In Sickness and Sonnets - A House MD & Dead Poets Society Fanfiction

A House, Divided

He barely notices the ringing in his ears over the sound of his own blood rushing as he flies down the stairs, through the living room, and into the study.

"Chase?!"

Foreman's hands against both sides of the door frame as he stares at him.

"Chase! Are..." Foreman asks urgently as he makes it into the room, "You! You are so damn dense!" He rushes over to the gun on the floor, tracing the path between it and the wall, the smell of spent gunpowder burning his nostrils. "That is NOT what I meant!" He crouches down and moves a finger over the new hole in the wall, wallpaper around it frayed, wooden splinters decorating the crimson carpet.

"I- I don't know what happened! I just dropped it!" Chase stammers, voice shaking.

"We gotta get out of here, NOW." Foreman yells as he grabs the revolver from the floor and wrenches the cloth from Chase's hand. "You seen this neighbourhood?!" Foreman exclaims, stress running his every nerve, "Cops'll be here in two seconds flat!" He yells, slamming the car door and pulling away, tires screeching under the strain.

"We didn't check the whole thing!" Chase starts,

"Screw the whole damn house! You think they're still gonna let us search the place in cuffs?! We can tell House we did!"

After a little bit of driving, Foreman drops the pace, content nobody saw them. Chase sits, still in half-stunned silence, eyes glued to the gun nestled in Foreman's lap.

"I said dump the bullet. That is not what I meant. How the hell are we gonna explain the new hole in his wall when he gets better and goes home?" Foreman sighs, racking one hand through his short hair.

"I get it! God!" Chase cries out, "You could at least be grateful it didn't make a new home in my foot instead of the guy's wall!" He points out, mentally replaying what happened over and over again. A tense breath leaves Foreman as he calms himself down.

"You're right. But I shoulda known you wouldn't know how to handle the damn thing."

"I can handle a gun!" Chase refutes, "I thought—Aren't those things supposed to have safeties?"

"Not when they're that old, they don't. Not drop protection anyway." He chuckles, having heavily emphasised the 'drop'. Foreman parks up outside the hospital, tucking the cloth-clad gun deep into his jacket pocket. "Go run your labs. I'll show House the..." He catches himself as they walk past a group of people. "The thing." He concludes, pulling away from Chase, walking into the elevator, and pressing the button.

Ding!

He strides out of the elevator and into House's office.

"So this guy, he-" Wilson stops chuckling recounting his story and turns to Foreman. "Find anything?" Only eliciting a head shake as Foreman walks into the middle of the room.

"Chase is out running his labs now. Guy has a load—I mean, a load—of books, but they were all pristine. No drugs anywhere, either." House leans back in his chair, mentally crossing off several things. "But-" House immediately raises an eyebrow, deeply familiar with this 'ace in the hole' tone Foreman gets when he's found something good. Gesturing for Wilson to pay attention, House leans forward, ready for Foreman's revelation as he reaches into his jacket, placing the cloth on House's desk.

"Some cloth? What is it, anthrax?" Wilson asks, clearly bemused.

"Nah. Look," Foreman instructs, unfurling the cloth from the barrel. "Found it with one in the chamber. Russian roulette." He reveals, glancing between the doctors. Wilson looks physically uncomfortable being so close to the tool and what it means, his eyes wider than before. But House's? House's eyes are full of intrigue.

"Suicidal? Or plain stupid?" He postulates, picking up the gun and resting his finger on the side of it. If the old bastard taught me anything, it's trigger discipline. He thinks, eyeing the piece in his hand. "So he's suicidal. Depression?" He asks aloud, cocking an eyebrow at Wilson.

"I... suppose it's possible? What does it have to do with his pneumonia?" Wilson questions, looking between Foreman and House.

"Depression," House starts, placing the gun back in the cloth, "can indicate risk-taking behaviour, if we assume he's also suicidal." He pauses to gesture to the gun. "Which I believe we can reasonably assume."

"Right. Risk-Induced pneumonia. I'm deeply familiar." Wilson states sarcastically.

"Up to you what risk means." House stands up, leaving the open-ended statement lingering in the air as he enters the other room, Cameron walking down the hall and joining him.

"Tox screen was negative." Cameron states, looking at Foreman and Wilson talking in the other room. "They find anything?"

"Nope," House says, popping the 'p'.

"Nothing? How often do we come back with nothing?" Disbelief in her voice, eyes trained on House.

"Chase is running the labs, but I get a feeling the patient is real -straight edge-."

"...Why'd you say it like that?" The disbelief in Cameron's voice being replaced by suspicion.

"Like what?" House asks, feigning ignorance, "Foreman, Wilson! Are you gonna spend all night in there?" He calls out, hooking his cane over the whiteboard. "Go."

The three of them begin to theorise, the home search adding nothing new to the list. "Ah! You're missing a few." He scribbles 'Depression' and 'Suicidal Tendencies' on the board. "Didn't I mention?"

"Depression? You said they didn't find anything." Cameron questions, looking at House and Foreman.

"Oops. I misspoke." House says dryly, joining Cameron in looking at Foreman. "What was it you found again? A big soppy note that read, 'I'm depwessed'?" None of them read into this too much, aside from Wilson. Wilson's expression is turning sourer and sourer as the conversation develops, irritation bubbling behind his eyes.

Foreman sighs, turning to Cameron. "Guy had a revolver at his place. Common visitor to Russian roulette. Can't say how often he plays, but enough to have it sat in his top drawer."

"If he's depressed, obviously suicidal, it could mean that-" Wilson clenches his fists under the table, the frustration building as the team casually throw around 'depressed' and 'suicidal.' My patients aren't just some game to me, some puzzle to be solved and thrown away. This is enough. Enough of this.

"So, what, we're taking risk factor for depression into consideration for... as to whether or not we're going to diagnose pneumonia?" Wilson suddenly asks, voice louder than all of them with irritation. "I don't mean to brush it under the rug, but I don't think suicidal people go around huffing everything they can because it just might give them an entirely curable illness!" He throws his hand onto the table in frustration. "We can ask, gently," he throws an accusatory look at House after emphasising 'gently', "if his mental health is affecting him, but for now his breathing's failing him, even with the CPAP pushing air into his lungs. He's sat, deteriorating with no answers! Neil is my patient! If he's suicidal, that's a cause for concern, but not here!" The room stays silent for a moment, stunned by the sudden outburst. Cameron looks to Foreman, who looks just as bewildered as she is.

"There's that passion!" House claps, "The sick man is sick and demanding answers, people!" He exclaims with great bravado, ignoring Chase as he walks in.

Chase enters quietly, glancing at the others; the tension almost tangible in the air. "Uh... no environmental toxins. Plates were also clean." he says, unsure if his findings were enough to cut through the thick mood.

"That! That right there is an answer we can exclude!" House yells dramatically, pointing his cane at Chase, earning an exasperated look from Wilson. He rests his cane on the floor, getting back to business. "Look, no toxins, no drugs, and no environmental exposure. That leaves us with bacteria. We're not curing his depression, but we can stop the pneumonia from killing him in the next 48 hours. Administer the gentamicin." He gives a cursory look to Wilson, who nods to the rest of the team. "And get me that sputum culture!" He shouts after them as they leave. "I'll be in my office." He mumbles.

Right. Just like that. Wilson's thoughts crowding in his mind as he hoists himself up from the table, trying to wring out his frustration before he gets to Neil's room.