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Chapter Text

The kettle on the stove screamed.

Eva didn’t move. She couldn't.

She sat curled on the kitchen floor, one hand braced against the cabinet. On the counter laid a half-drunk mug of tea that had long since gone cold. Her laptop glowed on the kitchen table beside her, the cursor blinking on an email draft addressed to [email protected].

The subject line read: URGENT: Unsafe Compounds in Blend 9B.

She had typed the words carefully. Attached files. Clinical trial notes they weren’t supposed to keep. Blood panels from testers flagged as noncompliant. A PDF marked “Do Not Circulate” with Marcus Keene’s signature at the bottom.

But the words had started swimming. Again.

First the nausea, then the static in her head, then—

She blinked.

The light overhead fractured, too bright and too far away. Her pulse thrummed behind her eyes and in her skull like a metronome gone wrong.

Her limbs felt floaty. Hollow.

The kettle stopped. She hadn't turned it off.

She forced herself upright with shaking arms. Just one step. One click. But her fingers hit the wrong key. The screen jumped. The screen blurred. Eva hit the floor just after it. Her last conscious thought wasn’t pain, or fear, or even regret. It was: I knew they wouldn’t listen until it was almost too late.

Chapter Text

Santa Barbara mornings didn’t usually start with federal paperwork and guarded escorts, or the kind of tension that made hospital coffee taste even worse, but here they were.

Juliet O’Hara paced the narrow hallway outside the hospital’s admin wing, where the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights mingled with the nervous taps of her shoes. With her phone pressed to her ear, brows furrowed, she answered. “Yes, Captain, we’re escorting her. No, we’re not deputizing anyone this time.”

Juliet sighed. “Yes, I promise. This one’s actually sick. No drama. At least, not yet. ”

Across the lobby, Carlton Lassiter stood stiff-backed near the nurse’s station, arms folded, jaw set in a way that dared anyone to give him bad news. His sharp eyes tracked movement, never resting for long. As Juliet approached, he leaned in, lowering his voice. “You saw her face when the name ‘VitaVerde’ came up.”

Juliet nodded. “That’s why we’re not dropping this, not until we know what’s really going on.”

Inside the hospital room, Eva Ramirez looked small beneath the beige blanket. Her skin was pale, almost waxy, and her eyes flinched from the light. A nurse had just adjusted her IV,  the mechanical beep of monitors steady and indifferent. Nearby, her duffel bag sat zipped tight, but Juliet had seen the worn corners of notebooks sticking out. Herbal notes. Journals. One of them might have saved her life, or prove what she knew.

Juliet walked into the hospital room, her voice calm but firm. “Your transport’s arranged.” she told Eva softly. “We’re moving you to Princeton-Plainsboro in New Jersey.”

Eva blinked at her. “That’s… across the country.”

Juliet nodded. “They have one of the best diagnostic departments in the country. You’ve stumped every doctor here, and your labs are worsening. Dr. Lisa Cuddy personally agreed to take your case—”

“Because of the email.” Eva whispered.

Juliet didn’t answer directly. “Because someone there might listen. Might believe you.”

Eva’s voice cracked. “They’ll say I’m imagining it.”

“They already have.” Juliet said gently. “That’s why we need to go higher.”

She hesitated before adding, “And… if what you’re saying about VitaVerde is true, we’re not just escorting a patient. You’re a whistleblower.”

Later, at the Psych office, Gus was pacing as Shawn leaned back in his chair with all the confidence of a man already mentally packing for a cross-country adventure.

“You know this is bigger than a weird symptom list, right?” Gus said, motioning to Eva’s charts and flagged supplement names. “That herbal blend violates at least three FDA regulations, and if the MAOI interaction’s real, we’re looking at class-action territory.”

Shawn spun slowly in his chair. “Which is why we’re being flown out. Juliet asked us to stay involved: not just because we’re charming and impossible to resist, but because she knows you’re the only one who actually understands half the chemical names in this tea.”

Gus narrowed his eyes. “And what’s your role, exactly?”

“I bring the vibes. And moral support. And world-class improvisational genius.”

“You bring plane snacks.”

“Also crucial.”

As night fell, the air on the tarmac cooled. Juliet and Lassiter watched as the flight crew prepared the gurney, their breath visible in the glow of the floodlights.

“Dr. Cuddy says they’ll have a team ready.” Juliet reported, scanning her notes one last time. “But they’re not thrilled about outside observers.”

The case file in her hand felt heavier than usual: pages of escalating symptoms, erratic bloodwork, liver anomalies, all documented with a cold clinical detachment. Stamped across several pages: “psychosomatic dismissal.” In hospital code, that meant they thought Eva’s illness was all in her head, until it might be too late.

Lassiter’s eyes narrowed. “Then we don’t just observe. We assist. They can like it or lump it.”

As they boarded the plane, Eva unconscious but stable, Juliet slid into her seat beside Lassiter. Shawn and Gus took the row behind, already bickering over snack rations.

“You packed snacks, right?” Shawn whispered urgently. “Because flying hungry is how you end up suspecting the flight attendant of poisoning.”

“I swear to God.” Lassiter muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Gus chimed in, “By the way, we appreciate you covering the cost and letting us tag along. We’ll try not to embarrass the department—or poison anyone.”

Juliet pressed her forehead to the window as the tarmac slipped past. This wasn’t just another case, it was a ticking clock, and the stakes were rising with every mile.

She hoped Princeton-Plainsboro was ready. They were about to be tested, whether they liked it or not.

Chapter Text

Juliet O’Hara stepped through the automatic doors of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, the crisp air conditioning brushing away the fatigue of travel. She moved with quiet confidence, the file under her serving as both a tool and a shield. Her steady presence revealing years spent being underestimated, and thriving on it.

Beside her, Carlton Lassiter’s eyes swept the bustling lobby, scanning the crowd like a detective in a crime scene. Even without his badge, everything about him screamed law enforcement. He squinted up at the fluorescent lights. “You’d think a hospital could spring for better lighting. This feels like an interrogation room.”

Juliet gave a dry smile, shifting the file. “Pretty sure that’s the idea. Keep everyone just uncomfortable enough to stay alert.”

Behind them, the low hum of a food cart nearly masked the sound of familiar bickering.

“I’m just saying,” Shawn murmured to Gus as they entered, “New Jersey has that _weird hum_. Like a haunted power grid. If we all disappear, I’m blaming electromagnetic interference.”

“It’s a hospital, Shawn.” Gus replied, unimpressed. “That’s the sound of fluorescent light and human misery.”

At the reception desk, a nurse caught sight of Lassiter’s scowl and immediately paged someone. Within moments, Dr. Lisa Cuddy appeared, her stride sharp, expression polite but worn thin. Her blazer said business, her eyes said she hadn’t slept much.

“Detectives O’Hara, Lassiter,” she greeted, extending a hand. “Welcome to Princeton-Plainsboro. You’ve brought us quite the medical mystery.” Juliet shook her hand. “More like a test you didn’t know you’d be taking.” Cuddy raised an eyebrow. “You’d be surprised how many of those we get.”

Juliet went on. “Sorry about the late transfer. We’d have sent the files sooner, but we weren’t sure anyone would read it.” Cuddy’s gaze narrowed just slightly, lips twitching into something between a smirk and a flinch. “This hospital doesn’t ignore incoming fire. It just triages the fallout.”

She motioned for them to follow, heels clicking against the polished floor. “The patient’s being prepped for intake. I’ve cleared a suite near diagnostics and scheduled an initial consult with House’s team, though he...” she paused, a shadow of annoyance crossing her eyes, “has not exactly approved the arrangement.”

Juliet shot her a look. “Does he ever?”

Cuddy’s smile was wry. “Not even once.”

The hallway grew quieter the farther they walked. Lassiter’s eyes swept every corner, cataloguing exits, angles and potential threats. The air felt too sterile. Distant beeps and soft footsteps echoed like a soundtrack for high-stakes waiting.

“I assume you’ve read the files?” Cuddy asked over her shoulder.

“Everything from the last hospital,” Juliet said. “Symptoms are ramping up fast. Liver’s in trouble. Brain function could go next. Last hospital’s notes were all over the place.”

“She’s scared,” Lassiter added. “And she knows things. Industry stuff. This isn’t just medical.”

Cuddy stopped at the elevator, appraising them. “Is the patient a witness or a victim?”

“Both,” Juliet answered without hesitation.

“Then be ready,” Cuddy said. “House doesn’t do emotional. He’ll see her as a puzzle first. It’s his… way.”

“If he doesn’t take this seriously,” Lassiter said flatly, “he’ll have to deal with me.”

Cuddy gave a half-smile. “Careful. He might enjoy that.”

The elevator chimed. As the doors opened, Shawn and Gus caught up, each carrying bags and at least one half-eaten muffin between them. Shawn looked like he’d just wandered in from a college campus or a surfboard expo. Gus looked like he’d taken five deep breaths before entering the building and still wasn’t convinced he belonged here. “We come bearing caffeine,” Shawn declared, offering a drink toward Cuddy. “And suspicious but heartfelt optimism. But mostly caffeine.”

Cuddy took the coffee, scrutinizing Shawn and Gus in turn.

Juliet sighed, quietly resigned. “That’s Shawn. That’s Gus. They’re consulting.” Gus gave a diplomatic nod. “We specialize in efficiency. In short bursts.” Cuddy sipped the coffee. Considered them like she was taking inventory. “We’ll need all the help we can get.”

The elevator doors closed, sealing them in a brief, shared silence.

The elevator doors opened on the diagnostics floor, a quieter wing with a palpable level of tension beneath the antiseptic air and fluorescent lights. The hospital’s polished cheer gave way to hard edges and urgency.

Cuddy led them briskly through the glass corridors of Princeton-Plainsboro, heels clicking against the tile. Juliet walked beside her, crisp and composed, while Lassiter stalked just behind with his usual scowl and sidearm tension. Shawn lagged slightly, taking in every surface with the wide-eyed curiosity of a man who had no intention of respecting the rules. “Feels like the kind of place that has emergency backup whiteboards,” he whispered to Gus. “That’s because it is,” Gus muttered. “Keep your hands to yourself.”

The team passed a nurse with a harried expression and a doctor speaking too fast into a headset. A tech brushed past with a tray of vials. No one looked at the newcomers for more than a second. It was the kind of place where everyone was too busy saving lives to make introductions.

“He knows you're coming,” Cuddy said, voice level. “Doesn’t mean he’s waiting for you.”

“Lovely.” Lassiter muttered.

“That's one word for it.”

She reached a glass-paneled door and pushed it open without knocking.

The diagnostics conference room felt like a mind laid bare. Books. Files. Anatomical models crowded beside empty coffee cups. A half-eaten bag of pretzels perched on a shelf between two unread journals. The whiteboard stood at the far end, already smudged from whatever theory had come before this one. Three doctors turned as the group entered. They were already half-guarded, like they’d been warned but not convinced.

“Dr. Cameron, Dr. Chase, and Dr. Foreman,” Cuddy said. “This is Detective O’Hara, Detective Lassiter, Mr. Spencer, and Mr. Guster. They're consulting on the case involving Eva Ramirez.” 

Cameron stepped forward, polite. “You arranged the transfer?” Juliet nodded. “She’s a whistleblower in a corporate case. Her records were being dismissed or scrubbed. We couldn’t risk her being diagnosed out of credibility.” Foreman’s brow rose slightly. “So you brought her to House?”

“Yeah,” Lassiter said, folding his arms. “Trust me. That wasn’t our first choice.”

Shawn stepped forward and extended his hand to Cameron with theatrical flourish. “You’ve got kind eyes and a clipboard that says ‘I know more than you, but I’ll still explain it nicely.’ I trust you already.” Cameron gave him a bemused look, only halfway returning the handshake. “Thanks... I think?”

He turned to Chase, giving him a once-over. “And you! Neatly trimmed stubble. Posture like a knight, but with surgical scrubs. You’re the one who cuts people open and keeps his emotions under titanium lock. Also? Excellent conditioner.”

Chase studied Shawn, but turned to Juliet. “And you’re with the Santa Barbara Police?”

Juliet nodded. “Detectives O’Hara and Lassiter. These are associates assisting us with the case.” She left their titles vague, offering no further explanation. Shawn gave a little wave, Gus nodded, letting the moment pass.

Cameron raised an eyebrow. “And do any of you have actual medical training?”

“Gus does.” Shawn said brightly. “He minored in human physiology and majored in making pharmacists nervous.”

Gus stepped in before Shawn could derail the conversation. “I’ve been reviewing her supplement list. She was using comfrey extract, passionflower, and what might be unlisted Syrian Rue. If that’s accurate, she’s dealing with a mild MAOI analog. Combine that with a diet high in tyramine, and you’re looking at a systemic overload.”

The doctors exchanged looks. Foreman uncrossed his arms. Cameron leaned in. Chase looked intrigued.

“You have a pharmacology background?” Foreman asked. “Pharmaceutical sales, toxicology certification. I know how people accidentally poison themselves,” Gus said evenly. Cuddy crossed her arms. “Which is exactly why you’re all here. Dr. House might not say it out loud, but he listens when he thinks he’s missing something.”

“Does he know they’re not doctors?” Foreman asked, tone wary. “House doesn’t care if they’re the janitors,” Cuddy replied. “If they’re right, he’ll use it. If not, he’ll mock them. Either way, it’s progress.”

Just then, the door creaked open. Conversation faltered; every head turned. For a moment, the air seemed to hold its breath.

Dr. Gregory House limped into the room, cane tapping a deliberate rhythm on the floor. He didn’t speak at first. Didn’t even look at them. His eyes landed on the whiteboard like it had offended him in a past life. He picked up a marker. Popped the cap off. Then, casually, without turning:

“Let me guess. Sick wellness coach. Bad supplement habit. Transferred by a cop with trust issues, a sidekick who probably hugs his badge at night, a fake psychic, and a guy who smells like allergy meds.”

Gus muttered, “That’s bergamot and responsibility.”

House turned just enough to glance at him. Then back to the board. “Even better.”

He paused, surveying the group. Juliet held her ground. Lassiter stared back with a look that could start wars. Shawn practically bounced. House’s eyes lingered on Gus just a second longer than the others.

“Let’s see if she’s dying from pseudoscience or corporate malpractice. Either way, I’m already bored.”

Chapter Text

The marker squeaked against the whiteboard.

House stood in front of it with an expression that hovered between disinterest and provocation. In one swipe of red ink, he scrawled across the surface:
Eva Ramirez – 29F
hallucinations, liver issues, tremors, mental fog.

He tapped the cap of the marker against his thigh, not turning. “Let’s assume it’s not ghosts,” he said flatly, “even though she was reportedly holding a conversation with a potted plant and an unplugged fax machine.”

“Hallucinations with progressive hepatic markers and central nervous involvement.” Foreman said, ignoring the sarcasm. “Could be early hepatic encephalopathy.”

“Except the ammonia levels don't match.” Cameron pointed out. She shifted her clipboard under her arm, flipping a page. “And she’s on a mostly plant-based, low-tyramine diet. Her labs don’t support a full encephalopathy profile.”

“Maybe Wilson’s disease.” Chase offered. “Rare, but a genetic copper metabolism disorder might explain both liver stress and neuro symptoms.”

“She’s twenty-nine,” Cameron countered. “no juvenile onset indicators, no family history.”

House tilted his head. “And no Kayser–Fleischer rings. But I like the attempt. Extra credit for obscure.”

“Recreational drug use?” Chase offered with a shrug.

Juliet, standing near the side table with the files, cleared her throat. “She’s clean. The tox screen came back negative. And she’s kept logs of everything she’s taken.”

“I checked the bag,” Lassiter said. “everything was labeled, nothing hidden.”

“So she’s either organized or a very neat liar.” House mused. “Let’s go with both.”

“She drinks comfrey tea regularly,” Gus cut in. “that alone can wreck your liver. Combine it with passionflower, which amplifies sedation and possibly Syrian Rue, which mimics MAOI effects...”

House’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Toxic tea leaves. Adorable.” Gus met his gaze. “People poison themselves trying to get better. I’ve seen it.” House spun the marker toward him like a pointer. “Finally. A non-doctor with actual value. Keep him.”

“He’s not up for auction.” Lassiter said flatly.

House pointed at him with the marker. “You are definitely the sidekick who hugs his badge at night.”

Then House circled liver and brain in two quick jabs and drew a line between them.

“Either we’re dealing with a slow-burn tox reaction, or something is misfiring systemically. Which would be more exciting if it weren’t wrapped in artisanal tea leaves and naturopath conspiracy.”

He turned toward Gus again. “Speaking of herbs and hearsay, do we even trust the logs she kept?”

“We catalogued them.” Gus said, even and steady. “She wrote everything down. Dose, time, batch ID, brand. I cross-referenced it with her journals.” Cameron looked up from her clipboard, more curious than sceptical now. “You did that when?”

“On the flight. In the car. In the hallway,” Gus said. “One of the blends, her ‘nighttime clarity tea’, matches every spike in her symptoms.” Foreman raised an eyebrow. “The same one you think had Syrian Rue?”

“That would explain the MAOI symptoms.” Gus confirmed. “It’s not on the label, but the chemical profile fits. And her reaction timing’s too precise to be coincidence.”

Cameron nodded, already scribbling a note. “That’s actually… really useful.”

Cuddy shifted slightly from where she stood, arms crossed—but this time her voice was clear and clipped, cutting through the room like a scalpel. “Focus. The patient’s deteriorating. Her temperature is rising and her response time’s delayed. If she tanks during intake, this becomes a PR nightmare.”

Cameron looked up, voice firmer now. “It’s not just the labs. She’s tracking her own symptoms obsessively. She knows she’s getting worse.”

“She thinks it started after the blend was reformulated.” Chase said, catching on. “Could be autoimmune. Something like lupus, aggravated by her supplements.”

“Or mitochondrial dysfunction.” Cameron added. “The way her fatigue presents; it’s patterned, not random. And she’s describing sensory glitches. She said it feels like... like buzzing behind her teeth.”

Foreman raised a brow. “If the supplements unmasked it, that would explain the neurological profile.”

House drew a box around a new heading:
Corporate Liability / Whistleblower?

“Or,” he said, “she got poisoned. Slowly. By a company with too many lawyers and no ethics. You did say ‘whistleblower,’ right?”

Juliet stepped closer. “We found internal emails. VitaVerde’s been altering ingredient profiles after approval. The blend she was sampling was changed twice in a month. Without warning.”

“She caught on,” Lassiter added. “and she told someone.”

House snorted. “So she gets sick, gets dismissed, and now she's our problem. The American dream.”

“We need labs.” Foreman said. “Full tox, LFTs, ammonia, ceruloplasmin. Recheck her MAO activity. Genetic panel if we’re going mitochondrial.”

House tapped the board. “Cameron: full metabolic, tox, mitochondrial markers. Chase: copper, enzymes. Foreman: neuro panel, visual tracking, audio hallucination triggers. And someone go talk to the ghost whisperer. If she starts speaking Latin, I want to be first to call dibs on the exorcism rights.”

Shawn leaned over to Gus. “Told you. Way more fun than that time you took me to the reflexology conference.”

“At least the reflexologists didn’t threaten to biopsy your soul.”

The team scattered. Cameron gathering her files, Foreman heading for the labs, Chase already halfway out the door and Cuddy further along the hallway.

“Wait.”

House’s voice cut through the shuffle. Everyone paused. He lifted his cane and gestured toward the Psych team like they were an art installation.

“I get the cops.” he said, nodding at Juliet and Lassiter. “One has a badge and a moral compass. The other has a badge and untreated hypertension. Logical.” He swept the cane toward Gus. “Pharma guy. Knows more about comfrey than most interns. Annoyingly helpful.” Then he zeroed in on Shawn. “But you,” House narrowed his eyes. “you’re the variable. The psychic.”

Shawn blinked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I say that like it’s laughable. I collect dysfunction. Yours is tragically under-labeled.”

Juliet tried to intervene. “House—”

“No, no,” House waved her off. “let’s be clear. I don’t care about credentials. I’ve solved cases with janitors and eyelid twitches. But I draw the line at ‘the vibes told me it was liver failure.’”

“I bring intuition. Moral support. Jazz hands, in emergencies.” Shawn said.

“Wonderful. A Magic 8-Ball with hair gel.”

“He’s a consultant.” Juliet added quickly.

“Psychic consultant.” Lassiter said, deadpan.

“You actually believe that?” House asked.

“Officially? Sure.”

“Unofficially?”

“He solves cases,” Lassiter replied.

“I’m not interested in belief,” Shawn said. “just results.”

“Absolutely.” Gus agreed. “He’s the best in the business.”

House raised an eyebrow. “You know he’s full of it, right?”

“He’s never been wrong.” Gus replied.

“I’m wrong all the time.” Shawn said cheerfully. “Just never when it counts.”

Foreman groaned. “Tell me we’re not letting a con man help diagnose someone.”

“Or a high-functioning delusional.” Cameron muttered.

“Either way, it’s entertaining.” Chase said.

“Not to the Santa Barbara PD.” Shawn replied. “Over 200 cases. Spookily accurate.”

“You’re not denying it?” Cameron asked.

“Why would I? The universe is mysterious. I’m just really good at reading it.”

“So… nothing, with flair.” House said.

“That’s my gift.”

“And statistically,” Gus added, “his ‘flair’ closes cases faster than some diagnostics teams.”

House gave Gus a long look. “True?”

“We have spreadsheets.”

After a pause, House turned to the board and scrawled in red:
Instinct

“Fine. Mystic Meg stays. But if he pulls tarot during the MRI, someone’s getting sedated.”

“I’d never use tarot in diagnostics,” Shawn said. “that’s for dating.”

Foreman groaned. Cameron almost smiled. Juliet walked out with Lassiter, eyes forward.

“You two,” House said to Juliet and Lassiter, “are now the world’s most overqualified bodyguards. Stay near the patient. No interrogations unless someone flatlines.” Cuddy appeared in the doorway. “Escort her to diagnostics. No interference.”

Juliet nodded.

House turned to Gus and Shawn. “You two. Go do your thing. Herbalist decoding, symptom whispering. If she says anything weird, write it down.”

“We’re on it.” Gus said. “We specialize in weird,” Shawn added.

As the room emptied, House muttered, “If I overdose on good intentions, pull the plug.”

“You’re insufferable,” Cuddy said from the doorway.

“I aim for consistent.” Then he turned away, the soft tap of his cane the last sound before the room fell quiet.

Chapter Text

The fluorescent hallway outside Eva Ramirez's suite was quieter than the rest of the hospital, the kind of hush that suggested the air itself was holding its breath.

Two New Jersey officers stood before her door, one of them gripping a clipboard while leaning against the wall with the practiced casualness that said he'd been here too long. The other was watching the corridor with tired vigilance, clearly ready to hand the case off.

Juliet offered a tight smile as she presented her credentials. "Detective O'Hara, Santa Barbara PD. This is detective Lassiter. We're here for Ramirez."

Relief flickered across the officer's face as he handed over a slim stack of paperwork. "We were told you'd be arriving. Everything's included: the intake log, the transfer clearance and an incident report." He hesitated, then added. "She hasn't had any visitors except medical staff, but one man did come by. A Marcus Keene. We turned him away."

Lassiter accepted the documents, scanning the report as he signed off. “No other visitors?”

"Just doctors and nurses." The officer affirmed, already stepping back. "Good luck in there."

Juliet nodded, her tone gentle but firm. “Thank you. We’ll take it from here.” The officers’ departure felt like a collective exhale. The tension in the corridor eased, if only slightly. Juliet and Lassiter exchanged a glance, one part professional and one part personal, before Juliet tucked the paperwork under her arm and turned toward the door.

The private suite tucked into the diagnostics wing hummed with quiet tension. Monitors beeped steadily beside Eva Ramirez’s bed, their mechanical cadence the only consistent sound in a room that felt more like a sealed box than a sanctuary.

Dimmed lights eased the strain on her light-sensitive eyes, casting amber shadows across her pale skin. An IV line traced across her cheek like a tether. She looked more ghost than patient. Pale skin, dark hollows under her eyes, every breath a visible effort.

Juliet sat at a small desk beside a whiteboard, jotting notes, posture alert but calm. Lassiter took the far wall, arms folded, eyes scanning each corner like he expected an ambush. Their presence wasn’t optional. Eva was a whistleblower, and someone had already tried to follow her here.

Eva stirred, her voice dry. "Is this what witness protection feels like?" Juliet crouched beside her, her smile a gentle reassurance. "No, usually there's less paperwork and more bad disguises. But you're safe, Eva. We're here."

A fragile laugh fluttered from Eva’s throat, dissolving into a shadow of pain as she pressed a hand to her brow. Juliet didn’t move away, just waited until the pain passed.

A soft knock, then Cameron entered quietly and alone.

Clipboard in hand. Expression neutral, but there was a small edge in her voice when she greeted Eva. “Hi, Eva. I’m Dr. Cameron. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions before the rest of the team comes in?” Eva nodded, just once. Juliet watched from her seat, saying nothing.

Cameron lowered herself into the chair beside the bed, eyes scanning the monitor briefly before refocusing on the woman in front of her. “When did this all begin?”

“My hands.” Eva said. “They shook. I thought I was just tired. Then came the pressure. Behind my eyes. I couldn’t focus.”

“You were taking the tea then?” Cameron asked. Eva nodded. “They changed it. I know they did. Same label. Different taste. I logged it.” She gestured weakly to the bedside notebook. Cameron flipped it open. Neat handwriting. Color-coded. Pain scores, sleep hours, phrases like can’t finish sentences and tea too dark.

“And the cognitive stuff?”

“I wrote backwards once. Right to left. Didn’t notice until the page was full.” Cameron paused her pen. “That’s not nothing.” Eva managed a faint smile. “Tell that to the last hospital.” Cameron’s reply was quiet, but certain. “We’re not the last hospital.”

Another pause. Then a knock, a brisk one this time.

Cameron stood, gave Eva a small nod, and walked to the door to open it.

Foreman entered first, followed by a nurse wheeling in equipment. Chase came next, flipping through a thick file. And last, as always, came House. His cane tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm on the floor as he stepped into the room, already halfway into a grimace.

Cameron moved to the side, clearing space.

House paused in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the room and assessing its occupants, lingering on Juliet and Lassiter. “Ah, the cavalry. Or is it the chaperones? Either way, welcome to diagnostic purgatory.” Lassiter tensed, but didn't rise to the bait. 

He turned to Eva. “The ghost whisperer's still kicking. That’s inconvenient.”

Eva blinked sluggishly. “You’re… House?”

“Depends. Are you planning to sue me?”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he turned to Foreman. “Vitals?”

“She’s conscious.” Foreman noted, leaning in to check the IV line. “Still no fever. Blood pressure’s low but stable. Motor response is sluggish. Could be mitochondrial.”

"No inflammation." Cameron added, reviewing the chart. “If it is, it’s atypical.”

Chase frowned. “Trace lead elevation, but not enough for acute toxicity.”

“That’s our problem.” House said, moving closer to the bed. “Everything’s wrong, but nothing’s wrong enough. The perfect poison: not strong, just persistent.” He picked up Eva’s notepad with a practiced hand. “I love a patient who journals their own downfall. Any new symptoms?”

Eva shook her head, her movements slow. “Just... more tired. And the buzzing.”

“She tracks everything.” Juliet said quietly. “She’s not trying to be dramatic. She knew something was wrong.” House raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, flipping through the notes. Chase and Foreman shared a glance. 

A moment later, Shawn and Gus appeared in the doorway. Shawn sipped from a juice box. “Sorry I’m late. I was communing with the vending machine. The chips said this room needed backup.”

“Wonderful.” House muttered. “I was just thinking this case lacked whimsy.”

"He's here to help." Juliet said evenly.

"Sure," House said. "let him guess a few wrong answers. That’s tradition."

Gus stepped forward, holding a sealed bag. “These are her remaining supplements. We catalogued the blends. One of them, her ‘night-time clarity blend’, matches up with symptom spikes.”

Foreman raised an eyebrow. “You catalogued them?”

Gus didn’t shrug this time. “Dates, dosage, effect. I aligned her logs with symptom windows. There’s a pattern, and that blend is where it sharpens.” House blinked. “Annoying. But not useless.”

Cameron took the bag, inspecting the label. “No listed MAOIs. No controlled substances.”

“That’s what makes it dangerous.” Gus said. “We think it includes Syrian Rue which is unlisted. Harmine, specifically.” House’s eyes sharpened. “That’s an MAOI. Reversible, but tricky. Doesn’t show on standard tox panels.”

Foreman looked up from the monitor. “Her neuro response is worsening.”

“She still lucid?” House asked. Cameron leaned closer to the bed. “Eva? Can you hear me?”

Eva blinked, slowly. “It’s buzzing again... behind my teeth.”

“Light sensitivity, nerve pain and now dental feedback." Cameron said. “It fits.”

“Which could mean neurotoxicity.” Foreman muttered. “Or something targeting her sensory pathways.”

“I want new panels.” House said. “Isolate each supplement. I want a breakdown of every chemical her liver has touched in the last thirty days.”

“And if it’s not the tea?” Chase asked.

House shot him a sharp look. “Then stop lumping and start isolating. Foreman, retest her auditory tolerance thresholds. Cameron, full tox screen: including MAOI analogs. Chase, test every supplement for harmine or related compounds.” House turned to leave. 

House lingered, eyes on Shawn. “What’s the psychic verdict?” Shawn shrugged. “You getting hit with your cane. Repeatedly.” House smiled. “A classic. Try to stay useful.”

Later, in the hallway, Juliet and Lassiter conferred with Gus and Shawn.

“We’re missing a tea packet from the first lot.” Gus said. “That’s when Eva’s tremors peaked.”

Juliet’s eyes narrowed. “If it’s still in hospital evidence, that’s our best shot.” Lassiter was already texting. “I’ll have the local team pull the trash logs.” Shawn leaned close, voice low. “It’s not just the tea. Someone’s watching her. Keene doesn’t just show up for a corporate apology.” Juliet’s hand tightened on her notepad. “Then no visitors. No staff access unless we’re in the room.”

They shared a nod, an agreement born of long hours and worse instincts. The hallway buzzed with quiet fluorescent light.

Chapter Text

Rain traced thin silver lines down the tall windows, a steady percussion of water against glass that softened the edges of the room. The light was muted, filtered through the clouds outside, casting everything in soft gray. The faint hum of Wilson’s desktop fan stirred the air, blending with the low rustle of turning pages and the occasional scratch of pen against paper.

It was, for a time, peaceful.

Then the door creaked open without a knock. Of course.

He entered with all the subtlety of a stage cue, paused in the doorway like he was considering whether the room had changed, then limped in and made a beeline for the half-hidden box of granola bars. "Those are for emergencies." Wilson said without looking up.

"I am one." House replied, already unwrapping the chocolate one. He dropped into the visitor’s chair like gravity owed him something and took a bite, chewing noisily. Wilson sighed and closed the chart. "You only show up uninvited when something’s annoyed you, intrigued you, or both. Which is it?"

House didn’t answer right away. He stared out the window, watching the rain trace lazy paths down the glass. Then, finally: "What’s your opinion on people who say nothing helpful but still manage to hijack the room by being just weird enough?"

Wilson raised a brow. "Are you asking professionally, or are you finally admitting you’ve started hallucinating from boredom?"

House ignored it. "I’m talking about people who float into a conversation, say something vague and mystical, maybe quote an old proverb or describe someone’s aura and suddenly they’ve cracked the case because everyone else filled in the blanks for them."

"So… psychics?"

"Or conmen. Same difference." He took another bite, swallowed. "Charisma plus timing. Sprinkle in some pop culture references and just enough dramatic pause, and suddenly they’re the Oracle of Princeton."

Wilson smiled faintly. "Sounds like someone I know."

"Please. I use actual data. These people use vibes." He took another bite. "One of them’s got hair like a shampoo ad. No badge, no reason to be there, just… loiters. Watches. Smirks. Occasionally offers a mystical comment about energy or flavor notes."

Wilson leaned back in his chair, arms folded. "And people are buying his insights?"

"That’s the sales pitch." House's voice sharpened slightly. "And so far he hasn’t said anything of substance. Not one actual diagnostic suggestion. Just… metaphor and attitude and the ability to make my team twitch when he talks."

"And you haven’t kicked him out?"

"He hasn’t interfered. Yet." House tapped his cane lightly against the floor. "But the other one is worse."

"Another psychic?"

"No. Something far more dangerous. A well-organized person with a spreadsheet."

That got a laugh out of Wilson. "Go on."

"His friend is the human equivalent of a compliance binder. Neat coat. Serious eyes. Carries a supplement log like it’s evidence in a federal trial. He catalogued every blend she took. Labeled them. Matched them to symptoms by day and dose. Color-coded. All without being asked."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "And no one’s questioned why they’re there?"

House shrugged. "The cops seem to think they’re helpful. The psychic floats. The other guy backs him up. Never apart. Like one of them gets the attention and the other keeps them from drowning in it."

Wilson tilted his head. "Sounds co-dependent."

“Sounds practiced,” House muttered. “The psychic says something dumb. The other guy explains it in post. And between them, they’ve somehow embedded themselves in my case like a pop-up ad with helpful footnotes.” Wilson tilted his head. “So one’s annoying. The other’s useful.”

"Exactly. Which is why it’s irritating. The loud one’s useless. The quiet one’s handed Cameron a supplement log so meticulous it had timestamps, dosage breakdowns, and symptom correlations by blend. She started cross-referencing it with lab markers and realized he’d already flagged the thujone window."

House paused, then added, quieter. "And the patient... she wasn’t far behind. Logged her own reactions. Pain scores, tremor patterns, even her stress levels. Handwritten, organized, color-coded. Like she knew nobody else would believe her unless she left a map behind." He tapped his cane once. "My team’s not running point. They’re following trails."

Wilson’s expression sobered. "She wasn’t just reporting symptoms."

"No. She was building her own chart. Trying to solve it before we ever showed up."

There was a beat of silence. "And now?"

"Now she’s fading," House said. "but slowly, intentionally." He tilted his head, voice low. "Like whoever did this wanted her to feel it."

Wilson was quiet a moment. "And you’re still on the case."

"Because someone changed what she was taking. Deliberately. And because the weirdos in the room are watching things my team isn’t." He flicked the empty granola wrapper into the trash with casual precision.

"You think they’re hiding something?"

"I think they’re used to bluffing." House replied. "But I haven’t caught them doing it yet."

Wilson leaned forward slightly. "So let me get this straight: You’ve got a slow-burning poisoning case, two tagalongs with no credentials, and you haven’t kicked them out because the room is… what? Quirky?"

"Because the margins are messy." House said. "The core’s solvable. The setup’s clean. But the room around it keeps smudging."

"Still don’t know their names?"

"Hair guy. Clipboard guy. Supplement girl." House stood, adjusting his cane. "And if any of them do something truly interesting, I might bother learning a syllable."

He made it halfway to the door before Wilson called out—

"Try pretending to care. You might like it."

"I could," House said. "But then I’d have to remember birthdays."

And then he was gone, vanishing into the quiet rhythm of the hallway, leaving Wilson and the soft murmur of rain behind.

The diagnostics lab was quiet in a way that invited second thoughts. The hum of the centrifuge filled the sterile space like an anxious thought that hadn’t resolved. The soft clinks of glassware and the occasional beep from the analyzer punctuated the silence, but just barely.

Cameron stood near the light panel, tilting a vial toward it, her eyes narrowed, lashes casting delicate shadows across her cheek. Her brow furrowed. “This bile acid profile’s still elevated.” she said softly. “She shouldn’t be this reactive. Not after three days off the supplement.”

Chase leaned in, peering over her shoulder. His hair was a mess, flattened in some places, sticking up in others, a testament to how often he’d raked his fingers through it today. “Still blaming the harmine?”

Cameron didn’t look up. “Partially. House still thinks it fits. And it might. But it’s not the whole story.”

Across the room, Foreman stood with arms folded, a frown cut deep into his features. “ALT’s spiking again. Whatever’s irritating the liver is still hanging on, but it’s not behaving like a drug overdose. This is tapering, not clearing.”

Chase crossed to the counter. “So... delayed metabolism?”

“Or something binding to a tissue site” Foreman said. “Low-dose, maybe. Or interacting with something we haven’t ID’d yet.”.

Cameron glanced down at the panel again. “It’s not just her liver. There’s something systemic. Patterned. Her symptom fluctuations line up with dosing windows.”

“Gus brought in that supplement log.” Chase added. “Color-coded. Time-stamped. If he hadn’t, we wouldn’t have caught the overlap in her tremor patterns.”

“He missed his calling.” Cameron said, almost admiring. “He could give the pharmacy techs a run for their money.” Foreman arched an eyebrow. “Why is he not on payroll?”

Chase smirked. “Because he’s voluntarily hanging out with someone who thinks he’s psychic.”

Cameron gave a half-smile, then opened the folder again. “Still. The log wasn’t guesswork. It lined up with her neuro panels better than half the clinic referrals we get.” She tapped a page gently. “Eva did the rest. Pain scores. Stress markers. Sleep cycles. Symptom drift by time of day. She even noted if the tea looked darker than usual. She was building a diagnostic trail before anyone asked her to.”

Foreman’s brow tightened. “That’s not normal patient behaviour.”

“She wasn’t being a patient.” Cameron said. “She was making a record. In case no one listened.”

The centrifuge let out a final whir and clicked to a halt. A soft chime followed. Cameron moved toward the terminal.

The screen lit up with a faint blue glow. Cameron read the result, then blinked slowly. “She’s metabolizing thujone.”

Foreman straightened. “Thujone? That wasn’t in any of the blends we tested.”

“Mugwort, maybe. Or wormwood.” Cameron replied. “It’s a known neurotoxin in high doses. Small amounts are legal in herbal blends, but...”

“But not listed.” Chase said. “It’s a gray zone. It shouldn’t be there.”

“She’s been drinking from an alchemist’s apothecary.” Cameron said, half under her breath. “And none of it’s regulated.”

“Psychic team mentioned unlisted botanicals.” Foreman said. “One of the blends didn’t match the vendor’s published formula.”

Chase nodded toward the folder. “Gus’s log caught the symptom shift. She started showing tremors and delay patterns the same week that blend changed color.”

Cameron exhaled slowly. “She was paying closer attention than we were.”

Foreman gave a small nod. “She caught the slope.”

The next chime from the analyzer came sharper, more insistent. Cameron leaned in.

Her expression darkened. “That’s synthetic.” Foreman stepped forward. “That’s not plant-derived.” Chase squinted at the screen. “It’s a binding agent. Common in time-release supplements. Not in anything she reported taking.”

“No herbalist puts this in a blend.” Cameron said quietly. “That’s pharmaceutical-grade coating. Someone gave her something extra.”

“And didn’t tell her,” Foreman added.

They stared at the screen a moment longer. The hum of the lab suddenly felt heavier, the clean smell of alcohol wipes sharper in their noses.

“We should tell House” Cameron said finally.

“Let’s confirm first.” Chase replied. “You know how he gets with half-formed theories.”

Foreman nodded slowly. “Still, this changes the game. Someone tampered with her tea. That’s intentional.”

Cameron’s gaze flicked toward the hallway. “If that’s true, we need to start asking better questions.”

“Like who had access.” Foreman added.

“And who knew.” Chase said.

The lab fell quiet again. And this time, the silence had weight.

The vending machine hummed in the corner, casting a pale wash of blue across the hospital’s after-hours lounge. It was too late for coffee, too early for breakfast. Most of the lights were off, except one flickering panel overhead that buzzed like it had opinions.

Gus sat near the far wall, notebook open, pen resting in the spiral. He wasn’t writing. Just sitting with it.

Shawn was stretched out along the molded plastic couch, one arm over his eyes, mismatched socks poking out from under the hem of a too-warm blanket someone had dumped on the chair beside him. He looked like he’d claimed squatter’s rights on exhaustion.

No one had spoken for a while.

“She was trying to solve it.” Gus said finally, voice low. Shawn shifted but didn’t lift his arm. “Eva?”

“Yeah.”

The pen rolled a little as Gus tapped the notebook. “We knew this was bad. I just didn’t think it would feel like this.” Shawn lowered his arm slowly. Looked at the ceiling. “She did everything right. And it still wasn’t enough.”

Gus nodded. “She logged every reaction. Every ingredient. Adjusted dosage. Documented what food she ate that day. Her handwriting even changes when the symptoms kick in.”

“She’s got cleaner data than most hospitals.”

“Yeah,” Gus said. “and people still called it anxiety. Or burnout. Or made-up.”

Shawn sat up a little, leaned forward on his elbows. The mood was different tonight, no jokes and no voices. Just the sense that something had been tilted slightly out of place and hadn’t settled since.

“She trusted those blends,” Gus said. “you can tell. The way she labeled them. Organized everything. She didn’t think she was doing anything dangerous.”

“And someone used that.” Shawn said quietly. His voice didn’t have its usual rhythm. No dramatic pause. Just truth, flat and spare. Gus looked down at the notebook. “You think House knows?”

“He knows.” Shawn said. “He just won’t say it until he can prove it. And maybe not even then.”

Silence settled in again. They let it.

After a moment, Gus flipped the notebook closed and tucked it under his arm. “I’m gonna recheck the vendor logs. See if the batch numbers match across blends. If someone substituted ingredients without telling her... it might show up in the overlap.”

Shawn stood, slower than usual, blanket slipping off his shoulders. He rubbed a hand over his face. “You want help?”

Gus hesitated. Then nodded.

They didn’t go far. Just down the corridor, past the vending machine and toward the closed door they’d quietly kept watch on for hours. They weren’t official security. But they’d seen the man in the navy jacket earlier. Loitering, pretending to check his phone. Glancing just a little too long at the nurse’s clipboard.

They hadn’t brought it up yet. Not really. But it sat there, unspoken, between them.

Someone else was watching Eva. Someone who didn’t belong here.

Their footsteps were soft against the polished floor, the hospital mostly asleep around them. Somewhere down the hall, a machine beeped once. Then quiet again.

Behind them, the vending machine buzzed on, unresolved.