He had six minutes before Cuddy transformed back into the Wicked Witch of the hospital's west wing and sent her flying monkeys out to drag him to the depths of the Radiology Department if he refused to show up all by himself. He sat back in his chair, rotating a rubber band around his fingers as he stared intently at his grey carpet in thought. She wouldn't really fire him. She never did. He was her hospital's biggest asset.
So... Cuddy wouldn't dare fire him even if he can't do his job properly because he's "her hospital's biggest asset." Nice rationalization. If there was some sort of cognitive impairment left over from his bout with brain trauma, his career would be shot dead in the water. He knew just as well, if not better, than anyone else that the headaches and confusion could be indicative of increased intracranial pressure. If that was the case, he could go from doctor to dim-wit in a week, and he'd could end up spending the rest of his life in diapers with Wilson wiping drool off his chin.
Wilson was a whole other story. House knew he'd been acting a lot more distant than usual, and they've barely said two words to each other since the accident, save the verbal boxing match they contended in just this morning, but to throw everything away and quit just like that? What the hell for? Because House was the reason him and Amber broke up? Give him a fucking break. He'll get over it. House made a mental note to make a visit to the oncologist after the MRI he didn't plan on going to.
If he remembered, he thought sarcastically, taking the rubber band on his pointer finger and launching it at the glass door to the differentials office. House checked his wristwatch again, furrowing his brow as he noticed two small spots on his shirt. Stretching his shirt down to check for any other stains, he watched as another drop landed on his chest. Putting two and two together, House brought a hand up to wipe at his ear, frowning when he pulled blood smeared fingers away.
Alright, maybe the MRI wasn't such a bad idea.