Daily Drama (In American TV Shows)

I know I promised to upload it at the same time, I was a little late, sorry.

PS: By the way, I didn't have chanse to review this chapter, it may have some errors I'll correct them later :D

Enjoy

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The next day, after a day of school and working at the clinic alongside House, I arrived at the gym and started warming up. As usual, Case, accompanied by Tim, approached me.

"Hey, do you have any plans for the next weekend?" Case asked seriously, crossing his arms as he reached where I was stretching.

"Not really," I responded, shrugging slightly. Now that Diane spent more time with Kat and Mandela, and I had returned to my normal routine, the weekends were the only opportunities I had to go out with Diane.

"Good, don't plan anything," Case ordered with a nod. "I've been in contact with some gyms from other cities and set up some fights for you guys," he added calmly, surprising me. Judging by the expression on Tim's face, he was just as surprised. "You better be ready, you have two weeks" Case said, furrowing his brow as he looked at both Tim and me before walking away.

"Told you," Tim murmured slowly beside me, seeming unable to believe what he had just heard.

"Yeah, you did," I replied, nodding, equally incredulous at the news.

I knew this day would come eventually, but I didn't expect it to be so soon.

Knowing that in less than five days I would have to fight someone new, who was probably more experienced than me, made me feel a little nervous, but it also made me feel strangely eager.

After all these months of training without a real opportunity to put it into practice—aside from a school fight and some sparring sessions with Tim and Case—I hadn't noticed before, but I had an intense 'itch' in my fists.

That day, thanks to the strange excitement of having a real fight, training felt, for some reason, much easier than before.

Imagining my mom's reaction to the news, I waited until after dinner that night, trying to find the perfect moment—when Charlie was comfortably asleep—before approaching my mom, who was taking care of my little sister in her room.

"Fights?" my mom asked in a low voice, careful not to wake Charlie, her brow furrowed in complete disbelief. I knew that if this were a different situation, with Charlie awake, my mom would definitely be yelling.

"It's not as bad as it sounds, Mom. They're just training fights, I promise," I assured her emptily—I really didn't know how dangerous these fights would be.

"I don't know, PJ," she murmured, keeping her voice low as she stared at me, clenching her jaw.

"This is partly for the gym's benefit," I quickly declared in a whisper, using what I had planned to say. "The gym needs more publicity to grow," I added, noticing the change in my mom's expression. I knew she loved the idea of me being a business owner. "If we start winning fights against other gyms, we'll attract a lot of attention. Maybe we'll even participate in tournaments at some point."

And to some extent, that was true. With the monthly reports from my investment account and my future plans, I knew that the gym not growing wouldn't really affect me... but if there was a chance to make it successful for Case, Tim, and myself, why not?

"A few trophies would look really good next to your article on the wall," my mom murmured, tilting her head as if weighing the pros and cons of letting me fight. "All right, but I have conditions," she added after a few seconds of silent thought.

"Sure," I nodded, prepared to hear the conditions and maybe even debate them.

"Nothing dangerous," she warned, pointing at me. "I don't want you getting brain damage."

I immediately nodded. I planned to be a doctor in the future, so I definitely wouldn't be looking to take more hits to the head than necessary.

"I want at least two trophies," she declared, raising a second finger in front of me a moment later. "Or at least pictures of you with them. The trophies can stay at the gym," she added, slightly conceding.

"I'll try," I said, raising my hands. I couldn't promise it since I didn't even know if we would participate in a tournament.

Days passed with little change in my routine, aside from the long hours at the clinic. On Thursday, when I arrived at the hospital, mentally prepared for another day at the clinic, I walked into the lounge to hang my belongings on the office hooks.

Slightly distracted by my thoughts as I entered, I didn't immediately notice Dr. Cuddy facing off against House.

"Uh," I murmured, stopping at the door as I saw Dr. Cuddy frowning while trying to hand House a chart. If I had seen what was happening in the room beforehand, I would have gone somewhere else entirely.

"Ah, PJ," Dr. Cuddy said in relief upon seeing me before I could silently slip away. "Take a look at this," she added, handing me the chart.

I wasn't House—I wouldn't deny anything the woman wanted to give me. So, feeling defeated, I took the chart slowly.

"What, is the kid my administrator now?" House asked, frowning as he wandered around the room, seemingly looking for something.

"Oh, please, House," Dr. Cuddy declared exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. "If PJ finds the case interesting, it's basically the same as you finding it interesting," she stated confidently, raising an eyebrow.

House shook his head slightly but said nothing, continuing his search around the lounge.

"Twelve-year-old male," Dr. Cuddy began as soon as we entered House's office, just as I opened the chart to read the patient's data. "Everything okay, PJ?"

As I read the first piece of information—the name—I coughed in surprise, interrupting whatever she was about to say.

"Yeah, sorry… it's just that his name is Gabe," I murmured, slightly embarrassed, since the patient's last name was different from mine.

"You know how to read, so what? Wanted to brag?" House asked sarcastically before continuing his search.

"It's my brother's name," I declared exasperatedly, knowing that House would immediately use it as an opportunity to mock me.

"We should sue them. You know, copyright and stuff," House said with a smirk.

"I'm sorry," I said to Dr. Cuddy, ignoring House and nodding for her to continue.

"No offense taken," she replied, raising a hand with a smile. "Spiking fever, congested chest, coughing up green sputum, pain in breathing."

Pneumonia.

"Baffling. Though I vaguely recall a disease called meunomia? Pneumania?" House asked sarcastically as he walked into his office, Dr. Cuddy only a few steps behind.

Usually, I would play along with House at this point, but since it was Dr. Cuddy, I had no intention of getting on her bad side. That, and the patient's history ruled out pneumonia.

"But his chest X-ray and CT scan show an atypical pattern for pneumonia," Dr. Cuddy immediately countered.

"Pneumonia! That's it!" House exclaimed, clapping with fake enthusiasm. "Just a guess here, but are his parents big donors?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at Dr. Cuddy.

It was definitely unusual for Dr. Cuddy to try and push a patient onto House—much more unusual to pick a specific one. If the child's parents weren't hospital donors, then he was probably the son of a friend or family member.

"No infiltrate, just enlarged hilar lymph nodes," Dr. Cuddy continued, ignoring House's question.

Definitely donors. And by the way Dr. Cuddy was avoiding the topic—big ones.

"Tiny unicorns goring his bronchial tubes would be cooler," House remarked rudely. "And the way you're ignoring the question… wow, they're extremely big donors," he continued, studying Dr. Cuddy's face.

"He's not responding to cefuroxime, his pulse ox is dropping much faster than it should for pneumonia," she insisted, ignoring House again. "Plus, he's got an odd little rash—"

"Excessive irritation, he's twelve. He's on auto-stroke," House interrupted, bored, already giving his diagnosis.

"On his arm," Dr. Cuddy interrupted him this time, frowning. "Papular lesion, one centimeter, on top of a long, thin scab."

That was definitely interesting. The oxygenation dropping faster than expected wasn't uncommon, but it wasn't particularly intriguing either. The skin rash, on the other hand…

"Ah, you need a dermatologist," House said sarcastically, hiding his interest. "If it's dry, keep it wet. If it's wet, keep it dry. If it's not supposed to be there, cut it off. I never could master all that," he added with fake disappointment.

As he spoke, House continued searching through the drawers in his office, opening and closing each one irritably—until he opened a small compartment in his record player.

"There you are," he declared excitedly, pulling out a small white pill. "Were you scared?" House asked, speaking to the pill between his fingers. "It's okay, you're home now," he added tenderly before popping the pill into his mouth a second later.

"Anthropomorphism in people your age is a very clear sign of cognitive decline," I declared seriously, looking at House with exaggerated concern.

"People my age?" House straightened his back, asking with what I could discern was genuine offense.

"Fine," Dr. Cuddy said, raising her arms in mock desperation and walking out of the room.

It was obvious, at least to me—and surely to House—that Dr. Cuddy was using 'reverse psychology' on him. The slow way she was 'leaving' the room made it, to some degree, a comedic situation.

Smiling at me conspiratorially, House theatrically raised his hand. "Cuddy, wait!" he exclaimed.

"Yeah?" Dr. Cuddy asked immediately, visibly relieved as she spun on her heels.

"You're forgetting your chart with the kid," House said maliciously, pointing at me after a second of silence.

Deciding that this time there was no harm in playing along with House, I pressed my lips in feigned disappointment and stretched out my hand to hand the chart back to Dr. Cuddy.

"Okay, okay," Dr. Cuddy said as she took the chart from my hand and turned once more to leave the room—this time, truly defeated.

"But just as a special favor to you—" House added, stretching out his hand silently to ask for the chart.

"No," Dr. Cuddy interrupted, smiling triumphantly. "Admit it, I got you with the rash, right?" she asked me, grinning.

"Oh, I don't know. I really thought House wasn't interested in the case," I quickly lied, raising my hands.

"Smart," House murmured, scoffing as he took the chart. "The rash is a total snooze," he responded while opening the chart to read it. "Unless it's connected to the pneumonia," he added theatrically. "Then it's party time."

"Keep me updated," Dr. Cuddy said with a sigh, seeing that House was now fully focused on reading the chart before walking out of the office.

"So, it was definitely the rash, right?" I asked House once Dr. Cuddy was out of the room.

"Obviously," House answered immediately without looking up from the documents inside the chart. "All right, let's call your siblings," he added, seeming satisfied with what he had read as he placed the chart on his desk.

It didn't take long for the other three doctors working in the diagnostics department to arrive at the lounge.

After updating the doctors on the case, House dragged his whiteboard over and started writing down the symptoms.

"Purulent sputum, dyspnea, rhonchi bilaterally," House listed. "What kind of pneumonia causes this kind of rash?" he asked, beginning the usual process.

"Legionnaires' disease," Chase responded immediately.

"Usually means industrial ventilation systems, convention centers," Cameron said, shaking her head before anyone else could speak. "He's twelve years old."

"Send off a urine antigen and check if he's joined the Elks," House ordered seriously. "Next?"

"Fungal," Cameron said this time.

"Excellent!" House exclaimed with fake enthusiasm. "Maybe the lodge went spelunking," he added sarcastically.

"Chlamydia pneumonia," Dr. Foreman said with a slight shrug.

"Twelve-year-olds don't have sex," Cameron declared with distaste.

"Their mistake," House quickly quipped.

"What if we're thinking about this backward?" Chase asked, having been deep in thought with a hand on his chin.

"The rash came first, caused the pneumonia," House murmured, nodding. "Nice."

"I like that too," I agreed, nodding. "We're in blacklegged tick season," I added—living with Bob and hearing him talk about pests so often definitely had its advantages.

"They're bloodthirsty little bastards," Chase said, nodding at me.

"The rash would be more pustular," Foreman calmly said, trying to dismiss the theory.

"Not always," Chase immediately countered.

"There's only one rash—it fits," I added, nodding at Chase's words.

"If it's a tick bite, it's most likely Lyme disease," Cameron stated, arms crossed.

"All right," House sighed. "Let's keep him on fluids and the cefuroxime to be safe. Biopsy that rash," he continued, opening his eyes slightly. "And take another history— even if we don't learn what's causing this, we definitely need to know if twelve-year-olds are getting any action."

Once the doctors left the room, House slowly walked toward his office, probably prepared to kill time playing with his little console or reading a magazine.

"So, do I need to tell your mom you've been in a lot of fights lately?" House asked without looking directly at me.

"My knuckles?" I asked, deducing the reason House would say something like that.

"It's no fun if I'm not the one explaining," House declared exasperatedly, stopping at the doorway of his office.

"Oh, sorry about that," I quickly said, faking remorse as I stood up to follow him inside. "How did you know?" I asked, mentally preparing myself and exaggerating my incredulity for a second.

"Shut up," House ordered, shaking his head.

"I haven't been in 'a lot of fights,'" I said calmly once we were in his office. "I've been training a lot more to be in a few fights," I explained with a faint smile.

My parents already knew about the fights, so I had no problem telling House since he had no way to use it against me.

"You have no problem admitting it," House declared, slightly tilting his head in surprise, raising his eyebrows.

"It's something people who play sports regularly do," I declared theatrically, crossing my leg over the other. "It's called practice."

Raising his eyebrows, clearly noticing my mockery, House also leaned slightly in his chair. "I want you to know that I'm an excellent golfer."

"Really?" I asked incredulously. "A doctor who plays golf? Do you smoke cigars when you do that?"

"A cliché is a cliché because it happens a lot," House declared with a slight smirk, shrugging.

"Hey, I got something," Chase announced proudly as he returned, only minutes after the other doctors had left.

"No way a twelve-year-old is getting action," House declared, impressed, moving to prepare himself a coffee.

"No, no, it's not that," Chase quickly said, making House exaggerate his disappointment. "Along with another group of kids, they broke into a house that was for sale—a secret club—"

"What's the secret? That they're all morons?" House interrupted, asking.

"He fell on something in the attic of the house, scraped his arm, got the rash the next day," Chase continued, ignoring House's question. "Said it smelled really moldy up there," he added seriously, tilting his head.

"Fungal pneumonia without the cave—clever," House murmured, nodding.

"I'm gonna get a sample. You wanna come?" Chase asked, pointing at me.

"Sure," I answered easily, getting to my feet.

Before Chase and I could leave the lounge, an older man dressed formally blocked the doorway, immediately looking at Chase.

"Dr. Chase, do you have a few moments?" the man quickly asked in a strong Australian accent.

"Sorry, I've gotta go," Chase quickly said, looking at the man in disbelief—seemingly even with a hint of fear—before hurrying out into the hospital hallway.

Staying behind, I studied the older man's face for a second as he remained in the doorway, watching Chase leave. It was obvious that he and Chase shared history and, judging by the accent and hair color, possibly genetics.

"These young doctors," House declared, pulling me from my thoughts. "No manners."

"Excuse me," I nodded at the unknown man before walking out after Chase.

It took me a bit of time to catch up to Chase before he reached the hospital exit.

"So... I get that you don't want to talk about that," I murmured, clenching my jaw as we walked in silence, side by side.

"He's my dad," Chase finally declared with effort after a few seconds of silence.

"Yeah, I got that," I murmured, nodding slowly.

"Of course, you did," Chase scoffed, amused.

We left the hospital, and the entire way there, Chase didn't bring up the topic again, so I stopped bothering him.

"Your car or my car?" Chase asked once we were outside in the parking lot.

"You want to ride in my car," I immediately declared, raising an eyebrow, realizing why he had invited me to check out the house.

"Yes," Chase declared with a wide grin, visibly excited—as if he had been waiting for a chance to ride in 'Debbie' for a while.

Not long after, we arrived at the house with a 'For Sale' sign in front.

"We're gonna have to jump the gate," Chase said, pointing at the closed gate as we reached the driveway.

With just a little preparation, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt, Chase started climbing over the gate with practiced ease.

"Come on," Chase urged me from the other side of the gate.

"Sure, let me just check something first," I murmured as I walked slowly to the gate latch. "Ah, look at that," I declared amusedly, pulling the gate's opening mechanism and noticing that it was, in fact, unlocked as I swung it open.

"They're usually locked. After a few times, you stop checking," Chase murmured, clenching his jaw in embarrassment.

"Yeah, yeah, definitely," I declared, smiling widely and raising my hands.

"You know what? I bet there's a key under that doormat," Chase proudly declared, pointing at the mat in front of the house's main door.

When we reached the doormat and lifted it, Chase grinned smugly as he held up the key, showing it to me.

"Congratulations, turns out you are an expert burglar," I joked as we entered the surprisingly spacious house. "Nice house," I added.

"Yeah," Chase replied, studying the house, likely looking for any signs of mold on the walls. "Come on."

Seemingly following the patient's instructions to the room where he had scraped his arm, Chase quickly led me through the house.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on, guys," Chase said the moment he stepped into the room first. "I don't care that you're up here."

"You a cop?" Before I could enter, I heard a kid's voice ask.

"Doctor—" Chase started to explain.

"But I am! Police, freeze!" I cut Chase off abruptly, bursting into the room, yelling while positioning my hands as if I were holding a gun.

After committing the crime of impressing a law enforcement officer, the two kids standing just a few steps in front of Chase visibly panicked and immediately hugged each other, screaming—at least for a second, until they realized that I was obviously not a cop and wasn't carrying a gun.

"I'm just messing with you guys," I declared, amused as I looked at the now-embracing kids, who quickly separated.

"Not cool," one of the kids muttered, annoyed.

"Yeah," the other kid immediately agreed.

"Sorry, sorry," I said, smiling and raising my hands without a hint of regret.

"We're treating Gabe Reilich," Chase continued, amused, as he put on gloves and a face mask. "He said he fell near some pipes?" he asked once he was prepared with his protective gear.

"Yeah, over there," one of the kids said, nodding and pointing to an area on the floor.

"What, here?" Chase asked, pointing at a spot on the floor.

"Yeah," both kids responded in unison, nodding.

"Great, guys. We're exploring the possibility that his condition was caused by something in this place," I said casually, noticing the beer bottles on the floor near the kids. "But our current theory is that he ingested it, maybe with beer," I added, pretending not to have seen the bottles. "Know anything about that?"

Looking at each other for a second—obviously nervous—the two kids quickly turned their attention back to me.

"Really?" one of them asked fearfully.

"Yeah. Any of you guys been feeling sick lately?" Chase, understanding what I was trying to do, asked. "Rash, cold, anything?"

"No," both kids answered immediately.

"Oh, crap," one of the kids suddenly exclaimed, looking out the attic window before anyone else could say anything. "He is a cop!" he added before bolting out of the room—and probably out of the house—fleeing from a patrol officer who had just stepped out of his car and was heading toward the house.

"Damn it!" Chase murmured, moving toward the window for a better view of the officer. Then, just like the kids, he bolted, with me right behind him.

Obviously, we couldn't leave through the front door, forcing Chase and me to climb out through a window to escape directly to the street.

"You okay?" I asked as I jumped down from the tree we had used to escape the house, seeing Chase on the ground, having landed on his butt after doing the same.

"Yeah, help me out," Chase responded, stretching out his hand.

As soon as we were off the property, we ran to my car, escaping the scene before the cop could come back out.

"That was exciting," Chase declared, laughing inside my car as we put distance between ourselves and the house.

With no intention of responding to Chase's statement, I shook my head in amusement as I kept driving. I definitely didn't plan on having a criminal record… at least not for now.

When we arrived at the hospital, Chase called the rest of the doctors—including House—to a lab to analyze the samples he had collected from the attic.

As Chase carefully prepared the tests, the rest of the doctors arrived.

"How was your second time, kid? Better than the first?" House asked, strangely carrying a book on rheumatology, looking at me with false excitement.

"Oh, definitely," I responded immediately, smiling at House. "We had to run from the cops and everything," I declared, raising my eyebrows.

"Really?" House asked, impressed, looking at Chase, who simply nodded, smiling.

"Ah, the good old days," House added with a nostalgic smile, opening the book in his hands to a random page.

"Let me see," Dr. Foreman said, likely uncomfortable with the conversation, stopping it once Chase finished adjusting the microscope with the sample.

"He fell on it," Chase quickly explained, focusing on the patient. "Some weird kind of insulation. The house was built in the sixties."

"What's it made of?" Cameron asked curiously, examining the rest of the sample Chase had brought.

"Felt, fibers of… what, cotton?" Chase responded, not entirely sure.

While the three doctors under his supervision continued working, House, who was reading—or at least pretending to read—the book in his hands, suddenly let out an exaggerated laugh, drawing everyone's attention.

"Sorry," he said, lifting his head and realizing he had interrupted. "Forgotten how funny your dad was," he declared maliciously, pointing at the book and grinning at Chase.

"Not as funny as you," Chase retorted dryly, visibly irritated by House's joke.

"High praise," House said sarcastically, standing up. "I know how protective kids can be of their parents," he continued as he approached Dr. Foreman, who was studying the sample. He nudged Foreman slightly aside and took his place.

House handled the microscope for a few silent seconds, concentrating. "Not cotton," he suddenly said. "Animal hair," he added seriously, stepping away from the microscope. "Get me the C.T. scan."

Following House's orders, Cameron quickly grabbed the prints and walked over to a lightbox.

"First, find the name of the company that made the insulation," House declared, examining the images closely. "And second, tell me what I'm seeing that makes me want to short their stock."

"Uh, enlarged hilar lymph nodes," Foreman said immediately, looking at the same images the rest of us were analyzing.

"Peribronchial thickening," Cameron followed up.

"Pleural effusions," Chase added last.

While all of that was definitely present, it was too obvious and not entirely related to the animal hair—at least not primarily.

"Less obvious, more scary," House murmured, squinting at the images.

"Well, the mediastinum doesn't look right," Chase murmured, slightly tilting his head.

"Slightly widened," Cameron added, stepping closer to the images.

Anthrax.

"We've gotta get him on Levaquin," I declared seriously before anyone else could say anything, drawing the doctors' attention.

"Oh God," Cameron declared, eyes widening in disbelief as she immediately understood why we would administer the strongest antibiotic to a child. "It can be transmitted through infected animal hair, but the Gram's stain would have shown it," she quickly added, furrowing her brow, seemingly not wanting to believe the diagnosis.

"The cefuroxime would have killed some of it, clouding the result," I responded, pressing my lips together and shaking my head slightly.

"Correct," House murmured somberly, nodding, causing Cameron to shake her head before walking out of the room, likely to check on the patient.

"What does he have?" Foreman asked, still studying the images, frowning in confusion.

"Anthrax," I responded seriously.

"Maybe he is cursed," Chase said ironically.

"Come on, let's go," Foreman said to Chase, nodding slowly.

"Call mommy," House said, making them stop as they were leaving. "She's going to want to be there when they give the diagnosis to the parents," he added as he also walked out of the room.

"How much money do you think this will bring to the hospital?" I asked House as we left the lab together.

"Given Cuddy's insistence on us taking the case, I expect enough for a new hospital wing," House declared sarcastically. "Or a new coffee maker—you never know," he added, shrugging.

"We could really use new televisions in the clinic," I murmured, tilting my head slightly.

"And by 'we,' you mean you," House said sarcastically, smiling.

"Of course," I replied immediately.

"Well, we can only dream," House declared with exaggerated longing. A moment later, after checking his watch, he added, "Oh, look at that! Speaking of which, you still have time for a few clinic consults. What luck we have."

"Yeah, what luck," I sighed, nodding—immediately regretting my words.

Fortunately, our stay in the clinic lasted no more than two patients—a woman with gastritis and a guy looking for drugs—before House's pager went off.

"What's going on?" I asked, relieved, stopping at the door before stepping out to get the next patient. House, still seated, checked his pager.

"Something is wrong," House declared, standing up, his face completely serious—unintentionally making me feel bad for my relief.

As we walked back toward the diagnostics lounge, House's three team members intercepted us in one of the hallways.

"We administered the Levaquin, and his airways started swelling," Cameron immediately explained what had happened.

"Allergic reaction to the antibiotics?" I asked, puzzled.

"I don't think so," Cameron sighed. "We switched him to Rifampin, and there was no change in the swelling."

"We should try another antibiotic," House said calmly.

"You really think he's allergic to two antibiotics?" Foreman asked incredulously.

"I want to know what Dr. Chase thinks," House said, tilting his head, ignoring Foreman's question—likely because he had a valid point in doubting the antibiotic allergies.

It was obvious he was referring to Chase's father.

At least to me. "It's possible he's allergic—" Chase, walking right beside me, started to say before I could stop him.

"Oh! I'm sorry, not you," House exclaimed, covering his mouth in exaggerated embarrassment. "Understandable mistake—the other Dr. Chase," he added with a falsely friendly smile, making Chase stop in the middle of the hallway.

"Not a fan of your father," I said, stopping beside Chase to keep him company, though I really didn't know what else to say.

"Today, I'm not a fan of any father," Chase declared, raising his eyebrows with irony. "Gabe's dad thinks he knows more than we do," he added, obviously intending to change the subject from his father to another one in the hospital.

"Really? How so?" I asked, amused. I could imagine the man suggesting diseases that had nothing to do with his son's symptoms.

"He mentioned leishmaniasis and filariasis," Chase said, his expression incredulous.

"What?" I asked, confused. It was common for people to come to the hospital with a preconceived diagnosis—everyone Googled their symptoms, fearing they had something serious—but such specific Asian diseases? The internet wasn't even what it was going to become yet.

"He found it in some book," Chase scoffed incredulously, shaking his head. "Everyone's a doctor," he added with a smirk, likely realizing the irony of saying that to me. "Come on," he said, motioning for me to follow him into the lounge.

Forcing the strangeness of the father's two random diagnoses to the back of my mind, I slowly followed Chase inside.

While we waited for Chase's father—who had been called to the lounge by House—we discussed the case, trying to figure out if we had missed anything. At least Cameron, Foreman, and I did. Chase and House remained completely silent—the latter intensely studying the former.

"Hello, everyone," suddenly greeted the same man we had encountered before heading to the house for sale, standing at the lounge door.

"Hello, nice to meet you," Cameron, being the kind woman she was, immediately stood up to greet him. "I'm Allison Cameron."

"Rowan Chase," the man introduced himself with a thick accent, taking Cameron's hand and kissing it with a broad smile.

"Eric Foreman," Foreman said from the other side of the table, offering a somewhat uncomfortable smile.

"A pleasure," Chase's father said kindly to him. "And you must be PJ Duncan," he continued, pointing at me as he walked closer.

"Yeah," I murmured, puzzled by the recognition, as I took his offered hand in a firm handshake.

"I've heard a lot about you—a medical prodigy," Dr. Rowan declared, gripping my hand firmly.

"And we've heard a lot about you—all from your son's mouth, of course," House interjected with a malicious grin, interrupting my slightly uncomfortable conversation with the man.

With his introduction, it was already quite clear that he had some relationship with Chase, but House's comment served as final confirmation for Foreman and Cameron, who now looked at Chase in surprise.

"Ah, yeah, I can imagine," the man said, nodding slowly, a hint of pain on his face as he glanced at his son standing far from everyone. "So, what can I do for you?" he asked, clapping his hands lightly.

"We have a twelve-year-old," Cameron immediately began explaining to him, following a silent cue from House.

"A boy gets anthrax and happens to be allergic to two antibiotics?" Dr. Rowan repeated slowly after listening to Cameron. "Hate to step on anybody's toes, but is it possible your guys got this one wrong?"

"The rash is classic anthrax," Chase immediately countered, frowning as if feeling the need to defend himself.

"Except for the color," his father replied, taking a slow sip of his coffee.

"The rash hasn't turned black yet," Cameron explained, trying to reason with Chase. "No necrosis, no anthrax."

"Necrosis can theoretically take as long as two weeks," Chase quickly replied, smugly smiling—not at Cameron, who had made the comment, but at his father.

House, standing beside me, was completely focused on the way father and son were staring at each other with fake polite smiles. It was obvious—not just to House and me—that the two doctors who shared a last name also shared ill thoughts about each other. Or at least Chase did toward his father.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" House exclaimed with exaggerated concern. "Guys, it's not a competition," he added, shaking his head with comically wide eyes. "It's a diagnosis," he said seriously, standing up.

Walking slowly to where Chase stood, House stopped beside him. "Okay, who thinks Junior wins?" he asked, and no one raised their hand.

Chase wasn't wrong—anthrax-related necrosis could take weeks to appear—but the likelihood of being doubly allergic to different antibiotics was too low to take the risk.

"Four to one—it's not anthrax," House said with a falsely uncomfortable smile at Chase. "So, we start over. What's changed? What do the nodules tell us?" he asked again as he walked to his whiteboard.

"Sarcoidosis," Dr. Rowan said before taking another sip of his coffee.

"Excellent," House nodded. "Send an ACE level," he ordered. "If it comes back positive, put him on methotrexate."

Chase, head slightly lowered, took a second before sighing and walking out of the room without saying another word to anyone. Shortly after, Foreman and Cameron followed, bidding farewell to Dr. Rowan.

"Where's the nearest bathroom?" Dr. Rowan asked once the three doctors had left the room.

"That way," House answered disinterestedly, pointing. It seemed that, without Chase present, House didn't really care about the man's presence.

"I don't think it's sarcoidosis," I said once we were alone in the room, shaking my head slightly.

"It doesn't fit completely, but it's more likely than anthrax," House declared as he walked into his office.

"Yeah, I get that," I murmured, nodding slightly as I took a seat in one of the chairs in front of House's desk while he sat in his own. "If someone arrives with a preconceived diagnosis—such a specific one—what do you think it means?" I asked, watching as House got comfortable with his handheld console in hand.

"You know the answer," House said flatly, without looking at me.

Yes, I did.

Nodding slightly, I stood up and walked to House's bookshelf, searching through his books. Before accusing anyone, I needed to do some research.

Deciding not to stay in the same room as House, I grabbed a few books and took them to the diagnostics lounge.

I had been searching for several minutes when House walked out of his office, frowning.

"What's wrong?" I asked, puzzled.

Without answering, House simply pointed at the door, where the rest of the doctors—including Chase's father, who hadn't returned from the bathroom until now—entered the room.

"It's definitely anthrax, and it definitely can't be anthrax," Dr. Foreman argued with Cameron as he entered the lounge first. "It doesn't cause throat nodules."

"Did you find necrosis?" I asked, surprised, closing the book I had open on the table.

"Yes," Chase answered me seriously, nodding.

"The only explanation is that this kid's got anthrax and sarcoidosis," Dr. Rowan declared calmly.

"Right, two incredibly rare diseases just happening to strike at once," Chase said, frowning at his father.

"Unless you've got a better theory," Dr. Rowan murmured, smirking smugly at his son.

"Anthrax plus an allergic reaction," Chase immediately said.

"Call The Lancet, because that's one bizarre allergic reaction," Dr. Rowan replied sarcastically, the smirk vanishing from his face.

"Come on," House interrupted the father-son argument, despite visibly enjoying the 'show.' "There's no reason you both can't be wrong."

"It's not an allergy, but it's not a coincidence either," I murmured. "One is causing the other?" I asked House.

Pointing at me, House nodded. "Anthrax weakened his immune system and triggered dormant sarcoidosis," House stated calmly. "Keep him on antibiotics for the anthrax and start the methotrexate for the sarcoidosis," he ordered again. "See what happens."

"Fine," Chase muttered, nodding before storming out of the room.

"Better go with him," House said, tilting his head toward Chase. "Make sure he doesn't snap and hurt somebody," he added, prompting the rest of the doctors—including Dr. Rowan—to follow Chase out.

"You're really enjoying this," I said to House, shaking my head but unable to suppress a slight smile.

"And you're not?" House asked incredulously.

"Of course not. I'm not a sadist," I scoffed, picking up the book I had left on the table.

"I'm sorry for you," House declared amusedly as he walked to his office.

"Yeah, sure," I murmured, smiling.

This time, only a few minutes passed before I was interrupted in my search again.

A visibly angry man with a deep frown entered the lounge. "Are you being funny?" Before I could ask who he was, the man directed the question at House, who was standing in his office doorway.

"Apparently not," House responded disinterestedly, shrugging.

"You know why I give money to this hospital?" The man, whom I now recognized as the patient's father, Mr. Reilich, asked House. "It's the only way to get attention," he continued without waiting for House to respond—fortunately for the situation, as House would surely have replied with some kind of insult. "See this?" he asked, raising one of his hands.

"Is this a magic trick?" House asked, feigning excitement. "Because I am a total David Copperfield fan," he quickly added. "Although I thought that tornado of fire seemed a little fake."

"Pain in the wrist," Mr. Reilich explained, ignoring House's joke. "It wouldn't go away for months," he continued, moving his hand but strangely keeping it open. "Six doctors' brilliant conclusion was to 'take it easy,'" the man said, offended. "I write a check, my name goes on a plaque, and 48 hours later, I've got two MRIs, a bone scan, and a diagnosis: carpal tunnel. I'm in surgery that afternoon."

"Fascinating story," House declared with false surprise. "Have you thought of adapting it for the stage?" he asked sarcastically, walking toward his office.

"I love my—" Mr. Reilich clenched his fist tightly, then immediately let it go with pain—something House, who had turned his back, couldn't see. "Look at me, I love my son," he said seriously, pointing at House with his other hand. "I love him more than anything else in the world. So start paying attention to this case, or I'm gonna make things miserable for you."

House, not at all intimidated by the man's words, was surely about to reply with some kind of joke, but his pager interrupted him.

"Go to your son's room," House declared somberly, his expression shifting immediately.

"Not until you get your ass—" the man started to say.

"There's a problem," House interrupted him seriously.

Without another word, Mr. Reilich quickly left the room, running down the hospital hallway until he disappeared from our sight.

"Awkward," House said, raising his eyebrows in amusement.

Ignoring him, now having much more information than before, I quickly opened one of the books on the table.

Something didn't quite add up—diagnoses so strange that they weren't even listed in most of the books I had taken from House's shelf, a previously healthy twelve-year-old's immune system weakened to a concerning degree, and ulnar nerve damage misdiagnosed as carpal tunnel. It wasn't sarcoidosis.

"Skin lesions are spreading all over his body," Foreman's voice suddenly pulled me from my thoughts. "They're opening up, and the fatty tissues are oozing out. He'll be septic in a matter of days," he declared grimly.

"Death by dermatitis," Cameron muttered.

"Wait, what do the skin lesions look like?" I quickly turned in my chair, noticing how House narrowed his eyes at me.

"Small and red, all over his back," Foreman answered immediately.

"Where's Robert?" Dr. Rowan asked, puzzled, looking around the lounge and interrupting my train of thought.

"Uh, he has clinic duty," Cameron answered awkwardly.

"No, he doesn't," House immediately corrected her, shifting his attention to Cameron. "I rescheduled you guys so you'd be free," he added, slightly raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, but he re-reschedules himself," Cameron replied, pressing her lips together and avoiding eye contact with Dr. Rowan.

House, unlike Cameron, looked at the man with a grin. "Keep that thought," he said, pointing at me without looking. "We're going to the clinic."

"What were you thinking?" Cameron asked me as we walked together toward the free clinic.

"Ah! No spoilers!" House exclaimed, stopping me before I could answer.

Shrugging, I silently apologized to Cameron. I didn't have my theory fully articulated yet—I just needed one more thing.

"You page me?" House asked as he barged into one of the clinic's exam rooms without knocking.

"No, I don't need you," Chase's voice responded from inside, as House stood blocking the door.

"Come on, we all need help now and again," House quickly said. "You're getting a consult," he added as he walked further into the room, gesturing for us to follow.

"Good afternoon," I greeted awkwardly as I entered the exam room with the rest of the doctors.

"Hi, my hand hurts," the patient, an older man, said, raising one of his hands.

"Your watch is too tight," I pointed out immediately, noticing the tight watch strap on his wrist and focusing back on the other doctors.

Chase looked incredulous as the patient adjusted his watch and moved his hand, visibly relieved.

"Okay," House murmured, also glancing at the man. "We've got new skin lesions—bigger and uglier. What would cause that?"

"What if his body worked so hard attacking the anthrax that it started attacking itself?" Dr. Rowan suggested.

"Autoimmune," Cameron immediately said.

"Wouldn't present this aggressively," Chase quickly countered, shaking his head.

"It's not likely, but it is possible," Cameron argued.

"What, in a twelve-year-old male?" Chase questioned. "Gabe's dad found leishmaniasis and filariasis in some book earlier. They didn't fit then, but now they kind of do."

"Sure, except for the nodules, and we're not working out of Calcutta General," House shot back sarcastically.

"Multiple neurofibromatosis," Chase quickly changed his diagnosis.

"You think this is neurological?" Foreman asked incredulously.

"The only reason you're thinking autoimmune is because you're a rheumatologist," Chase snapped at his father. "If you were a proctologist, you'd think rectal cancer."

"If this were a contest, gotta go with Senior," House said with fake discomfort. "He literally wrote the book on this one."

"Autoimmune is a big universe—" Cameron started to say, but House raised his hand, cutting her off.

"But fortunately, we have the other side of the spectrum," House declared, amused. "Kid, does any of this help your theory?" he asked, drawing everyone's attention to me.

"Leishmaniasis and filariasis do," I nodded.

"We already ruled those out," Foreman said, surprisingly without dismissing me.

"No, but the father doesn't know that," I replied, shrugging.

"How sure are you about your diagnosis?" House asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Seventy percent," I said, tilting my head in response.

"I like those odds," House declared with a nod. "But what do you need to make it a hundred percent?" he asked with a sinister smile.

"Talk to the father," I replied, pressing my lips together as I braced myself for what I might have to do.

"What are you talking about?" Dr. Rowan asked, puzzled.

"PJ discovered something," Cameron explained, arms crossed, seemingly accustomed to what was happening.

Without actually getting an answer to his question, the man inquisitively looked at the others in the room.

"We don't ask, they're different" just as Cameron crossed his arms, defeated Dr. Foreman replied.

"What are we waiting for, then?" House asked. "There's a kid waiting to be saved," he declared theatrically, walking out of the room with the rest of the doctors.

"You can go, sir," I assured the patient with a smile before leaving, as he silently watched everything unfold.

"Oh, thanks," the man said, getting up and walking past me out of the office.

"So you're not going to tell us what you discovered?" Dr. Rowan asked, confused, as we walked toward the patient's room.

"No, it's more fun if we all figure it out together," House declared with a wide grin. Considering what he and I knew about the father, House was probably already forming an idea of my theory.

When we arrived at Gabe's room, we found his parents huddled at the foot of the bed, embracing each other. The child, obviously weak and sick, lay on his side. I could now see the onset of lesions spreading beyond his back, beginning to cover his face and arms—it was progressing fast.

"What's going on?" Mr. Reilich asked, frowning as we all entered the room together. "Who is this?" he asked, pointing at me and making my age noticeable.

"Oh, sorry, Mr. Reilich, I'm PJ Duncan," I said, extending my hand for a handshake.

"Ah, Cuddy mentioned you. Supposedly a genius," the man said, recognizing my name as he took my hand. "Ah!" he immediately exclaimed, pulling his hand back in pain.

Offering my hand for a handshake had been nothing more than a small trap—I had gently pressed the ulnar nerve in his wrist. His reaction made it clear that the carpal tunnel surgery had not solved the pain.

"Ninety percent," I said to House, pressing my lips together seriously.

"What is going on here? Is this some kind of game?" Mr. Reilich asked, obviously irritated as he rubbed his hand.

"Dad, what's going on?" Gabe, still lying on his side, nervously asked, awakened by his father's shouting.

"The thing is, your father has been misbehaving," House responded with a sarcastic smile.

"How long were you in Asia?" I asked, staring at the angry man, trying not to make him feel attacked.

"I've never been there," the man immediately responded defensively, and judging by Gabe's mother's reaction, she had no idea either.

"Well, you probably just forgot," House said sarcastically. "Let me refresh your memory—some remote, dusty village, close quarters, at least a year?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "Starting to come back?" he asked, feigning interest.

"I'm calling Dr. Cuddy," the man threatened, offended, as he moved toward the room's phone.

"Excuse me, what does this have to do with our son?" Gabe's mother asked, concerned.

"Your dad's pissed off," House said, talking to Gabe. "I mean, he should be—he comes here expecting us to do an extra-good job because he gives a whole lot of money to this hospital—"

Slamming the phone down, Mr. Reilich quickly approached House. "Don't talk to my son like that!" he furiously warned, pointing at House.

"Just telling him my job and my obligation," House quickly said, raising his hands as if pretending to be afraid of the man's warning.

"Stop!" Gabe's mother anxiously shouted, holding her son's hand, stopping whatever her ex-husband was about to do. "What's going on?" she asked, on the verge of tears.

"You just need to tell the truth, or your son will die," I said, looking seriously at the man. "How long were you in Asia?" I asked again.

"Jeff, it's a simple question," the woman said, pleading with her eyes while still holding her son.

Looking at everyone in the room, swallowing with difficulty, he finally responded, "Two years, in India."

"One hundred percent," I whispered to myself.

"Why would you lie about something like that?" the woman asked in disbelief, holding her son's head in her arms as she stared at Mr. Reilich.

"It was '77 and '78," the man admitted, lowering his head slightly. "This, uh, this guru... I thought he had some answers. I went to his ashram... and, um, ended up with no money and no answers," he finally admitted. "I was embarrassed, I didn't want anyone to know."

As the man recounted his story to his son and ex-wife, House silently signaled for us to leave the room.

"What was that?" Chase's father asked, impressed, staring at me.

"An informed guess," I replied, pressing my lips slightly.

"You got all that just from the father's diagnoses?" Chase asked, equally impressed.

"Partially, yes," I admitted. "It was strange that a man with no medical education knew those diagnoses, but even stranger that only two of nearly seven books in the lounge mentioned them," I continued. "Then there was his wrist surgery—it was a misdiagnosis of carpal tunnel syndrome."

Dr. Foreman let out a surprised huff, shaking his head with an amused smile. "So what is it?" he asked.

"Let me guess," House interrupted before I could answer, overly excited. "If I were Jesus, I could cure this disease as easily as turning water into wine," he said as if it were a game show.

"Demonic possession?" Dr. Foreman joked.

"What is leprosy?" I answered, playing along with House.

"We have a winner," House declared, amused.

---

Author Thoughts:

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

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.