I'm back, sorry for the absence, but you know, exams and all.
Enjoy.
---
"Why?" I asked Mom immediately.
Caressing Charlie's face, who was still sleeping deeply, "Oh well," Mom whispered, "with Charlie being so little, your father and I decided it would be better for me to be a full-time mom," she added, turning her attention back to me, "what you need to know is that it's a really complicated job."
Smiling softly, "I believe you," I said immediately, raising my hands.
"By the way, I don't want you to worry about anything," Mom said gently, searching for something in my face, "your father is practically the exterminator to call for all of Medford and the neighboring towns, we're going to be absolutely fine, okay?" she asked, taking my hand.
"Yeah," I replied, nodding seriously.
I understood perfectly where Mom's idea came from. After all, being the eldest son, it was natural to think I would understand much more about the potential problems at home when cutting half of the family income, which would normally be a big change for an average family.
Fortunately, the investments were going incredibly well, and the gym was just a few weeks away from being out of the red and actually starting to generate enough income to function as a real business. If it ever came to the point of necessity—which I doubted—I could support with any amount of money without thinking twice.
"Sorry, you wanted to tell me something," Mom said, squeezing my hand before letting go, probably remembering how the conversation had started.
"No, nothing important. I just completely forgot to tell you how the man bought his seat on the board with a hundred million dollars," I lied easily, secretly relieved I didn't have to talk to Mom about Vogler, "isn't that crazy?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.
"Oh yeah, I know, a hundred million dollars," Mom said quickly, nodding emphatically, "imagine what you could do with that money."
"Buy a hundred million one-dollar things," I replied, shrugging.
"Or fifty two-dollar things," Mom offered.
"No, that would be excessive," I responded immediately, standing up, making Mom snort in amusement.
A second later, Charlie, moving uncomfortably, woke up and immediately started crying.
"Oh, look at the time," I said immediately, checking my watch, falsely inventing a reason to leave.
"You don't need to make up an excuse to leave," Mom murmured quickly, "it's not like I'm asking you to calm your sister down."
"Making up the excuse is more for me than for you, it makes me feel less bad," I said as I slowly walked away from the couch, "besides, I'd be amazing at calming Charlie down. After all, she loves me the most," I added arrogantly.
"Ha!" Mom exclaimed exaggeratedly, "no more than mommy, isn't that right, my baby?" she added in her baby voice.
Snorting, I continued walking to my room.
The days passed like that, with no major changes to my routine: going to school in the mornings, the hospital in the afternoons, and a few days later, once I felt fully recovered, training with Case at night.
At the hospital, fortunately, Vogler hadn't shown up again—at least not in front of me or in the diagnostics lounge, where I spent most of my time continuing my data collection, data I worked on when I got home. The rest of the time, since there was no real case to work on, I spent in the clinic with House.
Knowing Vogler no longer had anything to threaten me with—aside from possibly trying to get me kicked out of the hospital, which I knew very well would never happen—I had no reason to continue with the article. But, after all the research and remembering the bright interest in Diane's eyes, I knew I had to keep going. Besides, I was really enjoying the whole process.
Returning to training with Case at night had cut just a couple of hours from the time I had to work on the paper, but with Diane's help, it wasn't really a problem at all.
As I had assumed, Diane's entire statistical analysis for the paper had been finished days before I expected. It was a huge help knowing there was no need to review her work for errors—beyond extrapolating the meaning of her numbers—so I simply digitized it without wasting time, allowing the entire paper to be finalized with less than a couple dozen hours of work.
With the paper finished just a couple of days before summer vacation—and with it, the end of my freshman year in high school—there were still a few steps left before submitting it for publication. One of them, and possibly the most important, was internal review. I had paid close attention to every written aspect of the paper—grammar and spelling-wise—which was, within the internal review, the easiest part to complete.
"Mhmm," Sheldon murmured, squinting, completely focused on my computer screen, "why?" he asked, frowning, "oh, that's why," he said a second later, nodding understandingly.
"What?" I asked, confused.
Without looking away from the monitor, "I'm reading," Sheldon replied, raising a finger.
"Sorry," I whispered, lowering my head and raising my hands, stepping back so he could continue reading.
Sheldon kept reading and making strange noises for several minutes until finally, spinning in my chair with a completely expressionless face, he nodded.
"I guess it's acceptable," he said with a small, strangely proud smile a second later.
"Are you talking about the way it's written or the content?" I asked, squinting slightly.
"Both," Sheldon replied immediately.
"Okay, well, thank you very much," I said, amused by the kid. I knew Sheldon was a genius, but I wasn't really looking for his opinion on the quality of the research content. "As previously agreed, here's X-Men Volume Two, Number One, and Wonder Woman Number Fifty," I added, handing him two comics still in their plastic bags.
"Mint condition?" Sheldon asked, holding each comic up to the light individually.
"Of course," I replied immediately, seriously, "as much as the store sells them," I added, tilting my head slightly, losing most of my earlier confidence.
Once the paper was finalized, I had first asked Diane to do a proofread of the entire article. Thanks to her, I corrected a couple of mistakes that had slipped past my own review. But with Sheldon available, I saw no reason not to ask him too.
Fortunately, Sheldon—in exchange for distracting him from his busy ten-year-old schedule—had only asked for a couple of comics worth a few dollars each as compensation for his 'job'.
"It was a pleasure doing business with you," Sheldon said, carefully holding the two comics in one hand while offering me a handshake with the other.
"Likewise," I replied, giving a small nod as I took the kid's offered hand.
After saying goodbye to Sheldon and saving the entire article on two 3.5-inch floppy disks, I headed to the hospital a few minutes later than usual since I had arranged for the kid to review the article after school.
Not long after, I parked my car outside the hospital.
"Ah, PJ," said one of the nurses on duty behind the hospital reception desk, making me stop after our usual short greeting.
"Yeah?" I asked, confused, walking closer to the desk. "What do you need, Mandy?"
Mandy, one of the youngest nurses working at the hospital—only a few years older than me—was always very kind to me because, like the rest of the nurses, she had taken on a protective role toward me.
Squinting, "Fryday talked to all of us about your 'request,' if you know what I mean," she said with cartoonish secrecy, as if sharing a state secret—which, to be honest, given the context of my request, discreetly spying on the chairman of the board using the nurses, it might as well have been.
"We still don't know who found the jar, but we're looking into it," she assured me seriously. "We'll find the rat," she added, checking our surroundings.
Confused by the usually sweet nurse's behavior, "It's okay, Mandy," I murmured, smiling uncomfortably. "You don't have to do that."
"Oh no, we will," Mandy said, furrowing her brows and raising a threatening finger—not at me, but still intimidating nonetheless. "She calls herself a nurse," she added, snorting angrily.
Calming down a second later, with a carefree smile on her face, Mandy pulled something from behind the desk—a magazine that she slowly started pushing toward me. The magazine was stuffed with a bunch of papers obviously sticking out from inside.
"I didn't give you this," she said, opening her eyes comically and 'discreetly' nodding toward the magazine.
"What is 'this'?" I asked, intrigued by the suddenness of the situation, calmly pulling the sheets out of the magazine.
As I removed the relatively thin stack of papers from the Cosmopolitan magazine, I immediately noticed the diagonal 'confidential' stamp printed across the first page, where Vogler's name and his company were also written in bold black letters.
"Where did you get this?" I asked incredulously, holding up the small stack of papers.
"Not here, someone might see you," Mandy warned immediately, stopping my hand and nervously checking our surroundings again. "Let's just say I have my connections," she added a moment later, raising her head with a small, smug smile.
"Oh," I murmured, amused, elongating the vowel as I nodded.
Mimicking the nurse's discreet behavior, I slipped the papers into my backpack while checking our surroundings the whole time.
"Remember, I didn't give them to you," Mandy said, lightly tapping her nose, pausing at each word, visibly enjoying the whole 'spy' situation.
"I understand," I replied, winking and mimicking her gesture.
After thanking Mandy and saying goodbye again, I continued down the hospital halls—only this time, unlike most days, I didn't head to the diagnostics lounge.
The hospital had many resources available to doctors, administrative staff, students—and therefore, also to me. One of them was basically a dedicated printing center for everything the hospital needed.
I had no idea the place existed until one day last week, during clinic time, while talking to Fryday about the article, she had introduced me to the person in charge.
"Danny," I said, smiling widely as I entered the room.
Inside, music was playing incredibly loudly—so much so that if it weren't for the heavy doors separating the room from the hospital hallway, the whole hospital would hear Danny's music. Besides the music, there were piles of papers everywhere and boxes—probably filled with even more papers—covering shelves along all the walls, leaving only a small space for the door.
In the middle of the room, sitting comfortably behind a computer, "Hey, mini doc!" Danny said cheerfully, slapping a stack of papers against his desk. "What can I do you for?" he asked as he stapled one corner of his stack with surprising skill.
Danny was a relatively young guy—a couple of years older than me—who had definitely gotten the job because he was the son of one of the doctors. At least, that's what the nurses said.
If I had to be unpleasantly honest, Danny was a typical unemployed young adult—no higher education, questionable to non-existent hygiene—who didn't seem to know where to direct his life. Not that there's anything wrong with that, except for the hygiene of course, but the nurses probably had a point about how he got the job. Still, despite all that, Danny was surprisingly good at his job, even if the mess in the room suggested otherwise.
"Can you help me print this?" I asked, pulling the floppy disks from my backpack.
"For sure, man," Danny replied, stretching casually to take the disks. Working immediately, the guy inserted the disks into a reader connected to his computer, then calmly pressed some keys. "How many copies do you need?" he asked while jotting something down in a well-worn notebook in front of him.
"Four," I responded immediately, surprised by how smoothly Danny worked.
"All right," he said, nodding. "Just a heads-up, I've got a lot of work before your file, so it might take a couple of hours before it's ready," he added with an apologetic smile, gesturing at all the papers on his desk.
"Don't worry about it," I said, raising my hands while discreetly eyeing the desk in front of me.
Next to Danny's computer, a modem with several connected cables immediately caught my attention.
I had a rough idea of what a modem was and what it did, but given the time period, I was surprised to see one in that place.
"What is that?" I asked Danny, pointing at the modem.
"Oh, it's a modem," the guy replied immediately. "It's to connect the other hospital computers to this one," he explained, widening his eyes, seeming excited about the modem's functionality.
"Computers, plural?" I asked, genuinely interested.
"Oh yeah, there are other computers in the hospital—a couple per wing, actually—and they're all connected here so if someone wants to print something, they just send it over," he explained proudly, running his finger along one of the cables. "It's even connected to the computer in Edward Vogler's office," he added, raising his eyebrows as he showed me a folder with Vogler's name. "You know, the new chairman of the board," he murmured, wiggling his eyebrows.
"Yeah, I've heard of him," I said, nodding distractedly.
My attention was completely on the folders displayed on Danny's screen. It seemed that with just a couple of clicks, I could access the documents on those other comput—wait.
"So, you have access to the files on all these computers?" I asked with feigned disinterest, ignoring—or at least pretending to—the change in Danny's expression beside me.
Staring at me with a frown, looking surprised that I'd figured out his secret, "Can you keep a secret?" he asked seriously after a few seconds of rocking in his chair.
"Me? Of course," I replied immediately, raising my right hand as if taking an oath.
"I hope no one else finds out about this, but... yeah, I can," Danny said, leaning in with a smug smile.
"Wow," I murmured. "Found anything interesting?" I asked a second later, fully channeling my friends and their love for gossip. I was pretty sure it had been Danny who handed over Vogler's classified documents to Mandy—that was really all I needed to know.
Losing his smile immediately, "Not really, it's always just a bunch of numbers, data, and boring notes," Danny replied with distaste on his face. "But I feel like one of those hackers in movies, like in Die Hard," he added, leaning in with a smug grin, "just way less Black."
"Yeah," I snorted. "Danny, by any chance, do you know Mandy? The nurse?" I asked, abruptly changing the subject, crossing my arms and immediately seeing the guy's expression shift.
"Yeah," Danny declared, grinning goofily. "Why? Did she—did she talk about me?" he asked, straightening up instantly, focusing entirely on me.
Without answering his question, I shrugged slightly, pressing my lips together theatrically, being completely ambiguous. The answer was no, but he didn't know that.
A couple of seconds later, after squinting at my face and nodding slowly, "Oh," he murmured, surely inventing his own meaning for my silence.
"You know she holds me in high regard, right?" I asked with a soft smile.
"Yeah," Danny replied matter-of-factly. "The nurses adore you—everyone knows that," he added, snorting.
"Well, yeah," I said, nodding. "So, I could put in a good word for you with Mandy, you know, tell her what a good friend you are," I murmured, examining my slightly reddened knuckles from the previous day's training.
"You'd really do that for me?" Danny asked seriously, raising his hands and swiveling his chair to face me.
"Of course," I replied immediately, smiling calmly.
Despite Danny's evident lack of interest in improving his life at that moment, the guy was visibly a good person. Telling Mandy that Danny was nice wouldn't be much of a stretch.
Smiling excitedly, "Thanks, man," Danny said, nodding along to his music. "You know what—" he added, turning back to his computer, "give me two minutes—I'll have your documents ready," he declared, raising his eyebrows suggestively.
"Oh no, man, you don't have to do that," I said, feigning embarrassment.
"No, no problem, man," Danny assured me, working on his computer.
"Okay, thanks," I said immediately, dropping my embarrassed act.
"Like I said, no problem at all, man," Danny assured me with a wide smile. "That's another one of my good points—helpful," he added, pointing at himself.
"Totally," I said, nodding.
Three minutes later, with four stapled copies of my paper in hand, I left, saying goodbye to a still-grateful Danny, and headed to the diagnostics lounge. Inside the room, I found the three doctors under House's command, each focused on something different.
"Hey," I greeted as I entered, getting everyone's attention. "As I think you all know, I've been working on a paper these last few days."
"Yeah," Chase said amusedly, setting down the book he was reading on the lounge table.
"Well, I finished it yesterday," I said with a small smile. "So, any feedback would be great," I added, placing three of the four copies on the table.
"You finished it in just two and a half weeks?" Cameron asked incredulously, dragging one of the copies toward her.
"I had help," I explained immediately.
"Help from who, ten other people?" Chase asked, snorting as he also took a copy.
"Actually, just the one," I replied, raising a finger.
"Diane Adler?" Chase asked, reading Diane's name—listed as a co-author alongside House. "Oh wait, your girlfriend," he added a moment later, snapping his fingers.
"Yeah, Diane did practically all the statistical analysis," I explained, shrugging.
"That makes sense—she's a math genius, right?" Cameron stated, exhaling sharply as she focused on the paper.
"Yeah, that's one way to put it," I said sarcastically. I was pretty sure all the analysis she'd done for me had been nothing more than a game for Diane—a distraction from her usual work, maybe even a kind of break.
"Remind me why you're still in high school," Chase said, flipping calmly through a page. "Isn't there a way for you to skip grades?"
"I don't want to skip ahead—I like taking it slow," I replied. This time, I had friends—and Diane. Speeding up my medical career wasn't my only focus anymore.
Dr. Foreman, who hadn't taken his copy yet, exhaled slightly and reached out to grab the last set of copies on the table. With the copy in his hand, I noticed him glancing at me sideways.
Silently, I acknowledged him with a short nod.
I'd had my doubts about printing a copy for Foreman. I knew the man was still in the process of fully accepting my presence here, even if he was too proud to admit it out loud.
Watching the three doctors read my paper intently, I nodded with a bit of pride before walking toward House's office.
Before I could even reach the door separating the lounge from his private office, House stormed out, visibly angry, holding what looked like a letter in his hand and moving much faster than usual.
"What was that?" Chase asked, who—like the rest of the doctors—had noticed House's abrupt exit.
"He got a letter from the court," Cameron answered immediately, drawing everyone's attention.
We all knew Cameron handled House's personal mail.
"Another summons?" Foreman asked.
"I didn't open it," Cameron replied, shrugging.
"He didn't look happy," I said, wondering what the letter could contain.
From the path House had taken when leaving his office, it was obvious he was heading to Cuddy's office. With House, there was a good chance he'd committed—again—some kind of crime, or maybe he'd been sued. He could've even been called for jury duty.
There was one more possibility based on House's reaction—something we all knew: he was a highly sought-after doctor. One way or another, when there was an extremely complicated case, House's name came up. The problem was, he hardly ever took any cases.
Knowing that, it wasn't at all unthinkable that the court would somehow force House to take a case.
"A case," I said, not entirely sure, with a slight frown.
"How would you know that?" asked Dr. Foreman incredulous.
"His reaction," I replied, shrugging.
"Yeah," Chase said, nodding in agreement with me.
Without saying more, I continued on my way to House's office to hang my backpack and leave the article on his desk.
When I returned to the lounge, Cameron, Chase, and Foreman were still carefully reading the paper, with no intention of interrupting their reading. Silently, I dragged a chair to take a seat.
Since it was an academic review paper, reading it wouldn't generate any sudden excitement. Still, in the silence of the lounge with not much to do and unable to help it, I found myself studying the body language and facial expressions of the three doctors in front of me.
With some nerves about having my work reviewed in front of me, I didn't notice the passage of time, waiting for any of the three to say something at any moment.
"We have a case," House said suddenly, completely breaking the silence in the lounge and abruptly ending my strange tension.
Putting the article down on the table, "PJ called it," Cameron declared, smiling at me.
"Good for the kid," House said sarcastically. "Come on," he added, walking out of the lounge again.
Immediately, we all stood up to follow House.
"From what little I've read, it seems quite interesting. How many articles did you compile?" Chase asked before walking out the door.
"Dozens," I replied.
After that, both Cameron and, surprisingly, Foreman asked a few questions as we walked a few steps behind House.
A short time later, we arrived at the hospital's private rooms. In one of them, two men in suits—obviously some kind of officers, possibly federal—were guarding the door to a room.
"Doctor House," one of the men said when House was close enough, offering his hand for a shake.
Without accepting the offered hand, making the serious-suited man lower it, "The patient?" House asked disinterestedly.
"Right this way," the same man responded, much more serious than he had been a moment before.
Following House to that place hadn't done us any good. Once he had entered, the agents outside the door immediately moved to block anyone else from entering.
"What do you think it is—someone important or a criminal?" Chase asked.
"Is there a difference?" Dr. Foreman asked cynically, looking through the window as House began running tests on the patient.
"Whatever it is, he's obviously in a coma," I said when House applied pressure to the patient's sternum.
"Yeah, he's definitely out of it," Chase murmured.
House didn't take long to come out of the room, completely ignoring a question the same agent asked. He reached us, holding out a chart that Chase immediately took.
"Joey Smith, thirty-five, and in a coma. Why?" House asked without stopping.
"Causes of coma are metabolic, structural—" Foreman began listing.
"He had his stomach pumped," Chase interrupted. "Why would they do that?"
"To rule out poisoning," I responded immediately, adding to the list Foreman was giving.
In general, comas could be divided into metabolic, structural, neurological, epileptic, and psychogenic causes. Of those, the most likely reasons for the case to reach House were the first three. There definitely wouldn't be any history of epilepsy in the patient, and with the physical tests House had done, the last one was ruled out directly.
"Not the typical first guess," Chase said ironically, breaking my concentration.
"Nope. First guess was faking it," House said. "The patient's a federal witness—reluctant, I'm assuming," he added by way of explanation.
A witness—probably falling under Chase's category of "important person."
"He's also an eight on the Glasgow coma scale," House continued, raising his eyebrows.
Foreman whistled, impressed. "He's barely alive," he declared. "Pretty tough to fake."
"Any recent history of head trauma?" Cameron asked. "Bad car accident? Fall?"
"They tell me no, but do an MRI to be sure," House responded immediately.
"Well, metabolic causes—liver, kidney, diabetes—" Chase said, picking up where he'd interrupted Foreman.
"Check for everything. Feds are paying," House interrupted as we neared the lounge. "We're gonna turn a profit on this one, boys," he declared, sending the other doctors to work while eyeing a person in front of us with intrigue.
Outside the lounge, a man—also dressed in a suit like the federal agents but with a much more relaxed demeanor—was waiting calmly.
"Doctor House, Bill Arnello," he said. "I'm a lawyer. I represent Mr. Smith," he explained quickly, ignoring House's indifference. "What's wrong with him?" he asked seriously.
"Do I come to you with my problems?" House asked as he kept walking. "Did I?" he asked me, pretending to be genuinely interested, as if he'd forgotten.
"Are you a doctor?" Mr. Arnello asked me, noticing my presence because of House's question.
I really had no idea how to answer the question. "I'm a—" I tried to respond.
"He's a consultant," House answered for me, interrupting whatever my response was going to be.
"Okay," Mr. Arnello murmured, giving me a quick glance before following House, who was still walking. "He's also my brother," he added, continuing his conversation with House.
Stopping for a second before continuing, "What, you changed your name?" House asked, confused. "Smith wasn't good enough for you?"
"His name's Joey," Mr. Arnello said, slightly exasperated. "He's my only brother."
Slowly, Mr. Arnello had completely lost the calm demeanor he'd exuded just moments ago. Studying his expression—visibly restrained—I strangely felt nervous.
While they were talking, for some reason, House had led us to the elevators, where he immediately pressed the button to call one.
Waiting for the elevator, "He's important to you—got it," House declared with theatrical seriousness. "So, no placebos for him," he added, pointing at me as if expecting me to note it down. "We'll use the real medicine," he said as the elevator doors opened.
Moving behind House, I entered the elevator, watching as Mr. Arnello had completely lost his smile, staring at House with silent hatred.
"Well, this was fun," House said, entering the elevator with me. "Let's do it again soon," he added, smiling at the other man.
Without a word, Mr. Arnello stepped into the elevator with slow, measured steps. Still silent, he stood next to House, waiting calmly as the elevator moved.
"Brothers in the Mafia?" House suddenly asked.
Oh, so that was it—definitely "criminals" and possibly "important person."
"Just Joey?" House added, interested, when he got no response to his earlier question. "I was hoping for a nickname—Joey Mango, Joey the Wrench," he continued, joking, making the tense elevator ride even more uncomfortable.
"Joey Knuckles, Joey Ice," I offered without being able to help it, making House point at me approvingly.
Still silent, Mr. Arnello casually reached out and pressed the emergency brake in the elevator.
"People know where I am," House said, raising an eyebrow. "And supposedly the kid can fight," he added, pointing at me with his thumb.
Completely losing the glint in his eyes, "I want you to do your job," Mr. Arnello said, staring fixedly at House. "Diagnose him, fix him, and keep him here," he ordered. "And if you can help him, I want you to do your job too," he added, pointing at me.
"We're a bit of a specialized hospital," House said, feigning embarrassment. "We generally only deal with patients while they're actually sick," he added with a small, again fake, apologetic smile.
"If you release my brother to the government, and he does what they want, even if you fix him, he's dead," Mr. Arnello explained in a monotone voice. "I need time to convince him of that."
The man's obvious threatening attitude had finally managed to shut House up. Satisfied, Mr. Arnello reached out again to let the elevator move.
"Delay a discharge?" I asked. "Well, technically it's not a lie if we call it 'extended monitoring,'" I added, squinting.
House shrugged, tilting his head.
Smiling amusedly, "I knew not everyone here was an idiot," Mr. Arnello said sarcastically.
"Oh no, we just like to pretend we are—you know, attracts more malpractice suits," House snorted.
"Oh no, good news about this is, if you screw up, you don't have to worry about a malpractice suit," Mr. Arnello said calmly, his gaze on the elevator door. "Instead, one by one, I'll take away the things you love till there's nothing left," he added in a murmur, leaning toward House.
A moment later, the elevator stopped, and the door opened.
"So," House said, stepping out of the elevator, "the Mafia thing—that's a yes," he added sarcastically, smiling.
Since I was behind the two men in the elevator, I awkwardly had to step out, avoiding Mr. Arnello, who remained standing in the open doorway.
When the elevator doors closed again, "Aren't you afraid they'll do something to you?" I asked House, raising an eyebrow. "You don't have a great way to defend yourself," I added immediately, slightly offending House.
"I have this," he said, raising his cane. "Besides, mobsters have a moral code—they won't do anything to me as long as we treat 'Joey.'"
"So we have to cure him, or we're all dead?" I asked, frowning slightly.
"Yup," House responded casually, continuing on his way.
"Why are we here?" I asked, following House. It wasn't very common for House to go up floors—at least not since he'd been banned from the maternity lounge.
"I heard maternity got a new TV," House explained immediately. "I want you to ask what happened to the old one," he added.
"Oh," I snorted.
The maternity lounge had gotten a new television since the old one had broken down, so Dr. Stratford had decided to buy a new one.
Empty-handed and disappointed, House immediately returned to the diagnostics lounge with me behind him.
"Why don't you use the diagnostics budget to buy a television for the lounge?" I asked, puzzled, halfway there.
It had never occurred to me, but it was quite strange—being House the way he was, I couldn't imagine a reason why he wouldn't use his privileges as department head to buy a television.
"The board never approves it," House replied, frowning.
That made sense.
"Maybe now that Vogler is around they'll approve it," I said falsely hopeful—it was pretty obvious that wasn't going to happen.
"You're right, I should ask at the next budget meeting," House said, snorting.
When we got to his office, the other three doctors were absent, clearly working on what House had assigned them.
As he got behind his desk, "What is this?" House asked, lifting the paper.
"It's done," I said, taking a seat in the chairs across from him.
Looking at me suspiciously with one raised eyebrow, he began to read. "Definitely pretentious," he said just a few seconds into his reading.
Throughout this time, I had only talked to House about the progress twice: the first time, and when I brought back all the journals I had taken with me.
To House's credit, the first sarcastic comment was the only one for a long while as he kept reading.
During his reading, House asked me several questions related to the conclusions I had reached in the text. I answered carefully.
I remembered perfectly every conclusion I had reached and the reasoning behind them—from the prolonged use of the medication and its effects on patients compared by both physical and situational characteristics, to specific and general cases with the recommended dosages—I was quite proud of all the answers I was able to give.
After dozens of questions, House didn't take much longer to finish reading the entire article.
When he finished, leaving the pages on his desk, "I wouldn't have written this like that, but I guess it's fine," he said with some distaste, shrugging.
Ignoring his obvious attempt to be hurtful, I snorted carelessly. "Do I change anything before sending it for publication?" I asked, hopeful for a real answer.
"You're going to send it?" he asked, smiling with disdain.
"That was the plan," I replied, slightly offended, shrugging.
"I hope I don't damage your fragile ego with this," House said, falsely concerned about my reaction, "but no one's going to publish it if you send it."
"What, why?" I asked immediately, adjusting myself in the chair.
I knew I had started the article just as a way to shut Vogler up, but it had quickly become something I had genuinely put effort into.
"No one's going to remember your name appeared in Dr. Thomas's article," House explained calmly. "This is your first article and you don't have a title, no one is going to stop to read it—at least not seriously," he added, leaning back in his chair.
I knew that the process before an article was approved for publication—depending on the journal—was slow and tedious, but I didn't understand why they wouldn't read something someone submitted, regardless of the author. After all, I was going to pay the fee.
"Yeah I do know that," I said tiredly. "That's why the name of the university and the hospital will be in bold," I added sarcastically, pointing at the document on House's desk.
Shaking his head with exaggerated surprise, "Oh wow, East Texas Tech and the East Texas Tech - Medford Teaching Hospital," House exclaimed, falsely impressed. "I'm sure any editor at Circulation or JAMA Cardiology will read the name of our hospital and immediately pick your article for publication," he added sarcastically.
"Oh really, do you think my article is good enough to be published in Circulation?" I asked with exaggerated excitement, putting my hand on my chest.
"Oh no," House responded immediately, carelessly, "but it's always fun to watch a child's illusion shatter," he added, smiling maliciously.
"Oh yeah, because that's all you know how to do—destroy illusions," I declared, exasperated.
Upon hearing my words, House reacted oddly, as if I had attacked him personally. His malicious smile disappeared completely, he frowned slightly and, clearly remembering something, shifted his eyes uncomfortably. Something had definitely happened.
"Stop analyzing me," House said, frowning.
"I didn't say anything," I defended myself, raising my hands.
"But you thought it."
"Well, you taught me that," I said sarcastically.
"Yes, I did," House murmured, sighing. "What I was saying is that you should get someone respected to vouch for you."
"Oh really?" I asked, leaning back in my chair. "But I have your name as co-author of the article, that has to count for something, right?" I asked, forcing myself to keep a neutral face.
"Everyone knows that in academia you have to put your professor's name as co-author if you want connections. That doesn't mean the text stops being intellectual toilet paper—which I assure you they read every day," House declared carelessly. "Unless, of course, you prove it's not just another mediocre work signed out of academic obligation."
"Now you're my professor?" I asked amused.
"You said it yourself—I taught you everything you know," House declared arrogantly.
"I didn't say that," I replied immediately.
"Semantics," House murmured with a nonchalant smile, shrugging.
"You know what, you're right," I said, looking at House closely. He seemed to be enjoying my 'problem' a lot. "I'm going to talk to Dr. Cuddy and President Hagemeyer—after all, they offered to help me," I added, shrugging. "And if they can't help me, I'm sure Dr. Thomas wouldn't hesitate for a second to write a letter—how did you say?—vouching for me."
Seeing a tiny change in House's expression, I smiled, satisfied. House had expected me to ask him for the favor.
Snorting, House smiled a second later, nodding slightly in a small but visible expression of pride.
Honestly, I didn't have a problem asking House to write a 'recommendation' letter to the publisher—after all, I knew that after mocking me, he would probably end up writing it.
Before either of us could say anything else, House's pager went off, catching our attention.
"Come on," House said, getting to his feet.
---
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 and not Elliot Alderson.
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
PS: PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW.