Long close-up of House, in his office, eyes even redder, brow even sweatier, his breathing labored. He picks up a vintage pestle in his right hand and clonks it on his desk a few times, working up to it, then smashes the pestle down on the bridge of his left hand. He almost laughs with relief, then alternates smiling and grimacing. Cut to a long shot of him rocking in his desk chair, cradling his left hand like a baby.
Cameron uncomfortably explains to Dad that they're recommending solumedrol. Dad knows it's used to treat hepatitis, and asks if that showed up on Larry's blood tests; Cameron, who didn't rehearse her end of the conversation very well, says unconvincingly and without meeting Dad's eye for very long that the tests aren't a hundred percent accurate. Dad pounces on that, saying that other tests Larry's had could be wrong, then, and it could still be an infection. Cameron fumbles her answer to that, too, and Dad is heading towards "stroppy," but stops himself and explains, by way of sort of apologizing for getting snappish, that when his wife was sick, the doctors told them about an experimental treatment that might extend her life a few years, which of course they tried because if there was any hope to keep her with them, et cetera: "Three weeks later she was gone!" During the entire exchange, Cameron looks torn between relief at having an excuse to just tell him the truth and horrified at how closely the situations parallel each other, but as Dad nears tears talking about his wife, Cameron decides on the latter -- and, a moment later, decides to come clean: "I don't think it's hepatitis." Dad's face shifts from sadness to confusion verging on anger as Cameron adds, "I think your son has lupus."
Wilson eyeballs x-rays of House's hand, says it looks broken, and asks what House did. "I...accidentally closed the car door on it," House slurs. Wilson plays along, saying no, a car door would have broken the skin; House's hand looks like something else did it. "I want my lawyer," House grumps, and Wilson explains, although everyone including House already knows this, that "the brain has a gating mechanism for pain -- registers the most severe injury and blocks out the others." Then he asks mildly if it worked; House, looking a bit chastened, says it did. Wilson gets out splinting tools, but House says no: "I want to be able to bang it against the wall if I need to administer another dose." I imagine we're supposed to view this as the sad lengths to which the addict will go, blah blah, but one time I sewed my finger onto a skirt hem with my mother's electric Singer, and it hurt like fuck, but it was bliss, because I also happened to be suffering from some of the strongest cramps of my life that day, and thinking about my perforated finger instead of my uterus was a nice break. This anecdote has been brought to you by my talent-show costume (turned out great, by the way; the blood came right out) and the makers of Midol.