at him with a worried expression on his face.
"Is your leg very bad?"
Almost against his will, House nodded, licking his dry lips to even be able to speak. "God, I just... I just hope this works. I don't know how many more times I can do that."
With the help of his cane, he pulled the syringes closer. He took the ampoule of carbamazepine and snapped off the top, then he filled the syringe with the drug. He did the same with a second syringe, filling it with atropine.
"Okay, push your arm through..." he started, but saw that Wilson was already lying flat on his back, the bared arm pushed through the gap on the bottom.
On a whim, House reached for Wilson's hand and entwined their fingers as he pulled himself closer. He held the hand longer than he probably should, simply enjoying the contact. He passively registered the heat of the other man's palm and the layer of sweat that covered every inch of the skin while he ran his fingers across Wilson's wrist, feeling for the pulse. It was still racing.
Softly, he moved his hand up Wilson's arm, feeling for a vein to use. He grabbed the tourniquet and wrapped it around Wilson's arm tightly. "I'm going to give you the carbamazepine first." He felt Wilson nod. Checking the syringe one last time for air, House aligned the point of the cannula with the vein he had chosen, then he carefully broke the skin, pushing the drug into Wilson's system.
"Don't move," he murmured as he loosened the tourniquet to allow the drug to spread. He quickly removed the syringe from the cannula and replaced it with the second one. "Atropine now," he said and pulled the tourniquet tight once more before pushing the second drug in.
After he had pulled the needle out, he pressed his fingers tightly against the spot where it had punctured the skin. He undid the tourniquet and helped Wilson bend his arm while his finger was still in place and let them rest like that for a moment.
"Do you think this will help?" Wilson asked quietly, his fingers curling under House's chin passively, running across the growing stubble.
House turned his face and pressed a kiss into Wilson's palm. "We'll see. If anything, it'll make you drowsy and calm which will finally put an end to your constant prowling. Maybe it'll alleviate some of the symptoms and make it easier to see the others." He reached for the blood pressure meter and pushed the cuff through the gap. "Here, let's take your vitals once more."
When they were finished, House pulled off the stethoscope and commented, "Your BP is through the roof now." He tapped Wilson's arm lightly. "Okay, now give me your ass."
Wilson raised an eyebrow at him. "Excuse me?"
House flashed Wilson a grin. "I need to inject the dimercaprol deeply intramuscularly, so you better give me one of your admittedly rather nicely rounded cheeks for that. I don't think you'd appreciate it if I rammed the needle into your arm like that."
He laughed at the slightly embarrassed impression on Wilson's face as he sat up on his knees to open his pants. In the meantime, House prepared the next injection. Once Wilson's behind was pressed against the grid, he stabbed the needle in without much ado and ignored the surprised yelp from the other man as he pushed the dimercaprol in.
"There, all done," he said, pulling back. "I'd give you a lollipop now, but I'm afraid our considerate host has forgotten to provide us with them."
House dragged himself into a sitting position. For a moment, he considered getting up again to adjust his notes once more, but the pain in his leg suggested otherwise. Instead, he angled for the marker with the end of the cane and started taking notes on the floor where he sat. It was probably a good thing that this was covered from Wilson's view, too, since it was a lot easier for him to analyze his notes if he didn't need to justify every little thing he wrote down.
He recapitulated the symptoms that had presented themselves. 'Rash, tachycardia, dilated pupils, nausea, euphoria, tremors, hypertension...' He added the blood pressure he had measured next to that. Casting Wilson another glance, he added 'agitation' and then with a bit of hesitation, he wrote down 'personality change'.
With a sigh, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. All in all he already had quite a bunch of symptoms to work with. Only problem was that most of them were rather common in a lot of poisons. Epinephrine was still a prime candidate, as was benzene and nicotine. Amphetamines were high up, too. Endrin, dieldrin, aldrin and vacor were possible as well, as was arsenic and procaine. But somehow it all didn't seem to make sense with the presence of a rash.
He considered Wilson's suggestion that the rash might be unrelated. Of course that was entirely possible. A lot of things could cause a rash. But how would that knowledge affect his list? He sighed. Not much. It was still too extensive.
He knew he should probably go through the list all over again, but he felt so tired all of a sudden. The increasingly more frequent attacks of pain caused his vision to blur every time they surged up and he felt his stomach curl in an onset of nausea from the Vicodin withdrawal. Perhaps he could just close his eyes for a second. It would give his body a chance to replenish at least some of the power reserves he had depleted over the past couple of hours...
He was standing in the kitchen pouring himself some coffee. His fingers were tightening around the mug and his hand was shaking a little. He put down the coffee pot before Wilson could see it.
"Look," Wilson said behind him, his voice taking on that impatient drawl he was using so often recently when talking to him. "I know you hate these kind of things. But..."
"You're damn right I do!" he interrupted the other man and turned around, no longer trying to hide his annoyance. "I don't know why we need to go through this every goddamn time one of your orphaned cancer kids kicks the bucket!"
Wilson put down his briefcase on the table forcefully. "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps the reason is simply because it's important to me and because I expect you, my best friend, to share it with me?"
House knew he was scowling like a defiant child, but he couldn't help it. "You shouldn't have unrealistic expectations in me. I've been telling you that from the start."
The look Wilson cast him made his heart ache. "Listen, House. I'm not naive. I didn't come into this relationship expecting you to change completely, to suddenly turn into the thoughtful, considerate person you never managed to be even before we were sleeping together." He sighed. "All I'm asking from you is that you go to one damn funeral with me. Just one. I'm not asking you to be understanding or sympathetic or even care about what's important to me, but if I tell you something is important to me, if I specifically ask you to come with me, then yes, I expect you to respect that and invest two fucking hours of your precious schedule into this relationship. Do you think you can do that?"
To delay needing to answer right away, House took a sip from the coffee. He grimaced and before he could stop himself he said, "You made the coffee too weak again."
Before he had had a chance to say anything else, Wilson had made a strangled sound that sounded like mix between a roar and a sob, grabbed his briefcase, yanked his coat off the chair and stormed out of the kitchen.
For a second, House debated calling after him, realizing that trying to catch him before he was out the door was a somewhat futile task. But then he dismissed the idea and continued drinking his coffee instead. On second thought, it wasn't even that bad...
His glance fell on the tiled kitchen floor. He noticed a folded piece of paper lying there. It must have dropped out of Wilson's pocket when he had pulled the coat off the chair. As he bent down to pick it up, he noticed that it was a newspaper clipping. He unfolded it. The letters were jumbled, thrown about the paper without any apparent pattern or reason. With a frown, he folded the clipping back up again and put it into his breast pocket.
House woke with a start. He felt immediately wide awake from the sense of dread that overcame him when he realized he had fallen asleep. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain screaming in his thigh as he limped over to the kennel. His heart was beating in his chest rapidly while he looked around for Wilson.
"You fell asleep..."
House leaned against the wall as a sense of relief washed through him upon hearing Wilson's voice. "You should have woken me up!" he said reproachfully, hoping Wilson would understand it as the apology he had meant to say.
Wilson stepped out in front of him and shrugged. "You looked like you needed the rest." A shiver went through his body.
Trying to replace his feeling of guilt with anger, House said, "Damn it, Wilson. I can sleep when we're out of this place!" He took a deep breath. "Okay, how are you doing now?"
"I'm still getting sick occasionally. My heart is beating so fast that it hurts inside my chest. I feel like I can't breathe from it. I'm sweating like a pig. I get these shivers every now and then. I'm not really in the mood for laughing anymore, though." He rolled his head to the side. "Oh... and I'm hallucinating now."
"What? How?"
"I'm seeing colors..." Wilson trailed off.
"What colors? Where?" When Wilson didn't reply, House whacked the cage with his cane. "Hey, stay with me!"
When Wilson looked at him again, his eyes seemed almost black. "Hm?"
House groaned in frustration. "What about the hallucinations?"
"What are you talking about?"
Carefully, House replied, "The colors you mentioned about thirty seconds ago."
"Don't be ridiculous," Wilson said testily.
Lifting his hands in an appeasing gesture, House decided to drop the issue. "Okay, fine. I must have heard it wrong." He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to ignore the knot that was forming in his stomach again. He didn't like this at all. Wilson wasn't doing better in the least. In fact, it seemed like he was getting worse.
"You said you've still got tachycardia?" At Wilson's nod, he stifled a curse. He reached for the trolley and went through the vials once more, picking out a couple that he stuffed into the pocket of his jacket. Then he let himself down on his knees slowly, taking a deep breath as to counteract the pain. "I'd like to take your blood pressure again, " he said breathlessly as he was sitting.
Rolling his eyes, Wilson plopped down in front of him. "Again? This is getting annoying."
"Tell me about it," House bit back, nudging the blood pressure meter that was still lying on the floor between them. He waited until Wilson had finished putting the cuff around his arm and was pressing the bell of the stethoscope against his skin, before he let himself down on his stomach to start measuring.
Ignoring the painful throbbing in his thigh, he listened closely to Wilson's heartbeat that seemed to have picked up yet again. He pumped up the cuff until he couldn't hear it anymore, then released the valve to listen for the thudding to set back in. A look on the dial confirmed his fear. "Your BP is even higher now. None of the stuff I've given you seems to work. Damn!"
He held Wilson's arm down when the other man tried to move again. "Wait, I'm going to give you something for the tachycardia. I can't risk your heart giving out under the strain. I don't care if it makes everything more complicated to diagnose, but it's the safer route."
House moved around with a groan, reaching into his pocket to find the right ampoule and prepare the injection. As he did so, he felt Wilson's hand in his hair, caressing his scalp softly. He looked up to meet the gentle look out of glassy brown eyes.
"Thank you," Wilson said softly.
House swallowed thickly. "Don't thank me until I've managed to save you."
"It doesn't matter," Wilson said, barely audible.
This made House's breath hitch in his chest for a second. He forced on a smile and said, "Hey, you don't think I'm going to let you die on me, do you? You're way too good a lay to go to waste like that."
Wilson laughed softly.
"Besides, who's going to make me pancakes on the weekends then? And who's going to watch American Idol with me and make fun of the contestants? No way, Jimmy, we're not finished yet." He caught Wilson's hand and pressed his cheek into it briefly before releasing it again.
House used the cuff of the blood pressure meter as a makeshift tourniquet and injected Wilson with the drug. Then he released him and dragged himself across the floor to lean against the wall and catch his breath.
"What's happening now?" Wilson asked, curling up on the side.
Bouncing the rubber tip of his cane on the floor, House replied, "And now we play the waiting game again."
"Oh goody, my favorite," Wilson mumbled sarcastically as he got up again. He froze, then muttered a weak "Oh God..." before running to the sink and retching into it once more. When he was done, he washed his mouth and face and said with a dispassionate laugh, "Waiting is good. I'm in no rush to make it to my own funeral."
Suddenly, House recalled his dream again. He realized now that it hadn't been so much a dream as his dozing mind recalling the events of yesterday morning. Intuitively, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the folded newspaper clipping. The letters were perfectly clear to read now.
It was from the Princeton Packet's real estate section. It advertised a three room apartment in one of the new complexes down south. Next to it, something was written in the nearly illegible scrawl he knew so well. 'Call Mike on Monday'.
With an odd sense of premonition, he slipped the clipping back into his breast pocket.
Feeling the sudden need to do something, House struggled to his feet and limped over to the wall, picking up the pen once more. He added 'hallucinations', 'excessive perspiration' and 'confusion' to the list of symptoms. After a bit of consideration, he struck out a couple of poisons. The list was slimming down, which was good.
"House!" Wilson sounded alarmed.
He replaced the cap of the marker and turned towards Wilson. "What?"
"My... my fingers! Look at them!" He lifted up his hands. "They're turning blue!"
To be continued tomorrow...
Author: Silver
Website: http://silver.glasscases.net
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: FRAO (adult only) for intense angst and suspense
Spoilers: none. I'm just borrowing the concept of Saw, no plot details.
Warnings: This is a dark story. It features some grisly violence in later parts which is not for the faint of heart. I'll warn specifically when it comes up.
Disclaimer: The characters of House were created by David Shore. The concept of Saw came from the twisted minds of James Wan and Leigh Whannell. No profits are being made from this story. Read Part 1 for a more detailed disclaimer.
Summary: In the hands of the Jigsaw Killer, House finds himself faced with the biggest challenge of his life: finding out what's killing Wilson before it's too late. READ THE WARNINGS.
Crossposted to house_wilson ( here) and house_slash ( here).
Previous parts: Part 1 - Part 2
*******************************
Part 3
"Great!" Wilson exclaimed, rolling up a sleeve.
House looked at his friend warily. "Slow down, Jimmy boy."
With an impatient shake of his head, Wilson said, "You've got treatment now! Shoot me up with it!"
Frowning to himself, House examined the bottles further. "I haven't nailed the poison yet. I don't know which one of these charming little chemicals would actually cure you and..."
Wilson shrugged. "So give me all of them."
"... which ones are likely to finish you off." House shot Wilson a disbelieving look. "Are you serious?"
Another shrug. "Sure!"
"You know, if you're already not helping me with the differential you could at least try to not aggravate it! For someone who's constantly agonizing over the right drug combinations for his patients you're being incredibly eager to play Russian roulette with prescription meds. This kind of careless behavior is highly unusual for you."
"Well, I'd say this is a highly unusual situation, don't you think?"
House regarded him for a moment. Then he said, "You know, this is probably why I don't like you slowly wasting away from some mystery poison. Being a reckless genius with disregard for authority is no fun if you actually approve of everything I do. Where's the cheerful debunking of my mad theories, the ever so merry commenting on my complete lack of ethics and sanity? I miss my moral compass. If this keeps up I'll have to start training Cameron to be your replacement." Pulling himself up, House shook his head slowly. "Anyway, forget it."
Wilson gave him an incredulous stare. "What? Why?"
Sighing softly, House rubbed his thigh that seemed to be getting hot from the constant throbbing and hurting. He closed his eyes for a second, battling for the strength to walk the few steps over to the wall. "Because," he ground out, "there is no way to tell how you're going to react to all of them. Not in this state. There are side effects, counter reactions, contraindications..." He hissed as a wave of pain racked through him. "Paradoxical reactions. Or did you miss that class in med school?"
"So?" Wilson looked at him with burning eyes. "I don't care! It's better than slowly dying from whatever's inside of me. It's my body and I'm willing to take the risk!"
"Well, I'm not!" House yelled back. He felt angry. With his pain, with Wilson and most of all with himself.
Wilson fell silent, just staring at him for a while. Then he said, very softly, "You're willing to do this every day for random strangers fate has led into your department, but you're not willing to do it for me?"
House didn't reply as the crushing realization seemed to overpower him.
"Why?" Wilson demanded.
"Because you're not them!" House shouted, shocked to hear the anguish in his own voice. "When they collapse and crash, I don't care! I just go back to my whiteboard and try to find a treatment that works better. If it fails and they die, it's just another one for the statistics. But with you..." His voice broke and he looked down on the floor, hating himself for his lack of detachment.
The silence seemed to expand between them. After a long while, Wilson just said, "House..."
Drawing a strengthening breath, House leveled his eyes with him evenly, hoping to pretend that this outburst had never happened. "Listen, you need to give me time so I can figure out which of the drugs I can give you without causing more damage than benefit. Then you can yell at me for not caring enough all you want. But now I need time to think."
Wilson just nodded and turned around, retreating to the other side of the kennel.
Forcing all his attention onto his notes, House began another list, this time writing down all the drugs he had been given, how they could affect some of the possible poisons he had listed and how they could interact with each other. With a slight feeling of triumph, he registered that these drugs covered treatment for most of the poisons on the wall. That meant he wasn't completely off track.
As he was looking through the ampoules, the thought crossed his mind that perhaps there might be something in there for him that would help him with the pain, but he dismissed that idea almost instantly. Whatever was in this box he had to reserve for Wilson in case things got worse. His leg could wait.
After a couple of minutes that were interrupted by intervals of sickness and retching echoing through the room, House had managed to narrow it down to three drugs he could use without putting any further diagnosis at risk.
"Okay," he said firmly, closing the marker and putting it down on the trolley. "I've got a couple of drugs I can give you now."
"Yes?" Groaning, Wilson dragged himself to his feet and walked slowly across the kennel. His hair was sticking to his head and he was soaked in sweat. "Which ones are they?"
"Just a couple of..."
Wilson gave him a weary look, his flushed face pressed against the grid. "Please... I'm used to handling chemicals every day. Give me some credit."
Sighing, House nodded. "Dimercaprol to rule out arsenic and other heavy metals. Atropine to cover some of the pesticides and a possible nicotine poisoning. Some carbamazepine for the euphoric spells, and boy, do you ever need that. I'm excluding MAO inhibitors for several reasons, so I can give you that safely."
"Okay, sounds good..." Wilson let himself slide down the grid. When he plopped on the floor, he began rolling his sleeve up once more. His fingers were shaking.
House had been busy preparing the syringes for the injection. When he turned around, he noticed the shivering. "Are you still cold?" he asked as he placed the tourniquet, the syringes and the bottles on the floor.
Wilson shook his head lightly. "No, not really."
"Your hands are shivering."
Lifting his hands, Wilson looked at them. "Oh... you're right. Maybe it's exhaustion from the constant vomiting."
"Yes, maybe." House let himself down to the ground carefully, grinding his teeth to counteract the pain that was now reaching a near unbearable level. By the time he had managed to get down on the floor, his heart was thudding in his chest, seemingly pumping scaldingly hot blood down his spine with every beat. He had to sit there for a minute, panting and waiting for the red haze to leave his eyes. When he finally managed to see straight again, he saw Wilson looking at him with a worried expression on his face.
"Is your leg very bad?"
Almost against his will, House nodded, licking his dry lips to even be able to speak. "God, I just... I just hope this works. I don't know how many more times I can do that."
With the help of his cane, he pulled the syringes closer. He took the ampoule of carbamazepine and snapped off the top, then he filled the syringe with the drug. He did the same with a second syringe, filling it with atropine.
"Okay, push your arm through..." he started, but saw that Wilson was already lying flat on his back, the bared arm pushed through the gap on the bottom.
On a whim, House reached for Wilson's hand and entwined their fingers as he pulled himself closer. He held the hand longer than he probably should, simply enjoying the contact. He passively registered the heat of the other man's palm and the layer of sweat that covered every inch of the skin while he ran his fingers across Wilson's wrist, feeling for the pulse. It was still racing.
Softly, he moved his hand up Wilson's arm, feeling for a vein to use. He grabbed the tourniquet and wrapped it around Wilson's arm tightly. "I'm going to give you the carbamazepine first." He felt Wilson nod. Checking the syringe one last time for air, House aligned the point of the cannula with the vein he had chosen, then he carefully broke the skin, pushing the drug into Wilson's system.
"Don't move," he murmured as he loosened the tourniquet to allow the drug to spread. He quickly removed the syringe from the cannula and replaced it with the second one. "Atropine now," he said and pulled the tourniquet tight once more before pushing the second drug in.
After he had pulled the needle out, he pressed his fingers tightly against the spot where it had punctured the skin. He undid the tourniquet and helped Wilson bend his arm while his finger was still in place and let them rest like that for a moment.
"Do you think this will help?" Wilson asked quietly, his fingers curling under House's chin passively, running across the growing stubble.
House turned his face and pressed a kiss into Wilson's palm. "We'll see. If anything, it'll make you drowsy and calm which will finally put an end to your constant prowling. Maybe it'll alleviate some of the symptoms and make it easier to see the others." He reached for the blood pressure meter and pushed the cuff through the gap. "Here, let's take your vitals once more."
When they were finished, House pulled off the stethoscope and commented, "Your BP is through the roof now." He tapped Wilson's arm lightly. "Okay, now give me your ass."
Wilson raised an eyebrow at him. "Excuse me?"
House flashed Wilson a grin. "I need to inject the dimercaprol deeply intramuscularly, so you better give me one of your admittedly rather nicely rounded cheeks for that. I don't think you'd appreciate it if I rammed the needle into your arm like that."
He laughed at the slightly embarrassed impression on Wilson's face as he sat up on his knees to open his pants. In the meantime, House prepared the next injection. Once Wilson's behind was pressed against the grid, he stabbed the needle in without much ado and ignored the surprised yelp from the other man as he pushed the dimercaprol in.
"There, all done," he said, pulling back. "I'd give you a lollipop now, but I'm afraid our considerate host has forgotten to provide us with them."
House dragged himself into a sitting position. For a moment, he considered getting up again to adjust his notes once more, but the pain in his leg suggested otherwise. Instead, he angled for the marker with the end of the cane and started taking notes on the floor where he sat. It was probably a good thing that this was covered from Wilson's view, too, since it was a lot easier for him to analyze his notes if he didn't need to justify every little thing he wrote down.
He recapitulated the symptoms that had presented themselves. 'Rash, tachycardia, dilated pupils, nausea, euphoria, tremors, hypertension...' He added the blood pressure he had measured next to that. Casting Wilson another glance, he added 'agitation' and then with a bit of hesitation, he wrote down 'personality change'.
With a sigh, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. All in all he already had quite a bunch of symptoms to work with. Only problem was that most of them were rather common in a lot of poisons. Epinephrine was still a prime candidate, as was benzene and nicotine. Amphetamines were high up, too. Endrin, dieldrin, aldrin and vacor were possible as well, as was arsenic and procaine. But somehow it all didn't seem to make sense with the presence of a rash.
He considered Wilson's suggestion that the rash might be unrelated. Of course that was entirely possible. A lot of things could cause a rash. But how would that knowledge affect his list? He sighed. Not much. It was still too extensive.
He knew he should probably go through the list all over again, but he felt so tired all of a sudden. The increasingly more frequent attacks of pain caused his vision to blur every time they surged up and he felt his stomach curl in an onset of nausea from the Vicodin withdrawal. Perhaps he could just close his eyes for a second. It would give his body a chance to replenish at least some of the power reserves he had depleted over the past couple of hours...
He was standing in the kitchen pouring himself some coffee. His fingers were tightening around the mug and his hand was shaking a little. He put down the coffee pot before Wilson could see it.
"Look," Wilson said behind him, his voice taking on that impatient drawl he was using so often recently when talking to him. "I know you hate these kind of things. But..."
"You're damn right I do!" he interrupted the other man and turned around, no longer trying to hide his annoyance. "I don't know why we need to go through this every goddamn time one of your orphaned cancer kids kicks the bucket!"
Wilson put down his briefcase on the table forcefully. "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps the reason is simply because it's important to me and because I expect you, my best friend, to share it with me?"
House knew he was scowling like a defiant child, but he couldn't help it. "You shouldn't have unrealistic expectations in me. I've been telling you that from the start."
The look Wilson cast him made his heart ache. "Listen, House. I'm not naive. I didn't come into this relationship expecting you to change completely, to suddenly turn into the thoughtful, considerate person you never managed to be even before we were sleeping together." He sighed. "All I'm asking from you is that you go to one damn funeral with me. Just one. I'm not asking you to be understanding or sympathetic or even care about what's important to me, but if I tell you something is important to me, if I specifically ask you to come with me, then yes, I expect you to respect that and invest two fucking hours of your precious schedule into this relationship. Do you think you can do that?"
To delay needing to answer right away, House took a sip from the coffee. He grimaced and before he could stop himself he said, "You made the coffee too weak again."
Before he had had a chance to say anything else, Wilson had made a strangled sound that sounded like mix between a roar and a sob, grabbed his briefcase, yanked his coat off the chair and stormed out of the kitchen.
For a second, House debated calling after him, realizing that trying to catch him before he was out the door was a somewhat futile task. But then he dismissed the idea and continued drinking his coffee instead. On second thought, it wasn't even that bad...
His glance fell on the tiled kitchen floor. He noticed a folded piece of paper lying there. It must have dropped out of Wilson's pocket when he had pulled the coat off the chair. As he bent down to pick it up, he noticed that it was a newspaper clipping. He unfolded it. The letters were jumbled, thrown about the paper without any apparent pattern or reason. With a frown, he folded the clipping back up again and put it into his breast pocket.
House woke with a start. He felt immediately wide awake from the sense of dread that overcame him when he realized he had fallen asleep. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain screaming in his thigh as he limped over to the kennel. His heart was beating in his chest rapidly while he looked around for Wilson.
"You fell asleep..."
House leaned against the wall as a sense of relief washed through him upon hearing Wilson's voice. "You should have woken me up!" he said reproachfully, hoping Wilson would understand it as the apology he had meant to say.
Wilson stepped out in front of him and shrugged. "You looked like you needed the rest." A shiver went through his body.
Trying to replace his feeling of guilt with anger, House said, "Damn it, Wilson. I can sleep when we're out of this place!" He took a deep breath. "Okay, how are you doing now?"
"I'm still getting sick occasionally. My heart is beating so fast that it hurts inside my chest. I feel like I can't breathe from it. I'm sweating like a pig. I get these shivers every now and then. I'm not really in the mood for laughing anymore, though." He rolled his head to the side. "Oh... and I'm hallucinating now."
"What? How?"
"I'm seeing colors..." Wilson trailed off.
"What colors? Where?" When Wilson didn't reply, House whacked the cage with his cane. "Hey, stay with me!"
When Wilson looked at him again, his eyes seemed almost black. "Hm?"
House groaned in frustration. "What about the hallucinations?"
"What are you talking about?"
Carefully, House replied, "The colors you mentioned about thirty seconds ago."
"Don't be ridiculous," Wilson said testily.
Lifting his hands in an appeasing gesture, House decided to drop the issue. "Okay, fine. I must have heard it wrong." He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to ignore the knot that was forming in his stomach again. He didn't like this at all. Wilson wasn't doing better in the least. In fact, it seemed like he was getting worse.
"You said you've still got tachycardia?" At Wilson's nod, he stifled a curse. He reached for the trolley and went through the vials once more, picking out a couple that he stuffed into the pocket of his jacket. Then he let himself down on his knees slowly, taking a deep breath as to counteract the pain. "I'd like to take your blood pressure again, " he said breathlessly as he was sitting.
Rolling his eyes, Wilson plopped down in front of him. "Again? This is getting annoying."
"Tell me about it," House bit back, nudging the blood pressure meter that was still lying on the floor between them. He waited until Wilson had finished putting the cuff around his arm and was pressing the bell of the stethoscope against his skin, before he let himself down on his stomach to start measuring.
Ignoring the painful throbbing in his thigh, he listened closely to Wilson's heartbeat that seemed to have picked up yet again. He pumped up the cuff until he couldn't hear it anymore, then released the valve to listen for the thudding to set back in. A look on the dial confirmed his fear. "Your BP is even higher now. None of the stuff I've given you seems to work. Damn!"
He held Wilson's arm down when the other man tried to move again. "Wait, I'm going to give you something for the tachycardia. I can't risk your heart giving out under the strain. I don't care if it makes everything more complicated to diagnose, but it's the safer route."
House moved around with a groan, reaching into his pocket to find the right ampoule and prepare the injection. As he did so, he felt Wilson's hand in his hair, caressing his scalp softly. He looked up to meet the gentle look out of glassy brown eyes.
"Thank you," Wilson said softly.
House swallowed thickly. "Don't thank me until I've managed to save you."
"It doesn't matter," Wilson said, barely audible.
This made House's breath hitch in his chest for a second. He forced on a smile and said, "Hey, you don't think I'm going to let you die on me, do you? You're way too good a lay to go to waste like that."
Wilson laughed softly.
"Besides, who's going to make me pancakes on the weekends then? And who's going to watch American Idol with me and make fun of the contestants? No way, Jimmy, we're not finished yet." He caught Wilson's hand and pressed his cheek into it briefly before releasing it again.
House used the cuff of the blood pressure meter as a makeshift tourniquet and injected Wilson with the drug. Then he released him and dragged himself across the floor to lean against the wall and catch his breath.
"What's happening now?" Wilson asked, curling up on the side.
Bouncing the rubber tip of his cane on the floor, House replied, "And now we play the waiting game again."
"Oh goody, my favorite," Wilson mumbled sarcastically as he got up again. He froze, then muttered a weak "Oh God..." before running to the sink and retching into it once more. When he was done, he washed his mouth and face and said with a dispassionate laugh, "Waiting is good. I'm in no rush to make it to my own funeral."
Suddenly, House recalled his dream again. He realized now that it hadn't been so much a dream as his dozing mind recalling the events of yesterday morning. Intuitively, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the folded newspaper clipping. The letters were perfectly clear to read now.
It was from the Princeton Packet's real estate section. It advertised a three room apartment in one of the new complexes down south. Next to it, something was written in the nearly illegible scrawl he knew so well. 'Call Mike on Monday'.
With an odd sense of premonition, he slipped the clipping back into his breast pocket.
Feeling the sudden need to do something, House struggled to his feet and limped over to the wall, picking up the pen once more. He added 'hallucinations', 'excessive perspiration' and 'confusion' to the list of symptoms. After a bit of consideration, he struck out a couple of poisons. The list was slimming down, which was good.
"House!" Wilson sounded alarmed.
He replaced the cap of the marker and turned towards Wilson. "What?"
"My... my fingers! Look at them!" He lifted up his hands. "They're turning blue!"
To be continued tomorrow...