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House stooped and rubbed his thigh. Even with the Vicodin, the pain was breaking through. He put his knuckles to his knotted muscles and pushed down.
“Got a case for you,” Cuddy held up the file and smirked.
House knew that smirk. It meant something in the chart was irresistible, a puzzle so fascinating there was no way he could walk away from it. But he still had to play his part in their little game.
“Love the outfit,” House eyed the plunging neckline and tight skirt, “I so admire how you strike the balance between professional woman and working gal.”
He took the file and scanned it: Claire Novak, 19-year old female, low-grade fever, tachycardia, tachypnea.
He snapped it shut, “It’s sepsis.”
“You really think I’d bring you sepsis?” Cuddy smirked again, “Keep reading. Look at Dr. Lee’s notes.”
“Patient admitted to ER with a visibly displaced ulna,” he read aloud. House held up the X-ray but there was no hint of a break or fracture.
“So what? Is the mystery here why Lee is such an idiot?”
“Keep reading,” Cuddy encouraged.
“Several lacerations,” House continued, “including a 2-inch gash on patient’s forearm evaluated and recommended for sutures had… ” House stopped reading, “Like I said, Lee is an idiot.”
Cuddy smirked again and House momentarily forgot the pain in his leg.
“Two nurses,” she said, “told me directly. They saw it happen, House.”
“They saw a 2-inch gash heal itself in under 3 minutes?” House asked, keeping as much sarcasm and disdain in his voice as he could muster.
Cuddy smirked again and nodded.
“Cool,” House smiled.
Moments later, House stood outside her room in the ICU, watching for a while.
She was pretty but had a rough look to her, like by 19 she’d already spent a lot of time on her own. She was dying but she looked more angry than scared, a habit kids who were used to neglect tended to pick up. Two men were in the room, both around 40. A father? No, that didn’t seem right. Uncles, older brothers, a foster family maybe? There was familiarity, concern, even a little guilt. House thought the men were showing a certain sense of responsibility but not the usual paternal care.
House watched another minute. One of the men, the blondish one in flannel leaned forward in his chair, he was agitated. House couldn’t make out the words but the volume and anger were there. Another neglected kid, he surmised.
The tall–very tall–brunette in the canvas jacket turned to the window. House watched the two men in disagreement and noticed his patient, Claire, seemed pissed at both of them. Perfect. House loved to ratchet up tension whenever he could. People were at their most honest when they were at their breaking point, and if this kid was running some kind con, House was going to set off all three of them and see what this little miracle ruse was.
“--because we’re not leaving her here alone!” the blond one yelled as House walked in. He stopped himself upon House’s entrance, then stood up and moved against the wall.
House had Claire’s chart in his hand. “Hi, I’m Dr. Gregory House, your new attending.”
“Can I ask,” the tall man said as he stepped forward, “why the change?”
“Well, my department is diagnostics and we haven’t quite figured out what’s going on with Claire, here.” House gave his most winning smile and attempted to keep his voice light and playful.
House placed the chart on the bed and leaned his cane next to it. He took out his stethoscope and began to listen. She was definitely tachycardic and tachypneic. He guessed that her lungs would start to fail soon, followed by liver, kidneys, and then the other organs.
“Ok, Claire, I don’t like the way you’re breathing. Add that to the fever and rapid heart rate and I think we’re looking at early signs of respiratory failure. I’m going to have one of my grunts come in to get a full history–”
“History?” she asked
“Yeah, medical history, any kind of–”
“Nothing,” she cut in, “I’ve hardly ever been sick before. Had the flu once, strep throat a few times, but other than that nothing worse than a cold.”
“Well, they’ll go through family history–”
“Nothing to tell there,” she said and House heard how hard and bitter her words were, “my folks are dead now but they were healthy. No issues, illnesses, nothing.”
House clocked that while she claimed a clean health history, three of her fingers had been broken and healed incorrectly. She was a fighter. Abusive parents, probably, he thought. And then two–what, uncles? older cousins? family associates?–had taken her under their wing. Maybe that had something to do with her miraculous healing ruse. Attention, fame, money somehow?
He couldn’t quite see how faking a miracle would fit into this picture but there must be something.
“Okay, well,” House continued in his nicest, most concerned doctor voice, “my team will cover some questions about your travel, eating habits, anything that might point to why this is happening. They’ll also put tubes in your nose to help get more oxygen into you. Your lab work showed elevated protein in the blood, so I’m going to put you on steroids, which should help with the inflammation. Typically these types of symptoms point to an infection but I’m not seeing any markers of it in your blood. Even so, I’m going to prescribe a broad-spectrum antibiotic for now and we’ll keep an eye on your bloodwork. Questions?”
“Yeah,” the tall man began to ask, “how is– whoa, WHOA!”
While the man was speaking, House had used a scalpel to create a short, shallow cut across Claire’s forearm. Which some people might call a knife attack.
Instead of recoiling, she’d flung her elbow up and out, catching House off guard and knocking him back. She grabbed at the cut with her free hand but barely grunted in pain. She seemed more angry than scared, or even surprised, like she should have expected a hidden knife up anyone’s sleeve.
Tough kid, was all House had time to think before he’d been spun around and pressed against the wall. The blondish guy had his arm across House’s chest and was applying a lot of pressure.
“Dean! ” the other man warned urgently.
“What the fuck was that?” Dean said, his voice itself a gruff threat.
Dean’s free hand went to House’s throat and stayed there, while the other moved to his waistband. House wondered if it was touching a gun or a knife of his own.
“Christo,” Dean’s voice was barely a whisper. House could smell the whiskey on it. He also noticed the other man checking the hallway for witnesses all while Claire seemed both unbothered and unsurprised that Dean was apparently ready to stab her doctor.
“I could say that was a test for inflammation and, in a way, it was. But really I’m just trying to see if Dr. Lee is as big an idiot as I think, or if we have a genuine medical miracle on our hands.”
Dean removed his hand from House’s throat and took a step back but his other hand was still hidden, holding onto something stashed in his waistband.
“Medical miracle?” the tall man asked.
House ignored both men and walked back to Claire, examining the wound.
“Does that hurt? I mean, more than getting lightly knifed should?”
“No,” she said.
House noted that she seemed to be familiar with the pain scale of “lightly knifed.”
“No burning or itching?” he asked
“No, just feels like you sliced me with a scalpel,” she said in a venomous tone that House deeply respected.
He watched the wound closely. It was already clotting. Another thirty seconds and it did seem to be healing on its own.
“Huh,” House said, “very cool.”
“Okay, doc, miracle confirmed, now you wanna tell us what the hell you’re trying to do here?” Dean stepped right into House’s space.
House realized that if this Dean guy stabbed him, it would probably be a well-practiced move.
“Me? I’m trying to figure out why she appears to be able to heal her lacerations and broken bones, but for some reason her organs are shutting down.”
Dean didn’t break eye contact but he blinked a few times. House could sense some guilt in the hesitation there.
“And if I know why it’s happening, I can usually stop it. But I have no idea why. What do you think is happening to her?”
House held Dean’s gaze. The man was calculating something, juggling some guilt and shame, maybe. Finally he broke House’s eye contact and shrugged, stepping aside.
The taller man stepped closer, “Look, we just wanna know what the next steps for treatment are,” he said. House guessed this guy was used to de-escalating things.
“We’ll treat symptoms with oxygen and steroids, and throw a Hail Mary with the antibiotics, but I have no idea what’s causing this. Which means I can’t stop it,” House looked around the room. The quiet was thick, not the usual shocked or pained or panicked quiet of a grieving family, it was the practiced quiet of folks who don't answer questions.
“SO,” House continued, “if anyone else has any insight, now is the time…”
All three stayed quiet.
“Okay,” House said, grabbing his cane, “my team will be in and out to run more tests, get a full patient history, and we’ll keep you updated. Assuming, you are the family?”
As the men said yes, Claire said no.
“Not really,” she clarified, “but close enough. My foster mom is on her way from South Dakota.”
“Ah, well usually it’s really-real-family-only in the ICU–” Dean flashed a look of loathing and violence that shook House a bit more than he’d ever admit, “but if Claire wants you here–”
“I do,” she said, and House nodded.
“Doctor,” the taller man asked, “you mentioned respiratory failure. How long can that be treated with oxygen and steroids?”
“Depends on what’s causing it,” House answered, leaning forward and trying to pull information from either guy.
“Say you can’t find the cause,” Claire asked, “can that stuff work for a week? More? Less? Could we keep me going for like three days, you think?”
“What, you got a hot date you don’t want to miss?” House asked.
She laughed and, in spite of himself, House decided he liked her. More than he liked most dying teenagers, anyway.
“Actually, yeah,” she answered, “and if you can keep my heart pumping until Saturday there’s an extra hundred in it for you.”
House took her hand again; the wound was looking better by the second but her O2 stats were no better than they had been when he first came in.
Threats, violence, anger–all things families and patients had hurled at House before. What was new was the selective curiosity. They weren’t demanding answers about what was happening to Claire. They were demanding to know if he could keep her alive for three days.
Interesting, House thought.
“Sorry, kiddo, I don’t get out of bed for a hundred,” he watched as the wound was fully closed now, “but make it grand and you got yourself a deal.”
She slid her fully healed forearm out of his grasp and shook on the deal. House couldn’t help but laugh.
“Okay,” House said in a cheery tone as Chase and Cameron walked into the room, “We have ourselves a genuine medical mystery!”
19 YO FEMALE
LOW-GRADE FEVER
TACHYCARDIA
TACHYPNEA
HYPERPROTEINEMIA
Foreman walked in, looked at the white board, and said, “It’s sepsis.”
“EHH!” House imitated the sound of a buzzer, “No elevated white blood cell count, and, oh, and there is one other symptom.”
RAPID WOUND HEALING
House added and circled it twice.
“What does that mean, exactly?” Chase asked.
“Some practitioners of Sufism claim they can rapidly heal wounds. In 2001 there was a study where a man was observed inserting a metal skewer in one cheek and out the other. X-ray, EEG, and immunological studies were done. Once the skewer was removed, one wound healed within two minutes. Two. The other wound took four hours to fully close.”
“Yeah, David Blaine does the same trick,” Foreman said. “It’s a con! You insert a skewer through a piercing and it appears to heal instantaneously.”
“Well, sure, but I cut our patient with a scalpel and her wound was gone by the time I left the room.”
“You cut a patient with a scalpel?” Cameron asked in disbelief.
“You actually saw a patient?” Chase asked.
“A patient that can heal herself faster than a Sufi holy man, yet is still going into respiratory failure? Absolutely. So, what are we dealing with?”
“Uh, fever increases body temperature and wounds heal faster in warmer environments?” Chase valiantly attempted.
“It’s a con,” Foreman said.
“Of course it’s a con,” House agreed, “but it’s a really cool one. And the fever, tachycardia and respiratory failure are real, so, again, I say, what are we dealing with?”
“An infection,” Chase said, “but if broad-spectrum isn’t working we get specific…lumbar puncture to check for source of infection?”
“Do it,” House nodded, “and Cameron, go get a full history, but be careful, one of her bodyguards almost stabbed me earlier.”
Chase and Cameron stopped but Foreman asked, “Before or after you sliced her with a scalpel?”
“Right around then, yeah. And Foreman, thank you for volunteering to get a full-body CT.”
House sat in his chair and spun, thinking about his patient.
Foster homes, possible abuse, no major illnesses, low-grade fever, no elevated white count, elevated protein levels, respiratory distress, and an ability to somehow con me.
Wilson’s voice interrupted his thoughts, “Did you cut a patient with a scalpel?”
“You been talking to Cameron? That tattle-tale!”
“House, you can’t–”
“I saw it clot and close. All of 90 seconds and, boom, like it was never there,” House watched Wilson.
“You’re telling me you believe this? You don’t think it’s a con?” Wilson asked
“Of course it’s a con!” House said, and the tediousness of the question brought House’s attention back to the pain in his leg.
“So you saw her do something? Something to the cut you caused?”
“No, I didn’t see anything, but it’s gotta be a con.”
“Because you can’t explain it?”
“Because I like her,” House laughed and spun his chair a bit.
“Teenagers are boring,” he continued, “fostered teenagers are boring and angry; and dying, fostered teenagers are boring, angry, and scared. Claire was definitely angry, but she wasn’t scared or boring. She was curious, but about the wrong things. I don’t know, I just…liked her.”
“And, because you liked her, you think she must have read you, played you, and is therefore conning you?” Wilson asked.
“Gotta be, right?”
“Or you could just like her?” Wilson said, then sighed, “Or she’s conning you.”
House smiled and Wilson left.
The results of the lumbar puncture gave them nothing and the CT scan gave even less. There was no clear reason why Claire’s body was shutting down, and she now had fluid filling her lungs. Cameron took the history and despite staying in some rough situations, there was nothing that might explain the current illness.
House was sprawled out on an empty bed in the ICU, just inside a room off the main hallway. What looks like sepsis, but isn’t? Bowel obstruction? No, clear on the CT. Pulmonary embolism? Non-typical presentation, lower age than the risk group, but with a known clotting condition…could be…
House heard Cuddy’s voice around the corner. He pulled a blanket up over himself, hoping to come off as a patient so she’d pass him by without any questions about clinic hours or cutting his patient with a scalpel. Her voice came and went but just as he was about to pull the sheet back down, he caught the voice of Claire and her not-really family. He stayed still and quiet and they stopped just short of his room.
“I don’t know, Sammy, what do you think?” Dean asked.
“I think we keep with the steroids and oxygen, just whatever we can to hold on til Saturday,” Sammy answered.
Saturday again, House thought, what do these guys have going on on Saturday?
“And if we can’t wait?” Claire asked, “If I’m counting my time in hours and minutes, then I want a little payback before I check out. I know you have some milk run lined up but I say we hunt down the bitch that did this.”
Poison, House thought. Someone did this to her. She gonna die and she wants revenge. Definitely not boring.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Dean’s voice was firm and even a little cruel. It surprised House, actually. If her dying wish was to hunt someone down, House would have guessed this guy would be all for it.
“I’m in the wheelchair, aren’t I?” she sneered.
“Look,” the guy called Sammy said, “Rowena said that the less you can move, do, whatever, the better. Her patch-up is working, but the curse is stronger, it’s just a matter of time before it does its job. We need you to hold on until the Full Moon so we can reverse it completely.”
Curse? House scoffed internally.
“Yeah, I remember that part, the part I don’t remember is agreeing to come to a hospital so they can put tubes in my face and stick needles in my spine. I should be laid up in a motel somewhere with pay-per-view and magic fingers. At very least I should get some good drugs if this is it,” Claire pouted, sounding for the first time like an angsty 19 year old.
“Quit your bullshit,” Dean said. Once again, House was surprised, the guy had been ready to beat House bloody for slashing at Claire, but had no patience for her fear of dying. Oddly, House thought he kinda liked Dean, too.
“Oh, boo-hoo,” Dean mocked her–mocked the dying girl ! House definitely liked this guy. “Wah-wah, I’m dying, well that’s the life, kid. Told you as much! Told you if you could do anything else, do that. But here we are…and you’re in a better spot than most. We got a plan, you just gotta hold on for a few days. You’ll be fine. Until the next time you're dying.”
“What he means is,” Sammy came in, “Rowena bought us time, the doctor is buying some too. Dean and I will get the ritual done.”
“Hundred percent,” Dean agreed, “we may fuck up a lot of things but this is what we do. We got this.”
“You got everything for it? The bones of a hunter killed as a witch, blood of a witch killed by a hunter…”
What the fuck? House thought. Curses, witches, blood…he’d pegged them as criminals of some kind or another but it sounded like they were talking about some occult ceremony for healing. Course, lots of patients turned to religion as they were dying. Every other week someone that House had cured would swear God, or Ra, or their lucky rabbit’s foot had cured their cancer or arthritis or heart defect.
“Yeah,” Dean said, “we’re on it. Bones are en route already, Cas is bringing them, and, like you said, we got a milk run for the blood.”
“Well, I still want some of the good drugs,” Claire whined a bit.
Dean scoffed again, “You got a team of doctors, you can’t work one of ‘em for some pain killers, I ain’t helping you.”
“Asshole,” Claire muttered, but House heard the warmth in their voices.
House told Foreman that under no circumstances was he to prescribe painkillers to Claire. He didn’t trust Cameron to follow that order and Chase had crossed the line for a dying girl before, so he told them that instead of coming in in the morning they should check out 8 motel rooms Claire had stayed at, between here and Pittsburgh. They were supposed to check for toxins, but he just wanted them out. Plus it was fun to force them into tight quarters for the new day and a half. Once his minions had their marching orders, he watched the room. For four hours he stayed down the hall, watching the door, but Sammy and Dean never left her alone.
Right around dawn the two of them left and walked past House. Sammy, in an act House could only interpret as pity, leaned down and told House that Claire’s foster family was less than an hour out, so if he wanted to talk to her now was the time. Great, House thought, they knew I was out here...
Dean turned around but continued to walk backward and said, “I’d strongly recommend you leave any sharp objects at the door, though.”
House hobbled into her room. He checked Claire’s vitals and read the updated blood work. The kidneys were shutting down but otherwise she wasn’t going downhill as fast as he’d have expected. Her oxygen was lower than he’d like, but it was stable.
“Tox screen came back,” House said, “couldn’t find any kind of poison or toxin.”
House watched her, and she seemed unsurprised.
“Of course,” he continued, “there are hundreds of toxins and poisons that might be missed on a general screen. So any information you have that could point us in the right direction–”
She shook her head.
“Okay…no enemies you can think of? Someone who’d want to do you harm?”
She shrugged one shoulder, but said nothing. House was impatient.
“Look, your kidneys are shutting down. You are dying. You may not live until the all-important Saturday you want to get to,” House said.
“Well that sucks for you, because I make good on my debts,” she snarked back.
House liked this kid, stupid as she was.
“Okay, new game,” he sat next to her and pulled out his Vicodin, placing it on the table. “You’re in organ failure, soon more and more organs will begin to shut down. Dying hurts. A lot. Luckily, I can help with that. We’ve got the good drugs but I’m holding the purse strings. So, I’m going to ask some questions and for every honest answer you give me, I’ll prescribe a dose of morphine. Or something else, if you prefer.”
Claire stared at him and he took three Vicodin.
“To be clear, the alternative is that you don’t answer me and you get nothing. Not so much as an aspirin. Not from me, nor the Aussie, nor the softie, nor the Darkie. Nada, zilch.”
She set her face.
“Dying is very painful, you know! You’re going to be struggling to breathe, struggling to move, every second will be agony, and if you don’t answer my questions I’ll make sure you feel all of it.”
She looked unimpressed, maybe even bored.
“Come on,” House said, annoyed she wasn’t playing along, “when I’ve threatened other patients with this they’ve at least pushed back,” he switched to a high-pitched, mocking voice, “oh please, you’d never let a patient suffer!”
“No, I believe you would,” Claire said, “I’m just not scared of the pain.”
“Right, we get it, you’re very tough–well dying still hurts and I can still make it better,” he shook the pill bottle.
“Oh, I mean, if it’s that bad, Dean’ll get something for me."
"Well, I don't know," House pushed back, "He seemed more the, suck it up, kid, we've all got our problems type from what I could tell."
Claire laughed, "Well if he's holding my hand and telling me it's okay to be scared then I'm definitely going to die. But no, he’d be happy for the excuse to pistol whip you into prescribing me something for the pain.”
House paused and looked Claire up and down.
“Okay, fine. I’ll concede you may have some leverage on this one, but wouldn’t it be easier to just do this my way?”
“I’ll answer you questions, doc,” she said, “but have a condition of my own: you take everything I say at face value. Even if it sounds crazy, just take it for what it is. It’s not a symptom. And no psych evals, or psych holds. Dean would absolutely go ape shit over that.”
House sighed, frustrated, “If you’re hallucinating or delusional it’ll need to factor into my diagnosis.".
In response Claire took a sharp knife out from under the mattress and sliced her own forearm. They sat in silence for about 90 seconds while the wound closed.
“Until you can explain this shit, you take what I say at face value, whether it sounds crazy or not,” she repeated.
House's curiosity was piqued. She had knowledge House didn't, House had drugs she wanted, and House had no other leverage.
“Fine, deal," he agreed. "First question: a true medical history. What health issues have you had?”
“Broken bones and concussions, mostly. Had a bad fall with some internal bleeding last year, no complications though.”
“Hospital records?” House asked.
“Doubt it. County clinic for the internal bleed and backroom doctoring for the rest.”
“Any drugs? Alcohol? Any regular use of toxins?”
“Alcohol, mostly beer, sometimes whiskey. Maybe 5 or 6 drinks a week? Then the occasional party. For drugs…uppers sometimes, Adderall when I can get it. Sedatives in the past, not so much now. Ambien or lorazepam, used to have a lot of trouble sleeping. Less so, now.”
House processed that information, he wondered if the alcohol use related to the clotting issue or apparent “healing” but it seemed a big stretch.
“Who’s ‘the bitch’ you wanted to hunt down for a little payback, instead of staying in the hospital?”
If he surprised her, she didn’t show it, “A woman by the name of Esme, a witch.”
He blinked twice.
“A witch who poisoned you?”
“Cursed me. Or hexed, if you prefer.”
House thought for a moment, “Like, with a particular type of oh, say, poison? Because that could help me save your life. Did she give you something to eat? To drink? Was it bitter, sweet, what? How exactly did she deliver this curse?”
“I fucked up,” Claire said, “I thought I was looking for a vengeful spirit so I wasn’t prepared. Salt and iron does fuck-all against witches. The bitch hit me with some kind of curse, purple light all over my body, then pieces start shutting off.”
House watched her, then slid two Vicodin over to her. She took them both.
“Not going to give you more painkillers for this one, but I gotta ask, if salt and iron don’t stop witches, what does?”
“She wasn't especially old or powerful so, like, bullets'd work. They get their powers from demons but they’re human.”
“Who’s Rowena? How did she help?”
“She’s another witch. Not like she’s Glinda or anything but she doesn’t like demons either, doesn't work with them. Enemy of my enemy and all. She’s why my cuts and broken bones are healing. Her spell is healing my body but the curse is stronger and had a head start.”
“And the full moon thing?”
“There’s a way to reverse the curse, allegedly, if I’m still alive. Sam and Dean are working on that now.”
“So when those very large, very intimidating men said they were going to get some hunter bones and witch blood, they mean, like–”
“The bones are old, like a hundred years or more already,” Claire said, leaving the part about how fresh the witch blood was to be inferred. House pushed it aside.
“Okay, back to diagnostically relevant information…these witches you mixed it up with, did they have any animal bones or fluids or anything like that you may have been in contact with?”
Claire thought a moment, “Human bones, for sure, on Esme's altar. Rowena gave me some nasty brown liquid to drink. Witches are nasty, skeevy, all kind of gross fluids. Human, animal, whatever. Could have come across that stuff. It’s not diagnostically relevant, though. The curse is.”
House thought for a moment. Animal blood, animal bones, animal urine, animal brain matter…
Just then they were interrupted by the foster family. Foster mom Jody and foster sister Alex gave Claire warm hellos and embraces, while a silent and unsettling man in a trench coat stood by the door. House noticed the similar facial features between Trench Coat Guy and Claire.
“When do I get my morphine?” Claire asked, interrupting his thought process.
“Well, I just gave you two Vicodin so morphine now would kill you,” House said as he walked to the door, “when those wear off in about six hours, page me. And don’t worry, I make good on my debts, too.”
“Hey!” Claire called out just as House got to the hallway, “In case it wasn’t clear, do what you have to to keep my heart pumping. Life support, ventilator, whatever. Just get me to Saturday, House. Remember, there's a grand in it for you!”
He smiled because he knew what it was. Weil’s Syndrome.
House was almost at the exit. Claire's weirdo family group was into the occult. She’d come into contact with rat urine, contracted leptospirosis, and developed Weil’s Syndrome. The miraculous healing had confused things for him, but he got there in the end. She’d said her father had died, no health issues, but that creepy silent guy had three facial markers that matched Claire's. Her father or her uncle, no doubt about that. What Claire, a confused, abused, delusional teenager thought was a witch’s magic spell was really an inherited thrombotic disorder, used to control her. He wasn't exactly sure how it fit together but he assumed some kind of minor criminal cult that manipulated lonely and abandoned kids. Big whoop.
House had prescribed antibiotics for the Weil’s which would stop the attacks on her organs and he gave anticoagulants for the clotting. Soon they could assess how much permanent damage had been done to her organs and decide how to treat it. Plus he’d written a script for morphine. He was as good as his word, after all.
And he’d won a thousand bucks. Solved it all with almost 24 hours to spare.
The question now was what to do about a delusional teenager apparently running around with murderous occultists…
“House!” Cuddy’s voice was so grating. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Hiding,” he replied.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
“Hence the hiding…”
“Claire Novak-” Cuddy started.
“Has Weil’s Syndrome and a thrombotic disorder - probably genetic.”
“Claire Novak got cut with a scalpel by her doctor!” Cuddy raged.
“It was purely diagnostic,” House handed Cuddy Claire’s file and looked around, wondering if there was a better way he could have left the building and avoided this conversation, “never would have figured out the thrombosis stuff without it.”
“Cameron said her family attacked you,” Cuddy said, looking at the file.
“Well only after my…unorthodox diagnostic test. Totally understandable,” House leaned on his cane.
“Still,” Cuddy said, finishing her scan of the chart, “maybe we should have security bar them…”
House saw Sam and Dean running toward the door before he felt his pager go off. Sam didn’t look at him, just sprinted toward the ICU. Dean didn’t slow down but took a second to make deep and threatening eye contact with House.
“...don’t think it’d help,” House said, “she just coded.”
“The problem, Ms. Mills, is that Claire’s body is shutting down,” Foreman explained, “in multi-system organ failure like this, life support measures don’t make sense. It’s not a matter of keeping her lungs going until we can fix what’s ailing them, everything is shutting down.”
“But,” the foster mother pushed back, “if you can buy her another day–”
“It wouldn't help,” Foreman said simply, “her heart is working right now, but I don’t expect that to continue much longer.”
“What about measures to keep her heart pumping?” Ms. Mills asked.
House looked away. He thought about Claire’s arm healing. She’d been on the anticoagulants for about 12 hours now.
“There’s not really an option like that…” Foreman said.
“There’s an ECMO…” House said, as he walked up to the ventilated Claire.
“That’s not what those machines are used for,” Foreman was getting angry.
“And if the family insisted?” Dean asked without getting out of his chair.
Foreman shook his head, “You need more than your lungs or heart working to stay alive. We can’t do dialysis and ventilation and a bypass machine– House!! ”
House had sliced at Claire’s arm again and this time it was Ms. Mills who had pushed him back. Dean was on him in a second too, and Foreman was yelling out to the nurses station for security.
But House watched the cut, which didn’t seem to be closing on its own anymore.
“Foreman, forget security. Get out of here, go run some lab work.”
“House…” Foreman warned.
“Out ,” he repeated, and Foreman left House alone to face some very angry and very dangerous people.
“I know I didn’t exactly spell it out before, but I figured you were smart enough to guess what would happen if you cut on that girl again,” Dean said, coming past Mills and grabbing House by the shirt.
“Dean,” the quiet trench-coat guy said, “he’s trying to make sense of it.”
Dean released House, shoving back hard. Trench Coat walked to Claire’s side, touching his hand to where House had cut her.
"After all," he said as he pressed against it, "without injury, there would be no healing."
A faint blue light seemed to emanate from the man's hand. Once he removed it, Claire's skin was closed again. Nothing. No mark, no cut, just supple, teenage skin.
House looked from Claire's arm to the Trench Coat Guy. His eyes were pale blue, otherworldly almost. Moved by instinct, House reached down and touched his leg. He could almost feel that blue light, soothing, cooling, healing.
He didn't notice, but Dean had him by the collar again.
“Get the ECMO thing,” he said, not looking at House, like his anger was too much to hold back if he did. “Get her dialysis, get her whatever she needs for the next 18 hours or I swear on my mother’s soul I will make that your good leg.”
House looked from person to person. No body seemed to doubt or disagree with Dean's threat. House looked back to Trench Coat, still not understanding what he just witnessed. He pressed his leg again, “Thrombosis…um, tissue regeneration,” he said, sorting his thoughts aloud.
“Dr. House,” Mills looked him in the eyes, bringing him back to the room, “18 hours. That’s all we need, then we’ll all be out of here. One way or another.”
"18 hours to decide if you need a wheelchair for the rest of your life or not," Dean added.
Housed nodded but his thoughts went back to that blue light as he touched his knotted and gnarled muscle.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” Cameron said.
“Totally fine, discharged herself AMA at like 1am,” Foreman said, “I didn’t even get back to the hospital in time to see her go. Fagan was on call, had to release her! Claire, her family, everything, all gone by the time I got here.”
“Meanwhile, Cameron and I were all over Pennsylvania and back, swabbing dirty bathrooms and crusty old comforters…” Chase grumbled.
“But, why put her on the ECMO at all? Why bother with the life support?” Cameron asked, “There was nothing to indicate she’d improve…”
“House?” Wilson asked, interjecting as always.
“Well that’s easy,” Foreman said, “House couldn’t stop cutting that poor girl up to check on her clotting, and the brother or whoever was going to beat House senseless if he didn’t throw out all the stops.” Foreman didn’t bother trying to conceal a smirk.
“As fun as it always is to see a patient’s family threaten House, that saved her life,” Wilson said.
“A damn miracle is what saved her life,” Chase said.
Everyone but House looked toward him.
“What?” Chase asked, “It’s true. Since when does anything short of an act of God get a patient waking up and ripping out the ECMO and vent? It just doesn’t happen.”
Cameron considered this, “Every doctor I know has had a case or two in their career they couldn’t quite explain…add her rapid wound healing to her sudden waking, it starts to feel pretty miraculous.”
“House? What do you think?” Wilson asked.
House looked down at the note in his hand. Told you I’m good for it. It’d been tucked under his office door, wrapped around $1000 in cash.
The pain in his leg roared and demanded his attention. Pain was real, trauma and neglect and the things we used to fill those holes, that was real. Everything else, promises and magic and luck and belief—they were ephemeral. Without injury there would be no healing...some fortune-cookie bullshit from a con artist. Just words. Just lies. Everybody lies.
“I think," House said, "that Lee’s a moron, it takes more than one round of doxycycline to reverse the symptoms of Weil’s, and the anticoagulants did their job. She was young and otherwise healthy, and she bolted in the night because she and her thuggish family are probably wanted for a half dozen crimes.”
House took a handful of Vicodin and pushed aside any thoughts of miracles or healing or blue lights. He rubbed his leg again, then balled up the note and tossed it in the trash.
“You three, find me a case for tomorrow. Something interesting this time!” he shouted back as he limped out the door and away from any discussions of miracles or faith.