At the medical center.
"Go ahead," Adam said, catching Dr. Wilson's words. Seeing Dr. House finally zip it, he knew the guy's snark-fest was over. House was ready for some real input, so Adam dialed back his own flair.
"Female, 29, kindergarten teacher. First seizure two months ago—lost speech, babbling like a baby, periodic mental decline. Initial diagnosis: brain tumor. But all three common brain tumor protein markers came back negative. No family history, no environmental triggers, no response to radiation…"
Wilson, House's best bud and a top-notch oncologist, laid out the patient's story. After her tumor diagnosis, he'd taken her case. When he couldn't crack it, he fibbed to House that she was his cousin to trick him into stepping in.
No choice, really. House didn't care about run-of-the-mill cases—he'd rather let his three elite minions twiddle their thumbs than take a boring gig. Soap opera medical dramas? Way more his speed. But his only BFF's "cousin"? That was worth his time.
"House took over, suspected brain damage, and lined up an MRI," Wilson went on. "But she seized during prep—couldn't finish. Turns out she's allergic to MRI contrast dye. So House pivoted, thinking cerebral vasculitis. Hit her with steroids—big doses of prednisone…"
"Heh," Adam chuckled.
"What?" House snapped. "Got a better idea? The neurological symptoms from intracranial pressure lined up perfectly with vasculitis back then…"
"Wait," Adam cut in. "Didn't you just say she's allergic to MRI contrast? Where'd you get MRI results?"
"…" House faltered. "Slip of the tongue. Meant CT scan. She's fine with CT contrast."
"Gotta be precise, Dr. House!" Adam teased. "I wasn't super confident about this case at first. I mean, the one-and-only diagnostics guru, the unmatched Dr. House, couldn't nail it down…"
"I did nail it!" House shot back. "She just didn't buy it."
"Then it's still not confirmed," Adam corrected. "Your final call's still a hunch. You're pretty damn sure this time, but you could still be wrong, right?"
"So the guy who had no confidence now thinks he can poke holes in my work?" House sneered.
"Yep," Adam grinned. "With your skills, anything I can think of, you've probably already considered. And where you're better than me? You'll throw meds at a million-to-one diagnosis without biopsy proof, then judge it by how the patient reacts. I could never pull that off."
"That's 'cause you're a boring coward!" House jabbed. "If I were you, I'd open my own hospital, take whatever cases I damn well pleased, and treat 'em however I wanted."
"Yeah, and it'd go bankrupt in no time—or you'd land in jail," Adam laughed. "Look, I'll never match you there. But after you've burned through every wild trick and ruled out tons of stuff, I'm confident I can spot something you missed. Even a genius like you slips up—like calling a CT an MRI."
"…" House grumbled, caught out like the Jade Emperor choking on the Buddha's "You got beat by a monkey." "Fine, dazzle me!"
"So if House's call was right, she'd improve," Wilson picked up. "If not, we'd get new clues. During treatment, Foreman checked the kindergarten where she works. Found a parrot and guessed psittacosis…"
"Nope," Adam shook his head. "If it were parrot fever, the kids would've shown mass symptoms ages ago. No outbreak, no way it's that."
"Told ya," House smirked over the phone at Foreman, who was scowling.
"She got better on the meds at first, then tanked—went blind, then seized again," Wilson sighed. "Mental tests were all over the place. House decided to stop treatment, let the disease run its course, and gauge severity to decide: tumor, infection, or vascular…"
Adam got it. Tumor: a month or two. Infection: weeks. Vascular: a week. House was playing "how fast does she die" to crack the case. Brutal. By the time they figured it out, it might be too late to save her—or she'd survive with irreversible damage, stuck with a lousy quality of life. 😬
"Foreman and Cameron scoped her house," Wilson continued. "No weird environmental factors. But they found ham, which blew my 'cousin' lie. Still, it sparked something for House."
"Neurocysticercosis!" Adam snapped his fingers. "Ham's pork. Pork can carry tapeworms. If it's undercooked, larvae hit the digestive system, grow, and multiply. Most eggs get flushed out, but some can breach the gut, enter the bloodstream, and travel everywhere.
They secrete stuff to dodge the immune system. But when they die, the body spots 'em and attacks. If they're in the brain, that fight messes everything up—neurological symptoms galore. Steroids help a bit, then it crashes hard. Matches her case perfectly!"
"See?" House waved at his three ducklings. "This is why I've been dying to snag him!"
"Still just a theory," Foreman grumbled, unconvinced.
"True," Adam nodded. "Not 100% locked in."
"Your move," House grinned. "Let me treat her—two albendazole pills after meals daily. We'll confirm it fast, cure her in a month. Or you poke holes in my plan, come up with something else. Or use your charm to save her. Time's ticking—I vote option two!"
"That's it?" Adam blinked, shocked. "Dr. House, you're not messing with me, are you? This late in the game, and you can't do better?"
"You've got something?" House froze.
"Duh," Adam said, all dramatic. "No drugs, no MRI—we can't confirm that way. But if you're so sure it's pork tapeworm, those suckers lay 20,000 to 30,000 eggs a day. No way it's just one in her brain, right?
CT can't spot 'em 'cause their density matches spinal fluid. But if there's more—and there are—they'd be elsewhere too. Parasites love big leg muscles. X-ray her thigh. Boom, diagnosed. You're telling me she'd refuse a simple, non-invasive leg X-ray?"
House: "…"
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(Chapter End)