Ten Percent Solution

by Kaye

It wasn’t the skyrocketing blood pressure or the low white count. It wasn’t the fact they couldn’t do an MRI because of possible metal fragments lodged in the abdominal wall. It wasn’t the fact that once again Wilson had tried to pass the guy off as his cousin. It wasn’t even the formidable man sitting in the chair beside the bed, glasses perched on his nose, calmly reading the Times with a Magnum strapped to his side.

No, the one thing that lured Dr. House into a patient’s room before he’d even decided to take the case was the rumor that Nurse Brenda was sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed, a checker board balanced on her legs, shouting, “King me!”

Sure, it had been Chase who had told him and he could hardly be counted on as a reliable source, but the idea that Brenda, Beelzebub’s sister, could actually be interacting with a patient in a way that didn’t include a prick or a prod or a bitch - well, that was a real puzzle. And anyone who knew him knew he could not resist a real puzzle.

“Nurse, we usually don’t screw the patient until after they get the bill.”

House swept into the room, registering the guy with the gun, Wilson, Cameron and Cuddy. Who was this guy? He noticed the pale skin, the salt and pepper hair, estimating his age to be around 60. Saw that he held his right arm stiffly to his side, that he kept glancing at the guy in the chair. That he kept glancing at Cuddy’s cleavage - splendid today in that red silk shift that had caused him to run into a closed elevator door the first time she had worn it to work. Admired the fact that the guy could work Cuddy and Brenda at the same time. Nice.

The guy in the chair rose slowly and turned toward House. “Can I help you?” he asked. House took two steps closer and happily engaged in the stand-off. He ticked off the basics. Shorter. Bulkier. Used to be blond. Didn’t like to be fucked with. Kept elbow tucked close to big gun. He watched as the man in the bed broke the spell, placing a hand on Blondie’s forearm.

“Hutch, it’s okay . . .”

Cuddy stepped in between House and Hutch. “Ken, I’d like you to meet Dr. House . . .”

“Hutch,” the man corrected and offered his hand to House. House ignored him and limped over to the other side of the bed, snagged the chart and poked Brenda with his cane. “Don’t you have leeches to change, blood to let?”

Brenda slid off the bed. “I’ll be back later, Dave.” She frowned at House and gave a nod to Cuddy as she left.

“House, what are you doing here?” Wilson emerged from the wall where he had been leaning.

“I’m here to see my patient. I had no idea it took two department heads and Cameron to diagnose indigestion and high blood pressure.”

“It’s not indigestion. Or high blood pressure. And Dr. Wilson is our doctor.” Hutch moved closer to the bed.

For just a moment, House contemplated flight. This was already more complicated than it should be. Cuddy had her nose up in it, Wilson was hovering, and Blondie was starting to annoy him. But then the man in the bed spoke.

“Hello - remember me? The patient? Do I get a voice or do I have to just lay here wondering when I got too old or when nurses got so damn young?”

He smiled at House. “I’m Dave Starsky. And the sulking man there is my partner, Ken Hutchinson. I promise he won’t bite and I promise he won’t shoot you unless you deserve it. Jimmy told us about you - said you’re the best.”

“Who said I won’t shoot him?” Hutch muttered and crossed his arms in front of him.

Starsky ignored him. “We were up in New York visiting my brother and I got sick. And Nicky remembered about Jimmy and Jimmy said . . .”

“Jimmy says a lot of things,” House muttered into the chart. He flipped the last page and stopped. Stared. Cursed.

He tossed the chart at Cameron, who had been hovering around the IV pole, and headed out the door. “Take another history. Then get everyone in my office.”

**********

“He’s an ass and I don’t want him anywhere near you.” Hutch slid the door shut and turned to Starsky, who just smiled at him and shook his head.

“Why do you always pick fights with doctors? Jimmy said . . .”

“And if I hear you say, Jimmy said, one more time . . .”

“Jealous?”

“Hardly - he’s half your age. I just don’t know why you think this Jimmy’s going to have the answer. Especially since it was Nick who said . . .”

“Hutch, shut the blinds, shut up, and get over here.”

“Starsky, you’re sick.”

“I’m not that sick.”

Hutch sighed and walked to the door. He felt a little better now that he had Starsky in a real hospital with supposedly real doctors. If you could call this a real hospital. There wasn’t a wall in sight. Just hallways full of glass. The architect should be shot. He tugged at the blinds and as they flicked closed, he wondered again what the hell was wrong with Starsky. The night he had collapsed at Nick’s - was it really only three days ago - he had a suspicion that it was more serious than the flu Starsky had insisted.

But the doctors at New York General had given him antibiotics, and the ones at Bellevue had said it was food poisoning. Nothing had worked. Starsky had spent the last two days curled on the couch, feverish, moaning, while Hutch paced and Nick smoked. Finally Nick had remembered their distant doctor/cousin, Jimmy Wilson, who worked in some hospital in New Jersey.

Of course Hutch had then spent the next hour grilling Nick on the definition of family, the possible uses of the word cousin. He didn’t need anymore of this Starsky’s bullshit - didn’t feel like handing Starsky over to some “family” doc who owed Nick a favor, or money, or any number of nefarious things that Hutch could imagine about Starsky’s worthless sibling. After all these years, Nick Starsky had never changed - still running the con, making the deal. Hutch would never make the mistake of trusting him.

But Starsky, not one for change himself, still insisted that blood meant something more, and so, for only the third time in 30 years, Hutch had found himself in New York playing nice with Nick.

He had been encouraged when he got online and found that Dr. James Wilson was indeed a doctor, with a page full of recommendations and publications. But the fact that Dr. James Wilson was also an oncologist had pushed his stress level right through the roof again. Starsky did not need an oncologist. Starsky did not have cancer. Starsky could not have cancer. But what was wrong with him?

“Hutch?”

Hutch closed his eyes briefly to dispel the fear and doubt before he turned to the bed. Starsky was pale, gaunt, his right hand trembled. Even though the hospital felt cold, beads of sweat gathered on his upper lip, which meant he was in pain. Hutch knew the signs. In the early days, Starsky had tried to hide the chronic pain he had inherited from too many fistfights, too many gunshots, too many races to the edge and back. But Hutch always knew. So after enough years, Starsky had dropped the pretense and just complained out loud. Hutch liked it better that way.

“You need something?” Hutch leaned down and ran a hand through Starsky’s hair before placing a kiss on his forehead.

“Just tired of being in this bed. I feel better - let’s go home.” Starsky caught Hutch’s arm and tugged until Hutch sat down on the bed, sliding his hand down his arm until he curled his fingers around Hutch’s. Stilled the worrisome tremor. They sat silent for a while.

Starsky’s breath evened out and Hutch looked down to see that he had fallen into a restless sleep. He untangled his fingers and eased down into the chair, giving Starsky a little space, but kept his hand on Starsky’s leg. As long as he could touch him he could believe that everything would work out. Made him less anxious if he could feel the muscle under his hand, warm and alive.

Touching this man had become so much a part of him now that it felt odd when they weren’t touching. When they couldn’t touch. When they felt compelled to “dial it down,” as Huggy’s son Teddy had said them.

Poor Huggy had never gotten over the fact that his only son not only did not want to follow in his father’s footsteps and take over the family business, (Huggy’s daughter, Corinne, finally took over The Pits, when arthritis made it impossible for Huggy to continue) but that he had followed his uncles onto the police force.

Last year Uncle Starsky and Hutch had helped Teddy, a detective now himself, do some surveillance work up in Mandalay Heights. Felt good to be back on the streets, if only as back-up.

“Hutch, man, chill - Starsky’s not going anywhere,” Ted had remarked as they sat at a table in a hole in the wall on Mason Street, waiting for Ted’s connection. “He’s your man. For real. But you are seriously going to get us cut if you don’t dial it down. This ghetto is not your ghetto anymore. Two old white guys feeling each other up - it does not play.”

He smiled at the memory and looked around the room. He could have been looking around a hundred rooms. Hospitals never really changed. The lights were always just a little too bright, the air just a little too cold, the beep of the monitors just a half beat off the drip of the IV. Hutch ran a hand over his face and sighed. He just wished he knew what the hell was wrong with Starsky.

**********

Chase sat, legs spread, reading the sports page, Foreman ate a sandwich and House poured himself a third cup of coffee. The board read, Jimmy’s Wise Guy, with an impressive list of symptoms already. Diaphoresis, nausea, tremor, anxiety, tachyarrhythmia. The last, Jimmy, was added when House found out that there actually was a family connection - and not just in the usual New Jersey kind of family. Some cousin of Wilson’s had married some cousin of the sick man’s mother. So it was Wilson’s fault he was not home already, watching Spongebob and eating macadamia nut pancakes.

“Where the hell is Cameron? This seems excessive, even for her.”

House limped over and lifted the pickle from Foreman’s sandwich, but Foreman quickly snatched it back. House lifted his cane, and Foreman used his elbow to knock it away. He hunched over to protect his sandwich. “One of these days you’re going to find that cane . . .”

“There she is,” Chase interrupted and pointed to the window and they all turned to watch Cameron rolling a dolly with two big file boxes stacked on it to the door. Chase jumped up, opened the door, and Cameron wheeled in.

“If that’s the history you just took, we have got to get you into some kind of program . . .”

Cameron rolled up to House and sat the dolly upright. “These just arrived. Patients’ history. From California. Overnighted. They’re police officers. Retired police officers.”

All three men gathered around. Impressive. Even to these doctors, who routinely filled up entire file drawers with patient charts. House lifted the lid off the top box with his cane. Full of charts. Some of them old, all of them thick.

“We don’t need these.” House turned back to his board. “Let’s get on with this so we can get Sipowicz diagnosed and out of here.”

“It’s for both of them.” Cameron said.

“They’re both sick?” Chase pulled a file out of the box.

“No, it’s both their charts. Doctor Hannah said we would need them. Seems they share a lot of history.”

“They’re cops?” Foreman pulled out another file and flipped it open. His eyes grew wide as he read. “Chlorotrymatriptomine? He was injected with Chlorotrymatriptomine? And he survived?”

Cameron sat down in the chair. “They’re famous. Sort of. They were the ones who put James Gunther in jail.”

House tried to resist, but he found himself being pulled in. He snatched the file Chase was reading and opened it.

“James Gunther?” Chase asked. “Who’s James Gunther?”

House rolled his eyes. “Way before you were born, Junior. How do you know these were the guys? No one ever knew their names. Not even Deep Throat.” He looked at Cameron. “Spill woman - what did you find out?”

“His kidneys are failing.” Wilson walked into the office and threw a chart on the table. “And his liver’s heading that way.” He walked over to the board and erased Jimmy’s Wise Guy, writing the name Starsky. He erased Jimmy as a symptom and added the kidney failure.

“House, quit grousing and diagnose him. You can whine about conspiracy theories later.” Wilson held out the pen.

House grabbed it and added the name Hutch to the board.

“Hutch is sick, too?”

Foreman interrupted them, “Did you know he’s been shot seven times? Back, chest, abdomen, shoulder, leg, arm . . . no wonder we can’t do an MRI.”

“Let me see.” Chase leaned over Foreman’s shoulder.

House slammed his cane into the middle of the table, which surprised and silenced the room. “Everybody out.”

“But . . .” Cameron started.

“Out. I mean it. Go run tests. Draw blood. Get an LP. Smear a slide, I don’t care. Just get out. Go figure out what’s wrong with him now - today.”

They got up and surged to the door as a unit, Wilson a step behind.

“Not you.” House hooked Wilson’s arm with his cane. He let the kids get out of sight and then motioned Wilson into a chair. He sat next to him.

“You going to tell me what this is really about?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean - your cousin just happens to be visiting and just happens to be one of the Serpicos who brought James Gunther down and you don’t happen to mention any of this to me? Not to mention that his bodyguard, or should I say his boyfriend . . .”

“His partner you mean?”

“Oh, is that what you girls are calling it these days?”

“Would that bother you?”

“What bothers me is that his blood pressure is all over the charts, his kidneys are shutting down, and if I can’t figure out what’s wrong with him, his “whatever he is” will take out a big gun and put a hole in my body where a hole shouldn’t go.”

“They’re partners.”

“You keep saying that.”

Wilson sighed and tapped the files. “So what do you think it is? The tremors are getting worse. Without the MRI, we might have to do a brain biopsy . . .”

“You want to drill into his head, but you won’t tell me why this guy is so fascinating to you?” House rose from the table and turned back to the board. He rewrote Jimmy under the kidney failure, flourished with an exclamation point, and hobbled over to the box.

“Don’t you think it’s the least bit odd that a doctor in California overnights this guy’s records along with his partner’s?” House scanned another file. “Contusions, a broken arm and pneumonia,” he read. He picked up another one. “Cardiac arrest.” He tossed it to the side and dug in deeper. “Five entry wounds, three exit . . .”

“They were cops for years; you’d have to expect some risk . . .”

“This isn’t risk, this is suici . . .” House paused and read more. “This is cool.” He hobbled back over to Wilson and laid the file in front of him. “Read that. Foreman was right - It was Chlorotrymatriptomine. Injected by force. And they drugged his toothpaste.”

“His toothpaste? Cool.” Wilson moved over so House could read with him. “23 hours - he didn’t get the trymoxiconine until 23 hours after injection? How is he still alive? I thought irreversible organ failure happened at twelve hours, tops. And who knew about Chlorotrymatriptomine in . . .” Wilson turned the page, “1975?”

“Evil scientist?” House turned another page and punched the air with his fist in pure adolescent glee. “Yes! Evil scientist. Oh, this just gets better and better.”

He got up and wheeled the dolly closer. Wilson picked up the first box and set it on the table. They settled in and began reading file after file. Every so often they would lean in, merge shoulders, read something together off a chart. House punched Wilson in the arm once when he dared suggest that the “kidnapped by crazy cultists” had to be at the very least an embellishment, if not a complete fabrication. Wilson shoved House back, suggesting that House was just jealous he hadn’t thought of it as an excuse to get out of clinic duty.

Cameron came back once, to report that the medicine had helped the kidneys, but the tremors were worse. House barked out orders for two procedures, told her to get Foreman to book an O.R. in case they needed to do a biopsy, and continued to peer over Wilson’s shoulder at a chart that had Starsky with a broken leg sustained in a fall off a roof trying to wrestle a gun away from an alleged rapist. Cameron started to speak, but the sight of House reaching around Wilson to pick a stray piece of lint off his sleeve sent her heels clicking out the door. Neither man noticed.

**********

Wilson sat in the cafeteria, nursing a cup of coffee. He had only gone home to shower and change, and he could feel his eyelids losing the battle to remain open. Unlike House, who had regulated his body with caffeine and Vicodin to the point of making sleep optional, Wilson needed at least six hours each night in order to function. It had been a real problem in med school, a problem he was rediscovering with his recent relocation to House’s sofa.

So when he heard a cough behind him, he didn’t bother to turn around as he whined, “No more voodoo, House - I need sleep, not another round of Papa Ted’s magic potion story . . .” and was startled when Hutch slipped into the chair opposite him.

“It was Papa Theodore and it was more powder than potion.” Hutch held up his cup. “Mind if I join you?”

Wilson just nodded and rubbed a hand over his face. “How’s Starsky?”

Hutch’s face sobered. “Young Dr. Chase just ordered me out of the room so he could draw blood, or take a culture, or change the bed - something. He seems to be better this morning. Starsky, I mean. Been flirting with Dr. Cameron which is always a good sign.” Hutch held the cup to his face and inhaled. “God, I miss real coffee.”

“Decaf?”

Hutch nodded. “Little tick in the blood pressure.” He looked over the rim of the glass at Wilson. “You look like hell. Get any sleep?”

“Not much,” Wilson lied. “Did they get you a bed last night?”

“No - didn’t want to leave him. Chair.”

Wilson nodded and raised his cup to his lips. Hutch reached over and stopped him, wrapping a hand around Wilson’s wrist. Wilson looked at him, saw the worry etched in his face, the resolve in his eyes, which were intensely blue. Like House’s. But different.

“Jimmy, tell me. What’s wrong with him? I know you and House spent the night with our files. What did you find out?”

“I wish I had an easy answer for you, Hutch. I really do. We’re still running tests.”

“And?”

“And we don’t know yet.”

“But you’ve got him in this hospital - you’re running tests. How can you not know what the hell is wrong with him?”

Hutch let go of Wilson’s arm and Wilson set his cup on the table and leaned in, speaking quietly. “It’s encouraging that he hasn’t gotten worse overnight. And we got his kidneys functioning again.”

“Yeah, you’re right - sorry. I know you’re doing all you can. Bad habit. I hate hospitals.” He took a sip of his coffee and leaned back into the chair. “So, Jimmy, tell me about this House of yours.”

**********

House leaned into Starsky’s room, took a quick inventory, used his cane to slide the door open wider and limped in. “Is the coast clear?”

Starsky smiled and shook his head. “Dr. House - it must be serious. This is the second time you’ve been in my room in as many days. I must be dying.”

“Not if I can help it. Where’s your . . . Hutch?”

The pause was slight, but Starsky caught it. He’d learn to listen for it in the past twenty years.

“Partner. He’s my partner.”

“Whatever.”

“I sent him down to get some coffee. He needed to stretch his legs. And his back. These chairs are murder on his back.”

House grabbed the chart from the end of the bed. “Looks like we poked you plenty last night.”

“Yeah, I saw more action in this bed than I’ve seen in years.”

House raised an eyebrow. “Does your partner know that?”

Starsky chuckled. “What exactly do you want to know Dr. House? If Hutch and I are partners? Or if Hutch and I are ‘partners’?”

“I want to know why you didn’t tell your partner that you’ve been in pain for over a month.”

“I haven’t been . . .”

House interrupted, “You got a prescription for Hydrocodone a month ago. Why?”

Starsky sat up straighter in bed and crossed his arms. “None of your damn business.”

House’s voice rose, just a notch. “I’m your doctor; all of it is my damn business.”

Starsky voice rose to match. “Well then, Doctor. I have not been in pain for over a month; I have been in pain for over a decade.”

They stared at each other, frozen in a moment of recognition, of understanding.

House broke the spell. “Chronic?” He hung the chart back on its pegs. He knew now there was nothing in it he could use.

“Constant. Has nothing to do with what’s going on now.”

House rounded the corner of the bed and took Starsky’s right hand in his, turned it palm down, felt the tendons. “Tremors?”

“Better.” Starsky pulled his hand away and touched House’s cane. “Chronic?”

“Constant.”

Starsky nodded. “Accident?”

“Sort of.” House motioned for Starsky to lay back and lifted his shirt. “Blood clot.” He let out a low whistle when he saw the scars on Starsky’s chest, the real flesh and blood evidence of the fantastical stories he had stayed up all night reading.

“Accident?” he asked as he pressed his stethoscope over Starsky’s heart.

“Sort of. Forgot to duck.” Starsky grimaced as House probed his abdomen.

“Pain?” House looked into Starsky’s face, searching for his own answer to the question.

Starsky looked right back. “Only when I laugh, Doc, only when I laugh.”

House hid his grin by looping the stethoscope back around his neck and looked around for a stool. Starsky noticed and scooted his legs, motioning House to sit on the edge of the bed. House let himself down gingerly, relieved to get some weight off his leg, which had been protesting since early this morning. He reached for his Vicodin and popped the cap without thinking.

“Gonna share?” Starsky held out his hand.

House shook out two, handed Starsky one. They swallowed in a mirror image and sat for a moment, staring at each other.

Starsky reached out and tapped House’s leg. “You tell me about yours, I’ll tell you about mine.”

House looked up at the ceiling and spoke, “1975. Italian restaurant. 38 caliber. First shot grazed left temple, second entered right shoulder, lodging just to the left of C3 - that’s your spine.”

Starsky’s mouth dropped. “You got all that from looking?”

“No, from reading. Bestseller stuff, really. Couldn’t put it down. I do have one question, though.”

It finally dawned on Starsky. “Oh, you read my file.”

“Files, plural.”

“Files - for a minute I thought you were even better than Jimmy said.”

“What did Jimmy say?” House didn’t want to, didn’t need to, in fact it was against his very nature, but he liked Starsky.

“About you? Jimmy said plenty.” Starsky raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. “Dr. Jimmy Wilson has a lot to say about you.”

“We’re friends.” House could feel the heat creep up his neck. What the hell had Wilson said?

“Whatever,” Starsky mocked. “So how’d you get yours?”

“Blood clot in my leg. Infarction. Misdiagnosed and then mistreated while I was in a coma.”

“Damn. How long?”

“Five years. Give or take a dozen.”

Starsky laughed. “Yeah, I know the feeling. Been carrying around all this extra shrapnel for two lifetimes already.”

House watched as Starsky grimaced, rubbed his stomach. He stood and began probing the area, muttering.

“What’s that, Doc?”

“I’d bet good money this was a typical Pheo, except it’s not acting like a typical Pheo. But you don’t have a typical history and I can’t get a damn MRI.”

“Fee-oh?”

“Pheochromocytoma.”

Oh, that clears it up. Thanks.”

House smiled. Which was odd. Again. He never smiled at patients. He never bonded with patients. He never touched patients. Maybe he was getting the flu.

“It’s a tumor on your adrenal gland. Called the Ten Percent Tumor, because many of the symptoms occur in ten percent of the patients. Ten percent malignant, ten percent don’t present with high blood pressure, ten percent genetic . . .”

“Then you better find me the ten percent solution.” Starsky grimaced again. “Damn.”

“Pain worse?” House asked, then glanced at the EKG and grabbed his stethoscope to confirm what he was seeing. A classic Pheo episode. Rapid heartbeat, sweating, tremors, pain in chest, nausea.

Starsky writhed in the bed. “Feels like I’m dying, Doc.”

House ignored him and went to the door, barked some orders to the nurse, and limped back to Starsky’s bedside.

“This happen before? This sudden onset of symptoms?”

“No . . . no.” Starsky struggled to speak through clinched teeth. “Hurts like hell.”

The door slid open and Hutch walked through. “How’s the patient . . . what the hell?”

“Hutch . . . hurts . . .” Starsky hissed.

Hutch took Starsky’s hand and then turned to House.