A Metal Gear Solid/House M.D. crossover by *blinkblink*
Disclaimer: Don't own MGS/MGS2, or House M.D.
House was woken by the phone. After listening to it ring twice, he twisted around in the bed until he found the edge, began swiping at the bedside table. Eventually his hand closed around the elusive telephone. "What?"
"Dr. House?" Not one of his assistants. Not Wilson. Not even Cuddy.
"Who is this?"
"David Shellby."
"How did you get this number." House paused, considered. "Never mind. I don't want to know."
"I need to talk to you."
"It seems like you already are. Or is that just me? You know how it is with pain meds, sometimes-"
"I think I might know what's wrong with Henry."
House waited. Nothing was forthcoming. "...and?"
"I can't explain over the phone."
The clock by his bedside read 5:59. "Damn."
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When House arrived at his office, his three assistants were already there, as was Snake.
He limped in the door, didn't bother to beat around. "Well?" His three assistants stared at him as he made his way over to the coffee machine.
"Almost five years ago, I was unknowingly infected with a virus created by a geneticist, called FoxDie. It was meant to kill me, but for some reason still hasn't gotten around to it. At the time, though, it spread to the people I met, killing two of them. I'm pretty sure it stopped being infectious pretty fast, or the doc wouldn't have let me loose on the population. But I met Henry then, while it was still active. He could have picked it up from me."
"How do you know it killed two people?" queried Foreman.
"I saw them die. It mimics a heart-attack."
"Five years ago you saw them die?"
"Yeah."
"Then unless this thing can go dormant, that's not it. You'll also notice," House swung his cane at the white board, "that among your friend's long list of problems, heart attack is not listed."
"We should still test him," said Chase.
"For what? Unknown and unidentified viruses?" Having shot Chase down, House paused, then turned on Snake. "Why did you suddenly decide to tell us this now?"
Snake looked at him levelly. "It just occurred to me."
"What else aren't you telling us?"
"What?"
House limped over. "Been to Asia lately? How about Africa, I hear it's full of problems that could use your special brand of help."
"I was in Africa almost three weeks ago."
"Why didn't you tell us that earlier?" shouted House.
"You didn't ask!"
House rounded on Cameron and Chase. "Why didn't you check him?"
"They both said they're not sleeping together," Cameron raised her arms defensively. "So it didn't matter."
"And you believed them?"
"We're not-"
"Did you get your shots before you went?" House cut Snake off.
"Yes, of course."
"All of them?" House raised his eyebrows.
"Yes. I assume so. All the standard ones."
"Which ones?"
"I don't know. Rabies, Hepatitis, Typhoid fever, some other one..."
"Tetanus?" Foreman suggested.
"Have it already."
"Diphtheria?" Chase.
"Yeah."
"Yellow Fever?" Foreman again.
"Don't know. Don't think so."
"Where are your medical records kept? We'll check." Foreman grabbed a pen and paper.
"Uh, it won't be on file anywhere you would have access to..."
"Doesn't matter," broke in House. "If it was yellow fever, we'd be seeing kidney problems. He doesn't have any." House turned to Snake. "Where in Africa were you?"
Snake opened his mouth, paused.
"Medically relevant," reminded House.
"Nigeria."
"How long were you there?"
"Five days."
"Participate in any risky behaviour? Sex? Drugs? Rock and roll?" House raised an eyebrow, faked strumming a guitar chord.
Snake glared. "No."
"Did you receive any wounds, or touch any open wounds or blood?" Cameron. Chase and Foreman both turned to glance at her.
"Scratched open the back of my hand on some stucco at the hotel. Washed it off well. And no, no bathing in the blood of innocents." He met Cameron's gaze straight-on.
"I'm sure we're all glad to know about your moral status. If we could get back to your dying partner?"
Snake turned to look at House, who held out his hand.
"What?"
"Your hand, idiot." House made a come hither motion. Snake did so, held out his hand palm down. House grabbed it, inspected the back. There was a small fading scab and a few smaller already healed marks. "Any other wounds?"
"No."
"We'll need a blood sample."
"Why?"
"Because you might have passed on whatever it is you had to him," House said dryly.
"There's nothing wrong with me."
"Not now."
"There wasn't three weeks ago, either."
"That you noticed."
"Fine. Whatever." Snake pulled up his sleeve and shoved out his arm. No one moved.
"Well? More blood sucking, less standing around." House glared at the three other doctors, who startled into movement. Foreman slipped out into the hallway, returned a minute later, hands full with a couple of syringes, cotton swabs and rubbing alcohol. He handed the swabs and alcohol to Chase and began to unwrap the syringes. Snake rolled his eyes.
"Just give it to me." He grabbed the wrapped syringes from Foreman, ripped them out and tucked the spare into the crook of his right arm. Without a wince he slipped the needle into his left arm, pulled the stopper until it was full and repeated with the second.
"Now that's what I like to see. Masochism!" House grinned. Everyone else in the room gave him irritated glares.
Snake pushed the syringes off on Foreman, turned and left.
"What now?" asked Chase.
"Go run the test for Lassa Fever. On both their blood. Or did you get to it already? I'm assuming you didn't, or you would have called to tell me you knew what was wrong with Sickie."
"It's way down there on the cool but useless list," said Foreman.
"Well, now it's both cool and useful. Go run the test."
Foreman and Chase left, blood in hand. Cameron turned to House. "Even if Shellby did get Lassa Fever in Africa, that doesn't explain how Elder wound up with it."
"So go find out."
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Dave, into the fidgeting stage of exhaustion, looked up from his current position beside the head of Hal's bed when the female doctor came in. Cameron. The one who disliked him. Wonderful. She was, he noticed, wearing a mask and gloves now.
"His temperature's up again. Have you figured out what it is?"
"We're running tests for Lassa Fever." She walked in and rummaged through a drawer, found the thermometer.
"When will you get the results back?"
"Soon." She stuck the end in Hal's ear, then apparently decided her answer was too curt and added, "a few minutes."
"If it is that, is it treatable."
"Yes. There's no unique cure, but it responds well to a specialized antibiotic."
"So he'll recover."
"If it is Lassa Fever, than it's likely. He's far advanced, but we've caught it in time. If the diagnosis is correct." She retrieved the thermometer, checked it. "We'll have to put him in an ice bath again in an hour unless his fever breaks." She tapped the instrument against her palm a few times then placed it on the top of a tray, moved it so it was squared against the corner.
"What?" Dave, resigned, spared her an inquiring glance.
Dr. Cameron looked up at him, expression somewhere between a question and a glare.
"You came here to ask me something, right? Or him?" Dave glanced at Hal, who shifted slightly, sighed in his sleep. His heart monitor fluctuated momentarily before returning to a somewhat steady 68. "Henry?" He didn't wake. Dave turned back to Cameron, noting again the gloves and mask. "Should I be wearing those?"
"If we're right, than he got it from you and you've already fought off the infection and created your own antibodies. If you're worried about it, though..."
"It's fine." Dave waved a dismissive hand. "So. Ask."
"Lassa Fever is not highly contagious. It usually requires direct contact either through respiratory or gastrointestinal tracts with infected excrement. It can also be transferred through open wounds, which is how you must have picked it up."
"So?"
"There isn't conclusive data regarding the rate of sexual transmission of the disease. But after direct contact, it's by far the most likely possibility. Since you're already pushing the incubation period, it's almost the only one, really."
Dave began to reply, was distracted by Hal moving again. He was once again sweating heavily. "Henry?"
"Dave?" If Dave hadn't been pretty sure what Hal had been saying, he might not have picked it up.
"How're you feeling?"
"Meh."
"The doctors think they might know what's wrong with you."
"Good. Fix it?" He peered sleepily at Dave.
"Yeah, if they're right. They say it's only transferable sexually, though." Dave shot a hard glance at Dr. Cameron.
"That's not entirely true," began Dr. Cameron.
"Never... wished I slept with you... 'til now. 'Cept maybe that one time..."
"Huh?"
"You never want ... to freak Jack?"
"Who hasn't?" Dave smiled.
"This is all very charming," said Dr. Cameron, "but if you contracted Lassa Fever from him, the fact remains-" she trailed off, watching Hal. Dave turned to him. He had tilted his head at an odd angle and was breathing strangely.
"Henry?" Dave bent to shake his shoulder, startled when instead it began to shake on its own.
"He's seizing. Grab his arms." Dave did as he was told, fighting to hold Hal down. For a sick guy weighing in at 140 when he was healthy, he was surprisingly strong. Dave gritted his teeth, watched the doctor hold his head and shove something into his mouth to keep him from biting his tongue.
The seizure lasted almost a minute, twice as long as the first time. It passed as quickly as it had come, Hal's muscles untensing all at once, leaving him limp and unconscious. Heart beat up to 75, but already dropping. "Hal? Dammit." Dave pulled at his shoulder gently. No response. Heart rate down to 62 where it was hovering. He turned to Dr. Cameron.
"Is he okay?"
She bent over Hal, checking his pupils quickly and efficiently with a penlight, then his pulse while watching the monitor. "He's stable for now." She paused.
"Look. You don't like us. I understand that. Maybe you're not personable, although I doubt that, so maybe you just don't agree with what we do. I don�t really care. If you think he got this thing from me, and idly want to know how, well we're roommates for god's sake, we share food, bottles, plates, glasses, forks, the couch. That's probably your answer." Dave paused. "But," he continued on in a slightly sarcastic tone, "if you need to know why he's sick to treat him and you're only going to believe what you already think anyway then fine, I slept with him once, twice, every night since I got back, okay? So just give him the damn stuff."
Dr. Cameron was staring. He stared right back, and she backed down, nodded. "I'll go check on the blood tests."
"Fine"
She turned to leave, and was intercepted by the entrance of doctors Chase and Foreman, also both in protective clothing. Dr. Chase moved over to the iv and began to hang a new bag. Dr. Foreman handed Dr. Cameron a piece of paper, then turned to Dave. "The results came back. Both your blood tested positive for Lassa Fever. We're starting him on Ribavirin. We're also going to give him blood transfusions and work on cycling out the liquid currently in his body."
"And then he'll be okay?"
"Yeah. He's fairly far advanced but with aggressive treatment he should pull through."
"I see. Thanks." Dave nodded, Dr. Foreman nodding back.
The black man turned back to Dr. Cameron. "You figure out how he got it?"
She shrugged. "Close proximity, I guess. There's no other explanation."
"Think House'll buy it?"
"House can think what he wants." Dr. Cameron nodded to Dave and turned to leave, Dr. Foreman turning with her.
"He always does."
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House tossed his oversized tennis ball in the air, caught it with his cane, feet firmly planted on his desk. Score. Wilson, the only other occupant of the room, rolled his eyes.
"So why did you take this case, anyway?"
House turned to look at him. "The guy had a seizure in my office. That looks suspicious."
"The guy could have just had the flu, and epilepsy! You've turned down people for worse."
"Pshh. Snake probably would have killed me if I had turned him down, anyway. He's got a glare that could stop Cuddy at fifty paces."
"Right. You were physically intimidated into taking the case."
"I happen to like my neck screwed on the right way." House tossed the ball again, caught it.
"Seriously. Why did you take the case?" Wilson leaned over towards the desk. House looked up, grinned.
"Dude. It was Solid Snake. I mean, come on."
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"We are so implementing some sort of sanitation protocol when we get home." Hal grabbed his glasses from Dave, slipped them on. It was the first time in a week he'd done it for himself. It felt good.
"I think using separate cutlery and glasses would about cover it, Hal."
"You think that now, but next time you find me passed out in the bathroom..."
"I'll think that you should sleep more and spend less time on the computer."
"We'll see," said Hal, ominously, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "What are we going to do?' he asked, in a concerned tone.
"About what?"
"About the fact that apparently half the hospital staff know who we are. That's a serious security problem."
"Only five of them. And I doubt the older two would tell anyone." Dave grabbed Hal's chart off the edge of the bed, unclipped the papers and slid them inside his jacket, returning the empty clipboard to its hook.
"What about the other three?"
"They only know that we were here, and what we look like with horrible hair cuts. I think our secret's safe."
"You said the woman had it in for us."
"It's a passive dislike. She might hate us forever, but I doubt she would actually call us in. Besides, she's a doctor, not some kind of sleuth. How would she ever find us?" Dave grabbed Hal's watch off the dresser, handed it to him.
"I suppose."
"Don't worry about it. She can't be worse than Naomi, anyway."
Hal swung himself off the bed, one arm hovering over it in case it was needed for balance. After a few seconds he straightened up, smiled slightly.
"Okay?" Dave was watching him carefully.
"Yeah. Let's go."
"Right."
They made their way to the door.
"If you see any of the docs, head the other way. You're not scheduled for check out until tomorrow morning." Dave glanced both ways out of the glass door.
"Didn't want to say goodbye?"
"Something like that. You know how bad I am with goodbyes."
Dave pulled the door open, and they slid out into the corridor, both blending in almost immediately with the early afternoon rush, just two ordinary hospital well-wishers.
Sitting on the bed, along with the pulled ivs and monitor cords, was a slip of white paper. It read simply: Thanks, and was signed with a pair of initials. The first was a single slanted O, the two ends of the letter not quite meeting smoothly, forming a small x at the top. The second was two stylized Ss, which looked at a glance not unlike a pair of snakes.
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House grinned all day, even through clinic duty.
END