Somebody's Going to Emergency, Chapter 9: "What Kind of Day Has It Been"

Cameron was walking down the hall, away from President Bartlet's room, and back toward her office, when she saw Dr. Wilson walking toward her. He looked normal... but at the same time, not quite. She couldn't put her finger on what looked different...

But then, when she got a little bit closer, she realized. He had a small black ribbon pinned to his lab coat... and he was wearing a yarmulke. "Dr. Wilson?" she asked. "What are you doing?"

He stopped, and looked - well, somewhere between confused and embarrassed. "Listen, I know President Bartlet was Catholic... but none of his family is here... and it seems... well, it just seems appropriate that I should go and sit shiva with him until his family arrives."

Cameron shook her head. "Wait a second, back up. You - by your own admission, a non-practicing Jew - are going to go sit shiva with somebody who not only isn't part of your family, but is Catholic as well?"

"Like I said," Wilson replied, "I don't really understand it myself. It just seems like what I'm supposed to do."

With that, he proceeded down the hallway. Cameron looked after him, and then just shook her head slightly. Sixteen years, and she still didn't understand the staff here at times.

When she got to her office, she realized that there was an enormous stack of paperwork on her desk that she'd neglected for the last two days. Well, it was going to get neglected for one more night. She did what little she had to do regarding President Bartlet, then shut down her computer, and left her office, locking the door behind her.

As she was entering the lobby on her way out the door, the doors opened, bringing in a gust of wind, snow, and a man covered in snow. He wasn't very tall, he was bald except for a gray fringe and a practically white beard, and he looked almost like the abominable snowman.

Despite the fact that he must have been cold, he strode with purpose to the reception desk. "I need to know where the President is," he announced, a thick New York accent punctuating the statement.

"I'm sorry, I can't give out that information," the duty nurse replied.

"No, you don't understand. You need to tell me where he is," the man insisted. "I just spent the last six hours illegally driving down a closed turnpike from New York City so I could come and see him. Now, you can tell me where he is, or I can call some friends, they can talk to you, and THEN you can tell me where he is anyway!"

"Sir," the duty nurse replied, "you're going to need to leave now, or I'm going to have to call security."

He threw his hands up in the air. "This is unbelievable! What the hell is wrong with you?"

At this point, Cameron thought it would be wise to intervene, lest a former member of the President's senior staff find himself in custody. "Mr. Ziegler?" she said, crossing the lobby to him. "You're Toby Ziegler, right?"

"Yes. Are you an idiot too, or does that not apply to all the employees of this hospital?"

"Uh, why don't we go someplace we can talk privately," Cameron said, taking hold of Toby Ziegler's arm. Behind her, it seemed as though if you looked close enough, you would actually see steam coming out of the duty nurse's ears.

Cameron guided Toby into a hallway. "Mr. Ziegler, I'm Allison Cameron. I... was... President Bartlet's doctor."

"Was?" he replied. "Were you removed from the case for some reason?"

She realized that he either didn't understand, or was denying the truth. "No... the President... he passed away about an hour ago."

Toby's face fell. "I... I just missed him."

He turned toward the wall, and slowly rested his forehead against it. "Dammit... I wanted... I wanted to talk to him, just one last time. I wanted to know that it was all okay, that he had forgiven me."

His face began to crumple, but almost immediately, he turned back toward Cameron, a spark having lit his eyes. "You didn't - he isn't unattended, is he? I mean, he's not just lying in a morgue without anybody around, is he?" The urgency of his questions shocked Cameron.

"No, no..." she started. "Oddly enough, right before I ran into you, Dr. Wilson - the head of oncology - headed back toward President Bartlet's room. He said that even though he's not a practicing Jew, and even though President Bartlet wasn't family, and even though President Bartlet was Catholic, he felt like staying with him was the right thing to do."

As she watched, the tension visibly left Toby Ziegler, leaving him almost deflated. He was silent for a while.

When he finally spoke, he said, "Jed Bartlet WAS like family to me. Would it be alright if I were to go back there and stay with him?"

Cameron thought. It was against all the rules of the hospital, but this case was different. "Come with me," she said.

When they reached the President's room, the Secret Service agent standing outside recognized Toby. "Good evening, Mr. Ziegler," he said.

"Hello, Wesley," Toby replied.

Wesley opened the door, letting them in. As the door opened, Dr. Wilson looked up. He also recognized Toby, and stood. "Mr. Ziegler," he said, "Ha-Makom y'nachem et'khem b'tokh sh'ar avelei Tziyon viyrushalayim."

"I haven't heard that in years," Toby said softly. "But it definitely seems appropriate here. Thank you."

Toby dug a crumpled yarmulke out of a jacket pocket and affixed it to his head. "You know, I never thought I'd outlive him," he said. "In fact, he didn't either... he used to tease me about my blood pressure."

He sat down with Dr. Wilson. "There was this time... we were out on Pennsylvania Avenue, playing basketball. It was really late one night..."

Cameron slowly backed out of the room, shutting the door as she went. As she did, she noticed House standing by the room, looking in the window.

"It's funny," he said. "I've never seen Wilson practice a Jewish ritual quite so seriously as he is right now."

"President Bartlet was a great man," Cameron replied. "Sometimes that kind of greatness brings out hidden things in other people."

"Maybe so," House said. "In any event... it's time for you to go home and get some sleep. I need you here, fresh, at 8:00 AM."

"Alright," she acquiesced. "I'm going."

As she was leaving, his voice stopped her again. "Cameron."

She turned back to him.

"In the sixteen years I've worked with you, I've often given you a hard time about being too sympathetic for your patients, for growing too attached to them. And I have to be honest, with President Bartlet, you definitely grew too attached."

He paused, as if thinking about what to say. "And quite honestly, if I were dying... that's exactly what I would want. You gave your time to make a dying man's last few hours a little better. It didn't matter to you that he had been the President for eight years, you just recognized that he was somebody who needed somebody to talk to and to spend time with him.

"That's what makes the difference between a good doctor and a great doctor. You did well, Allison. Have a good night."

Cameron looked after him. She was speechless. Finally, she was able to find her voice.

"Good night, House."

"Good night, Cameron."

Somebody's Going to Emergency, Chapter 8: "The Reason"

It was close to midnight, but Cameron was still at the hospital. She was receiving updates on President Bartlet's condition every thirty minutes, and she knew that the end was near.

She had decided that since she was technically off-duty, she was going to spend the President's last few minutes with him. When she went into his room at 11:45, though, he was asleep. So taking a seat, she settled in to wait with him.

After a few minutes, she thought she heard him say something. "Mr. President?" she asked.

Then he spoke a little more clearly. "Pater noster qui es in caelis..."

Cameron had never been a particularly religious person, but she immediately recognized the words "Pater noster" to mean "Our Father," and realized that Bartlet was praying. She quickly bowed her head, though she wasn't quite sure why - it just seemed like the right thing to do.

"Sanctificetur Nomen Tuum... adveniat Regnum Tuum, fiat voluntas Tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra."

Bartlet paused. He was having trouble breathing, but he seemed determined to continue. "Panem nost-"

A coughing fit interrupted him. When he settled down, he tried again, but it just came out as a wheeze. A look of frustration grew on his face as Cameron looked up and met his eyes.

Where the words came from, she wasn't sure, but it was as though a long-dormant memory had come to life. "Give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

Bartlet smiled weakly. "Amen," he gasped.

He collected his breath and his composure. "Dr. Cameron," he whispered.

"Yes, Mr. President."

"Thank you for spending so much time with me. Thank you for letting an old man tell some of his life's story. And thank Dr. House for me. If I had to go, I'm glad that it was among people who care as much as all of you."

Cameron felt her cheeks grow wet. She took hold of the President's hand. "Thank you for sharing your story with me," she said. "It was an honor to spend your last few hours with you, sir."

Jed Bartlet smiled. "It's a pity... it's a pity I didn't get to tell you more about the national parks."

Then, the smile still on his face, his eyes closed, and his breathing began to slow.

But Jed was still aware of what was going on. He heard the rhythmic beeping of the cardiac monitor. The rhythm grew slower and slower, and then, finally, it became one steady tone. And then the door opened.

Jed opened his eyes to see an old familiar face looking at him. "Now that's not fair," he said to Leo McGarry. "You haven't been aging for the last fifteen years, so it isn't fair that you get to look better than I do."

"Hey, what can I say," Leo replied. "The afterlife's been good to me." Looking around the room, his eyes fell on Dr. Cameron. "Little young for you, don't you think?"

"She's my doctor, you dirty old man," Jed replied. "And she's older than Annabeth Schott was, so don't even try getting all high and mighty with me."

"Touché, touché," Leo replied, holding his hands up in mock defeat. "I should've known better than to try to argue with you."

Jed fell silent. "Well," he said, "I take it it's time?"

"Indeed it is," Leo said. "There's a car waiting downstairs for us. Abby insisted on coming with me, and given the nature of the occasion, Fitz insisted on driving."

"How can I resist?" Jed asked drily. He swung his legs out of the bed, stood, and headed for the door. "So, Leo, tell me... what's next?" he asked, opening the door.

---

Cameron watched the cardiac monitor slowly wind down. The rhythmic beep got slower and slower, and finally became one steady tone. When it did, the door opened behind her.

Gregory House walked in. "I won't make you call it," he said softly.

Looking at the wall clock, he said, "Time of death: 11:52 PM."

He made the notation on the chart, then left the room, letting the door shut behind him.

Somebody's Going to Emergency, Chapter 7: "Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics"

My apologies on how long it's been since I last updated... since the last update, I have moved from Los Angeles to Phoenix, and this is the first time I've actually been able to sit down at a computer and give a little time and thought to the story.

---

Allison Cameron had spent an hour trying to figure out what was wrong, and then once she did figure it out, another hour hoping that she was wrong. Finally, she shook her head, and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. President, the paralysis is permanent. It’s your nervous system beginning to shut down as your MS goes into its final phases.”

“I see,” Jed Bartlet replied, a sigh escaping his lips. “Well, if I can’t move my left side, that means I can’t go anywhere… it means no more chess… it means I have to use a bedpan…”

He seemed especially irked by the idea of a bedpan. “Dammit!” he snapped. “Less than two days to live, and I still can’t let myself be a little undignified.”

Cameron truly had no idea what to say. Here was a man who had been the leader of the free world for eight years, who had done more in his seventy-four years than a dozen other men would have, and he was about to die. How was she supposed to tell him that a bedpan wasn’t the end of the world?

She decided that perhaps she just wouldn’t. She was about to say something when the President spoke.

“So, how would you like to hear some official state secrets?”

Dr. Cameron looked at President Bartlet, confused. “Huh? Official state secrets?”

“Oh, sure,” Jed replied. “Nothing that would jeopardize national security, of course, but just all these things I’ve had to keep secret for all these years… I’d like to get a chance to just spill them before I die.”

“Uh… okay…”

“Of course, you can’t tell anybody,” he continued. “Which means you get to bear the burden I have for the last twenty-two years.”

“Hmmm.” Cameron thought about it. “Will I be entertained?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Jed chuckled. “You will DEFINITELY be entertained.”

“Well, then, have at it.”

“Okay, first things first,” Jed said. “Before we get into the more entertaining bits, I have to get something off my chest.”

“Alright…”

“Abdul ibn Shareef. There were many rumors – none of which were ever confirmed or denied by the White House – that we had him assassinated.”

Jed paused. His eyes grew vacant, almost with a thousand yard stare. “We did. We were certain that he was behind the attempted attack on the Golden Gate Bridge. So, I gave the order to take him out.”

His voice took on a more weary tone. “Because of that order, a Secret Service agent died, my daughter spent nearly a week in terror, afraid she was going to die, and Glen Allen Walken’s political career got flushed down the toilet. He didn’t deserve that. He was a good man.”

Cameron sat down, a sort of shock coming over her. “You know,” she said quietly, “I always figured that’s what happened, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Yeah,” Jed said. “We didn’t expect anything to happen – what could Qumar do? They’re smaller than Iraq, for heaven’s sake.”

Then he stopped, and when he spoke again, it was with a far more cheerful tone. “But I promised you entertainment! So, if I told you that one of the science fiction TV shows from the first decade of this century was based on the truth, which one would you say?”

Cameron just shook her head. “I have no clue,” she said. “Star Trek?”

Bartlet cocked an eyebrow – like Spock, Cameron thought. “Star Trek is set two hundred years in the future, Dr. Cameron. Try again.”

“Uh… the X-Files?”

At this, Bartlet laughed. “No, no, there are no crazy aliens rampaging around the planet. Also, Area 51 is an advanced aircraft testing center, nothing more.”

“Hmmm… Doctor Who?”

“Closer than you might think,” Bartlet replied. “The Timelords actually do exist. In 1955, one of their TARDISes crashed in England. The British government confiscated it, and when the Timelord’s people showed up to collect him, the British government politely asked them to please stay the hell out of Earth’s business. We’re pretty sure they ignored us, but if they have been around, they’ve kept a very low profile.

“Anyway, that was a long way of saying, ‘not quite’,” Jed said. “Next guess?”

“Hmmm… Supernatural?”

“Bingo!” Jed crowed. “There you go. Back in the 1960s, there were these two brothers – I actually went to Notre Dame with them, they were training to be priests – and after they graduated, rather than going into the priesthood, they went around the country exorcising demons. Now, this has never been officially confirmed by the government, of course. However, we know about them, and we okay’d them selling the rights to their life story to Eric Kripke some time back. If we hadn’t okay’d it, and they’d done it anyway…”

“You know what, I don’t think I want to know the consequences,” Cameron replied quickly.

“Fair enough. You want to know anything else?”

“I actually think I’d be better off not,” she said. “But what about stories from when you were President? Are there any of those?”

“Of course,” said Jed. “What would you like to hear?”

“Well, as a doctor, I’ve always been curious about the health of the country’s leaders. Now, of course, everybody knew about your MS, and Leo McGarry’s heart condition… but I’d like to know about Josh Lyman. About his PTSD.”

Jed looked away from Cameron, toward the ceiling. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “When Josh got shot at Rosslyn, it really messed him up but good mentally. He spent the next six months trying to exorcise his demons, but he just couldn’t get over the shooting. Sam Seaborn, Toby Ziegler – they tried to help him, but it just wouldn’t work. It was when he yelled at me in the Oval Office and then two days later Donna Moss noticed his hand bandaged and bleeding that we knew something was wrong.

“We brought in Stanley Keyworth –“

“From Cal-Berkeley?” Cameron interjected.

“Yes. He was recommended to the White House as one of the best. I actually had a few therapy sessions with him myself – which is another one of those state secrets, by the way. Anyway, we brought Stanley in, he managed to figure out in two hours what none of us could in six months, and because of his efforts, Josh Lyman had a happy Hanukkah that year. Then, right after New Year’s, Josh came in to the Oval to speak to me…”

---

Jed Bartlet felt the presence of somebody waiting outside the door before he actually heard the knocking. So as soon as the first knock landed, he called out, “Come in!”

The door opened slowly, and in came Josh Lyman, who had made himself as unnoticeable as possible for the last month when in meetings in the Oval. He slowly approached the President’s desk.

“Mr. President,” he said softly. “I… I wanted to apologize for what happened last month. I think back on it, I can’t believe I would ever raise my voice to you. I… I may be one of the small group of people who got you here, but… you’re the man behind the desk. You’re the President. I was completely out of line, and I’m incredibly sorry.”

Bartlet said nothing for a moment, just looking at Josh. Finally, he spoke.

“Josh, the look on your face right now reminds me of the night when Elizabeth was 17, she took my Buick LeSabre out to go visit some friends, hit a patch of black ice, and ended up parking it – for the last time, as it turned out – in a ditch.”

A smile began to creep onto Josh’s face.

“Oh, I was mad, alright. That was a $15,000 car she had wrecked, and back in 1988, $15,000 was quite a bit of money! But I was far less concerned about that, and far more concerned about the fact that she was okay. She wasn’t hurt. She was scared, but she wasn’t hurt.

“We all recognized that there was something wrong quite a while ago, Josh,” he continued. “And yes, I was pretty steamed that you yelled at me that night. I was about ready to fire you, but Leo told me not to. And I’m glad he did. You’re a brilliant political mind, and you’re like the son I never had.

“Now I know that you’re not quite alright. I know that it’s going to take some therapy. But the fact is, you’re going to be alright. And all of us here will be supportive of you.”

Jed paused. “Now, unless there’s anything else, you might want to leave, lest I get out some slides of Wupatki National Monument and start regaling you with stories of the ancient Sinagua Indians.”

A smile cracked across Josh’s face. “No, sir, that’ll be quite alright. I have a… thing, with a… guy, at a place.”

“Alright, Josh,” Jed said, smiling. “You can go, then.”

“Yes, sir,” Josh replied. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

---

Cameron didn’t say anything. Jed Bartlet was clearly at another time and place. After a moment of silence, he spoke.

“You know, I haven’t seen Josh since… since Abby’s funeral. He and Donna moved out to Seattle right after that… he said he was done with politics, that he was ready to retire and write his memoirs.”

Cameron just sat, silently. She couldn’t think of anything to say. President Bartlet’s experiences were so far beyond her own… beyond anything she could’ve ever imagined. Fortunately for her, the awkward silence was interrupted by the bedside phone ringing.

She didn’t think to move toward it, figuring that Bartlet would pick it up. Then, he said, “Uh, Dr. Cameron, if you wouldn’t mind, the telephone is on the side of my body that’s paralyzed…”

Embarrassed, she jumped to her feet. “Of course,” she said, picking up the phone and handing it to him.

Taking the phone in his right hand, Bartlet said, “This is Jed Bartlet.”

Somebody spoke on the other end for a moment, and his face brightened. “Josh Lyman? Absolutely I’ll take a call from him!”

The call was connected, and then Bartlet nearly shouted, “Joshua Lyman! As I live and breathe! Your ears must’ve practically been on fire!”

As he continued his conversation, Cameron let herself out of his room. Glancing down at his charts, she shook her head.

President Bartlet wasn’t going to live through the night.

Requiem for Eight

It’s over.

There is no hope. The battle is lost, and with it, the war. The planet will fall. The burnt orange sky will be filled with the ashes of a thousand cities. The mechanical voices will create a deafening din over the surface of the continents. The snowcaps on the mountains will melt and flood the land below as the planet is globally warmed to accommodate the victorious conquerors.

It wasn’t supposed to end this way. Over strenuous protest, they had brought HIM back. Brought him back, resurrected him, given him another twelve regenerations. It was thought that he was powerful enough to single-handedly stop the enemy.

But he ran. He stole a ship, and ran. Now, he can’t be detected at any point in time or space, which means that he either is dead, or he has taken the coward’s way out and used the chameleon arch so that he can’t be found.

And now, the fates of two races – one living, breathing flesh; the other bastardized organic-mechanical hybrids – are held in the hands of one man. He could, with one keystroke, instantly wipe out the enemy invaders. They would be gone. The war would be over.

But it would be a pyrrhic victory. To destroy the invaders would be to destroy the planet, to destroy his own people. There can be no true victory here.

Is it better, though, that they should die in the blink of an eye, painlessly, in a heartbeat? Certainly better than years of torture and “extermination” at the hands of those monstrous creatures whose ships filled the skies.

Despite nine hundred years of life and experiences, he cannot bring himself to make the decision. He sits in his strange blue box, orbiting the planet, falling deeper and deeper into despair. Then the speakers of the communication systems crackle to life.

“Please help us! We are under attack! The Presidential palace has been breached! We can’t hold out much-“

“EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!”

The awful sound of laser weapons firing and bodies falling to the floor is magnified over the speakers. Finally, unable to listen any longer, he switches them off, and falls crumpled in a heap on the floor.

He does not know how long he laid there. Minutes, hours, days? Finally, when he looks up, he sees it blinking on the console – one solitary blinking red button. To push it would be to end the war.

Opening the door, he looks down on the planet below. The war is clearly lost. Smoke rises from every city. Fires span entire continents. Streams of aliens fly to the planet below.

“Forgive me,” he says. Two simple words. Then he turns to the console and pushes the blinking button.

It turns solid red.

He can feel it open. As it opens, the event horizon is released, and the structural integrity of the planet begins to fail.

The fires increase and expand. They consume the continents. They consume the atmosphere. They begin to consume the alien ships. Finally, before the fire can reach his ship, he engages the vortex, and is swept away through time.

By the time he lands, the shock of what he has done has truly taken hold. He is a broken man. He unlocks the door and staggers into the night.

He has no clue where he is. He has no clue when he is. Finally, he stumbles upon a newspaper – Detroit Free Press, December 12th, 2004.

He finds a bar. He drinks. He drinks until he can drink no more. He sleeps that night in an abandoned house. He cannot bear to return to the ship. He cannot bear to be in that vessel of death.

The pattern continues, over and over. One night, when his screwdriver fails to cause an ATM to produce any cash, he curses and hurls it into Lake St. Clair. It sparks when it hits the surface of the water, and then disappears.

No cash. What to do? Without cash, he can’t drink. If he doesn’t drink, he will lose his mind. If he loses his mind… well, the consequences of that are unthinkable.

It isn’t until he sees another newspaper that he realizes it is Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve – people would be at church now, attending their late night mass.

Stumbling into an affluent neighborhood, the repressed ingenuity sends a small spark through his drunken haze of depression and insanity. He picks up a rock, hurls it through a window. Enters the house. Raids the master bedroom, comes away with nearly five thousand dollars in cash.

In his alcoholic glee, he heads for a bar. Any bar. Anywhere he can find to put himself back into a truly drunken state.

But one after one, he discovers them closed. Closed for Christmas Eve.

As Christmas Day dawns, as his drunkenness fades, and his lucidity returns, the full impact of his decision two weeks before returns to him, an unwelcome reminder of the weight on his soul.

And within his depressed, yet lucid mind, a plan begins to take shape.

He returns to the ship. Within a small recessed closet, he finds something he has had for years, though he can’t remember why.

He leaves the ship again. He goes to a nearby service station, purchases a five gallon gas can, fills it, and buys some matches. Then, he returns to the ship.

He is now surprisingly lucid and sober. He is calm and clear as he sprinkles the gasoline on the console, all around the main control room, and finally on himself. He deadbolt locks the front door, and seals off the remainder of the ship.

He lights a match, and holds it up. Reaching behind his back, he retrieves the pistol he dug out of the closet earlier. Holding it to his head, he whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He pulls the trigger.

Blood spouts from his head. He falls to the floor, the burning match falling on him. Immediately, his clothes ignite. The fire quickly spreads, and becomes a blazing inferno, enveloping the control room, immolating the console, and turning his body into a lump of charred flesh.

After about ten minutes, the fire suffocates itself. There is no more oxygen for it to burn.

Long after the sun has gone down on Christmas Day 2004, the metal in the control room has finally stopped glowing. The heat has receded, and there would be no chance of a backdraft burn if the room is exposed to oxygen.

Recognizing this, the ship opens the doors separating the control room from the rest of the ship. Cool air is vented into the control room. As the temperature comes down to a normal livable range, what is left of his body begins to glow.

Columns of light shoot out in a thousand different directions. His body reshapes and reforms itself. When it stops, it leaves a tall, skinny man with big ears and close-cut hair. He awakens, naked, shivering.

Unsure of his footing, he staggers out of the destroyed control room, making his way to the ship’s wardrobe. He chooses an outfit that reflects his mood – black t-shirt, black jeans, black leather jacket. Clothing himself, he leaves and heads to the secondary control room.

When he reaches the controls, he begins to put in the coordinates for his home planet, where he can go and repair his ship. But as he does so, he stops himself – it is no longer there.

With a heavy, heart-rending sigh, he changes the coordinates – the US Air Force boneyard at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. Tucson, Arizona. He can find what he needs to repair her there, although she will never look the same again.

He pulls down a lever to engage the time circuit. The TARDIS makes its peculiar sound, dematerializing, taking the Doctor away to rebuild his shattered existence.