Wrong Diagnosis

i luv ewansmile

Summary: Lisa Cuddy finds no humor in the fact that Gregory House has misdiagnosed a patient. She's more worried about taking care of him, when he can't seem to take care of himself. Sick! House. House/Cuddy.

Part I: Revenge of the Clinic

Sitting down at her desk, Lisa Cuddy smiles to herself. House is actually doing his clinic hours without too much complaint and he surely didn't put up much of a fight. I guess sleeping with your employee has its benefits as well as its drawbacks.

Sitting on a stool in one of the clinic's exam rooms, Gregory House anxiously draws out his diagnosis as his nervous, shy, and stupid patient sits on the crinkle paper of the exam table.

Watching her pale face turn even whiter in anticipation, House sighs and nearly shouts, "You're pregnant". The young female jerks at his diagnosis and admittedly states, "I can't be…"

House gestures to her, "Your bust size, one size too small blouse, and use of sweat pants beg to differ… not to mention the signs of morning sick-"

He doesn't get a chance to finish as he's rudely interrupted as the young lady projectile vomits, hitting him directly in the chest, vomit dripping down his shirt.

He blinks in shock, stands up, and walks out of the room without another word, grabbing a hand full of paper towels as he goes.

"Clean-up in exam room three!" House shouts over at the nurse's station. Throwing the soiled paper towels into the trash, he looks at one of the nurses and tells her, "…and tell Dr. Cuddy she's got a patient in room three, I'm outta here."

"I can't be pregnant," the lady tells Cuddy.

"We'll do a pregnancy test and see," Cuddy empathically tells her and leaves the nervous lady waiting again on the test results.

Flipping open the folder containing the test results, Cuddy is shocked House has got one wrong but is not surprised as she tells the lady, "No, you're not pregnant."

The young lady is visibly relieved but is curious, "So what is wrong with me?" She asks, holding her head over a pink emesis basin a nurse had given her after the earlier incident with Dr. House.

"You've got the stomach flu… Go home, rest, drink plenty of fluids, you should be fine in a day or two."

The young lady thanks Dr. Cuddy and she leaves. Cuddy being the business woman she is, goes directly back to the pile of papers on her desk.

Three days later…

"Come on peoples…" House yells at his team as they work through a differential diagnosis. He stands at the white board and pauses, taking in a shallow breath as another tightening sensation passes through his core.

With one had grasping the board, the other clutching his cane, he misses the idea Thirteen shouts out. Not liking being ignored, she shouts it again but gets up when she notices he doesn't respond at all and asks, "Are you alright?"

He doesn't hear her but makes a move for his office. Grabbing the trash can, he throws up the few bites of Rueben sandwich and sips of coke he managed to keep down during lunch.

He spits what's left in his mouth, trying to get rid of the taste. He groans, breathing heavily, sweat making his shirt cling to his feverish skin.

Peering at what was left of his lunch, he glances up and sees his team crowded around him. Ha, he mentally laughs, doctors, they're attracted to puke instead of repelled by it.

He gives a small laugh, "Guess I partied too hard last night, should have told her no after the fourth round of tequila."

Seeing that they don't believe him, him knowing that they know he's actually sick, and not hung-over sick, he vehemently spits out the names of the tests they should do, sending them away.

They scatter out his office. Only Thirteen looks back at him, to see if he is indeed all right. He waves his hand in a shoo motion. She graces him with a small smile before leaving.

Feeling drained and nauseous, he picks up his fallen cane and limps heavily to the gentlemen's restroom.

Splashing cool water on his face, he mentally runs through his personal differential diagnosis, coming to a quick conclusion.

"Damn… she wasn't pregnant."

"Who's not pregnant?"

House whips around, head throbbing from the sudden spin, his vision going blurry for a moment before his eyes zone in on the freshly pressed shirt and matching tie of Wilson's.

"Your mother… false alarm… made me start wearing rubbers." House retorts.

Wilson gives him a non-pulsed look.

House rolls his eyes, "What are you doing here?"

"Thirteen." Wilson simply states.

House bobs his head, of course.

"How long have you been sick?" Wilson asks, calm and collected per usual.

Knowing Wilson wouldn't let it be and that he is too weak to carry on much more of an argument or make a run for it back to his office, he honestly tells Wilson.

"Little upset stomach this morning, had only puked once before work, thought it was just something I ate last night, felt better for a few hours-" he cuts off as another bout of nausea has him retching into the sink, huffing, "… that was until about twenty minutes ago," he sighs wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "…when I nearly painted my white board 'vomit yellow'."

Wilson shakes his head, clearing the image and looks on sympathetically as House stumbles into the bathroom stall. The sound of his retching causing Wilson's stomach to clench.

House's voice sounds weak, and pitiful, "…I… I can't keep anything down."

"Go home, lie down. Sleep it off," is Wilson's suggestion.

Wiping his mouth with toilet paper, House chunks the used tissue and flushes. He carefully makes his way out of the stall, washes his hands and walks out of the bathroom, Wilson by his side.

One urgent page later, Dr. Wilson briskly takes off to save one of his patients and House is left on his own.

Turning around, House closes his office door, locking it. A click is heard as the lock slides into place.

He grabs his trashcan and makes his way to the balcony door. He pauses, resting his feverish forehead against the cool glass before taking a few breaths and stepping out into the cool fresh air.

Lying down on the lawn chair, he closes his eyes and quietly observes his body. His labored breathing, the heat radiating off his skin, the clenching feeling residing in his stomach, the increased heart rate making his chest hurt, the pounding in his head, the searing ache of his thigh.

He groans as he pulls out his bottle of Vicodin, just looking at it. Pondering if he could keep the white pills down long enough for his body to absorb them and bring much needed relief to his pain.

Popping the pills in his mouth, he's willing to take the risk and he closes his eyes.