Fuck. Every time he thought House couldn't reach him, Foreman found himself stepping right into another punch. He grit his teeth, but he just couldn't keep up that level of anger, as much as he was certain House wished he would. He felt stupidly desperate, instead, and he hated that feeling. House admired Cameron for helping Ezra Powell to die. And Thirteen, as far as Foreman knew, was still one of the candidates--House hadn't taunted her into needing to just get away, no matter what mistake she'd made.
Turning his back on House, Foreman picked up the tennis ball from the desk and tossed it to himself. The treatment for Schilder's was immunosuppressive therapy. He thought he'd laid Lupe's ghost to rest when he'd cured his patient at Mercy, but right now, he realized he didn't want to take the chance again. Maybe that was why he was back. He did still have something to learn--the courage of his convictions.
He placed the ball back in its dish on House's desk, leaning there for a moment. Then he turned around and crossed the office in two steps and leaned over House where he was lazing in his chair. He fished one of the whiteboard markers out of the pocket where House had stashed them, his knuckles brushing against House's side briefly. "Tell them," he said, holding up the marker as if he was using it the way House used his cane, to make a point and as a weapon at the same time, "that the only way to know what the patient has is to make him worse. Put him on immunosuppressants. See which ones tell you you're crazy and won't do it. See who guesses Schilder's when he gets better instead."
no subject
Turning his back on House, Foreman picked up the tennis ball from the desk and tossed it to himself. The treatment for Schilder's was immunosuppressive therapy. He thought he'd laid Lupe's ghost to rest when he'd cured his patient at Mercy, but right now, he realized he didn't want to take the chance again. Maybe that was why he was back. He did still have something to learn--the courage of his convictions.
He placed the ball back in its dish on House's desk, leaning there for a moment. Then he turned around and crossed the office in two steps and leaned over House where he was lazing in his chair. He fished one of the whiteboard markers out of the pocket where House had stashed them, his knuckles brushing against House's side briefly. "Tell them," he said, holding up the marker as if he was using it the way House used his cane, to make a point and as a weapon at the same time, "that the only way to know what the patient has is to make him worse. Put him on immunosuppressants. See which ones tell you you're crazy and won't do it. See who guesses Schilder's when he gets better instead."