http://www.bolittlebit.net/House_MD/Hugh_Won.mpg When most being think of Saturdays, they think of sunny afternoons and short skirts and people just having a damned good time. On the whole, I would have to agree. Except for the short skirts part, because it would be pretty odd for a guy to walk around in a short skirt. Unless he was Scottish, which I most definitely am not. At least, I'm pretty sure I don't have any Scottish in me. Does James Benson sound Scottish? I didn't think so. Anyway, Saturday afternoons. While I'd normally be inclined to agree with all those fluffy cliché descriptions of the weekend, it's hard to put much stock into them. Not when one is usually working during those sun drenched, short skirt filled afternoons. Pathology labs in the basement of a large, sterile hospital tend to lend themselves to garish fluorescent lights and long lab coats. Not the most enjoyable of places on low days, but when interesting things happen, it's amazing how one can find himself not missing the sun one bit. That is, if that amazing presents itself in the form of a friendly distraction that is about three seconds away from crossing the line from entertaining to mildly annoying. Craig Watson-- horrible name, really-- isn't trying to be annoying, just distracting. He knows I've been down in this lab for hours. That I was here for even longer yesterday and only got three hours of sleep so I could get back sooner. Hours hiding in the dark lab, running test and test, trying to figure out what the hell was killing my patient. My usually unflappable attention, which normally would be glued to the microscope, is slowly being unflapped by his latest tirade. He wants us to go to a bar, get blindingly drunk, and pass out in some strip club deep in the seediest part of town. Which of course, has to be his last ditch effort to get me out of the building, seeing as how he absolutely hates strip clubs. "Wats..." I finally sigh as I turn away from the microscope. What can I say? It worked. He smirks, stands, stretches-- cause really, the stoles in the pathology lab suck. My ass could complain for days about them. I haven't said anything, just his name, but he knows he's won. My attention is no longer on my work, and this is his chance to get me the hell out of here. Really, I should be grateful. I'm starting to get way too familiar with the couch in my office. "I'll meet you out in the lobby in half an hour," is all he says, then he's gone. That's barely enough time to finish my lab test, get to office, gather my things, and make it to the lobby. I know that if I'm even two minutes late, he'll come looking for me. Really, I should be grateful. ------- "Eighteen minutes, twenty-three seconds. You know, you didn't have to rush on my account, you know. People may start to talk," Watson oh-so-subtly stage whispers to me when I exit the elevator. And I certainly did not jump at the sudden comment. Though with the way he's smiling that shit-eating grin at me, I'm starting to think he thinks so. "Well, you know what they say," I try for smooth, I honestly am, falling into step with him. "'There's Dr. Benson again, humoring that poor Dr. Watson. Because honestly, if he didn't, who would?'" "E tu Bens?" I swear, they could hear my eye roll on the third floor. "Please. People don't hate you. They...just find you hard to digest." God, that wouldn't convince the most naïve five year old Canadian girl. "Hard to digest? Right. Like a pineapple. Whole." Okay, now he's just sulking. Which is probably a good thing that we've reached my car. Emphasis on mine. Watson isn't so smooth to think I wouldn't notice his steering me to my spot. He seems to think that if I take my car, I'll be more inclined to stay away from the hospital. You'd think the reverse would be true? "I was thinking more along the lines of a cactus, but whatever gets your kicks in," I reply, starting to engine. "And that's not what I meant." He gives me a Look, which I ignore. Like always. "Did you ever stop to think that most people would find it rather...unnerving to have a doctor with a remarkably twisted sense of humor? And that said doctor does not have the tact to keep said humor to himself around...oh, I don't know...patients. Patients' families? Other doctors? Royalty?" "How did you know about my affair with the Princess of Dutch?" "What can I say? She came to me after your less than stellar sexual prowess." Oh god, not the false pout. If I didn't know better, I'd swear this man was not a neurologist of thirty-eight. "Oh stop. There's isn't even a Princess of Dutch." "Ouch." The rest of the ride is down in thankful silence. By silent mutual agreement, we have dinner at an Italian restaurant not far from the hospital. Watson may have his faults and overall immaturity, but he's not an idiot. He wouldn't be such a good doctor if he was-- hell, he wouldn't be a doctor at all. He knows that I can't in good conscience abandon my patient just to have a good time. Not when we don't know what's wrong. Between us, Watson is always the first to realize when I need to have a break. Really, if it wasn't for him, I would have burned out in med school. Seriously. I can't remember how many all-night, brain-draining cram sessions he saved me from. 175. Not like I'm keeping track or anything. Dinner goes by like all our other evenings out. Watson offends the waitress without even realizing it. Apparently not everyone is open to off-colored, dead-baby jokes as I am. Maybe I've developed an immunity to them. As per another silent agreement, we don't talk about hospital business or my current patient. Instead we talk about sports, the Tom Petty concert next weekend, and generally joke around. It's not until I'm putting on my coat and digging in my wallet for a tip that I notice the amount already on the table. Okay, so maybe Watson noticed the waitress' rather put-out attitude after all. It's for the little things like that I still put up with Watson. He may be a twisted bastard, but he's a honest, well-meaning, twisted bastard. ------ "Can you believe this?" "It's actually kind of funny, if you think about it." "Only you would find this funny." "Oh please." Add one rather overly dramatic eye-roll for effect. "The situation is funny, not the disease." "I can't believe it took me so long to figure it out. Vasculitis! Can you believe this?" "Vasculitis is never the answer." "Oh, shut up." As it turns out, my patient had vasculitis. Normally, it wouldn't have taken very long to diagnose that, except I didn't get a patient with the ol' run of the mill vasculitis. No, I had to get someone with it's more rare cousin that was caused by an infection of the arterial wall. And not just any arterial wall, but almost singularly centered in the lungs. For all intents and purposes, it looks like pneumonia. Pneumonia! Pah. And all the while, there Watson sat, on the corner of my desk, snickering to himself. If I had a letter opener, I would have stabbed him. So I was left with nothing else but to glower at him...I wasn't sulking. Pulmonologists don't sulk. Watson inclined his head and, in a moment of utter obviousness, stated, "This really bothers you." No dip, Sherlock. I laughed at the irony of my own thought. Good, he looks confused. My grin faded pretty quick, though. "Of course it bothers me. I should have been able to tell the difference." "Meh. They share so many of the same symptoms they pro'lly split the rent." He holds up his hand to silence me, picking up my paper weight has he continued. "You figured it out. God, it's not like she died or anything. She's fine, get over it." Tossing the paper weight from hand to hand, he turned to look back at me. Gee, for once he actually looks serious. I knew there was a doctor in there somewhere. "Or would you rather still be down in the labs? I never pinned you for the dark and gloomy room type. Unless those slides really had tiny pictures of tiny naked people." Okay. So much for serious. My only response to that is a raised eyebrow. He grins and I raise the other one. Not exactly his typical response, that. Unless he just got an idea. One he knows that I won't particularly like but will be involved with one way or the other. So when he drops the paper weight with a thunk and jumps off my desk, I'm a little surprised. "I've got a patient to deal with. The tests should be back..." He glances at his watch. "...five minutes ago." He pauses in the process of leaving, his head tilted to one side. He hates to ask. "You on duty tonight?" I ask instead. I know that's what he was fishing for. "There's a Betty Boop marathon at seven." Oh god..."I'll drop by when I get off." Then he's gone. ---------- Over the years, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been to Watson’s apartment. The number of monthly visits tends to average between fifteen and twenty. It’s pro’lly a good thing I’m not married-- I don’t think a wife, no matter how loving, would really understand. Nevertheless, I always end up staring at his door for a few minutes before knocking. Sometimes I wonder if he knows, but then I remind myself this is Watson. If he knew, I’d never hear the end of it. God, what a sad life I have. Here I am, standing my best friend’s hallway sinking into an introspective stupor. I hope he has plenty of beer. Finally knocking, I’m forced to wait the normal five minutes before he answers. In the past, I used to ask why it took him so long to answer. ‘To get decent. Or do you really want to see my naughty place?’ or some other play on the same excuse. Which is pretty much what I was greeted with. The urge to roll my eyes is almost more than I can stand. Who says I don’t have any self control? “If I really wanted to see your naughty place, I wouldn’t bother to knock and you know it.” He just smiles and lets me in. The Betty Boop marathon is well underway on the television. For a few seconds, I had hoped he was joking about watching cartoons. He looks at my face and his smile gets even bigger. “What? You didn’t think I was joking, did you?” “Just tell me you have beer.” “Don’t you have to work in the morning?” he asks, going down the hall to the kitchen. I can hear the fridge open and close, but he doesn’t come back into the main room. He does that sometimes, going off into a room by himself for a few minutes. He’s never told me why and I’ve stopped asking years ago. So I settle myself on the couch and contemplate changing the channel. “Carson needed this weekend off, so I agreed to switch with him. I’m a free man-- at least until Thursday.” Maybe he won’t notice the difference between Betty and kimono dragons. “Don’t even think about it,” he announces on his return, beer in hand. Perching on the arm of the lounger, he tossed one of the bottles to me. With his now free hand, he produces an envelope with a flourish. “Check this out,” he adds, handing it over. This time I do roll my eyes. “It’s empty.” “Oops. Well, not like the letter was very important. Just some job offer--” “You got a job offer?” “--from some place in Wyoming. Get this, it’s for there new position of Head of Neurology.” “New position? Is it a new hospital?” Looking at the envelope again, I can’t help but study the address. Some hospital called Maylin Medical in Sonto. “Sonto?” “I’ve never heard of it either.” Taking a swig of his beer, he added, “Even looked it up, but I couldn’t find it.” “Must be one of those 200 or less kind of places.” “Probably. The real estate prices must be in the tank out there.” “Yeah.” Strange, I’m not much of a drinker but my beer suddenly seems like a good idea. What weirdo in Wyoming would want Watson for a Head of Neurology anyway? Funny, I really don’t want to know if he took the offer or not. ---------- After sacrificing a gloriously work free weekend, my next chance for relaxation doesn’t come for another three weeks. Of course, a sudden outbreak of influenza had staff calling in left and right. In a more just universe, they would have had the manners to go to a different hospital for treatment. No such luck for that. Two hours into my day off, I get called in. Not only was this the wrong season for some serious flu outbreaks, the numbers were staggering. I haven’t seen more sniffle nosed and miserable people in one room since…Well, actually, since ever. Then some housekeeping sponge with brain cells had to mention avian influenza within earshot of the waiting room. That was a huge help. After hearing that little fruit on the grapevine, I wasn’t too surprised to hear—two hours later—another rumor. This time of a jackpot for who ever finds the offending housekeeper. Winner goes the spoilers and all. Since it’s been proved that the universe hates doctors, and myself in particular, I was once again not surprised to find Watson thoroughly enjoying himself far, far away from those in the waiting room. He was off ‘flu duty’ and back doing boring neurologist work. He knew, the smug little bastard, that as a board certified pulmonologist, I would be called in to consult on whether or not this cough sounds wet. As if I didn’t have patients of my own, excluding the not-so-lucky few flu victims with severe cases. But I’m not whining. Though the fact that it took three days to kill the ‘bird flu’ rumors is rather unnerving. Some of the nurses were silly enough to think that once the people currently in the waiting room were assured it was not, that it would end there. Oh those poor, niave women. And man. On the fourth day, a few hours after when I should have had lunch, Watson tracked me down. Not a small feat. There’s this lovely little lounge in subbasement one, between the Hall of Records that No One Reads and the morgue, that no one ever uses for some reason. I don’t see why not. It’s quiet, the couches are insanely comfortable—pro’lly because no one uses them—and has some of the best coffee in the hospital. “You know what would make this place so much more cheery?” Watson asks in lieu of a greeting. “A little speaker in the corner, spewing the Toccata and Fugue in d minor on infinite repeat.” “Surely Dies Irae would be more appropriate,” I reply, looking up from the journal I’ve been reading for the past—Wow, has it really been half an hour? “To each his own.” He takes the chair next to mine, tilting his head to read the title of the journal. “The American Journal of Respiratory Cell and Molecular Biology? A little behind on your studies?” Leaning back, he glances over at the table. At the other journals there: New England Journal of Medicine, Respiratory Medicine, Respiration; International Review of Thoracic Diseases, and a few others. “Maybe a bit more than a little.” I grab my coffee from the table to give myself a moment to think. Not to figure out what to say. I’m rarely at a lose for words around Watson, though to be fair most of them aren’t that nice. No, it’s to determine whether or not he actually wants to know. Ah, what the hell. “Dr. Wells called—“ “Prof. Wells?” he interrupts. “How is the old cocksucker?” “Still sucking. Now, if I may?” He nods graciously and I barely resist throwing my coffee at him. “At first, we were just catching up. Criticizing new treatment plans and so-and-so’s new miracle drug.” “The usual.” “Yeah. Then he asks me if I had heard anything about the new strand of influenza that wasn’t a new strand of influenza.” “That…really doesn’t make sense.” “It didn’t make sense to me either. Then he told me something I didn’t know. Hell, something with my contacts, I couldn’t know.” I pause to take a drink and he gives me a look that screams ‘get on with it.’ “We’re not the only hospital to get suddenly overwhelmed by flu victims. Hell, we’re not even the only state. Dr. Wells said he has friends in ten different states talking about the same thing, with their friends doing the same in another fifteen.” Watson gives a low whistle in response, before frowning. “But how does that explain the whole new stand but not deal.” “I’m getting there, if you’d stop interrupting.” “I didn’t want to get sucked into a monologue.” After one nasty, withering glare, he promptly shuts up. “The current vaccines couldn’t touch it. True, there’s been a bit of a shortage for a few years, but what there was should have had some impact. It didn’t. Then, just as sudden as it came, it’s gone. Like that.” I snap my fingers to emphasis the point. “But its still here.” “No, only the residual symptoms. The massive swell of three days ago, hell even yesterday, is gone. You remember how busy I was then. I’ve been down here for over half an hour, not one call. You’re the first person I’ve spoken to today. I’ve been doing charts and billings all day. I haven’t known what to do with myself without those constant consults.” “Okay…But that still doesn’t explain anything about the journals.” “Since I was consulted on all those cases, I noticed a symptom that wasn’t typical with any cases of influenza I’ve come across. In about half of the people I checked out—and all of the ones that needed hospitalization, I might add—had excessive difficulty breathing.” “Maybe you should go back to med school, because that is a symptom of the flu.” “I know that! This was…different. On a few patients, I wanted to order some tests, but then it was gone.” “They could breath just fine, then?” “That’s the stinger though. They still had trouble breathing, but it was a different trouble—just like all the other patients. It was as if…I know, the lungs were obstructed. Not my mucus or muscle fatigue and weakness, but more like an infiltrate.” “But it was gone before you could get it out.” “Yeah.” “Hence the journals. Right. This anomaly in such a wide spread case, some one had to have written something similar to what you’re seeing. Strains don’t just pop up in such numbers over night.” “So you believe me?” He gives me a look that is an odd mix of offense, confusion, and intrigue. Completely understandable, really. I might have been expecting it. We both know that when it comes to lungs, he truly values my opinion. That I’d doubt his sincerity and trust, that explains the offense. Confusion and intrigue for why I would doubt. He really doesn’t need to say anything. “I mentioned it to Najeed. He said that with all the extra work I’d been doing, my faculties weren’t in top shape.” Watson snorts in a not so nice way, but doesn’t say anything. “He’s words exactly, ‘Take a break, take a nap, you’re starting to hear things.’” “Ass. And you took his word that it was nothing?” Sighing, I finish my coffee. I really am pretty tired. “At the time, yes. After Dr. Wells called, I started thinking about it again. Even if it was nothing, and I was hearing something—“ “It’s still worth tracking down, just in case.” “Yeah.” ---------- Time flies. Whoever first said that really has no idea just how fast it does sometimes. I’m sure it was before the concept of the speed light came round. Considering how hassled everyone was during that little influenza incident, it’s kind of funny how easily it was swept from everyone’s mind. I guess a couple of months of constant work will do that. A few weeks after the Days of Flu, there was an outbreak of unexplained infections. At first, we all thought people had temporarily lost their minds and forgot to wash up after using the facilities. More rashes, seeping wounds, and fevers that I’ve ever wanted to look at in one day. It didn’t help that half of the people that came in also ended up with various stages of renal problems. Some even went and had out right renal failure. A couple died. But, just like in the case of the flu, it was relatively gone in a few days. Fortunately Watson and I not being immunologists, dermitologists, or even nephrologists, we were spared any dramatic increases in work loads. Not saying we weren’t forced to pick up a few cases on our own, which we had to. I’m not complaining though, I never complain. Well, maybe occasionally. When it suites me. But I’m certainly not complaining when it comes to patients and doing my job. “You’re complaining.” Wats voice cuts into my thoughts, startling me so much my pen-- I was trying to do some charts, at least I think I was-- goes flying across the room. “A little jumpy today? You really shouldn’t drink so much coffee. That’s bad for you, you know.” “What? No, I haven’t had any coffee today.” He tilts his head, clearly saying he doesn’t believe me. I grin as I go to retrieve my pen. I could have used one of the many littering my desk, but this one was special. One of those expensive pens from Las Vegas that, when you held it one way, the women lost their clothes. “Bawls is not coffee.” “God, how can you drink that stuff?” “Says the man who drinks weed juice?” Pen retrieved-- and I only had to move two chairs and plant to get to it-- I return to my desk. “If you ask me, a drink that has every plant and weed known to man in it, that’s just plain gross.” “True, but at least mine is actually good for you. The shit you drink, you’ll be lucky if you heart only explodes.” “Cheerful thought, that. What do you want?” “Since when do I need an excuse to see you?” A couple come backs flick through my mind, but I dismiss them without even looking up at him. We’ve been too busy and too tired lately. I don’t feel like being cute and funny. Which is pretty much what I say. “Like you said, we’ve been too busy. Too many patients, too many tests, too many forms. I want, no, I need a break before…” He lets his sentence trail off, but I know where he was going. ‘Before I screw up.’ And he has a damn good point. We may not be department heads or even the best at what we do at the hospital, but we’re pretty damn close. The thought that if we’re close to the edge, then where’s the rest of the staff standing suddenly comes to mind. I could really, really use a drink. Maybe a vacation. Shit, I need to get laid. For some reason, I can’t stop myself from glancing at Watson. I can’t help but snort, either. If only he was mind reader, he would have enough trash on me for a life time. Of course, he sees me looking and starts tapping impatiently on my desk. I wonder how long he’s been trapped behind his. “A new Vietnamese place just opened up a couple of blocks from my house. We can go there, or order in if you want. I think I still have some beer from the last time you were over.” “God, that was weeks ago. You don’t expect me to drink that!” “The restaurant has a liquor license.” “Meet you at seven?” One last look around my desk has me frowning. “More like eight, hell maybe even nine. I really have to get this done.” Sometimes I wish I’d gone to art school instead. --------- “Will that be all, for you gentlemen?” The waitress Lin-- or was it Sin? I really wasn’t paying any attention-- had been quite a relief. Weeks of delivery boys, pimply to winkly, I’d begun to think I wouldn’t see another pretty little woman. Never mind me. I’m delusional. Too much alcohol. Hell, she’s not even very pretty. Her lips are too small, eyes just a little too far apart to be really pretty. All the blemishes covered by a thick layer of foundation. Lipstick far too bright to really go with the décor. But she has cute ass, so that has to be worth something, right? I tell her yes, that’ll be all and if she would be so kind as to bring the check. I try not to watch her ass as she saunters away. Surprisingly, Watson has been on his best behavior. Whatever qualifies as his best behavior, that is. He only one off center joke when she or other patrons were in eye shot once. Though I think some aspects our conversation may or may not have drove more than a few people to tables on the other side of the room. Not that I can really blame them. Who wants to hear about seeping, oozing flesh over a nice, foreign cruisine? Not everyone is cut out to be a doctor, I suppose. I wonder what would happen if those people were stuck in a room with a nice, fresh cadaver. They’d never make it past med school. Poking through what’s left of my dinner-- if this wasn’t supposed to be a Vietnamese restaurant, I’d swear it was lo mein-- I wonder about Watson’s behavior. He’s almost subdued. Serious. Maybe I’m not the only one that’s tired. “You remember that letter I got, a few months back?” he asks out of no where, staring at the dredges of his soup as if they held the meaning of the universe. Who knows? Maybe they do. “Which one? You may not exactly be the type to get fanmail, but I’m sure the utility companies love to send you shit.” “The one from Maylin. About the job offer?” Shit, that one. “Yeah, I remember,” I mumble, taking a quick bite. For a few weeks after he told me about the letter, the offer, it was all I could think about. Would he accept? Had he already accepted? A part of me knows he really wouldn’t want to move out to Wyoming, but with a position like department head on the table…Most people wouldn’t hesitate. But I never asked him. I could never ask him. For some reason, I could never bring myself to find out if he was going to take it or not. The time never seemed right. If I was honest, I was more than a little put off my the notion that he might leave. He’s my closest friend. The kind of friend that really matters. I’ve told him as such. Maybe that’s why he’s never called me out on why I never seemed interested in this particular subject. “Apparently they are very interesting in me in particular. They sent me another letter.” “What?” “They sent me another letter,” he repeats with a grin. Smart ass. But with the dim lighting, I can’t tell if its genuine or not. “I heard you the first time. But why would they send you another letter? That was months ago, so I’m sure they’ve found someone to be their department head. Is it for a different position?” “Nope. Same as before, Head of Neurology. This time though--” he stops as the waitress comes back with out check. Before I can even reach for it, Watson’s snatched it off the table and pulling out his wallet. “You got it the last time.” “I got it the last four times. What about this time?” “I said I was going to get it.” As he counts out some bills, he an annoyed look. “And I think this covers me for the next three times, too. Can you believe how much they charged for the soup?” “You know what I meant.” “I know.” He gets and heads to the cashier. I try not to sigh as I gather out coats and head to the door. He tosses me his keys, saying he’s had to much to drink to drive us back my place. Despite his earlier revulsion of drinking the old beer in my fridge, he now seems pretty keen on doing just that. Looks like my couch will have some company tonight. On the ride home, I try to get him to tell me about the second letter. His constant change of subjects or simple silences are really starting to get me on edge. Perhaps this time around, they offered him more money. A bigger office. A company car. The name and favor of a realtor. Hell, even a nice welcome to Sonto hooker. Oh god, he’s taking the offer. He’s taking the offer and moving to Wyoming. He leavings me and going to Wyoming. I run a red light. What the hell? ‘He’s leaving me?’ Where the hell did that come from? Maybe I shouldn’t be driving, because I think I’m drunk too. Surprisingly, we make it back to my apartment in one piece. Ever since running that light, I’ve felt Watson watching me out of the corner of his eye. Nothing worse than that eerie prickling feeling along the back of your neck. Especially when driving. With a bit of alcohol in your system. I’m pretty sure he knows what’s going on inside my head right now. As I let us in and toss my keys on the side table, he doesn’t waste time in heading for the kitchen. Usually I just let him go, take up residence on the couch or chair, and wait for him to come back with beer in hand. This time though, watching him walk down the hallway, I can’t wait. I follow. When I get to kitchen, I stop dead in the doorway. Watson is leaning forward against the counter, his hands braced on the edge, knuckled whited out from how hard he’s gripping him. The beers sit in front of him, persperation slowly forming on the sides. His head’s bowed and, off the reflection of the microwave door, I can see his expression. It makes me frown, a feeling of dread coiling in my stomach. He looks…worried, pained, and a bit of something I can’t describe. Is this what he does, whenever he goes off by himself? God, I hope not. Then it occurs to me and its like being punched in the face by a sack of bricks. He took the job. He took the fucking job and he never told me. “You cockbite.” Oops, did I say that? He jerks and spins around to face me, surprise written all over his face. Normally, now would be about the time to do a little victory gloating. I’ve never taken him by surprise before. However, given the circumstances, you’ll forgive me if I don’t celebrate. “Uh…What?” Okay, the surprise is fading to simply flustered with a healthy dose of confusion. “You took it.” “Took what?” “You know damn well what. The job. You took the fucking job and never said one word about it!” “How would you know, you never asked.” Maybe I should rethink on how well Watson knows the inner workings of my mind. “The time was never right--” “The time was never right?” Now he’s just mocking me. He doesn’t even look caught out. Not even the little bit guilty. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looked like someone who was trying not to laugh. Nice to know how high I’m on his list. “Yes. Or was I the only one to notice the massive amounts of patients over the past few months. Whenever I’d want to talk about it, something would happen and we’d be swamped for days. By the time it passed, I’d forgotten.” Now he’s not even trying to hide his amusement. “You really didn’t want me to go to Wyoming, did you?” That son of a… ‘Of course not!’ is right on the tip of my tongue, but I hold back. My thoughts from the ride home are still a little to fresh in my mind. If I start thinking about stuff like that while intoxicated…Stuff like that is blackmail material that‘ll just never go away. “You would of made one shitty department head,” I say instead, but god does it still sound pathetic. He just smiles and picks up the bottles. He walks over and hands me one. “I never took the first offer and I’m not taking the second. Though they did offer me a lot more money.” Opening my beer, I follow him back out to the main room. “How much more?” “A whole extra zero.” “That’s…a lot.” “Very tempting too. But who’d want to live in Wyoming anyway? Who ever this Dr. Stein guy is, he really wants me. And not in a fun way, either. Pity.” “Dr. Stein? Stein. That sounds familiar. What’s his first name.” Frowning into his beer, he takes a long drink before staring off into space. The guys name must be buried in there somewhere. What I wouldn’t give to have his talent for memorizing stuff. “William. William K. Stein.” He nods, satisfied that he remembered, and takes an extra long drink. As for myself, I almost choke on mine. I wave away his concern and wait for my coughing to stop before I can answer. “Sorry, but that’s just the weirdest coincidence. There’s a senator in Maine that’s named William Stein. Same middle initial and everything.” “How the hell do you know the name of a senator for Maine?” “My cousin lives up there, remember? Last time I visited her, it was campaign season. Spoke at her town.” At his raised eyebrow, I add, “She dragged me to it and insisted that I put in her two cents about some health care issues.” “How sweet of her.” After that, the conversation went on to other things. I was a little shocked at how a part of me was glad that Watson wasn’t going anyway. Another part of me was trying to figure out why. --------- I can hear it on the edge of my conscious, buzzing, interrupting a dream I can’t understand. Maybe that’s because I’m now staring at my ceiling and not dreaming anymore. It was a good dream too. A glance down past my abdomen confirms that it was a very good dream. Try as I might to go back to sleep, to find those warm hands again, the buzzing just won’t shut up. This isn’t the time of year for bees. As I start to wake up a little more, I realize my room hasn’t been invaded by a massive swarm of bees. Just one pager making a valiant attempt to vibrate itself off the night stand. I stare at it, willing it to shut off, for a few minutes. It does and I take a moment to appreciate my keen powers of the mind. Yeah right. According to the clock, it’s just a little past three in the morning. Maybe I can pretend that I never heard my pager and go back to sleep. Then I remember that I do, in fact, have a couple of patients in various states of stability. I hate having a conscience. I make a grab for my pager, knocking a few nic-nacks off the table in the process. Swearing under my breath, I look at the display. ‘Coffee 911.’ “Wats, you lazy son of a bitch.” I’m tempted to just roll over and go back bed, but then my pager starts off again. This time it reads ‘Now-1.’ Shit. A few years back Watson, since he pages me for everything from boredom to emergency consults, decided to come up with a scale of importance when it comes to pages. Especially handy for the times that I either miss or ignore the first one. A number one was, well, number one. High priority. A get your ass over here now, kind of number. I’m out of bed and dressed in five minutes. The hospital is virtually empty when I arrive. Creepy as hell, no matter how many times I see it. Oh there’s still plenty of lights on in the hallways, but patient rooms, lounges, waiting rooms, bits of entire departments, and the such are dark. When I exit the elevator and cross to the hall where the neurology department resides, I’m surprised by the sudden abundance of light. And activity. Offices, patient rooms, the off side hallway that leads to the ‘specialty elevators’-- these are places so to give easy and instant access to the ER, OR, pathology, and the floors with various scanning equipment-- are all brightly lit. Nurses are flitting from room to room, carrying files, pushing equipment. Doctors are discussing the latest scans of patient so-and-so as they walk. I didn’t even know so many people were even conscious at this time. Hell, half the people I see aren’t even scheduled for the night shift. I’m just about to head for Watson’s office when the man himself pops out of nearby door, sees me, and promptly proceeds to drag me there. Once inside, he slams the door shut and flops onto the mini couch. Before I can say anything, he closes his eyes and asks, “Coffee?” I hand the cup I picked up at some gas station on the way in. It’s not the best-- I’ve been there before. Honestly, it’s the crappiest coffee on the planet-- but with the way he looks, I doubt he’d care. True enough, he takes the cap off and nearly down the entire thing in one go. He makes a face, but doesn’t set it aside. “So, what’s the emergency?” “Emergency?” “For coffee, you place it at a damn high priority. And what the hells going on out there?” I ask, waving vaguely behind me. “The world has gone to hell in a hand basket, that’s what.” “What does--” I’m interrupted by a knock on the door, which is followed by a nurse. She sets a pile of charts and scans on Watson’s desk. “Five more just came in and these are the scans from the last three.” She attempts what I think was supposed to be a reassuring smile, gives me a nod, and leaves again. I stare at the door for a minute after she’s gone. Something is definitely not right. I know this rush. The same thing happened months ago when we were suddenly swamped by patients with infections, reactions, and kidney problems. And even months before that, with the influenza outbreak. But what the hell would happen that would have the neurology department, of all things, like this? “Wats, what the hell is going on?” For his part, Watson just sighs and stares at his now empty cup. Looking up at me, he motions for my to put the scans up on the light box. “Do you want the long or short of it?” he asks, tossing his cup in the trash as he stands. “What ever’s faster.” “Ah, the middle ground it is. At around ten, a woman was brought into the ER. Paramedics said she was having seizures. Stopped just before they pulled up. She was unconscious and pupils non responsive. She regained consciousness at around half past, but that’s when we noticed the twitching and idiopathic nystagmus. Before we can get her downstairs for some tests, she goes into tachycardia. Ten minutes later and we still can‘t stabilize her, so she goes into cardiac arrest…We couldn‘t revive her.” “Shit. What’d she have?” “Don’t have the faintest idea. We did some tests, but before they could come back, three more people were brought in. Same fucking symptoms. Just like the woman, they went into tachycardia. We were able to stabilize two of them, but the third went into cardiac arrest and died.” Rubbing his eyes, he steps beside me to study the scans. “Just like the others. God, this is weird. Of the ones conscious and able to give a history, none of them have reported having any medical problems. One said she had a cold a few weeks ago, but that was it. But all these scans show the exact same thing.” Pointing to a small shadow just on the scan, he says, “Here, a mass in the inferior region of the fourth ventricle, with mild ventricular enlargement. Other scans have shown a focal invasion of the brain stem with moderate edema. This…This whatever it is, is on all the scans we’ve done so far. All of them.” “A tumor?” Not that I honestly think it is, mind you. Just trying to be helpful. He snorts. “No. Two dozen people with undiagnosed brain tumors suddenly start having seizures at the same time? In virtually the exact same place? There’s no way.” I study the scans for a minute. Suddenly I can’t help but think that Watson is expecting something. Another a suggestion? It might be a bleed or symptom of same kind of virus they haven’t-- I’m an idiot. A blind idiot. “There’s swelling all along the brain stem, but only on this one. The other’s just fine.” “We’ve noticed that too.” Squeezing his eyes shut, Watson lets his head fall back. He stands there for a moment and I’m tempted to say something incredibly inappropriate. The moment passes and he reopens his eyes. He doesn’t lift his head though. Staring at the ceiling, he asks, “Do you know what else we noticed?” I don’t answer. I wait till he looks at me before raising an eyebrow. Is it me or did the air just suddenly turn into jelly? “All of the people who’ve come in, they all went into tachycardia. Hell, we’ve come to anticipate it. However, about half of them end up in cardiac arrest. From all the scans we’ve done, the only people with that swelling are the ones that went into cardiac arrest.” Damn. They must be beating themselves up trying to figure out that swelling. “Maybe…The swelling complicates something. Adding something you can’t see-- yet-- to the tachycardia and--” “Wait, what?” “Uh.” Actually, I’m not too sure where I was going with that. I really wasn’t expecting questions so soon. “The swelling and tachycardia.” “Uh, yeah.” Swelling, tachycardia… “The last person you attended that had tachycardia, but were able to stabilize. What was their heart rate? The highest that it got?” “235.” He didn’t miss a beat. This is very serious, then. “That’s…really high.” Focus, where was I going with this? “What about one that went into cardiac arrest?” He doesn’t answer. I look away from the scans and find him staring at me, mouth open. He lets out a few choice expletatives that don’t deserve to be repeated-- ever-- and races out off the office. By the time I catch up to him, he’s cornered a nurse. One that is currently looking at him like he just sprouted wings and a forked tail. “You want me to do what?” “I need the patient files from rooms 213 through 228 brought to the viewing room. Now.” “Dr. Watson, half those patients have died in the last--” “I know!” The words explode out of his mouth and a few people pause to stare. “Wats.” He shrugs off the hand on his arm, determinedly staring the nurse down. “Just bring the files with the scans to the viewing room. Please.” He turns away and starts off down the hall again. “Dr. Benson.” What did I say? “Dr. Benson.” Oh right, the nurse. “Yes?” “Would you help me carry these, since I assume you’ll be going to the viewing room too?” Help her carry? I finally look at the nurse and realize her arms are laden with folders. How long have I been standing here exactly? Maybe I should have picked up a coffee for myself too. “I’ll just take them all. You guys are pretty busy around here.” She gives a smile and happily dumps the folders in my waiting arms. Once free of that particular duty, she made a hasty retreat into patient room. Pro’lly in hopes to not be dragged into anymore secretary work. Right. Time to play delivery boy. When I reach the viewing room, Watson is clearing one of the long light boxes of scans, stacking them on the opposite side of the room. Once I’m spotted, he trots over, steals half the stack, and makes ready to start putting up scans. I do the same. The last scans up and he pulls a marker out of his jacket pocket. “Okay. Starting by room, I want you to give me the highest reading for heart rate.” Opening the first file, I have to stop and blink a few times to make sure my eyes aren’t fucking with me. “Patient room 213 had a heart rate of 265.” My voice does not sound small. “I was there for that one. I swear I saw it bounce up to 267 for a split second before it flat lined,” he says as he writes 265 next to the scan. “The next one.” “Ah, 214 was…Jesus, 278.” “Next.” “215 was 232.” Once the last numbers are up, I walk with Watson down the list. The patient’s numbers, the patient’s scan. Another patient’s numbers, another patient’s scan. After about the fourth one, I finally see what Watson saw back in his office. “The one’s without swelling, none of their heart rates went above 238.” Nodding, he adds, “And none of the one’s with swelling are below 250.” Now he shakes his head. I’m not sure if he sighs or laughs. “I can’t believe I never saw this.” “Dr. Watson, Shellie told me that you…had the…” trailed off a voice from the door. Looking away from the scans, I tried not to swear. Dr. Goldman, Head of Neurology. Great. Fan-fuckin-tastic. Wonder if that marker was a dry-erase one. I really, really, really hope that it was a dry-erase marker. God knows if Goldman is going to take Watson down for this, he’s dragging me down with him. “Dr. Watson, last time I checked, those were not for writing.” Amazingly, Watson is unphased. Well, as far as I can tell. Actually, I don’t think he even noticed Goldman. The power of selective observation must be a great thing. “I’ll clean it up later.” Ah, so he does know we’re not alone anymore. Pro’lly a good thing. Though I can’t say the same thing about this blasé attitude. “Look at this. Tell me you can’t see a pattern.” Goldman crosses to the light box, his bug-eye glasses perched on his nose in what I think is supposed to be a dignified manner. It just makes his eyes look funny. He studies each scan, then goes back and looks again. Inhaling deeply, his glasses fall down his nose another centimeter or two. He glances at Watson, shaking his head. “How the hell did we not see this?” “I didn’t see it either until Bens there got my mind on the subject.” “Bens? Ah, Dr. Benson. I didn’t realize you’d switched specialties.” Before I can reply, Watson does, his voice hard, “He hasn’t. What he has is an honest, outside opinion and a decent amount of sleep.” At that, he turns away from Goldman as looks back to the scans. “I think Smith-- No, that new guy Trenton should start tracking down leads for something like this. He has a great memory for this kind of thing.” “Your’s is better,” Goldman says, heading to the door. Watson just shakes his head, shoulders slumped. If Goldman presses, I know he’ll do it. I jump in before he can say anything. “He won’t be able to, not right away, and this is something that needs to be looked into. He’s going to get some sleep before he collapses from exhaustion. Doctor’s orders.” “He’s the only one that hasn’t taken a break yet,” Goldman comments. He gives me a nod and adds, “I’ll get Smith and Trenton on it, asap.” Then he’s gone. “You know, I’m thinking this is environmentally caused--” “Wats.” “Maybe a contaminated water or food source…” “Wats!” “Or a toxin. We should find out what these people have done, where they’ve been in the last twenty-four-- no, the last forty-eight hours.” “Craig.” Said softly, my hand on his shoulder to turn him away from the light box. Funny, I don’t remember moving. He only moves his head to look at me and, god, he looks so fucking tired. “Come on.” I take him back to my office, where it’s quiet and dark. Plus my couch can take his any day. Five minutes later, he snuggling into the cushions using my jacket as a make-shift blanket. Once I’m convinced he’s asleep, I break out some paper work to occupy myself for the couple of hours. “James.” Okay, so he wasn’t as asleep as I thought. “Hmm?” “I don’t like this ride anymore. Let’s get off before it all goes to hell.” “I know, Craig. I know.” By the time the sun rises, I don’t think either of us got any sleep. ---------- For a few days, things seemed to go by in a blur. Watson would still page me at odd hours-- night or day, no matter much I complained about it. The odd seizing patient would be brought in here or there. But nothing like the numbers from that one night. Of course, things would have been better if they could have figured out just what the hell it all was. Though patients that survived and were able to give their business from the past few days...Well, some of them shared locations. A couple odd stores, trains, similar tastes in delivered to your door food. Nothing solid, though. Too many loose ends. The entire neurology department was about ready to blow it’s collective head. By the same time next week, only the files, scans, and mass confusion remained from it all. Everyone was fine. Their most recent scans showed no mysterious masses. Gone. Then Goldman went and called the CDC. We could have a new disease on our hands, boys. Smart fucking move. Three hours later, the files and scans were gone. We’ll get these back to you as soon as possible, gentlemen. Don’t you worry. Every man will be on it. I’ve never heard such bullshit outside of eleventh grade English. Least to say we never saw the files again. The whole thing locked up in beaurocratic red tape. Watson ranted about conspiracies and cover-ups for nearly two weeks. Thought he’d never shut up. Never mind that I agreed with him whole heartedly. But seriously, two weeks of it? Fortunately, Goldman talked with the dean and worked out a schedule with some new residents from other departments. Those that were there that night were allowed a nice, four day weekend. No call ins. No pages, unless it was an absolute emergency. Sweet, sweet bliss. And through some miracle from the clerical gods, I was allowed off as well. More likely that someone ratted me out to the dean, told him about the work I did with Watson and Goldman when I didn’t have to. Which is why I’m staring at the ceiling of a hotel over two hundred miles from the hospital. Watson’s idea. Drive as far as we possibly can in one day, stopping only for gas and nature calls. At the end of the day, find the nearest town with a decent hotel. Next, terrorize the new territory for all it’s worth and drive back on the last day. It’s the only way to spend a weekend. “Will you open the door already? I think it’s starting to rain,” comes Watson‘s voice through the door. I can hear him impatiently thumping the bags against it. “It’s not locked, you know.” There’s a bit of shuffling from outside and then, finally, the door open, revealing a grumpy and slightly wet Watson. He glares at me as he tosses the bags into the nearest chair. Looking around the room, he opens him mouth as if to say something. Here it comes. “How come you get the bed?” As it turns out, the nearest hotel was a tiny little mom-and-pop affair. Ten rooms, only four of which had double beds. All four, including the other five singles, were full. If there had been a kitchen in the whole place, they could’ve called it a bed and breakfast. Maybe could have gotten away with charging more. Pro’lly a good thing they don’t have a kitchen, then. “I had dibs.” “You did not have dibs.” He flops down on the corner of the bed and it takes a minute for the shaking to stop. “I paid for the room. Thus, I have dibs.” “I found the place.” “I still paid for it.” “I drove and paid for the gas.” “And yet, I still paid for the room.” I nudge him with my foot. “If you clip your toenails, we can share.” He gives me a look of mock horror. “Why, Bens! You could at least buy me dinner first.” I roll my eyes, but I’m grinning anyway, so the whole annoyed act is a little ruined. “Trust me, you’re virtue is safe. Besides, you’re not my type. And if I may say so, you might want to think about laying off the danishes.” “Just for that, I’m going to shave your eyebrows while you sleep.” “Telling me your evil plans before hand tends to diminish their evilness.” “Never stopped the Bond villains,” he says, laying back with his hands behind his head. “And look where that got them. No world domination. No girl, no lackies.” “It’s a cruel world.” After that, we laspe into a kind of comfortable silence. I always find it odd whenever it happens. For some reason, Watson doesn’t the quiet. Oh, he doesn’t have to talk, just as long as there’s some other noise going on. The longer we stare at the ceiling, the more I can feel myself slipping into introspection. Damn. All well, no use fighting it and all. Might as well get it out of my system now, before it spoils the whole trip. Hmm, I wonder. If I close my eyes, will I still see that crack that looks like Hitchcock’s profile? I bet someone put it there on purpose. Keeping my eyes closed, I fold my hands over my stomach and cross my ankles. For intents and purposes, I look like a man getting ready for a nice nap. Which maybe I am. I don’t know. I feel the bed move and I’m reminded that Watson is still here. I bet he’s wondering if I really am getting ready for a nap and if he can get away with watching some television. A few minutes later, the bed shifts again and I hear the television pop on. The volume is insanely loud, but Watson curses quietly and the thing is turned down to a slight murmur. It’s amazing how hard I have to fight to keep the smile off my face. Now there’s a thought. Watson. This trip. This hotel. We could have easily gone off and found a place with two rooms. Hell, even a place with two beds. But we didn’t. I swear if I try to keep my thoughts real quiet, I can hear a piece of me express it’s gratitude. For what though, I have no idea. Suddenly I’m reminded of a time a few month’s back, when I took Watson to that new Vietnamese restaurant. Seeing him in the kitchen. That expression that, to this day, I still can’t fully comprehend. God, even now I feel like an ass. I’d thought the worst, thought he was leaving me-- there is it again. I have to find a better way to say it-- and reacted like a class-a jerk. Ah, hindsight. Such a glorious thing, but it still doesn’t help me in this. Sure, now I know he wasn’t distressed because he was leaving. He was distressed because… “Hey, Benson.” I don’t know. I never asked him, never gave any hint that I stood there watching him. For all I know he knows, I walked in and started talking. Didn’t see a thing. “James, you still awake?” A reply is on the tip of my tongue, but I stop myself at the last second. I’m too comfortable to be bothered. I’ll pro’lly be asleep in a few minutes anyway. I focus on my breathing and think about rolling on my side. There’s an odd spring on the edge of the mattress that sticks up just a little too high. Here I am thinking about springs, so at first I don’t notice anything. It happens again and this time I feel my hair moving. Was the fan in the corner on when we came in? I can’t remember. My hair moves again and this time, this time I feel the fingers. I try not to move, to keep my heart from beating itself out of my chest, to not just get up right now and run out the door. Craig. Fuck. Well, at least now I know why he looked so sad in my kitchen. ---------- The next morning, I woke up feeling decidedly disgusting. Sweaty and sticky and completely uncomfortable. Throwing off the covers-- multiple and when did I get under the covers?-- I realized why I was in such a state. I really had fallen asleep, fully dressed. I still had my shoes on. Didn’t even know you could actually fall asleep with your shoes on. Shows what I know, then. A look to the other side of the bed gives me a clear view of unoccupied mattress and a vague memory of last night. Did I dream Watson touching my hair? God, I must have, because that’s just weird. A rather undignified groan makes it way out my throat when I try to stand up. As if I didn’t need another reminder of how old I’m getting. I swear I saw a grey hair in the mirror the other day. Blinking against the light-- who’s bright idea was it to put a window right there, anyway?-- I look around for minute while I wait for my brain to wake up. Watson’s jacket is still slung on a chair, his shoes tossed into a far corner. Funny, he must have taken them off after I fell asleep. It wouldn’t have killed him to take mine too, or at least wake me up so I could do it myself. But I’m getting away from myself here. His stuff is still here, but the man is no where in sight. A squeaking followed by the sound of water draws my attention to the other side of the room. The bathroom, obviously. Great, I have to take a piss too. To take my mind off my bladder, I hunt around the room to find out if we’ve been blessed with an in-room coffee machine. No such luck and I still have to pee. Tapping the top of the dresser next to me-- hell, I’d even looked in the thing-- I question how wise my next available option is. It was just a dream right? So I’ve nothing to worry about from him if I just walked into the bathroom right now. Then again if it was a dream, maybe I should be more worried about myself if I walked in there right now. I think I can hear my subconscious laughing at me. Screw it. I have to pee, dreams be damned. Naturally, that doesn’t mean I’m not going to be polite about it. You can’t just walk in on someone in the shower without at least a little ‘how do you do.’ So I rap my knuckles a couple times on the door, wait a few seconds, then let myself in. I catch the tail end of Watson pulling the shower curtain closed. Well, good thing I didn’t just knock as I opened the door, then. That would have been a…problematic moment. “Don’t mind me,” I say as casually as I can while standing in front of the toilet. Undoing my fly, I get the startling impression that this is far more awkward than I’d originally thought. Pro’lly a good thing I don’t have performance anxiety. I’ve never felt fidgety in the mornings, but today its like I’ve already downed a gallon of caffeine. Rolling my head around to work out some kinks, I end up glancing at the shower. Between the curtain and the steam, I really can’t see much, so I can’t tell what he’s doing. For all I know, he’s just standing there. In any case, its not like I’m staring or something. I just glanced over while stretching my neck. That’s all. I promise. Never mind that that doesn’t explain why I have to force myself to resolutely stare at the ceiling. Or the wall. Or the toilet tank. Just as long as it’s not the shower. Hmm, that weird stain seems like safe territory. “Jesus, Bens. How long are you going to take a piss?” I start to move my head, but catch myself halfway through the motion. I end up staring at the corner. Someone needs to clean the joint were tub meets wall a little more thoroughly. “Well, if someone had stopped at that last rest station yesterday like I asked, I wouldn’t be taking so long, now would I?” I can see his head appear in my perephrial vision. “I recall someone demanding I pull over.” He looks at me for a moment longer, then his head is gone behind the curtain again. Then the water is shut off and he says, “Hand me that towel, would you?” Rolling my eyes, I finish my own water works and tuck myself back in. I give my hands a quick wash in the sink, then grab the towel. “Couldn’t wait five minutes?” I ask, slapping it in the waiting hand. “If I wait for you to finish, I’ll start to prune” He grabs the towel and pushes the curtain back in one smooth motion. I stare at the definitely naked body of my friend for a half second longer than I really should-- I was surprised, what can I say? Not like I was expecting him to just push the curtain away like that. When I turn toward the door to leave, fully intending to find something heavy to throw at him later, I swear I can hear him snickering under his breath. “Just be glad I thought it below me to flush.” That’ll have to do for now. At least until I can figure up something decidedly evil to do to him later. This time he does laugh. Back in the main room, I toss Watson’s jacket to get to my bag. Taking out a clean pair of clothes I say, “So, what’s on the menu today?” Passing him to get back to the bathroom-- and I definitely didn’t glance at his chest as I did-- I set my clothes on the counter. “A few miles down the road there was a sign pointing toward the business district. I think. If all else fails, I’m sure there’s a bar around here somewhere.” “Good enough,” I reply as I did a fresh towel out of the closet. The television pops on as I close the door. ---------- “Bens, does this remind you of someone?” A toy is shoved in my face and I have to lean back to bring it in focus. It’s a tan humanoid blob that I think is supposed to be a guy. The hair is at odd angles and when Watson squeezes it, the eyes pop out in the most ridiculous fashion. “You’re mother?” The toy is once again in my face, but the adjoining hand is gone. I stumble a bit, trying to catch it while not falling over. I send a glare over my shoulder at Watson, but he’s already off pawing through another bin. He turns back to me holding a toy with an easily suggestable shape and makes a lewd face. “My mother hasn’t had a tan in years. But if you squint, it kind of looks like Worchester after a board meeting.” Giving the toy a good squeeze, I grin to myself. Worchester is the head of the radiology and lives to get in the deans ass for more funding. “If you squeeze hard enough, you don’t have to squint.” I toss the toy back in the box and move off to another shelf. I’m halfway through a box of old comics-- Captain Astro? God, I used to read that when I was kid-- when a commotion from the front of the store grabs my attention. Just some guys giving the clerk a hard time. Poor kid. Before I can take a step to help, Watson’s at my side and pulling to me the back of the store. “Not our problem, come on. I saw a vintage poker set back here.” “You’re just going to leave that tender youth to the mercy of those horrible old men?” “I don’t think you can call a guy who can’t be a day under twenty-seven a ‘tender youth.’” “What a way to make me feel old.” Hey, he wasn’t kidding about that poker set. This is pretty nice. It’s always great to find something cool in these crappy little stores. “Don’t worry. You’ll always be older than me.” I’m about to come back with a suitably biting retort, but he plows with over me. “And you didn’t see the guy eating a corndog in the room behind the counter. I think he could crush a melon with one hand.” “How reassuring. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going up there.” “Bens--” “Do you see a check out back here?” I interrupt without turning around. The amused snort that I get in reply does make me turn, though. “So you’re saying there is one?” His reply is a mischievous smirk and a ‘come hither’ gesture. He’s not…He’s slings an arm around my shoulder and directs me to a door marked ‘emergency exit.’ “Consider it a free sample, my good friend.” “Wats, we can’t steal--” “Shh!” Shouldering the door open, he gives me a glare. Or at least he tries to, but the effect is a little ruined since he’s trying not to laugh. “God, you’re a horrible thief.” Then we’re outside, the door closing behind us. The box of poker chips and cards shining in the sun like some kind of awesome, ill gotten treasure. “This is possibly the worst thing you’ve done today.” “Oh, the day has just started. Besides, rescuing a perfectly good poker set from a cheap thrift store does not top being banned from the local bakery.” Bouncing the box from hand to hand, I start down the alley to get back to our car. “I still don’t see why you had to make the pastry chef cry.” “Hey, its not my fault her rolled crepes looked like vaginas.” “You could at least have had the tact to tell her they looked like small intestines.” “Nah, too dry for that.” I bark a laugh as I unlock the door-- It took me two hours and a generous amount of bribery in the form of blueberry pancakes to get the keys from him this morning. “Thank you for that image.” “Before we go back to the hotel, stop by that liquor over by the theater.” I don’t even take my eyes off the road as I reply, “Isn’t it a little early in the day to start drinking?” “You can’t play poker without beer.” ---------- “Your cheating.” “Your drunk.” “What?” “Sorry, I thought we were stating the obvious. Another beer?” “No. You are cheating.” I’m already down two hundred. I know Watson isn’t this good at poker. Can’t play poker without beer, my ass. He just wants me inebriated enough so he can call my bluffs. Bastard. “I am not cheating. It’s a strategy.” Finishing off his current beer, he adds it to the growing stack on the edge of the table. So far between the two of us, we’ve managed to build quite the respectable pyramid. “Hit me.” I kick him square in the shins. “Ow! I meant give me some cards, ass.” “Oh I’m sorry. Honest mistake.” I deal him his cards. He takes them, muttering under his breath as he arranges them in his hand. He stops cheating, though. The game goes on for a few more hours, taipering off when we-- and when I saw ’we,’ I mean Watson-- run out of chips to use and beer to drink. For a few minutes, we talked about walking to the gas station to get some more beer. That ended when Watson noticed that on the television-- which we’d turned on hours ago for background noise-- was showing a MASH rerun. Some inanity or another about nurse racing on gurneys. Not like it mattered. After the number of beers we’ve consumed, infomercials would have been amusing. Either way, the next few hours were spent in a comfortable silence, both of us reclining on the bed-- me leaning against the headboard, Watson laying wrong-ways at the end of the bed, his feet propped on a chair. The MASH rerun had turned into a showing of Total Recall. Maybe we were both drunker than we thought, because the concept of mutants was suddenly an incredibly funny one. “Quaid, start the reactor,” Watson mimicked, rolling over to paw at my leg like some deformed zombie. Shooing his hands away, I plant my foot in the middle of his chest. “Go start your own reactor.” With that, I kick him off the bed. He lands with a thump, which is quickly followed by rather drunken laughter. His head rises above the end of the bed and he smiles madly at me. “You…You…You…” He climbs back on the bed, shaking his finger at me in an oh so threatening manner. Gee, watch me shake in my boots. “Yes, me, me, me. I love this conversation.” I think I’m starting to giggle. Next thing I know, I’ve been pounced by a smashed neurologist and a rather juvenile wrestling match ensues. But we’re both a little too drunk for it to really become much of anything-- after a certain number of beers, you really can’t be bothered and just want to sleep. After nearly getting an elbow in the eye, we both get bored with it. In the end, Watson was the self declared winner, flopping onto my back for a ten-count that I was too lazy to fight. Once all our laughter and not-so-manly giggles die down, we resume watching the television. Though I don’t have the foggiest idea what’s on. It’s gotten kind of hard to keep my eyes open. “Bens.” “Hmm.” Oh yes, definitely too tired to actually form sentences. “Name a symptom of Goodpasture’s syndrome.” “Uh.” Goodpasture’s. Yes, I know this. “Ah, Inflammation?” Okay, maybe not. Watson chuckled lightly, the act reverberating through his chest and into my back. “I think I’ll be all right, as long as I don’t need medical attention.” “What?” “Nothing. You know those guys from the thrift store? The one where we pinched the poker set?” “Where you pinched, but yes.” “You were holding it. Anyway, they weren’t there to harrasse the clerk. They were looking for me.” “What the hell for? They the pastry chef’s brothers or something?” Snickering, I try to turn my head to look at him, but all I can manage is getting his shoulder into focus. “No, I think they were friends of Stein…or something.” “The senator from Maine?” I feel him sigh-- and if I were in my right mind, I would have described it as a morose sigh. “Yeah, the senator from Maine.” “Imagine that.” If I were more awake, I would have been more alarmed when Watson said, “He said he wouldn’t take no for an answer, I guess he meant it. I’m worried, James.” “I wouldn’t worry, Craig,” I say around a yawn. “I’ve got ya back,” I mumble before dozing off. Of course, that meant that I missed Craig once again carding his fingers through my hair. I also missed his softly whispered, “I know you do, James, but it’s not me I’m worried about.” Shame really, that I missed that. Might have make some future events a little more endurable. But I’m getting ahead of myself and I’m no psychic. ---------- The next few weeks were, well, interesting to say the least. Not interesting in that 'I had a patient with the most interesting excuse' or 'I got to see two nurses covered in vomit' interesting. Interesting in that 'we've been so busy that the staff's collective total of sleep is less than three hours and no one has any clue what the hell is going on' way. That is always fun. Now please excuse me while I find a nice, high clock tower. And do you mind if I borrow this assault rifle, officer? All righty. I do think it’s safe to say that any memories of the weekend-- any, that is, that weren’t already obliterated by large amounts of alcohol. I still don’t want to think about the hangover I woke up with-- were largely pushed to the back of my mind. If not outright forgotten. For once I had actually stayed home during my day off. Watson, of all people, had paged me to come to the hospital. Not an uncommon event. He pages me all the time. Sometimes for a consult, sometimes to hook up and shoot the breeze, and sometimes just to see if I'll show up. What was uncommon was to walk into the lobby and find Watson there. Waiting. For me. And for once he didn't look amused. I'll admit it. No matter how many times I see it, I'll never get used to seeing Watson in full on neurologist mode. Guess I've just gotten used to his other, more...unique side. One that only comes out when he's around his friends, people he trusts. Despite how often I tease him about his lack of tact around patients and other doctors, we both know the opposite is true. He's completely serious when it comes to his job. The staff he's never worked with, people he's never had as patients, they're the only ones that don't know about that side of him. The ones that think he's nothing but a depraved man who became a doctor just to laugh at other people's pain. Not like he cares or anything. I swear, I think half the time he tells the bad jokes just to piss those people off. Of course, this isn't the best of times to get into a character study. Right now he's looking at me, one eyebrow raised, rather impatiently waiting for me to get back to reality. Okay, I can do that. It's doctor time. "You paged?" He's not the only one that can state the obvious. The eyebrow lowers a little slower than usual. Yup, definite doctor time. We've already started toward the elevators. "Warner had a patient come in today: 27, Caucasian, female. Complained of light headedness, neck pain, a rash, and apparently hadn't urinated in nearly a two days. They found that some of the red blood cells were shredded and her white count was in the tank." "Wait. Warner called you in for a consult? Why?" It was the only reason he'd know anything about Warner's patient. The only patients he got nosy about were his. Oh and mine. "When the tests came back, Warner noticed something he hadn't before. Her eyes twitched. It was slight and happened at regular intervals. He thought it might be something neurological, so he called me. The scans came back about half an hour ago." The elevator pinged its arrival and he gave me a minute to mull things over on the ride. "Well, something must have come up on them, otherwise you wouldn't have called me. Unless you've hit your head and suddenly think I'm the neurologist." "Please, you couldn't handle the brain with both hands and a cattle prod. No we did a chest x-ray, incase the light headedness was due to a pulmonary problem. What we found looked like lung infiltrates, but like none that I've ever seen. Of course, I'm not the lung specialist here." "So why call me? Najeed's on today and he's a better pulmonologist than I am." Watson didn't even dignify that with a response...for about ten seconds. "As much as I love your sparkling personality, I didn't want to interrupt your day off. I know it's rare for you to you know, actually take your day off." At my confused look, he explains, "I did call Najeed. He had no idea. With and without his glasses, he couldn't make heads or tails of it. But that was before the patient's lips turned blue and two more people popped up with the exact same symptoms." "Her lips turned blue? So the light headedness was due to lack of oxygen." "Nope. O2 levels ar--" Wait, he said..."Two other patients? The same symptoms? Even the eye twitch and blue lips?" By now we've reached his office, but he stops before going in to glare at me. So not nice to interrupt someone when they're talking. Yes, I know that. Now can we continue with the discussion? "Yup. A 34 year old, African American male and 23 year old Caucasian female. The female doesn't have the eye twitch...yet, for all we know. And if the male's lips are blue, we can't tell." He opens the door and add, "Now can I get back to the case at hand, before the interruption?" I can give the Look too, if I have to. "Okay. O2 levels are so normal, there might as well be a white picket fence and 2.5 kids. Whatever it is on the x-ray, it's not interfering with that." "I just can't see percents in the suburbs, sorry...So the lips and light headedness is caused by something else. That's lovely. Still, why call me?" He tosses a file at my head. A convenient way to give me the patients' information and punish me for being dense, all in one nicely paper clipped package. "Because Najeed has no clue and he-- and Warner and myself-- would like another opinion on it. And you," only he can shake a finger like a mother chastising a small child and not have it seem condescending or mean, "are a damn good pulmonologist. Who knows, you pro'lly know some diseases that he doesn't." He tosses another file at me. This time I think he does it just to be annoying. "Now go, do lung stuff." --------- The x-ray was really starting to piss me off. I had gone through various journals, books, and even the internet. Just when I'd thought I found something that matched the pulmonary symptoms-- because all the others had agreed that the disease first presented in the lungs-- something would pop up to dash it all. Of course, I really couldn't work with just the x-ray and such a short list of symptoms. I'd just sent Ms. 27-Caucasian off to get a chest CT scan when I got a few more symptoms to add to my list. Goodie. Because really, light headed-ness and blue lips were the only things I could possibly work with. Neck pain, rash, possible renal dysfunction? Sure they're fun, but so not my area of expertise. No, I got to add a new one: shortness of breath. The oh so normal O2 stats of before had taken a slight dive. And apparently she'd developed a twitch in her left hand to go with idiopathic nystagmus, a trend Ms. 23-Caucasian had gotten into now. Well, at least we know it's progressive. Before the CT scan could come back, Watson tracked me down in the men's restroom. "Nothing important, but I'd figure you'd like to know Ms. Baleeze'--" Ms. Ba...Oh, Ms. 27-Caucasian, right. "-- sedimentation rate has been going up. The last stats show it at 101mm." So much for possible renal dysfunction. That's full on failure. "Has you found anything yet?" "On the pulmonary side, yes, I've got some ideas. Not much that would explain everything else though." "Oh you're useless." "I'm not useless. I'm a specialist." "Same thing." "Hello, Pot. Anyway, I'll have a few more ideas once the CT scan comes back. Factoring in the kidneys, a few more things come to mind. Oh and can you please get me a copy of a patient history! There wasn't one in the file you launched at me." Watson grumbled something and then left. Honestly, I'll never know who it was directed at-- him or myself. Once equipped with scans, the latest stats and a brand spanking new history, I was ready to get to work. Joy. The first thing to come to mind was Goodpasture's syndrome, which I immediately dismissed. No pulmonary hemorrhaging. Another quick toss went to postinfectious glomerolunephritis-- Ms. 27-Caucasian was perfectly healthy before she got all light headed. She hadn't had an infection in over twelve years. Next was Wegener's granulomatosis, but they'd had to check for the antineutrophil cytoplasmic antibody for that. Never mind the fact that none of those explained to neck pain, rash, and twitching. If I just looked at the lungs, I swear it was idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. Except there was no honeycombing and no cough. Oh and none of the patients had even reached 40 yet. It didn't stop the idea from buzzing around my head for a few minutes, though. Man, I feel like I needed a good, swift kick in the ass. Damn good pulmonologist my ass. The only things I think of keep excluding other symptoms. I think I need more coffee. ------ Three hours later Ms. 23-Caucasian went into renal failure. By then Warner and Watson had determined that the rash wasn't really a rash at all. It was actually the patients hemorrhaging masquerading as a rash. Who'd a thought? For some inexplicable reason the idea of idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis refused to leave me alone, so I weaseled my way into getting a transbronchial biopsy. However it seems that some deity out there has it against me and the other doctors; Ms. 27-Caucasian went into respiratory arrest before the biopsy could reach the labs. She died ten minutes later. And three more patients were admitted with early symptoms. Which is why Watson is currently occupying my couch, doing an admirable impression of a stewing volcano. After Ms. 27-Caucasian died, Warner called an impromptu meeting of all the doctors involved with her case and the cases of the other patients. Specialists all of us, and none of us could agree on a decent diagnosis. It was almost as if the symptoms experienced for one system fit perfectly with a handful of diseases, but as a whole the symptoms were like nothing we’ve come across. I was quiet surprised when Tweed, another pulmonologist, mentioned idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. If it wasn’t for Watson dragging me off to my office after the meeting, I would have got together with Tweed for a brainstorm. As it was, I have to sit here and listen to Watson rant on about the meeting, the patients, how the symptoms don’t add up, and even a few things that seem to randomly pop into his head. Usually, I’d just tell him to shut up, but today I’ll let it pass. I feel like ranting myself, but my thoughts aren’t collected enough to make proper sentences. So I sit on the edge of my desk, nodding in all the right places, occasionally saying my two cents when something sounds particularly interesting, but for the most part I’m still running through diseases. “What about cancer?” I blurt out. Nothing like a nonsequetor to start a conversation. “And that son of bitch had the balls to suggest—What?” He asks, head snapping up to look at me. “What if it’s cancer? Or a tumor?” Shaking his head, he returns his stare to the ceiling. “No way. We’ve scanned the chest a thousand times. There’s nothing there.” “You’ve scanned the chest, yes, but not the neck or head. If it’s in the neck, it could be pressing against one—or both—of the carotid arteries. That would explain the neck pain and light headedness. The red blood cells would be shredded while trying to squeeze through the narrowed artery.” “And the twitching? Renal failure? Lung infultrates?” he prompts, but I can tell that I’ve gotten him thinking. “Side products of the cancer. Also some kind of infection, one that body, if already fighting the cancer, is unable to fight off.” “An infection or…paraneoplastic syndrome?” I shrug, trying not to feel so much like a guesser. “Possibly both. It’s the best I can come up with.” Feeling useless has got to be the shittiest feeling in the world. Well, almost as bad as being the people who are dying because someone is useless. Or the guy who has to sit next to the person in the bus who just got dumped in the basement of a Johny-On-The-Spot. “Well, that would normally be a wonderful idea to track down, except there’s six patients. Now unless you can give someone cancer, I don’t—“ “There are five patients.” I hate myself for reminded him. Watson inhales deeply and lets it out slow, controlled. “So, five patients just show up at our door step, with cancers and infections and syndromes? Great idea, Bens.” Now if you listen real close, you can hear my resolve snapping. It reminds me of in med school, the first time we had to do our own autopsy. “You think you can do so much better? I don’t hear you coming up with any ideas. All you’ve been doing for the past fifteen minutes is rant and rave about the injustices of the world!” “Well excuse me for being pissy! Do you think I like laying here, venting? Or being useless and more tired than I’ve ever been?” “Did it ever occur to you that maybe you’re not the only one?” Huh, I don’t remember standing—or starting to pace around my office, either. Who am I kidding, I’m too angry to care. “I—I have no idea what these people have, but I will be damned before I just sit around and let die.” Would you look at that. Since when was Watson standing too? “That is not what is going on, and you know it!” “Really? Could have fooled me.” I start another circuit around my office, turning my back on him as he runs a hand over his eyes. When I turn around again, his hand is still covering his eyes. I may be on the other side of the room, but I can still see his jaw muscles clench and unclench. “I just…” he swallows, the hand falling. He stares at the floor, the wall, the coat rack, anywhere but me. When he starts talking again, his voice is shakier than I’ve ever heard it, “I just needed a break.” The emphasis he puts on the last word doesn’t give me an impression of simply grabbing some coffee and a fag out on the porch for five minutes. So much for righteous fury. I can feel it drain out of me like the byproduct of a bad lunch. I walk back over to my desk and collapse in the chair. “A break, huh?” I think of last weekend, of half remembered dreams, and realize I can play avoid all eye contact too. Watson all but falls back onto the couch, his head landing on the back with a painful thunk. He doesn’t so much as blink. Under more normal circumstances, I’d make a comment about how hard is head is, but I can’t help but feel a little vindictive. He deserves a little pain, what with the turmoil that he’s stuck in my brain. For a minute or so, he looks like he wants to say something. Again, I’m tempted to comment, but now he’s looking at me and I can’t remember what I was going to say. Okay, now he’s staring and I’m starting to get rather uncomfortable. The fact that I’m staring back pro’lly isn’t helping the matter either. And is that my phone? “You going to answer that?” he asks, a ghost of a smile almost crossing his lips. Once I finish blinking like an idiot, I realize that whatever…thing it was that happened just a few seconds ago is gone. My arm lunges for the phone and I almost knock the damn thing over before I manage to pick up the receiver. “Benson. Yes, he’s here too. No, we didn’t—Ah. No, no that’s alright. When? Did they both…? Okay. No, that’s okay. Yes. Thank you.” “What was that about?” I stare at the phone for a few heartbeats before replying, “Two more went into respiratory arrest.” “What? My pager didn’t go off, did your’s?” He even digs said device out of his pocket, checking the display to be sure. “They didn’t page us. Even if they had, there’s nothing we could have done.” As if I didn’t feel useless enough before. “Christ, as if I didn’t feel useless enough before,” he mumbles, standing to retrace my previous pacing grounds. My thoughts exactly. Creepy. He stops pacing just long enough to give my coat rack a thoroughly disgusted glare. “I’m going to run your idea by Warner.” Then he’s out the door and gone. I’d go with him, but I have rounds to do. As much as I’d like to be more involved, to try to do something, I still have all my other duties. I still have my patients. Once out in the hall, I pass two gentlemen on my way to the nurse’s station and I’m struck at how familiar they look. Then I’m accosted by a nurse with a file and the two men are forgotten. --------- “It’s not paraneoplastic syndrome.” “What?” I turn around to look at Warner, the patient file I was working on forgotten for the moment. “The tests came back negative. However, the x-ray of the did show something.” “So, it could still be cancer.” “Not likely, but Worchester is taking a look at it, just to be sure. But that’s not really why I’m here. We have something that I think you might want to take a look at.” “Okay. Um, just let me finish this file. I just need to write up a change in medication.” Warner nods and starts to walk off. Gee, thanks for waiting. I’m in a hurry, so my doctor’s scrawl looks more like a doctor’s attempt at a scrawl while having a seizure. The nurses have surely had to deal with worse, so no worries. As is, I only have to run to the end of the hall before catching up with Warner, slipping between the elevator doors before they close. “No offense, Warner, but what’s so important that I have to be interrupted during my rounds? It couldn’t wait another twenty minutes?” Don’t look at me like that. Ever since I started my rounds, I’ve been in a right mood. Fortunately, word seems to have gotten around that I’m one of the doctors involved in what as been labeled as ‘those mystery cases.’ Either that or I’m not the only one of them frustrated and taking it out on others. I get the feeling nurses are going to be walking around certain areas of the hospital with more caution than a vanilla boy at a leather party. No matter how it came to be, the other elevator patrons knew we were one of those in a mood. They parted like the Red Sea when the doors opened on Warner’s floor. Hey, there’s a first for everything, right? He leads me to an open conference room and closes the door after us. I notice that most of the doctors that had become involved were present. I take a seat across from Watson, who does not look like a happy camper. A few other faces share the same expression as his, others don’t. They must have already heard what Warner wants to tell the rest of us. And without further warning, that’s just what Warner does. “I know that this little meeting was called at very short notice. I want to apologize to those doctors who had to be interrupted. Dr. Worchester should be here also, but he’s still busy with the neck x-rays. No matter, I’ll fill him in later. But this cannot wait. Some of you already know. Like Dr. Johnson and Dr. Miller, who brought this little fact to our attention.” Pausing, Warner took a moment to look around the room. I get the feeling this was more serious than just another emergency differential. “This…What I’m about to tell you, those that don’t already know, does not leave this room. At least for now.” He looks at each of us in turn and I can’t stop myself from shifting in my chair. A foot kicks mine from under the table and I glance across at Watson. He mouths the word later and motions for me to turn my attention back to Warner. I nod and do as I’m told. “The autopsies for the three patients who didn’t make it are in. I’ve even asked Johnson and Miller to go back and double check everything. The same results.” Here, Warner stops, hesitating. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Warner hesitate. He looks to Miller, who stands and clears his throat. “I don’t think this disease is the work of illness or chance or supremely bad luck.” Straightening his already obscenely straight tie, he adds, “On each of the deceased, we found a small puncture wound between the fourth and five vertebrae. These people weren’t sick. They were murdered.” Well fuck me with a chainsaw. “That’s really not called for, Dr. Benson,” Miller admonishes, but there’s no strength behind the reprimand. Didn’t realize I’d said that out loud. “Murdered? Someone gave these people this?” squeaked a doctor next to Watson. I think her name is Shawn or Sheane. Some vaguely Scottish sounding name that starts with an ‘s.’ “So you know what they gave them, then?” “No,” Watson replied before Miller or Warner. Turning to look at Dr. Scottish, he says, “We’ve never seen anything like this before. No diagnosis fits, no treatment works.” He glances at me—very fast, barely even a twitch of the eye, but I see it. “I think this is an engineered disease.” “A bioweapon? A terrorist?” Great, panic the masses why don’t you. “Or a serial killer. Or even a medical experiment gone so horribly wrong, those responsible aren’t coming forward. All I’m saying is that some one, for some reason, made this.” There’s a moment of silence and I hate to break it, but it has to be said. “If nothing can touch it, what do we do about the others?” A few doctors look around, waiting see who’ll be the first to present an idea. Watson steps up to the proverbial plate. “Palliative care.” No one has anything to say about that. If it wasn’t for a fact that a few pagers decided to go off right then, the silence might have continued indefinitely. Various doctors, including Dr. Scottish, shuffled out in varying degrees of haste. Taking this as a sign, Watson catches my eye and jerks his head toward the door. I guess its later. Out in the hall, I managed to get out, “What is—“ before he hisses at me to be quiet. Not here. And in a blink of an eye, drags me into a utility closet. “Wats, you do realize this is a utility closet, right?” “I know,” he laughs. He laughs! I think we’ve reached what most people affectionally call the breaking point. Sobering, he leans against the closed door and studies a dusty bottle of bleach. “I lied.” “You don’t think it’s a man-made disease?” “No, I mean yes. I don’t think it’s a man-made disease, I know it is. That’s not what I lied about.” Sighing, his eyes slowly traveled the distance from the bleach to my face. “About knowing Dr. Stein. I lied. I know exactly who Dr. Stein is.” “Dr. Stein? You mean that guy from Wyoming?” “Yeah, that guy from Wyoming.” “I don’t think I understand.” “I know and I don’t expect you to, especially once I say what I have to.” “Then get on with it, confuse away.” I push some cords off an old bucket and take a seat, giving him the most impatient look I can muster. Maybe if I try to look bored, he won’t notice the dread I feel clawing up my spine. He lets out a short laugh that doesn’t even have an ounce of genuine humor in it. “Dr. Stein is not a…normal doctor. And he’s quite persistent. Exceptionally persistent even. That second letter he sent me wasn’t so much a request for me to join him in Sonto, but a demand. The first one…Uh…” He falters for a minute, his eyes falling from my face. The dread starts to claw a little higher. Looks like I get to find out if it actually is possible to die from suspense. Lucky me. When he starts talking again, his eyes are once again on the bleach. “The first letter wasn’t a job offer per say. It was a fairly forceful request to return to the job.” For a time, I’m shocked out of my fears. “You’ve never been to Wyoming.” “No, but Maylin Medical is a relatively new institute. When I worked for Dr. Stein…It was before I met you.” “That was ages ago! You would have been in—“ “Med school? I was. I’d already completed the training I needed for a specialty in neurology and was going back for another in cardiology. Dr. Stein got a hold of me before I could get started on that though.” “But you graduated only a year before me.” “Well, I hadn’t tried for that double specialty or hadn’t gone to work with Stein, I would have graduated three years before you. As it was, Stein arranged for me to earn my credits while working for him. Of course, that was how it looked. I worked for him for three years and all those credit hours were written down as independent study. Can you believe that?” I really don’t know how to reply. Oh, I’m confused, sure. A little uneasy. But mostly confused. What does this have to do with any thing? And why drag me into a utility closet to tell me? So he worked with an eccentric doctor for a few years during med school. “Is there a point to this?” Maybe there is a point and I’m missing it. Or maybe there isn’t and Watson is just being weird in order to take our minds off of what I learned in the conference room. I hope that’s what he’s doing. “I thought you should know how I know Stein. How I know he’s not normal.” He looks at me, square in the eye. “I thought you should know how sorry I am.” “Sorry for what? How is—“ And just like that, I realize what he’s not telling me. Stein isn’t normal as in eccentric abnormal. He’s crazy abnormal. Dangerous abnormal. The kind of abnormal that creates a fucked up disease. I jump to my feet and wish there was enough room to pace. Since space is lacking, I go for the next option I have. Taking the four paces to Watson, I grab him by the shoulders. Vaguely I wonder if I’m hurting him, because my knuckles are already white. “What the fuck are you apologizing for?” I’d like to think my question came out in a suitably offended manner. In reality, it sounds weak. He grimaces and pats my arm. I’ve never seen him look so resigned. It scares the crap out of me. “I got you involved.” Snorting, I look down at our feet. Without really thinking about it—or for that matter, even noticing it—my hands loosen there death-grip on his shoulders and twist to knot in his lab coat. “I think you got all of us involved when you gave your theory in the conference room.” “That was speculation for all they know. Besides, I wouldn’t even have said anything if I hadn’t heard Johnson talking about it before Warner called us.” Looking back up to his face, my eyes lock with his. “So how am I involved? Did you hide some secret documents at my place? Tattoo the formula on me in invisible ink when I was passed out?” Yeah, sarcasm works. Sarcasm is good. The world's not falling apart, this isn’t a good bye, because its all a joke. He gives my arm a squeeze, but doesn’t look away. “Because you matter.” This is not a good bye. It’s not. But if its not, how come he’s twisting out of my grip and opening the door? --------- Evening had rolled around with little fuss and neither hide nor hair of Watson. I might have stayed in my office all night if Najeed hadn’t strolled in around nine to tell me to go home. I managed to get halfway to my apartment before turning around and heading to Watson’s. Much to the chagrin of the neighbors, I pound on his door to nearly ten minutes. I think I frightened the old lady that lives down the hall. Serves her right, trying to come out to yell at in a tiny robe and hair curlers. I’m sure I’ll have nightmares over that. Unfortunately, or possibly fortunately—for Watson anyway, what with the mood I was in—no one answered. Which is why I find myself sitting at a bar that I haven’t been to in years. I silently drink to the patients and the patients’ families, something that is so far doing a half-decent job of taking my mind off of Watson. I estimate about seven more shots before it’ll graduate to a decent job. Another ten after that and I shouldn’t even remember who Watson is. One should always have a goal for one’s actions. I manage to get another five shots in before a pretty little blonde sits in the stool next to mine. I really don’t have to turn my head to look at her; the mirror on the other side of the bar is awfully handy in this area. I wonder if that’s why they put it there. I watch her through the mirror for a minute or two. She’s pretty, but not terribly so. Average weight and, from what I can tell, average height. Blue eyes. Middle C cups. Now that I’m looking, I can tell she’s not a natural blonde either. Her brown roots are starting to show. Also, if the redness in her eyes is anything to go by, she’s either high or blue isn’t her natural eye color. And by the way she’s smiling at me through the mirror, she has more than a few drinks in her. She turns in her stool to face me, her hand resting on the bar top just a few inches from mine. “The question is, should I start with a line or just introduce myself?” She has a slight accent, possibly southern. It’s fake and I know it, but I won’t call her on it. I finish the current shot before swiveling to face her. “I’ve got no problem breaking from tradition if you do.” She smiles at me and its all teeth and dimples. “Laura. Laura Huckson.” “Craig Warner.” The lie comes easy and if she noticed, she doesn’t give any indication. We politely shake hands and her grip lasts a few seconds longer than decorum calls for. “Can I buy you a drink?” Laura smiles again and nods, her hand brushing my thigh as she turns back to the bar. “Thought you’d never ask.” Three drinks and a short conversation full of lies later, we end up at her place. I barely manage to get inside the door before she’s on me, pulling my coat off with a mischievous little grin. Tossing it across a chair, she grabs my hands and walks me to her bedroom. Once across the threshold it’s all lips and hands undoing my belt. She tastes like beer and mints. She makes a small triumph sound when my belt comes free of my pants and I see the offending article fly across the room. Well, that’s going to be fun to find later. The back of my legs come in contact with the bed and she’s pushing me down, moving to straddle me. There’s more kissing before I can tear myself away to focus on removing her shirt. For some reason, this makes her laugh and she starts in on mine. It’s then that I realize my hands are shaking. I blame it on the beer. Pushing it aside, I focus on stripping her. On the feel of her naked breasts in my hands. How she squirms when I go down on her. Somehow we end up switching places, with me on my back and Laura between my legs giving me a decent blowjob. She hums a little tune, some wordless bundle of notes that everyone knows but no one knows who started it. I’m reminded of Watson, how he’d hum that same tune when he’s smoking and thinks no one’s around. For some reason, the blowjob becomes much more arousing and I thrust into Laura’s mouth. She giggles and releases me, slinking up my body till we’re face to face. Then we’re kissing again, nice and slow. I can feel her reaching across the bed to nightstand. Laura breaks the kiss and I watch as she rips open the condom with her teeth. She smiles at me again, and the combination of the innocent dimples and aroused flush is almost comical. She rolls it on me and pulls me with her as she rolls into her back. Looking down at her, I feel obligated to say, “Sure things aren’t going a little too fast?” She smiles at me in such a way that I get the impression I just complimented her fantastic dress. “We both know what this is, honey. Speed’s got nothing to do with it.” Wrapping her legs around my waist, she adds, “Right now, you’re what matters.” What matters. For the second time that day, I feel something snap in me. I enter her a little more roughly than I intend, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Actually, I think she likes it. Kinky. Pounding into her, I let the day’s confusion, frustration, anger, and pain flow through me. With each harsh thrust, Laura moans, arching her back, clawing at the pillows. But I’m really not seeing her. My mind’s else where, on patients and artificial diseases and Wyoming and Watson. Craig. A sound that’s somewhere between a groan and growl escapes my throat. The pace I’ve set it hard and fast and I’m sure I’m hurting her. My brain checks back in for a second, but Laura doesn’t seem to be complaining. Just as quickly as she came, I’ve dismissed her from my mind. Laura doesn’t matter, she’s just a means to and end. I can feel the edge coming, the familiar tingle building at the base of spine. Vaguely, I hear Laura shout as she climaxes, but I’m not seeing her anymore. In my mind’s eye, it’s not her I’m fucking. When I come I bite down so hard on my tongue I taste blood, just to keep the name rising in my throat from spilling out and creating an awkward scene. By the time I come back to myself, I’m on my back staring at the ceiling. Laura is somewhere—by the sound of it, I’d hazard to say she’s in the shower. Now would be the time to leave. As I dress I contemplate taking the time to find my belt but decide against. It’s just a damn belt, she can keep it. Now that the high from alcohol and arousal is gone, I’m starting to understand the impact of what’s happened. What I’ve done. Oh not the sleeping with Laura part; that was consensual and rather fun. The I’ve just had sex while thinking of my friend and almost shouted his name during climax part. Fuck. I think I’m going to go home and hang myself. --------- It’s morning—actually its closer to afternoon, but who’s keeping track?—and I wonder who told them it was okay to put a jackhammer in my skull. Not moving seems like a very good idea, but if I lay here any longer I think my bladder is going to explode. Plus I stink, something that really isn’t helped by the blankets I’ve cocooned myself in. Toilet and shower. That’s not too much to ask for, right? Getting out of bed is quite of feat. Halfway into a sitting position, the room starts to swirl and the jackhammer is joined with an elephant or two. This is also when I am clued into the fact of how sore I am. Maybe I should change that shower into a bath. A really, really, really hot one. Eventually I get into a standing position and almost decide that a burst bladder and stinky sheets are worth a few more hours of sleep. It is through sheer mental discipline—and lots of cajoling and promises of coffee—that I make it to the bathroom. I pop a couple of aspirin, relieve myself, and start the tap running. With the door closed, the small room quickly fills with steam. I watch with a sense of sick satisfaction as my reflection in the door mirror becomes blurred and unrecognizable. Fitting, I think, given the state of things. God, when I did become so broody? Its too early and there’s not nearly enough coffee for me to be getting introspective. Opting on a bath was a great idea, if I do say so myself. There’s just something appealing about being able to rinse away one’s stress, soreness, and mostly importantly one’s stink with just a simple action. Now if I only had a rubber duckie. Without a rubber duckie to play with, I lay there and stare at the wall. The way the steam rolls around in the sun streaming through the window starts me thinking of smoke. Smoke, smoking, smoker. Watson smokes sometimes. Damn it, I knew this was going to happen. A man truly can’t take a bath without getting a little girlie. It’s not fair. No, what’s not fair is pro’lly what I did to Laura. I don’t know if rough sex is her cup of tea, but that’s what she got. She’s pro’lly waking up right now, sore as hell and cursing my name. If I ever see my belt again, it’ll be when she strangles me with it. All well. Que sera sera, as they say. Whatever the hell that means. The notion that I have to work today crosses my mind, but I think the decision to call in sick was made before I even woke up. Possibly as early as last night, when I went to the bar. I’m more than content to lay here and turn into a prune. Guess that means I won’t be seeing Watson, then. That’s pro’lly a good thing. After last night, I think I’m entitled to a little time to myself. Which is more than likely going to suck, because I’ll be bored out of my skull in two hours. Day time television can only amuse for so long before the urge to shoot someone in the face becomes too much to resist. Perhaps I should use this time to do a little mental backtracking? Get everything sorted out upstairs before going back to work tomorrow. Yeah, that’s a good idea. First on the list of Things That are Confusing the Fuck Out of Me is the trip Watson and I took a few days ago. Huh, I can’t even remember the name of the town we went to. On the other hand, I do remember the hotel. It would take a stronger mind—or possibly a weaker one?—to forget about that. It was comfortable. Warm. I could live with whatever it means to be comfortable and warm in the same hotel room as Watson. I really could. But the side that he brought to it, the caresses—even if they were given when he thought I was asleep—makes it more than I can swallow. He’s my friend, my male friend. Male friends don’t exactly do things like that. Sure, I could argue that in light of recent events, he was worried and worried hands wander. Yeah, that had to be it. He started to suspect what was going on and was getting worried. That’s all. Right. This brings me to the day of the conference. Learning that those patients were intentionally infected and were doomed to die was…a shock, to say the least. As a doctor I know there will be times when no matter how much I want the patient to live, they will die. That’s a lesson we all learn. But something they never taught us was how to just sit back and accept someone being murdered right in front of your eyes. Don’t think that would be a lesson many would pass. Heh, if anyone did, I would seriously question their competency as a doctor. As if that wasn’t bad enough in and of itself, I was lead to the conclusion that Watson knows the man responsible. Worked with him. Hell, for all I know, he could have been in on the project all those years ago. The very thought makes me ache, but it has nothing to do with muscles. No, Watson wouldn’t willingly work on something meant to hurt people. Back then, it must have been research and mini trials. For all I know, Watson might not have even worked on that project. It could have been something completely different. But he still knows this Dr. Stein and he knows Watson. And I matter. God, what a fucking ambiguous statement. I matter as what? A friend? A colleague? A…something more than that? Whatever it means, it’s enough for Watson to worry about me. To think that just by knowing him placed me in kind of danger. Let’s say this Stein really did create this disease and has put it out in the general populous. Watson must know something—either of the research or of Stein himself—that makes him a highly sought after person by Stein—I can’t forget about those letters. Since Watson obviously didn’t go back when Stein called for him, he must think that Stein—dangerous psycho that he must be—could and would use me to get to him. Great. Bait. Just the career I wanted in life. So, because I matter-- in what ever way-- he fears for me. My safety and such. A buddy watching out for my back. That explains a lot about his behavior. He’s just watching out for me, trying to protect me. Mother hen complex and all that. So, that just leaves me with last night. That was…That was everything coming to a head. Frustration from the hospital, the stuff with Watson before having this chance to rationalize everything. I wasn’t thinking about Watson while having sex. I was thinking about everything, though admittedly there he did take up a lot of my mind’s air time. Plus it really wasn’t sex, sex. I don’t do rough sex. What I did with Laura was…a release, catharsis. Yeah. It all makes sense now. More than it did before, in any case. Shifting in the tub, I use my foot to pull the little lever to let some of the water out. I allow it to drain a few inches before closing it again and then twisting the hot water tap to pick up the slack. My fingers are already wrinkled, but I certainly don’t care. This feels too good and, hell, everyone deserves a little self-indulgence every once and a while. Is that my phone? Yes, that’s definitely my phone. For a second or two, I’m tempted to get it, but then the answering machine picks up and it becomes a moot point. I listen to whatever message the caller leaves, but I don’t understand the words. Through the heavy wood of the door it all sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher to me. More than likely it was Najeed or a random nurse calling to find out where I am and why I’m not at work. Nothing important. If it was something important-- like an emergency with a patient-- they’d page me. And my pager is sitting nicely on the sink counter where I left it, not saying a peep. Then again it could be Watson. But he never calls me, so really there’s no reason for me to think he’d start now. Unless…No. I think it’s time I got out of the tub. ----------- It was three hours into the next work day before I noticed anything was…weird. For one, I couldn’t find Worchester, Najeed, or Warner. Their secretaries-- cute little bundles of useless makeup all of them-- didn’t know where they were and could you remind them about the board meeting in an hour? Sorry, not my job. That’s yours, remember? It took another hour after that-- once my morning charting and rounds were done-- that I realized that none of the patients with Stein’s disease-- like it? Came up with it myself-- were in their rooms. Their files weren’t even at the nurse’s station. Definitely not right. Maybe they’ve been moved to a different section of the hospital? That makes sense, right? I’ll just ask the next nurse who worked with us on it. She’d know where the patients have been moved to. Only, I have yet to see one nurse that I recognize. Strange. Did they do a restructuring of the shifts on my impromptu day off? I ask a couple of nurses and orderlies about it, but they just give me funny looks and go about their business. Strange indeed. Perhaps I’ll just pop by the deans office, see what is up. Again, its on my way to the ground floor that I again notice something a little odd. More than a little odd even. It’s downright bizarre and makes absolutely no sense. Not only are there hordes of people I’ve never seen before, the people that I do vaguely recognize are giving me the strangest looks. One, a pediatric resident I think, even asked what I was still doing here. What the hell? Of course, the final moment of confusion-- the moment that this camel had it’s back broken, as it were-- came when I was at the dean’s office. Well, more like two feet in front of the door leading to the dean’s office. The name Dr. Mariah Johan stared back at me from the heavily polished surface. That’s not right. The dean’s name isn’t Dr. Mariah Johan. Hell, he isn’t even a girl! I think I need a nap. I think the RH is starting to give me funny looks. Right. To cover for my staring at the dean’s door, I fake a page and quickly make my way back to the elevators. Hmm, no I think stairs would be more prudent. Once by alone, I plant myself on the stairs, head clapsed in my hands. What the hell? Oh god, no wonder the lady at the secretary’s desk looked at me weird when I went into my office. That wasn’t some woman hanging around the office, that was the secretary. She wasn’t the random person, I was. I am. What kind of twilight zone did I wake up into? Watson would probably find it… Next I know, I’m running up the stairs, taking them two and even three at a time. He’ll know what’s going on. Hell, that was probably him calling me yesterday, to tell me all about it. ‘Hey Bens, where the hell are you? The board’s elected a new dean of medicine and there’s a lot of shuffling going on around here. Shame you’re not around to pick out your new office. I’ll try to get dibs on a nice one for you.’ Yeah, that’s probably what he would have said. I knew I should have checked my messages before coming to the hospital this morning. Running through the halls, it don’t even notice the looks of the people I pass. Huh, imagine that. Years of striving for the approval of my peers-- I’ll deny it to my dying day and if you repeat this, I’ll eat your kidneys-- and here I am, destroying any credibility I may have as a serious doctor. Of course, I can always claim a dire emergency. Serious doctor stuff is always a good excuse to run. Not like it matters, though. It’s becoming more and more obvious that most of these people don’t even know who I am. Even if they do know it, it’s by association only. Not even close enough to exchange hellos in the hall. Here I am, thinking about the reactions of my colleagues-- psuedo-collegues, I guess. Not sure what to call them at this point-- when I should be watching where I’m going. I pass the hall leading down to Watson’s office and half to double back. Pro’lly should have slowed down, as the sight that greats me makes me skid to a halt. Fortunately, there’s no one around to see. Looks like I’m be able to keep a little dignity today. But back to the door. The name tag is gone, and the way it looks gives the impression that someone did a hasty job of removing it. No, that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part is what is beyond the door. What used to be Watson’s office now looks like the remains of a small disaster. The desk and chair are gone, for one. The file cabinets are open with their contents strewn about the floor. Watson’s diplomas and personal effects are gone too. One of the vents is even pried open for some reason. Oh and no Watson. The cold feeling from a few days ago is starting to creep back. Maybe it was a good bye? With carefully measured steps-- no need to attract any more attention to myself, now is there?-- I walk to the nearest nurses station. The nurse on duty is busy with some charts and doesn’t even glance at me as I reach for the phone. It only takes a few seconds to send a message to Watson’s pager. I don’t even have to think about the number. Not sure where else to go, I head for the cafeteria. Coffee sounds like a good idea, right about now. I’m in line, waiting to pay for my drink, when my pager goes off. ‘Home1’ It takes me less than five minutes to get out of line, out of the hospital, and to my car. I think it might be a record of some kind. Its not until I’m leaving the hospital parking lot that I wonder which home Watson was talking about. My place or his? At the first red light, I sit tapping my steering wheel. Right, my apartment. Left, Watson’s. A horn blast behind me and I realize the light turned green sometime ago. I turn left. -------- For the first time, I don’t hesitate outside of Watson’s apartment. I don’t even knock, simply bursting in and slamming the door behind me. The thought crosses my mind that if the door had been locked, I would have face-planted myself right into it. His place is a mess. Like his office, there are various papers and books strewn about. Though there’s no missing furniture, which eases the sick feeling in my gut a little until I notice the half back duffle bag sitting on the coffee table. The bastard is leaving me. “Wats?” Don’t tell me I wasted my time and came to the wrong apartment. I don’t want to think what it says about me that ‘home’ means Watson’s. I nearly trip over a book-- the illustrated version of The Lord of Rings I gave him a few years back-- on my way to the bedroom. “Wats? What the hell is going on? Your office is vacated and your place looks like a…” Huh, so this is what it’s like to stare down the barrel of a gun. Of course, it begs the quest of why my best friend is currently pointing a gun at my head. “James.” It comes out in a breath, equal parts surprise and relief. The gun shakes, the barrel becoming three or four barrels in front of my eyes, before dropping to the floor. The sound is heavier than what they portray in the movies. I stare down at it, the confusion from today coming to a peak and making itself known on my face. When I look back, Watson’s mouth is moving but no words are coming out. Next thing I know, he’s pulling me into a hug so tight that I can’t breath. “They didn’t get you. God, when you didn’t come in yesterday and I tried calling, I thought you’d been round up like everyone else. You’re here, it really was you…“ He’s still talking, but its too mumbled and fast for me to really make out. Its starting to become a mantra and everything is starting to get fuzzy around the edges. Air’s funny like that. Luckily he notices my discomfort-- I was not in distress-- and loosened his hold on me. He didn’t let go though. But that’s not important. I have questions and could really do with some answers. “Wats…What the hell is going on? What do you mean rounded up like everyone else?” He shakes his head, patting me on the shoulder. “That’s not important,” he replies, turning back to the room and grabbing another bag. He pauses next to me in the doorway, staring at the hallway wall. “You still keep a spare set of clothes in your car?” he asks, bending down to retrieve the gun. “Yes, but-- Not important? Everyone’s…The patients…Since when do you have a gun?” He pats my shoulder again, giving a short laugh with no mirth in it. “For a while.” Starting down the hall, he says over his shoulder, “We really don’t have time to talk about it. Can you grab my backpack? Its on the kitchen counter.” Feeling numb, I nod to nothing in particular and start toward the kitchen. I think I’ve reached the point where the brain simply can’t take anymore and shuts down. Management is out for the night, so please leave a message. Bag retrieved, I rejoin Watson in the living room. He stuffs a few more items into the duffle bag on the table and, after a moments hesitation, tosses the gun in too before zipping it closed. He slings the bag over his shoulder, turning to look at with a raised eyebrow. For all intents and purposes he looks like a man ready for a weekend camping, not…whatever it is I’m stumbling into. I get the feeling that I’ll have more to worry about than pesky mosquitoes and which leaves to watch out for in the near future. I’m tempted to once again ask what is going on, but my gut tells me he won’t answer. Just evade the question, something he’s gotten quite good at recently. Well, he was pro’lly always good at evading questions, I just never noticed. Circumstances are funny like that, I suppose. “I take it we’re going somewhere, then?” I guess that’ll do for the time being. “Good see you’re powers of observation haven’t completely left you,” he says, smirking. “Excuse me for being a little too involved with work to really notice the comings and goings of those around me. Unless people watching is a part of being doctor, in which case shame on you for not telling me.” “Apology accepted. Worry me like that again and I’ll have to hurt you.” “Oh, is that a promise?” I deadpan, moving the backpack to my other shoulder. It’s kind of heavy. “Yes, push your luck. It’s been a long time since I did a colonoscopy…I’m not sure I have anything to use for lubrication, either.” “I’ll be nice. Next time I decide to take a personal day while the staff does a Hudini act, I’ll be sure to tell you.” “Wise man. Now be a good boy and grab that brief case.” He motions to a case propped by the door before grabbing another bag. I didn’t see it when I came in, so it must have been sitting out of site. I wonder what’s in there. But I do as I’m told—just this once—and grab the brief case. Out of simple curiousity, I pop it open and almost drop it in shock. “Patient files?” I move some around, noting names and dates. “Wait. Some of these are…You copied patient files! And without permission?” If the dean was still the dean, he’d be furious. “Oh get off your high horse. Some of those files are the only copies we have left.” “You even have the ones the CDC took?” “Yeah. I copied them before Goldman notified them.” “Why?” “Because I knew Goldman was going to call them. And while at the time I wasn’t as convinced that Stein was involved as I am now, I had my suspicions.” “So all those cases were part of this too?” “Don’t tell me you didn’t see the similarities, if you just looked at the individual systems.” “I knew I should have focus more on idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.” “That had to be what they took inspiration from, at least for one part of it. The influenza incident some months back was like a trial run of that component.” “Craig, what aren’t you telling me?” “Lots of things. Now lets go, I’m driving.” I knew he was going to say that. I really did. ---------- “Would you stop that?” “No.” “I liked that song.” “No you don’t, it’s a stupid song.” “There’s nothing on the radio, so you might as well give it up.” “There’s always something on the radio, you just have to find it.” “There’s nothing out here to find, so just give it up.” “Fine.” I lean back into the passenger seat, trying my best to stare out the window as dejectedly as possible. Watson sighs and turns the radio off. There really wasn’t anything good to listen too anyway. “I’m not going to tell you where we’re going, so you might as well stop sulking.” “Alright, but at least tell me why we’re going.” We’ve been driving for the past—actually, I have no idea, but it has been a while-- and I’ve yet to get anything out of Watson besides an offhand comment or blatant evasion. In light of past events, couple with my current semi-kidnapped state, I get the feeling that I’m a character in a cheesy novel. Why does life have to be so complicated? “Because we can’t stay there.” “That’s not a reason but that’s all I’m going to get, am I?” “Yup.” Bastard. “Since the radio is out of the question, how about a game?” “If it’s eye-spy, I’ll kill you where you sit.” “I wouldn’t have it otherwise. Okay. A person with a narrow heart would have more trouble than most breathing water. What am I?” “Ah, a pulmonary edema caused by…mitral stenosis?” “Oh don’t even try to sound uncertain. Your turn.” “The pig writes for a peaked fish of happy cards. What am I?” “An idiot?” “Haha, no. Guess again.” “That doesn’t make any sense…God. I’m an idiot. Aphasia.” “You are correct sir. Shoot.” “I’ve got stress free eyes and elastic can’t touch me. What am I?” “Nystagmus with areflexia.” “Bzzt. Try again,” he says, snickering. “Elastic can’t touch me?” “Uh huh.” “Hypotonia.” “Damnit. Fine, your turn.” “Let me think…Okay, here’s a good one. I’m small and hurt when found between places. I’m also one of the most common ailments man can get. What am I?” “That’s not a good one.” “You have no idea.” “Give me a minute.” Glancing to Watson, I catch the tail end of him chewing his lower lip. “Its common? An infarction.” “No. Try again.” “Tumor?” “Wrong again. Once more.” “Who said I only get three guesses?” he asks, looking away from the road to glare at me. “I did. Or do you give?” “No…An intracranial hemmorage.” “I didn’t know those were common.” “You’d be surprised, mister lungs. I’m right, aren’t I?” “Not even close.” "One more." "Fine." "Rheumatoid arthritis." "How geriatric, but oh so wrong." “What was it?” “A paper cut.” “I hate you.” “You love me and you know it. Oh look, a hotel.” I motion toward the quickly approaching building, even though it’s quite obvious. “So, over there is a tree. What’s your point?” God, don’t tell me he’s planning on driving all night. “It’s late and I’m tired. Since you refuse to let me drive, I think its save to assume you’re tired too. And unless you feel like paying for my next overhaul, I’m sure the car could use a break too.” He starts drumming a beat on the steering wheel with his fingers. I’ve almost got him. “I don’t see a restauarant nearby.” “It’s a hotel. If they don’t have some form of in-house café, they’ll have vending machines.” The fingers of one hand start drumming a counter tempo to the other and I know I’ve got him. Hook, line, and sinker. “I’ll even pay.” “Okay.” Just in time, too. He barely has time to slow down enough to make a graceful and completely non-hazardous entrance into the parking lot. Once parked, I lean across the gap between seats to say, “But you’re buying breakfast.” Before Watson can argue, I’m out of the car and strolling to the main office. --------- In the vast history of the world, no creation, no fortunate mishap of a mutation can compare to the greatness of the evolutionary marvel known as java. When crushed and ran through with piping hot water, surely there is a heavenly chorus going on somewhere. I may not have any clue where we are or where we’re going, but I do know that where we are now has some kick ass coffee. It almost makes up for the soggy pancakes. Almost. In the middle of my reverie—pro’lly somewhere between the cons of soggy pancakes and the possibility of more coffee—a large stack of files is unceremoniously dumped on the table. Through sheer luck they miss landing smack in the middle of a syrup covered plate. Looking up to Watson, who has more files tucked under his arm, I raise an eyebrow and ask, “What happened to no paperwork at the dinner table?” “The times, they are a changing,” he replies, taking the seat across from me. “Besides, this is the breakfast table. Plus I paid, so I get to make the rules.” “I’ll remember that the next time you force me to buy dinner.” Moving the plate of syrup to a safer corner of the table, I turn my attention to the stack of folders. They’re patient files, the ones that had been hidden in his brief case. I was wondering where they’d gotten to. Figured they would turn up sometime. “What’s with the files?” I ask before finishing off my coffee. The waitress has been missing in action for a while, so I think this may be my last cup of the morning. Shame, really. “We should be fine if where we are for a day or two. Now would be a good time to go over the individual files. Come up with possible diagnoses, based on what we have. See which pieces were carried on to the final disease, which ones were altered, or the ones simply left out.” Oh boy. “That’s…not going to be easy, especially if all we have to work with are charts. Copied charts.” Tapping the other stack, Watson leans in a rather conspiratorial fashion. “That is what these are for. Copies of any and all test results, scans, notations, and medical scuttlebutt.” “Medical scuttlebutt?” “Don’t tell me you’ve never done a differential while walking down the hall or eating in the cafeteria. Or had an epiphany in the men’s room and just had to bounce the idea off someone.” I don’t even bother trying to stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Who hasn’t? But scuttlebutt?” He waves the comment away, opening the file on the top of the stack. “I think your hunch of idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis was right.” “My gut should always be so right.” I move to the other side of the table, to better see the contents of the file. Reading doctor’s handwriting is bad enough without having to do it upside down. “But there was no cough and the cystic dilatation of the distal air spaces wasn’t right. No honeycombing.” “Yes well, the idea was right. You have to remember that this is an engineered disease.” “Pick and choose, and toss out what doesn’t fit.” “Exactly. I don’t know how they got passed without obvious honeycombing, but the locations were right.” Pulling out a scan, Watson holds it up the light, pointing to the shadowed areas. “Here in the periphery of the lungs and in the lower lobes. It’s the most common area.” “Yes, well it’s a common location for a lot of things.” Putting the scan back into its folder, Watson gives me a sly look. “Maybe, but biopsies don’t lie.” “When did they do a biopsy?” Instead of answering, he just thumbs through the stack of files. “Never mind.” “Exactly…We’re in agree about the IPF, now for all the bits and pieces. Obviously it was altered slightly so the scans wouldn’t be a dead give away. What else?” “No unproductive cough, no cough at all.” Now it’s my turn to thumb through to stack, looking for one of the patients from the first incident. “But during the influenza outbreak, everyone had a cough. Some came up with flem, other’s didn’t. Here it is.” I pull a file from near the bottom and flip it open between us. “This was one of my more severe cases. Nonproductive cough, fever, shortness of breath. Since it was one of my patients, I didn’t have any qualms with noting the slightly different chest sounds. This must have been one of the more successful trial runs. The symptoms lasted longer than most, the difference more pronounced. I know it, yes, I did write it down.” “Well don’t leave a man waiting.” “Give me a minute. It was late when I wrote this and you know how my legibility is directly proportional to how much coffee I’ve had…Okay. The symptoms didn’t uniformly clear up like the others we observed. The cough and fever were the first to go, followed a couple a hour later by the dypsnea.” “A couple of hours?” “Mmhm. If you can dig out a few of the other influenza cases, I can make comparisons. There might be some others of mine that I can’t remember, but we’ll have to make educated guesses on anyone else.” “That’s not a good way to go about a differential.” “Think of it as research.” “Fine. So what we can infer is that since the cough and fever cleared up first, they weren’t the major focus of the trial. Just a convienant cover to keep doctors from poking beyond a simple case of the flu. Smart.” “And the cough was tossed out in the end, for whatever reason. Mild anemia too, but that’s only in about thirty percent of IPF cases anyway.” “You might not want to toss out anemia so soon, Bens. Look at this one.” The chart in front of me is surprisingly thorough with impeccable handwriting. “Connors needs to go back to med school and learn how to write like an actual doctor.” “Obviously, but I hope you’re not too distracted to actually read the damn thing.” “Some one woke up on the wrong side today,” I mumble. Louder, I add, “This is one of the patients…huh, renal failure.” “One that died. My guess is that this was a success of the trial. The time table for the renal failure is almost the same to the second with the final disease. The infections might have been part of the cover up, but I think the rash was misdiagnosed.” “Misdiagnosed?” “I think they bled out. The ‘rashes’ on the final patients were all bleeds. I did the autopsy myself.” “When did…I don’t want to know.” I rub my eyes until I see spots. “How is it possible to make that mistake? We should all have our medical licenses revoked for sheer stupidity.” “Don’t worry, its not like its our fault or anything. These things were made to look like rashes. Anemia was there, just hiding quite nicely. Besides, between the renal failure and the bleeding, we have an explanation for the shredded red blood cells.” “Great.” You’ll excuse me for not sounded overly enthusiastic. Watson gives me look, but doesn’t comment on my rather dispirited comment. “Which brings us to our symptom with no connection to any of the trials.” I have to think for a minute before I can follow his train of thought. “The blue lips.” “Exactly. From lungs to kidneys to brain, none of patients presented with blue lips. Sure there was difficulty breathing, but no shredded blood.” “But when you have both, there isn’t enough oxygen getting through the system—“ “And the lips turn blue. This my friend, is purely a symptom of the final disease. A culmination of too many problems with similar results.”