Chapter 104

After speaking, House, apparently realizing quite late what he had said, awkwardly fell silent for a second.

"Do a liver biopsy," he finally said after a few seconds, completely avoiding Cameron's gaze. "When the results come back, we'll know what we're looking at."

"Why wait to treat the hep? If I'm right, Joey gets better that much faster," Chase asked, frowning, offended.

House, nodding with narrowed eyes. "Right," he said, nodding. "Then he gets to testify, and you get a gold star from Cuddy."

Opening his eyes nervously for a fraction of a second, just enough for me and surely House to notice. "And what's the downside?" Chase asked. "Or is that the downside?"

Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, "Do I have a reason for not wanting you to get any stars?" House asked, leaning toward Chase.

Chase, once again giving everything House and I needed to see, nervously avoided House's gaze, looking for a second at the other people in the room before silently shaking his head.

I knew that House, like me, suspected that someone on the team was leaking information to Vogler. Now it was clear it was Chase.

Nodding slowly, "Fine," House murmured. "Start the treatment," he added, giving in.

House rolled his eyes exasperated. "It's all your idea, don't even mention my name."

Suspiciously looking at House, Chase, who surely hadn't expected his plan to actually be followed, didn't move from his place.

A second later, House leaned on his cane and exhaled. "There's nothing wrong with your theory, go," he said, prompting Chase to move.

Both Chase and the other two doctors under House's command, upon hearing their boss's order, immediately started gathering their things to leave the room.

When the three doctors were about to walk out the door. "But in the 'humor me' department," House spoke, making them stop, "get a biopsy while you're at it," he added kindly.

This time House's words made everyone, including me, look at him strangely for a second.

I had no idea what House was planning—if I had seen through Chase's lies, it was obvious that House had too.

Overcoming the strangeness of House's kindness, the team of three doctors continued on their way out of the office.

"Foreman," House said, this time stopping only the named doctor. "We need to talk," he added, signaling with his head for him to follow into his private office. "You too, kid."

Still not understanding what House was up to, I stood up and walked uncomfortably behind Dr. Foreman toward House's office.

My paper, which had been left on House's desk, was still open to the same place we had left it earlier. "You're off the case," House said while carelessly moving the pages onto a cabinet behind his desk.

What?

"What, why?" asked Dr. Foreman, obviously just as puzzled as I was.

"Someone told Vogler that I lied to the transplant committee," House explained calmly.

Impossible that it had been Foreman—I was fairly sure. Eric Foreman wasn't a man to act thoughtlessly, and at least I knew since Dr. Hamilton's visit, Foreman, even though he personally detests House, respects him as a doctor enough not to do anything that would affect his current job under the man.

"You think I did?" Foreman asked, visibly offended.

I genuinely wanted to know the answer to that question too.

Turning his attention back to Dr. Foreman, House smiled slightly. "You're too careful, you wouldn't jump ship unless you knew what was in the water."

"Stop," Dr. Foreman said, exasperated. "You're embarrassing me," he added in a completely neutral tone.

Ignoring Foreman, "I want Vogler to think I think it's you," House declared, narrowing his eyes, seeming excited by his plan. "And I want Cameron and Chase, Cuddy and Wilson, the nursing staff," he added while walking to the exit of his office. "That's your part," he said quietly to me, prompting me to follow him. "I want everyone to think that too."

"Right," murmured Dr. Foreman just before House and I left the office.

Walking alongside House, "Why?" I asked.

"You need to be more specific than that," House said, tilting his head. "Why are there different time zones? No idea, but I strongly suspect for some political reason, there's something they don't want the rest of us to know," he added, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"What are you talk—you know what, never mind," I said immediately, exasperated with House—it was obvious the man knew what he was talking about.

"Sun Tzu said, to confuse your enemy, you must first confuse yourself," House declared, smiling with self-righteousness.

"Okay," I said, snorting. "If you really know who spoke to Vogler, then what's with all this mind game?"

"Why would you think I know who the culprit is?" House asked, raising one of his eyebrows.

"Please, it was clearly Chase," I said, rolling my eyes, exasperated.

"Yeah," House admitted, nodding his head.

"Then?"

Knowing House and analyzing the strange quote he had said, I had a theory of at least two possible reasons why he wouldn't directly confront Chase. Using Chase could be a way to outsmart Vogler cognitively, or he wanted to psychologically torture the Australian doctor. Being House, either one was perfectly possible.

"He who knows his enemy and himself need not fear the result of a thousand battles," House declared, raising one of his fingers.

"Let me guess, Sun Tzu again?" I asked, remembering House's earlier quote.

House, shrugging. "I don't know, I read it in a fortune cookie."

Deciding House had no intention of giving a real answer to my question, I shook my head and snorted.

The rest of the time we walked back to the clinic in complete silence.

Back in the clinic, I continued with 'my work' attending patients while House, with his feet up on another chair, silently read a magazine.

"Mr. Kane, tell me what brings you here?" I asked the last patient I had called.

Even though I had asked, I was pretty sure it had something to do with his butt. From before I had even called him until he was inside the room, the man hadn't sat down at any point.

Mr. Kane, looking at House uncomfortably for a few seconds, turned his attention back to me a moment later. "I needed to go to the bathroom and I tripped."

"Sure," I said, nodding, imagining where this was going—it always happened. They slip and mysteriously something gets in there.

Slowly lowering his pants, which were actually completely unbuttoned hidden behind his shirt, the man turned to show his butt. "There was a cactus," he declared, lowering his boxers and revealing his bare backside.

"Oh my," I whispered, seeing the man's butt filled with easily dozens of embedded spines. "Okay," I said, dragging the word out, unable to take my eyes off all the wounds.

I was wrong, this did look like an accident.

Snapping out of my trance the moment I saw House peeking over his magazine from the corner of my eye, I quickly moved to wash my hands, grabbed gloves and forceps.

Putting the gloves on my hands. "I'll have to pull out each spine, it's going to hurt, please don't move."

"Yes."

To Mr. Kane's credit, the man handled the pain surprisingly well, only tensing for a fraction of a second after each spine was pulled out.

With just a few spines left to completely clean the man's butt, the office door burst open. "Dr. House," said a voice I didn't immediately recognize.

"Woah, the curtains are closed for a reason," I said, moving to block the view of the man's exposed ass. "We're busy here," I added, annoyed.

"Yeah, I can see you're busy," declared the voice, which I now recognized as Mr. Arnello.

Lowering the magazine he was reading at that moment. "What? I'm supervising," House explained shamelessly.

"We need to talk," Mr. Arnello said seriously.

House, joining his hands in front of his abdomen and lowering his feet from the chair. "Sure, let's do it," he said calmly, smiling.

Looking at Mr. Kane's bare backside, "Out," said Mr. Arnello, appropriately uncomfortable with the situation.

Sighing, House slowly stood up. "How much longer?" he asked me.

"Three minutes," I said, quickly estimating.

"All right, let's go," House said, walking out of the office with Mr. Arnello.

Once Mr. Kane and I were alone in the office, "I'm sorry about that," I murmured, embarrassed.

"It's all right," the man replied, sighing, apparently accepting the fact that more people had seen his butt.

I wasn't entirely sure how the man would react if he knew that Mr. Arnello wasn't in any way part of the hospital staff—not that I could get an answer to that question. I didn't have the need for the hospital to get sued either.

Working as quickly and steadily as my hands would allow, four minutes later, having finished removing all the thorns from the man's backside, I accompanied him out of the room.

"You have to be very careful with your hygiene, wash at least twice a day to avoid infections. The pain should go away in a couple of days," I said clumsily. "In the meantime, you can take any over-the-counter painkiller if the pain is too intense," I added, patting the man's shoulder. "If you see any worsening in... the area, come back and we'll add analgesic treatment."

"All right, thank you very much, doctor," said Mr. Kane, offering his hand in a handshake.

"Don't mention it, just doing my work," I replied, immediately taking his hand and with no intention of correcting the man, smiling calmly and nodding as a farewell.

Leaving the chart half-finished on Fryday's desk, I asked the nurse to remind me to complete the data the next time I returned to the clinic. Without waiting much longer, I headed to the diagnostic lounge.

Shortly after, in the lounge, I found House and Mr. Arnello.

"Ah perfect timing," said House with a mischievous smile, "Mr. Arnello was just telling me how the team insulted Joey by declaring he's homosexual."

"Ah," I murmured, looking at the annoyed Mr. Arnello.

"Having hepatitis doesn't mean that—" I tried to explain, but I was interrupted.

Mr. Arnello turned completely toward me, pointing at me visibly furious. "Joey is not a fag, and he doesn't have... that."

The moment the man had turned, I instinctively tensed my body, fully prepared to fight if necessary.

Fortunately, House drew attention to himself. "Nobody's saying he's a homo."

Turning angrily, Mr. Arnello forgot about me.

"That would be really, really bad," declared House sarcastically. "So let's put a nice, friendly spin on it, let's go with, 'he got raped in prison,'" he added carelessly.

Unlike House, I tensed up even more. I knew that making people like this angry was a stupid idea. As much as we were trying to help his 'family', there was no reason for what House was doing.

But if it had to come to that... this time I would fight with all my strength if necessary.

Mr. Arnello, processing House's insulting words, began to move toward the man. At the same time, I prepared to prevent something very bad from happening in the room.

"I saw the jailhouse tats," House explained calmly, "put it together with the blood test," he added, shrugging, making the other man stop.

"That explains it," I declared, interrupting Mr. Arnello, who seemed like he was about to say something, drawing his attention. "I don't know if the other doctors explained this, but hepatitis is transmitted through infected blood. Using needles that other people have used is an incredibly likely cause of contracting the disease."

"So because of the tattoo?" the man asked, "really?"

"We don't know much about the disease, but at least that we know. It's incredibly possible," I replied, nodding confidently.

Nodding slowly, "You should've said that from the start," the man declared a few seconds later.

House and I shared an incredulous look for a fraction of a second. I was completely sure that any of the doctors who explained the situation had definitely specified the methods of contagion.

"But, if people find out that he's being treated for hepatitis..." Mr. Arnello said, silently shaking his head for a second, "Feds get that chart, someone says something to somebody, word will get out, and Joey's manhood, his rep..." he added, again stopping in silence, "he's destroyed."

"You're worried about how his coworkers will react at the Wal-Mart in Des Moines," said House sarcastically.

Raising his finger. "He's not going into Witness Protection," Mr. Arnello declared, "I'm not gonna let that happen."

"Listen, I don't know if you know about this, but mob businesses sometimes keep two sets of books," declared House, leaning back in his chair.

Mr. Arnello nodded. "One legit, one not."

"Exactly."

"Is he jerking my chain?" Mr. Arnello asked me, suspicious of House.

"We can put in the chart that the interferon is to cover a theory for the treatment of a strange autoimmune disease," I said, shrugging. "It's completely possible and within what we do," I declared before the man could ask.

What I didn't say is that interferon is only used nowadays to treat two other types of autoimmune diseases: cancer and HIV.

"Doctors are busy," declared House, "sometimes we forget to write things down or we just mess up the reason," he added carelessly. "Happens all the time."

Shifting his attention between House and me a few times, Mr. Arnello nodded. "Thanks."

Both House and I slightly bowed our heads, silently rejecting the man's thanks.

Nodding once more, Mr. Arnello began to walk out of the room. "Oh, and, uh whatever you're giving him for that strange disease, is that gonna fix him?" he asked, stopping under the doorway.

"I doubt it," House responded honestly.

Nodding, Mr. Arnello turned his attention from House to me.

"We can only wait for the best," I said, slightly shrugging.

After that, Mr. Arnello silently left the room.

A couple of seconds after the man disappeared from the room, House leaned back in his chair, smiling mischievously. "Were you about to fight him?"

"Shut up," I murmured, ignoring House, taking a book from the shelf.

Placing a hand over his chest, "Aw, you wanted to protect me," House declared, falsely touched.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," I said neutrally, taking a seat in one of the free chairs in front of House's desk.

Putting his feet up on the desk, smiling arrogantly, "Usually what helps me sleep at night charges by the hour," House said, closing his eyes.

I wouldn't admit it out loud, but it took me a couple of seconds to understand House's joke.

"Oh, you're gross," I said, shaking my head in disgust.

House, still with his eyes closed and his arms behind his head, smiled arrogantly.

Snorting, I began to read the book, not entirely focused on what I was reading because I was really thinking about the case. There were a couple of things that didn't quite add up, and I was sure the rest of the team felt the same, like the estrogen levels and the vomiting.

I feared, like House, that hepatitis alone was not the cause of the coma. After all, there were no prior symptoms pointing to a chronic condition like hepatitis. Besides, even if there was liver damage, the estrogen levels were so abnormally high that the patient couldn't have produced them on his own.

The patient wasn't morbidly obese, he did have hepatitis, yes, but it wasn't enough to account for the present estrogen level. The tests didn't reveal the presence of tumors or hyperthyroidism, he didn't have gynecomastia for Klinefelter syndrome.

The only logical explanation left was the use of some drug, which, considering the patient's work environment, wasn't a dumb idea at all.

Interrupting my thoughts. "House," Dr. Wilson said as he knocked on the doorframe, "you ready?"

"Ah yeah," House replied, checking his watch.

"Where are you going?" I asked, puzzled, watching as House left his office with Dr. Wilson. It was still quite early.

"We have a very important meeting with very important people," House replied sarcastically, immediately making me regret my question.

Keeping his face completely neutral, "We're going to see the Dallas game," clarified Dr. Wilson. "Want to come with us?" he asked.

"Oh no thanks," I replied immediately. I wasn't very interested in basketball.

"Come on, those wings aren't going to eat themselves," House said disinterestedly, urging Dr. Wilson to move along.

"Good luck on your date," I said just before House left the office. He snorted, not bothering to look back.

Snorting, I closed the book in front of me and stretched in the chair, trying to get back on track with my thoughts about the patient.

It was clear that there had to be a trigger to explain why the liver damage accumulated over years of hepatitis had suddenly led to a coma without previous symptoms... or maybe it was something completely different, and we were just seeing the liver damage and hepatitis as the clear cause of the coma when it wasn't.

After several minutes of going over the case in my head, I came to the frustrating conclusion that I was definitely missing key pieces of the puzzle. There were obviously things I didn't know. And as much as I knew how to fight, I had no intention at that moment of interrogating a mobster in any way.

Standing up, my eyes instinctively went to the hook where I always hung my backpack. Seeing it there, I remembered the papers Mandy had given me when I arrived at the hospital—the Vogler papers.

Without thinking too much and given that I had nothing to do, I took it. Being cautious, though—I wasn't going to risk someone walking through the door and seeing me with papers that were clearly of a private nature from a company—I sat in House's chair behind his desk and opened the document. I didn't want to be accused of corporate espionage.

Just as Danny had said, the content—which was technically in my possession quite illegally—was data related to the clinical trials of the yet unnamed drug that Vogler's company was trying to launch on the market.

I wasn't even close to the kind of genius Diane or Sheldon were. I definitely couldn't read a bunch of data and extrapolate it in a matter of seconds... but I could do it given enough time.

Paying attention to every line written in the reports, I began to read.

The data were the results of days of monitoring at least three dozen patients. From what I could read on the labels of each unnamed patient, all were suffering from some type of cancer.

Apparently, the drug was intended to alleviate the adverse symptoms caused by chemotherapy.

I didn't remember any drug in the future that did exactly that, but it wasn't unusual. I knew very well that most drugs in development never passed FDA approval; many didn't even reach the market for the purpose they were designed for, and there were even theories about some pharmaceutical companies choosing not to market certain drugs due to lack of profitability.

After quite a while and without finding anything more interesting than a generalization of surprisingly high levels of symptomatic relief reported by the patients, I put the documents back in my backpack, hanging it back on its hook.

Fortunately, I had put the documents inside my backpack at that moment because, before I could return to reading the book I had left on House's desk, appearing out of nowhere with a paper in his hand, the limping doctor knocked on the glass door, catching my attention.

Walking alongside him through the hospital corridors, "You came back pretty fast," I said surprised, checking my watch; they had really left just over half an hour ago.

Smiling arrogantly, "Yeah, I got a new car," House declared.

"Really?" I asked, surprised. From the way he said it, it was obvious the news was pretty recent. "When did you buy it?" I asked, puzzled.

House raised his eyebrows suggestively. "Oh, I didn't buy it."

"No way," I said a few seconds later.

It wasn't strange to think that after the last interaction with the mob lawyer, the man felt grateful to House—but a car?

"Yes way," House replied with a wide smile.

Snorting in amusement, "Well, you have to accept the gift or they might take it as an insult," I said, tilting my head.

"That's what I said," House replied, nodding in mock defeat.

"What kind of car is it?"

"A restored 1965 Corvette," House replied immediately.

"Nice," I said. I really had no idea what kind of car that was, but it sounded expensive.

It didn't take long before we arrived at a lab where the rest of the doctors were working on the case, including Foreman.

Entering the lab behind House, I moved to one of the empty benches, prepared to listen to whatever House had.

"Biopsy's back," House declared, raising the paper in his hand, "two findings: number one, lymphocytic infiltrate and no bridging fibrosis."

It wasn't chronic—it was definitely something acute.

"Whatever's killing him's not the hepatitis, it's acute," declared Dr. Foreman, lowering his head, surely frustrated.

"And who said that? I forget," asked House smugly. "Also, what are you doing here? I told you, you were off the case."

"Right," said Dr. Foreman, exasperated. "Your diabolic plan to convince the evil genius he's in the clear, so he'll let his guard down and make a fatal mistake."

I expected that when Foreman revealed his 'plan,' House would be at least a little annoyed, but on the contrary, House's entire body language and the small smile on his face told me he had been waiting for this.

"Well, it's clearly not gonna work now," declared House sarcastically.

Was it possible that House knew Foreman so well that he could manipulate him into 'revealing' his plan at a moment like this?... Of course, it was possible—It's House I don't know why I would doubt it at first.

"What evil genius?" asked Chase, slightly nervous.

"If we knew that, we wouldn't need a diabolic plan, would we?" asked House, squinting his eyes.

It was obvious now—at least to me—that House wanted to psychologically torture Chase.

"House thinks someone ratted him out to Vogler," explained Dr. Foreman, surprising both Cameron and Chase, though for completely different reasons.

With a painfully obvious guilty expression, "What, one of us?" asked Chase.

Smiling sinisterly, "No, you guys love me too much," House declared with false sweetness.

Visibly tired of House's games, "Look, if it's not the hep, then what's the problem? What's causing the liver failure?" asked Dr. Foreman.

Frowning at Dr. Foreman, since the fun was now over, "Finding number two," House replied, holding up two fingers. "Toxins," he added, raising his eyebrows.

"No," said Cameron immediately. "He's only 30 years old, and his job doesn't expose him to heavy metals or environmental—"

"He's a 30-year-old mobster," House interrupted her. "He doesn't have a job that results in accidental exposure to toxins; he has a job that results in intentional exposure to toxins," he added sarcastically. "Someone's poisoned him."

House's statement made everyone in the lab fall silent for a couple of seconds.

Remembering something I had read in the chart, "Well, not necessarily," I said, catching everyone's attention. "He's also a 30-year-old patient with liver damage."

"What are you getting at?" asked Dr. Foreman, puzzled—this time, unlike before, without being petulant or rude, but genuinely interested.

"Given his severe liver damage, his body processes toxins that for the rest of us would be completely normal, but much worse," I stated easily. "Not only that, according to the chart he stopped smoking two weeks ago after eighteen years. It didn't seem important before, but I know people do very stupid things to avoid anxiety."

Clicking his teeth, House shook his head. "The rival mobster idea was much more interesting," he declared disappointedly. "Check out the kid's theory and start another round of tests if it's incorrect."

Following House's order, the other three doctors left the room.

"Is there anything else in the chart that caught your attention?" House asked, raising one of his eyebrows as he also began walking out of the lab.

"The estrogen levels," I responded immediately.

"You don't think they're caused by the hepatitis?" he asked, interested.

"No, and neither do you," I responded immediately.

"Then what?" asked House, saying nothing about my statement—he didn't need to.

"I don't know," I replied, frowning.

Only a few minutes passed before the team arrived at the diagnostics lounge, with enough proof to confirm my theory: some Chinese chewing gum that reduced cravings. Both House and I were sure that whatever chemical they contained, combined with the interferon, was the cause of the patient's health deterioration.

A couple of hours later, "His white blood count was very low," Chase said, handing a paper to House, "but he's getting better now."

"Good," House murmured, reading the data on the paper. "He should be better tomorrow," he added calmly.

Despite what House said, the cause of the extremely high estrogen levels was still unclear. It was evident that the gum had caused a hepatic shock, rapidly deteriorating the patient's health, but I doubted it had been the cause of the coma in the first place.

"Keep monitoring through the night," House said, flashing a mischievous smile as he stood up. "And please, don't call me if something goes wrong," he added jokingly as he gathered his things.

Seeing him getting ready to leave, I checked my watch and realized it was time for me to go too.

Like House, I grabbed my backpack and, with an awkward smile of apology to the three doctors who stayed behind, left the lounge with him.

Halfway to the exit, Dr. Wilson's voice caught up to us.

"House, wait for me," he exclaimed, hurrying to reach us. "Give me a ride home," he added, prompting an arrogant smile from House.

Together with Dr. Wilson—who apparently now knew I was in the process of publishing my first paper—we walked out of the hospital.

"After the success you feel from publishing your first paper, there's always extra pressure for the next one," Dr. Wilson said. "What you need to do is take a step back, a deep breath, and not rush to publish the first thing that comes to mind," he added seriously. "It's happened to many people, and it's never pretty to see someone begging for citations. Got it?"

"Got it," I said, smiling gratefully at the doctor's kindness.

Dr. Wilson patted my shoulder. "Great, good luck then," he said in farewell, walking off with House, who of course didn't say goodbye.

I immediately saw the car that had been given to House, a beautiful red convertible that looked extremely expensive.

House, putting on sunglasses despite the fact that it was already getting dark, kept an arrogant smile as he started the car, revving the engine. A moment later, he sped off quickly from the hospital.

Snorting, I continued on my way to 'Debbie.' I couldn't deny I had a small, almost nonexistent, hope of also finding a new car. Not that 'Debbie' was a bad car or anything like that, but... I had also been in House's office with Mr. Arnello, and seeing the Corvette made me a little jealous of House.

Feeling a strange guilt in my chest, I patted the roof of my car as if I were apologizing and opened my door, freezing in place.

In the driver's seat, perfectly centered on the cushion, was a briefcase.

"That's really scary," I muttered.

Quickly checking my surroundings, I got into the car and picked up the briefcase. On top of it, a white sheet of paper read 'Nice car' and nothing else. At least that wasn't surprising. Seeing the car they had given House, it was clear that, mobsters or not, they had good taste.

Thinking of the few mob movies I'd seen, I slowly opened the briefcase, nervous as bloody scenes ran through my mind. When it was fully open on my lap, I choked on my own saliva and started coughing.

In perfectly neat rows, just like in the movies, bundles of hundred-dollar bills practically glowed in my face, stacked in columns of ten bundles. There were twenty groups of bills, each tied with a strip of paper that read 'five thousand dollars.'

A total of one hundred thousand dollars. Inside my car. In plain sight.

How had they opened the door?

---

Author Thoughts:

As always, I'm not American, not a doctor, not a fighter, not Magnus Carlsen, not Michael Phelps, not Arsene Lupin, not McLovin, not Elliot and not Capone.

Another chapter has passed, so new thanks are in order. I would like to especially thank:

11332223

RandomPasserby96

Victor_Venegas

I think that's all. As always, if you find any errors, please let me know, and I'll correct them immediately.

Thank you for reading! :D

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