Picard to House

Five

*House*
12:33 PM, January 7, 2005

After my team's revelation, I forced myself off to see the patient for myself. Idiots who I assumed to be his slaves sat by his bedside, looking concerned. And it certainly wasn't pretty; it was difficult to see what the patient looked like through all the boils and blood.
"Looks like he got hit by a bus," I said quietly, shutting the door behind me. "And stung by a thousand bees. Did he have rabies as a kid?"
The man closest to me, a old bald guy who looked too old to be wearing leather, stood up suddenly. "I assume you're Doctor House?"
"No, I'm his personal chef," I pushed my way to the patient's IV drip. "He's barely on any morphine."
"He has a strong tolerance for pain," A dark-haired goth woman spoke up. She was leaning against her partner, an obvious wanna-be emo with smudged eyeliner.
"I don't know if you checked sweetheart, but this is a hospital, not a spiritual test clinic. He definitely needs some drugs."
"But drugs could damage his system!" The woman argued.
"Why?" I sat on the edge of the bed and pointed my cane at her. "Isn't he normal? See any aliens around here? Hmm? Or should I be calling Ghostbusters?"
"If you must know, he has a genetic condition that causes his immune system to attack painkillers that are injected. I can't allow him on a higher dosage." This time it wasn't the goth lady speaking.
I painfully shifted around to find another woman standing in the doorway. Bright orange hair shone against her lab coat, with an unreadable expression to match.
"Mysterious person. I like that," I said. "Who are you?"
"I'm Doctor Crusher. I'm his girlfriend."
"..Never heard of you."
"I've just started working here. I'm supposed to be upstairs-"
"...Nope. Still don't know you," I leapt off the bed. "I don't know if you noticed, but I'm not a receptionist who's bored and wanted to go play doctors with the ugliest patient'."
Crusher looked disgusted. "You are horrible."
"Thanks. Can I interrogate you for a moment?"
I didn't allow her an answer before shoving her outside the ICU. "Your patient has pink blood. Explain."
"Genetic disorder."
"Rule one - everybody lies."
"Well, what else do I say? He got exposed to some sort of radiation and now he's a distorted Superman?"
"That'd be a much cooler story," I said. "But I can't treat my patient-"
"Our patient."
I pretended to look hurt. "..I'm sorry, 'our' patient?"
"Yes. I've been assigned to your team for this case."
"Remember my rule? Everybody lies," The pain in my thigh began to scream again. "Now, my team are going to do some tests on this..thing. If it is a genetic disorder as you're boldly lying to me, I'm sure that will show up."
"Of course." Crusher half-smiled. "If you excuse me, I'd like to be alone with my patient for a while."
"Of  course," I mocked. "Go smooch that boyfriend of yours; it'll be a lot harder with a tube involved."
I limped back to my office, popping a couple more Vicodin on the way. "Yummy."
Cameron appeared in the doorway when I showed up, holding some folders under her arm. "We've run the tests-"
"Wow, aren't you a little rascal? I was just telling that doctor you guys were going to do them."
"You mean Beverly?"
I did a double take. "..Beverly?"
"Beverly Crusher?..Didn't Cuddy tell you? She's joined our team."
"That's ridiculous!" I exclaimed. "She's not even employed at this hospital! And I don't need her - tell Mommy I'm a big boy now."
"You wanna complain about her, go to Cuddy," Cameron sighed. "Blood tests came back negative for about a hundred infections. It's not bacterial, it's not a virus and it's not cancer."
"Get him an MRI. See what's going on in that crazy liver of his. And do a tox screen too."
"We already did a tox screen-"
"Well, why didn't you tell me?" I pouted. "Daddy needs to know these things before he starts killing a patient."
"He's completely negative. No alcohol, no drugs-"
"No overdosing on cosmetic surgery? Damn. Do a heavy metal test."
Before she could protest, I turned and started heading towards the elevator. And as expected, she came chasing after me. "Where are you going?"
"It's lunchtime," I said. "Going to steal Wilson's wallet."