Taking advantage of being alone in Principal Petersen's office with a phone at my disposal, for the first time since I had obtained it during my first drive with Diane around Medford, I dialed the number of the house her family was renting.
Hoping that whoever answered on the other end wouldn't be Mrs. Adler, I waited as the phone rang.
"Hello?" After a couple of rings, a child's voice finally responded on the other end of the line.
"Frank," I said, relieved not to face an awkward moment. "Hey, buddy, it's PJ, Diane's friend," I explained calmly.
"Oh, the one with the nice car," the boy said after a second, realization dawning in his voice.
"That's the one," I replied, amused by how he remembered me. "Is Diane there?" I asked after a moment.
"Mom and Diane are working on a problem. Mom doesn't like being interrupted," Frank said irritably.
"Okay, then it's best not to bother them," I agreed seriously. "Can I ask you a favor?"
"I guess," Frank said impatiently.
"When your mom and sister are done with whatever they're doing, can you tell Diane I can't pick her up today? I had to go to the hospital," I said slowly, trying to make sure the boy would remember everything. "Got it?"
"Yeah, when they're done—don't come for her—hospital. Got it," Frank repeated monotonously.
"Okay..." I said slowly, uncertain if the boy really understood. "Thanks, buddy next time I see you I will bring you some candys, a lot of chocolate."
"Cool thanks," the boy said, immediately hanging up.
"Good, see you," I muttered to the silent phone, hanging it up once more.
Preparing my 'game face', I left with my belongings, only to find Principal Petersen and his secretary waiting outside the office.
"Is everything all right, son?" Principal Petersen asked, his brow slightly furrowed with concern.
"It should be, sir," I said, nodding and avoiding his eyes, focusing instead on his feet. "But I need to go to the hospital. Will that be a problem?"
"Oh, no, absolutely not," Principal Petersen said quickly. "You go; I'll explain it to Mrs. Ingram."
I had no idea what lies exactly House had fed Principal Petersen, and I didn't want to find out.
"Thank you, sir," I said, nodding to him, and then turned to the secretary. "Ma'am," I added, giving her a small nod before leaving the room and heading for the parking lot.
Sticking to the speed limit, I quickly arrived at the hospital. After briefly greeting the nurses, who seemed surprised by my sudden arrival, I made my way to the diagnostic lounge.
"Twelve minutes," House called out as I entered the lounge, oddly lying on the floor of his office with headphones on, connected to his record player. Raising his voice to check his watch, he continued, "I see that the word of a man isn't something they teach at your precious school," removing his headphones and speaking at a much more normal volume.
"Well, I don't expect to learn it here either, at least not from you," I said with a fake smile, taking one of the free chairs.
"Yeah, I've got way more important things to teach you," House declared arrogantly, struggling to get up from the floor.
"Sure, sure," I said sarcastically. "Now, why am I here?"
"John Henry Giles," House said, enunciating each part of the name as if it were something important.
"Who?" I asked genuinely, not knowing who he was talking about, causing House to frown incredulously.
"No, seriously, what do they teach you at that school of yours?" House asked, strangely offended.
"Unimportant things like math, history and English," I responded with a shrug, ironic.
"And they have the audacity to call themselves educators," House said, shaking his head in disapproval.
"I know, can you believe it?" I asked exaggeratedly, keeping my face completely serious. "Now, can you tell me why a jazz musician is important?"
"I thought you didn't know who he was," House said, raising an eyebrow as he slowly dragged his chair behind his desk.
"All the record covers on the floor have his name," I said casually, pointing to the stacks of records scattered a few steps from his desk.
"Oh, look who's starting to pay attention," House said with a half-smile, clasping his hands in front of his face. "What's important here isn't that he's a musician; it's figuring out why he's paralyzed."
"So, 'a dying man and an extremely sad family,' huh?" I asked irritably, recalling what he had told me over the phone.
"Well, there's no clear reason for the paralysis, and with a sudden, simple case of lobar pneumonia, he doesn't have long left," House said, shamelessly justifying his lie. "And surely his family, if he has any, would be extremely sad," he added with a shrug.
"So, let me be clear—you made me ditch school to work on a case that, for now, is just lobar pneumonia?" I asked slowly, narrowing my eyes at him.
"That's exactly what I did," House said, smiling without a shred of shame.
"Got it," I said, resigned, knowing that getting angry with him would be pointless.
Before either of us could say more, the office door was suddenly opened by Dr. Foreman, who looked conflicted.
"Before you say anything, the kid doesn't officially work at the hospital, so he doesn't have to listen to you, even if it's your case," House said defensively, raising his hand immediately.
"It's not even your case?" I asked incredulously, looking at House, who merely shrugged one shoulder and tilted his head.
"That doesn't matter. There's no case anymore. He signed a DNR," Dr. Foreman said seriously, frowning as he checked his watch. "You pulled him out of school?" he asked, pointing at me with a clipboard and glaring at House.
"Yeah, but that's not important," House dismissed easily. "Did you tell him it might not be ALS?" he asked, frowning interested.
Without the patient's chart to review their medical history, and relying solely on the bits and pieces House had shared about the patient's condition, ALS seemed like a solid guess after ruling out various other possibilities, which I was sure other doctors had already done. It also accounted for the pneumonia.
"No," Dr. Foreman responded with a sigh.
"Well, no wonder he signed," House said sarcastically, exhaling loudly. "Who wouldn't?"
"I started him on I.V. steroids and Synthroid," Dr. Foreman said, ignoring House's comment.
"Great," House declared sarcastically. "If it were my case, I'd be adding a little IVIG to the mix," he added.
"For his pneumonia?" Dr. Foreman asked.
"That's my story, and I'm sticking to it," House replied, raising his hands.
"He doesn't want anything done—no treatment," Dr. Foreman said, shaking his head, a hint of disappointment in his voice.
"DNR means 'do not resuscitate,' not 'do not treat,'" House commented sarcastically, smiling at Dr. Foreman. "If you do nothing, it doesn't matter which one of us is right," he declared, completely unmoved.
With House's words, Dr. Foreman simply frowned and walked out of the office, clearly more conflicted than when he had entered.
"And hang on to that DNR," House said, stopping Dr. Foreman for a second. "That signature could be worth a lot of money real soon," he added sarcastically.
"Why doesn't IVIG make more sense than ALS with pneumonia?" I asked, interested, once Dr. Foreman was gone.
"ALS is a death sentence, plus it's a disease of exclusion," House declared, leaning back in his chair.
"So we need to exclude more diagnoses," I commented, immediately understanding his reasoning, speaking more to myself than to him.
"You make me so proud," House exaggeratedly remarked, pretending to wipe away fake tears.
"Shut up," I said, rolling my eyes in exasperation. "Do you have the chart?" I asked a moment later, unable to contain my curiosity.
"Four minutes and twenty seconds," House said with an oddly pleased smile. "I thought it'd take you at least five minutes to ask," he continued, sounding slightly disappointed as he reached for a file from his desk drawer. "Read this on the way; you've got hours to catch up," he added, slowly getting up with the help of his cane.
"Of course," I murmured sarcastically under my breath, shaking my head in exasperation as I followed House out of the diagnostic lounge.
As we walked, I read the patient's chart. Dr. Hamilton, the primary physician for the case, had performed an extensive battery of tests, treatments, and even surgeries, addressing many of the patient's ailments but failing to diagnose the paralysis in his legs beyond ALS—a reasonable conclusion, though not a good one.
"Why not do an MRI here?" I asked House, still reading the file as I walked behind him.
"If you can convince Foreman to do it, I'll give you a candy," House replied sarcastically without looking back.
"Got it," I murmured softly, knowing I was probably the worst person to try convincing Dr. Foreman of anything.
By the time we arrived at the clinic, I hadn't reached a new or better conclusion than House or even Dr. Hamilton, but at least I wasn't completely lost on the case anymore.
For the next full hour, House and I—well, mostly I—treated the patients arriving at the clinic. As usual, there weren't many interesting cases.
"Mr. Brown, please come in," I announced from the consultation room door, wearing House's lab coat and reading from the patient's chart. I smiled slightly at the man, who stood up with some difficulty.
"Untreated diabetes," I said to House as I entered the room well before the patient could get there. House raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment.
One way the sarcastic man and I had found to entertain ourselves was by challenging me to diagnose patients before they even entered the room.
"Good afternoon," the man said, looking slightly embarrassed when he saw two people in the room, one of whom was practically reclining in a chair, reading a rather suggestive magazine.
Seeing him up close, my initial diagnosis seemed even more accurate—shoes at least two sizes too tight, hairless hands, powdered sugar stains on his pants, two obviously greasy napkins poorly tucked into one of his pockets, and noticeable excess weight.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Brown. Please have a seat," I said, pointing to the bed in the center of the room and smiling politely.
"Don't mind me; I'm just here for quality control," House declared shamelessly, noticing the patient's eyes were entirely focused on him as he moved his magazine.
"What's the problem, Mr. Brown?" I asked quickly, drawing the patient's attention away and avoiding the urge to sigh at House's complete lack of decorum.
"Well..." the man said hesitantly, glancing at House and then at me, stretching the word as his volume faded.
Erectile issues—easy diagnosis. Diabetes plus embarrassment in a man over thirty.
"My nature isn't what it used to be," the man finally said after a few seconds. "The little man has lost some bounce in his step," he added, gesturing toward his pants with a small, sheepish smile.
I knew it.
"He needs to crank it up, have himself some fun this weekend," the man continued, apparently without much thought about how casually he was discussing his penis in the third person. "I'm worried he'll never be the same."
Sharing a quick glance with House, who, like me, had clearly noticed the man's strange habit of referring to his penis this way, I asked, "Are you talking about your penis?" despite already knowing the answer.
"In the third person," House added from his chair with a broad grin, his words dripping with sarcasm.
"Me and him... two people," the man said, pointing to his face and then his pants, raising his hands.
"Separate vacations? That'd be a drag for one of you," House declared sarcastically.
"It's a great legal strategy; you can always blame him," I added sarcastically, unable to resist, causing House to point at me with mock envy—probably annoyed he hadn't thought of the joke first.
"Yeah, it's gotten me into some trouble," Mr. Brown replied, playing along with a playful grin.
Okay... too much fraternization with the patient. I really didn't need to know that.
"The issue is you need to keep your insulin levels steady," I said seriously, deciding not to give the odd man any more room to chat.
"Insulin?" the man asked, surprised.
"Yeah, the stuff you take for the diabetes..." I said calmly, noting how he seemed even more startled. "That you forgot to tell the nurse about," I added, judging the man seriously. Diabetes was a dangerous condition if not properly managed.
"So, he's not performing correctly because I'm not taking care of myself?" the man asked worriedly.
"Basically," I answered, nodding slowly.
"I get it," the man said, staring at his hands with concern.
Thankfully, Viagra hadn't been invented yet, or I was sure Mr. Brown would have ignored his health entirely just to make sure 'he' was taken more seriously.
"Okay, thanks, doctor," the man said as he stood up, offering his hand for a shake.
"You're welcome," I replied with a smile, deciding not to correct him to avoid any awkwardness. At that moment, House's pager went off, prompting him to get up and set his magazine aside.
"Just follow your treatment plan, exercise more, and please cut out processed sugars," I said seriously, patting the man's shoulder. "That includes donuts," I added, making the man's eyes widen comically—I'd been right about the powdered sugar stain on his pants.
"Come on, kid. Code blue," House said, walking out of the room right behind the patient.
Throwing House's coat onto the chair the man had occupied seconds ago, I quickly followed him.
"He signed a DNR," I said nervously as I walked behind House. There were many things I could imagine House doing; going after a patient with a DNR wasn't even close to the dumbest on that list.
Contrary to House's usual behavior, he didn't make any sarcastic comments or cutting remarks. Instead, he simply walked in silence.
"House—" I began to say, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Diane down one of the hallways we needed to cross. She looked completely worried, walking alongside a nurse who wore a confused expression. "I'll catch up in a minute," I said, stopping mid-step and heading toward Diane without waiting for House to acknowledge me.
"Ah, PJ," Nurse Dolores said when she saw me. "Do you know her? She's been asking abou—" she started to say, but before she could finish, Diane threw herself into my arms with force.
"Whoa," I said, catching her, surprised. "What's wrong, Diane? Is everything okay?" I asked, holding her by the shoulders and looking at her with concern.
"I should be the one asking that," Diane exclaimed incredulously, stepping back but still holding my arms, her frown deep with obvious anger.
I'd seen Diane upset before, but this was the first time I saw true anger on her face. Given the height difference and her need to tilt her head up to look me in the eye, it was a little amusing.
"What? Why?" I asked, confused, fighting the urge to smile.
"Frank told me you had to go to the hospital for an emergency," Diane said, scanning my body. "I thought you'd been in an accident."
"No, I'm okay," I said slowly, trying to recall what I'd told her brother. "There's a patient, so I had to come quickly."
"So... not you?" Diane asked, lowering her hands slowly.
"Nope. John Henry Giles," I replied, amused.
"Who?" Diane asked, frowning.
"A musician" I answered easily.
"I realize that makes more sense. I'm sorry for this outburst," Diane said, suddenly adopting the formal tone she always used when completely embarrassed. She stepped back. "Why would you call me if you were in an accident?" she quickly added, scoffing.
"Well, we had plans," I replied, shrugging slightly amused at her nervousness.
"Oh," Nurse Dolores murmured nearby, laughing softly. She was clearly entertained by the interaction between Diane and me.
I'd completely forgotten the nurse was still standing there, and judging by Diane's shocked and embarrassed expression, so had she.
"Thanks for bringing her here, Dolores," I said with a slightly embarrassed smile, stepping closer to Diane and placing a hand on her back.
"Anything for you, honey," the nurse said sweetly, smiling at me. "Diane," she added with a much more significant smile, saying goodbye to my friend.
"That wasn't awkward at all," I said, exhaling dramatically.
"I'm sorry," Diane murmured, embarrassed.
"It's okay; it wasn't your fault. I forgot she was there too," I replied, amused.
"Not for that—for showing up here suddenly," Diane murmured, avoiding eye contact as she bit her lip lightly.
"I understand why you came. You were just worried—I get that," I said unintentionally smiling as I nodded. "I'd have done the same if I thought something had happened to you," I added softly, smiling at her.
"Well, from an anthropological and psychological perspective, concern for others is an integral part of our social relationships," Diane slowly declared, keeping eye contact. "The more you care about someone, the more that concern directly reflects the emotional connection you share," she added, her words and voice slowing further to a soft murmur.
"Yeah," I said slowly, lost in Diane's eyes.
"Hey, PJ," a doctor—or at least someone wearing a lab coat—called out, joking as they passed us.
The sudden greeting startled both of us, making us step apart quickly. I hadn't realized how close we had been just a moment ago.
"Hey," I said immediately.
"Who was that?" Diane whispered, clearly as embarrassed as I was.
"I don't know," I replied with a slight chuckle, amused as I watched the doctor disappear at the next hallway intersection. "I have to go, I have work to do" I said, turning my attention back to Diane, speaking slowly, a bit disappointed.
"Of course," Diane quickly replied, nodding formally, clearly still embarrassed.
"Let me walk you to—wait, how did you get here?" I asked, pausing before offering to take her to whoever had brought her, secretly hoping it wasn't her mother.
"Hank brought me; he's in the waiting room," Diane answered easily.
"Oh, okay. Let me walk you there," I murmured, relieved I wouldn't have to encounter Dr. Adler.
Despite limited interaction with her over the past week, the thought wasn't appealing.
Diane nodded seriously but remained quiet for a few seconds, swaying nervously on her feet without moving. "Are going to stay here all day?" she asked, looking me directly in the eyes.
"Uh, no," I replied quickly, momentarily lost in her unusually large eyes. "In a couple of hours, I'll go train and then head home," I added, glancing at my watch.
After my response, Diane continued to sway slightly on her feet as if waiting for something.
"Did you finish all your 'work' for today?" I asked, narrowing my eyes slightly to observe her reaction.
"Yeah," Diane responded immediately.
"So, you want to wait here in the hospital?" I asked seriously. "It can be boring," I warned.
"Boring?" Diane asked incredulously, widening her eyes. "This is a teaching hospital, no?" she added, completely serious.
"Among other things, I suppose," I replied ambivalently.
"Then it can't be boring, it is a place of knowledge, learning is never boring" Diane said confidently.
"You're completely right," I commented, amused but keeping a straight face.
"I know," Diane said without hesitation. "So, can I stay here?" she asked a moment later.
"Of course, as long as your stepdad agrees," I said with a shrug. "I can take you home before I head back to my place."
"Good," Diane said with a small smile, nodding.
"So, did you really think I was dying?" I asked playfully as we walked toward the nearest waiting room.
"Yeah," Diane replied calmly. "Hey! It's not funny," she added with a frown, noticing my grin.
"Just a little," I teased, chuckling lightly causing Diane to press my arm.
Not long after, we arrived at the waiting room, where Mr. Summers, wearing a completely new hat I hadn't seen before, was ignoring the amused looks some nurses at the reception desk were giving him.
"Son, I'm really glad you're okay," Mr. Summers said, holding his hat as he stood up, his exaggerated Southern drawl on full display.
"Thank you, I'm totally fine," I said quickly, nodding and smiling kindly at the man. "I'm really sorry for the misunderstanding," I added slowly.
"But it wasn't your fault; it was Frank who didn't deliver the message correctly," Diane said seriously, her eyes wide with confusion.
"I should have made sure Frank had the right message or followed up myself," I explained, smiling at Diane.
"The important thing is you're okay, son," Mr. Summers said kindly, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Are you ready to go now, Diane?" he asked, smiling at his stepdaughter.
"About that, PJ promised to show me the hospital and then introduce me to the people he trains martial arts with," Diane said calmly. "So, can I stay here?" she asked, genuinely curious, not at all like a typical teenager seeking permission from an authority figure.
"Oh," Mr. Summers murmured, nodding slowly. He raised one eyebrow as he looked at me before turning his attention back to Diane. "Did you finish your work with your mother?" he asked, one eyebrow still raised.
"Yes," Diane answered immediately, prompting Mr. Summers to nod slowly again.
"No later than ten?" he asked me, dropping his fake Southern accent entirely and furrowing his brow in complete seriousness.
"Ten o'clock at the latest," I confirmed, nodding with matching seriousness.
"I'm going to get in so much trouble," Mr. Summers muttered, stroking his chin as he nodded. "Have fun, kid," he added, smiling at Diane. "And you, have moderate and responsible fun," he said a second later, pointing at me with a frown.
"I'd take that as a yes?" Diane asked, tilting her head to one side and smiling in slight surprise.
"Yes," Mr. Summers replied with a grin, making Diane look at me in surprise.
She probably wasn't used to getting permission to stay out late.
"Well, thank you, Hank. See you at ten o'clock at the latest," Diane said formally, though I could tell she was trying not to smile as she bit her lip lightly.
"Take care of her, okay?" Mr. Summers warned me seriously, pointing again before smiling one last time at Diane and walking toward the hospital exit.
"Well, it seems I get to see where you work," Diane said with a slight smile, clasping her hands in front of her with visible excitement.
"Yup," I replied, amused, as I walked back to where we had been earlier. "Just don't listen to anything a man with a cane says," I added seriously, stopping for a moment.
"A man with a cane?" Diane asked, puzzled.
"Doctor House," I explained curtly, continuing on my way.
"Oh," Diane murmured.
During one of our many conversations, the subject of who I was studying medicine under had naturally come up. Diane knew House would use anything to mock anyone.
"So, this is the diagnostics lounge," I said as we entered the office, gesturing to the room. "That's House's office—don't go in there," I added quickly, pointing to the glass door.
"Don't go in there," Diane repeated calmly, nodding.
"There's a large collection of books, all on medicine though," I said, pointing to the bookshelf and tilting my head slightly. "That is basically it," I added, clasping my hands together. "Oh, and the board over there—don't touch it either. House... doesn't like people touching his stuff," I declared, trying not to laugh at the childish and lame joke.
"Understood," Diane said with a nod.
"I'm not sure how long it'll take, but I'll come back to the lounge," I said, looking at Diane as I walked slowly toward the room's door.
"Ok," Diane replied, biting her lip slightly and nodding.
Nodding once more at Diane, who was already browsing through the available books in the room, I left, heading in the general direction House had gone.
---
Author Thoughts:
As always, I'm not American, not a doctor, not a fighter and I'm not Magnus Carlsen.
Another chapter has passed, so new thanks are in order. I would like to especially thank:
RandomPasserby96
11332223
Victor_Venegas
With that said,
I think that's all. As always, if you find any errors, please let me know, and I'll correct them immediately.
Thank you for reading! :D
PS: PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW.
Well, with the end of the final exam season and probably due to all the lack of sleep and poor eating habits, I'm quite sick.
Fortunately, I have a couple of chapters prepared. I have to admit one thing though: this chapter and the last one were one chapter, but I split them into two. That's why they are 'shorter' 3k each.
PS: 199 hearts on my profile, I've never felt so much love
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It didn't take me long to discover where House and the rest of the team were—in one of the private rooms, around the patient lying in bed and next to a visibly upset strange woman.
House, at the head of the patient's bed, was ventilating with a resuscitation bag, completely serious.
Of course, he had ignored the DNR; it didn't surprise me at all.
At that moment, from the other side of the hallway, a group of nurses and technicians were pushing one of the hospital's mechanical ventilators.
"Ah, finally, and look who's here. I thought the aliens had abducted you," House declared upon seeing the nurses and technicians enter with the machine, adding the rest when he saw me behind them.
"They actually did," I sarcastically murmured as I entered the room.
"I'm sorry, who's this?" the strange woman, who was visibly furious, asked.
"PJ Duncan," I said, smiling uncomfortably, introducing myself. On second thought, I didn't want to be there at that moment.
"Now that we all know each other, the IVIG made him worse, why?" House asked.
"Unbelievable," the furious blonde woman murmured, leaving the room with her phone in hand.
"Means multifocal motor neuropathy was a bad diagnosis," I replied, glancing at the woman walking out of everyone's sight.
"Doctor House," raising his voice momentarily, Dr. Foreman said angrily, "do you think this is a good place to discuss this right now?" he asked with forced calmness in his tone.
"Well, I don't think he cares right now," House sarcastically responded, pointing to the unconscious patient in the bed, "but if it makes you feel better, we can step out," he added mockingly, shrugging.
"I would like that, yes," Dr. Foreman immediately said, walking out of the room. House and I followed him, while Chase and Cameron stayed behind to supervise the installation of the mechanical ventilator.
Outside the room, contrary to Dr. Foreman's recommendation, we simply stood in silence, waiting for the machine to be installed.
Dr. Foreman, who was a few steps away from us, was pacing back and forth, looking like he was about to explode, obviously furious. House, meanwhile, seemed simply lost in his thoughts.
"So… what's the legal defense?" I asked House in a murmur, uncomfortable with the silence, "the patient's capacity to make the decision?"
I had seen the numbers in the studies, and the patient's thyroid levels were slightly low, but not enough to be a real legal concern.
"Yup," House said easily, nodding.
"That's only going to work for so long," tilting my head slightly, I muttered, not entirely sure of my own words.
"Let's hope it's enough time to figure out what's wrong with him," House responded seriously, looking at the patient's room, completely calm about having assaulted a patient with a DNR.
The nurses and technicians who handled the ventilator installation left the room once their work was done, while Chase and Cameron stayed behind, checking the levels shown by the machines.
"Come on, we have work to do," House said, starting to walk toward the lounge once Cameron and Chase finished whatever they were doing in the room. The rest of the doctors followed us, including the still visibly furious Dr. Foreman.
"He's stable on the ventilator, oxygenating well," Chase said as we entered the diagnostic lounge.
Diane was sitting in one of the corners of the room, directly next to the entrance door, reading a book quietly.
House, walking in front of everyone, turned on his heels to face us. I could see his eyes briefly glance at where Diane was sitting silently, but without commenting, he ended his gaze on me with some suspicion. "What's really wrong with him?" House asked, as if there was nothing unusual in the lounge.
"What's wrong with you?" Dr. Foreman, finally exploding in the 'privacy' of the diagnostic lounge, asked, raising his voice, obviously angry.
"Everyone knows what's wrong with me," House declared, tilting his head with a mocking smile on his face, "what's wrong with him is more interesting."
"You tubed him, and he didn't want to be tubed," Dr. Foreman immediately responded, clenching his jaw, "he has a legal paper saying just that."
"To intubate or not to intubate," House declared theatrically, "that is the big ethical question," he added a moment later, raising one of his eyebrows, "actually, I was hoping we could avoid it and maybe just practice some medicine."
"There is no question, it's the patient's decision," Foreman said, frustrated.
"If the patient is competent to make it," House declared tentatively, shrugging, "if his thyroid numbers aren't making him sad."
"Oh, my God," Dr. Foreman said, exasperated, "you don't believe that."
"His thyroid levels were a little—" Cameron was trying to say, but Dr. Foreman immediately interrupted her.
"It's nothing, and do not defend him!" the angry doctor warned her.
"Why did he sign that DNR?" House asked, staring at Dr. Foreman.
"I-I didn't talk him into—" Dr. Foreman, taken by surprise by House's sudden question, was trying to say.
"No," House interrupted forcefully, "he signed the DNR because he didn't want a slow, painful death from ALS," House continued seriously.
I hadn't met the patient, but if the extensive history of clinical tests was any proof, John Henry Giles surely wanted to keep fighting to get his life back. If there was real hope in his case, he probably wouldn't have signed a DNR.
"What was happening had nothing to do with his ALS," House continued, proving his point.
"Exactly! It's the IVIG, you screwed up!" Dr. Foreman pointing furiously at House, exclaimed, "you're not gonna let him die because you screwed up," the angry doctor continued.
"Technically, your case, so you screwed up," Quietly with a small, evil smile, House said, pointing back at Foreman. "Is that what this is about, looking bad in front of your old boss?" House asked, squinting at Dr. Foreman.
"You assaulted that man," Dr. Foreman replied, shaking his head at House's words.
"Fine," House declared, raising his hands in surrender. "I'll never do it again," putting one hand on his chest and the other in the air, House promised with false seriousness.
Yes, he will.
"Yes, you will," Dr. Foreman reproached, frustrated, as he walked out of the diagnostic lounge.
"Then all the more reason this debate is pointless," House said sarcastically, shrugging, before Dr. Foreman could fully leave the room.
Once Dr. Foreman stormed out of the room, an uncomfortable silence took over.
"Before we discuss why his lungs are worse," House said slowly, unaffected by Dr. Foreman's exit, "does anyone want to explain who she is?" House asked rhetorically, looking directly at me while pointing to the corner of the room.
Both Cameron and Chase, who hadn't noticed there was someone in the room, turned around, surprised to find Diane sitting with her back perfectly straight in the chair.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be a distraction," Diane, who had been silent throughout the doctors' discussion, said apologetically, standing up from the small armchair she occupied with the formality that appeared when facing new people.
"Oh, don't worry," House declared with false kindness, waving his hand dismissively. "I love when people can see doctors having a mental breakdown; it always gives a feeling of relief and confidence in the guild," he added ironically.
"Yeah… Diane, these are Doctors Chase, Cameron, and House," I said, smiling apologetically at my friend and pointing to each doctor.
"Oh, so this is Diane?" Cameron asked, smiling significantly at me. "I've heard so much about you," she said, approaching Diane with a smile.
"Oh, really?" Diane asked, frankly surprised. "Perhaps you have read some of my papers," she added, still maintaining a strange formality.
"What?" Cameron murmured, taken aback.
"Yes, last year I published an article on a Functional Decomposition Method for the Efficient Resolution of Nonlinear Differential Equations," Diane said proudly, completely unaware of the reason for Cameron's question.
"I meant PJ, PJ has talked a lot about you," Cameron explained, smiling slightly as she reached Diane.
"Oh, yeah, that makes more sense," Diane murmured, lowering her head in embarrassment, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"From a cheerleader to someone with savant syndrome, and they say I'm a radical," House declared, smiling broadly and joking, causing Chase to snort and playfully elbow me.
"Cheerleader?" Diane asked, puzzled by House's mockery. They had called her a savant, but was that what mattered to her?
"Nothing," I quickly said, feeling the need to avoid talking about Regina. "Diane has a master's degree in mathematics from MIT," I added, changing the subject, causing Chase and Cameron to look at the girl in surprise. House, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow at me, obviously noticing my strange reluctance to talk about Regina.
"What's the factorial of fifteen?" House asked, slowly shifting his fixed gaze from me to Diane, interrupting any question Cameron might have asked Diane.
"What, House—" I said, incredulous at the man's behavior. Diane was very intelligent, but she wasn't a calculator.
"Eighty-seven billion, one hundred seventy-eight million, two hundred ninety-one thousand, two hundred," Diane calmly responded after a couple of seconds, interrupting my words and thought process without skipping a beat.
"The square root of that?" House asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Two hundred ninety-five thousand, two hundred fifty-nine point seven zero twelve, and change," Diane responded again, probably after a couple of seconds, visibly surprising Chase, Cameron, and me even more.
"Divided by seven," House said seriously, crossing his arms and now strangely ordering.
"Forty-two thousand, one hundred seventy-nine point ninety-five, and change," Diane responded completely calmly, with a trace of a tiny smile on her face.
I knew Diane was a genius, but it had never occurred to me to ask her for calculations in that way and that she could do it so easily.
"Okay, that's enough," I said, overcoming my surprise and looking angrily at House.
"Fine, I don't have a way to verify if what she said is correct anyway," House responded, shrugging disinterestedly.
"Oh, you can. I remember each of the operations; I can repeat them while you enter them into a calculator," Diane said, making her tiny smile a bit more visible, with a hint of smugness directed at House. Maybe I shouldn't have said everything I had about the man.
"That's really impressive," Cameron declared excitedly, smiling at Diane. "Can you do that?" she asked me a moment later. "I mean, you're also some kind of genius, right?"
"No, I can't," I quickly responded, feeling somewhat attacked.
"Yeah, PJ only knows a lot about medicine," Diane said, looking directly at me with a now visible, surprisingly slightly malicious smile. "In a trivia contest, he wouldn't be much help."
Surprised by Diane's sudden joking attitude, I could only smile with some pride at her more relaxed behavior.
"That's really cute," House declared, smiling falsely. "Now, the dying person?" he asked seriously a moment later, losing his smile. "His lungs are worse, any theories?" he asked again, bringing the conversation back to the case.
Both Cameron and I smiled apologetically at Diane, giving our attention to the chief doctor in the room.
"Vasculitis?" Chase asked, not entirely sure.
"I like it," I said, nodding. "The patient's MRIs are old and have a bit of static; they certainly didn't show anything, but there could always be errors or developments. IVIG in many cases could exacerbate vasculitis, inducing a much worse inflammatory response," I quickly added.
"Dr. House?" Before anyone else could say anything, a rather attractive woman carrying an envelope asked from the entrance of the lounge, entering the room.
She wore high heels that accentuated her legs, a visibly tight skirt a little above mid-thigh, and a shirt under an equally tight jacket, with far more buttons open than she should have had. It was obvious she intended to attract attention.
"Cuddy sent me a stripper again?" House asked fake excitedly as the woman walked toward him. "Love that woman, so thoughtful," he declared, placing a hand over his chest, feigning emotion.
"Sorry," the woman said without introducing herself, handing the envelope to House and walking out of the room.
House, completely unabashed, watched the woman's backside as she walked away from the lounge and calmly handed the envelope to Cameron.
"Wouldn't likely hit both lungs," House said, tilting his head, probably trying to catch the last glimpse of the woman. "You should know that," he added, raising an eyebrow at me once the woman was out of sight.
"I know that, but unlikely cases are what you usually work with, right?" I quickly responded, causing House to tilt his head slightly. "I feel we should at least update the last MRI; the newest one we have is over six months old," I said, raising my hands slightly.
"It could be Wegener's granulomatosis," Cameron said as she opened the envelope.
"There are case reports of Wegener's hitting both the lungs and the spine," I said, nodding, remembering reading those cases in the hospital library.
"It's not great, but it's better than ALS," House said slowly. "At least it's treatable."
"It's a restraining order," Cameron declared worriedly after reading the letter inside the envelope. "You're not to come within 50 feet of John Henry Giles, and they've asked the D.A. to file criminal charges for battery."
"Cameron, test the blood for C-ANCA," House ordered, completely unperturbed by the news.
"These are criminal charges; they're not going to let you take blood to make more tests," Cameron said seriously, showing the letter in her hand.
"He has blood left in the lab, just add on the C-ANCA," House said, shrugging, still not giving importance to the complicated situation. "Foreman still got you doing bronchoscopic suctioning for the pneumonia?" he asked Chase calmly.
"Every four hours," Chase responded quickly.
"Well, while you're down in his lungs, grab a biopsy," House ordered maliciously. "We'll need it to confirm Wegener's." Walking toward his office, he stopped abruptly. "Also, try to get an MRI for the kid," House ordered, pointing at me.
"Do you really think it's necessary?" Chase asked me seriously, not doubting my knowledge but rather a genuine question between colleagues.
"Yeah," I responded seriously, thinking about the strangeness of the reaction to IVIG.
"You just have to hide from Foreman; after all, the patient can't refuse," House declared sarcastically. "And speaking of that, one more thing: move the patient to the second-floor ICU," House said, stopping under the doorframe of his office.
"Why?" Cameron asked, puzzled.
"It's above the clinic," I responded, snorting and shaking my head, causing House to smile and nod.
"I'm pretty sure it's fifty feet in any direction," House said, smiling maliciously.
Of course, he would use a court order to his advantage somehow.
After receiving their orders, the other doctors left the lounge to complete their tasks, not without first smiling at Diane, who simply nodded awkwardly, bidding the doctors farewell.
Silently asking Diane to wait for me outside House's private office, I walked behind the doctor into his office.
"So, aren't you supposed to meet with the hospital lawyer?" I asked, following House into his office.
"How much do you know about these kinds of things, summons and trials?" House asked, sitting calmly in his chair.
"Not much, but I know the thyroid levels aren't going to work as a reason to ignore the DNR," I said seriously, taking a seat in front of House.
"Well, that's reason enough to find out what's wrong with him," House said, reclining in his chair, completely relaxed. "Now let's talk about you. How does it feel to chase someone who makes your intelligence look like that of a two-year-old?" House asked sarcastically, joining his hands in front of his face.
"We're just friends," I said exasperatedly, rolling my eyes. "And 'chase'? As if you know what that is," I retorted sarcastically, nodding at his cane.
"Oh yeah, make fun of the crippled," House said, snorting and shaking his head, feigning offense.
A moment after House spoke, his pager went off. "How long do you think a moderately decent team of doctors can move a comatose patient to the second-floor ICU?" House asked, squinting after checking his pager.
"Five minutes?" I replied, shrugging, not entirely sure.
"Let's round it to ten," House said, nodding slowly and checking his watch. "I suddenly have to go to the bathroom," he added, standing up slowly and smiling.
"Good luck," I murmured ironically, raising my eyebrows and walking behind House out of his office.
"It was a pleasure meeting you, Ramanujan," House said, smiling sarcastically at Diane before leaving the diagnostic lounge.
"I'm a woman, American, and obviously didn't die on April 26, 1920," Diane quickly said, frowning and stopping House. "From what PJ said, I thought you had some special deductive ability and a great memory. PJ said my name several minutes ago."
"Aw, you think I have a 'special deductive ability'?" House asked me, placing a hand over his chest, feigning tenderness, completely ignoring Diane's response.
"I think many things about you, House. Your work as a diagnostician is possibly the only good thing," I said, smiling seriously.
"Oh, the sting," House exclaimed with exaggerated pain on his face. "Look what you did, Ramanujan. When I mocked the cheerleader, he wasn't this defensive," House added, raising his eyebrows suggestively and continuing his way out of the room.
"I'm not Ramanujan, like I said. He was Indian and died in 1920," Diane said, slightly exasperated, raising her voice as House disappeared down the hallway, completely ignoring her.
Seeing me incredulously, Diane raised one of her hands slightly, silently asking what House's problem was.
"Diane, do you remember what I told you about House?" I asked, unable to avoid smiling slightly.
"Oh yeah," Diane murmured, raising her head a little embarrassed, probably for forgetting what I had said. "So this is 'any reason to mock anyone'?" she asked, nodding slowly.
"That was it," I murmured, nodding slowly.
"I get it… I think," Diane murmured, squinting, possibly absorbing the information.
"That's why I said, don't listen to anything he says," I reminded her, pressing my lips together. "Now, would you like to see where many of the medical techniques are practiced in the hospital?" I asked, clapping and changing the subject.
"Yes," Diane responded, interested, nodding. "Can I ask one more question?" she asked, walking beside me out of the diagnostic lounge.
"Of course, as many as you want," I replied, puzzled.
"Who is 'the cheerleader'?" Diane asked, obviously forcing a neutral expression while glancing at me sideways.
---
Author Thoughts:
As always, I'm not American, not a doctor, not a fighter and I'm not Magnus Carlsen.
Another chapter has passed, so new thanks are in order. I would like to especially thank:
RandomPasserby96
11332223
Victor_Venegas
With that said,
I think that's all. As always, if you find any errors, please let me know, and I'll correct them immediately.
Thank you for reading! :D
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