Conscience, conscience, conscience

This morning, as sleep and the fact that I couldn’t breathe warred in my stuffy head, I dreamed a House episode.

He was operating on someone and made one of his comments, but what he didn’t realize was that the guy could hear him. This guy had a habit of getting treatment from doctors and then taking revenge on them for perceived slights. Later, after he was discharged, the patient saw three letters on the huge glass pane of a store front: USE.

“You’ll pay for what you did in surgery, Dr. House,” he muttered.

House was on his way home when gunshots rang out. But they were nowhere near him. He stepped into his darkened apartment. “3…2…1,” he said, and immediately the phone began to ring. “‘Oh, did you hear those gunshots? What happened?'” he said, mocking his neighbors. But the crazy patient was hiding in the shadows.

Of course, since this is the most exciting part, I have no idea what happened. I think it was at this point that I became aware that I was trying to wake up, and was unable to do so. I hate that feeling. Especially since I really wanted to sleep some more–my alarm hadn’t even gone off!–but my body didn’t seem to want to let me.

The nature of the dream changed. House was in my parents’ backyard, talking to a friend of his through the big bay window in the basement (which has been boarded up and is now hidden behind layers of soundproofing, so opening it is impossible). You’d think the friend would be Wilson, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t an actual House character. I’m not sure who it was.

The friend was talking about how “Tsukushi” was relieved that House was okay after the incident with the crazy patient, and how she’d given him an admonition to be more careful. I’m not sure, but this part of the dream may actually have been in Japanese.

Tsukushi, of course, is the main character of Hana Yori Dango, and in this dream she used to live with House.

“If Tsukushi came back, how would that be?” House mused. (I think the last part of that sentence actually came out “wa dou da?”) I vividly recall the friend leaning on the windowsill as House said this, looking out into the green grass of the yard.

I think my labored breathing must have interrupted dream continuity again, because the next thing I remember was House snarkily debating his life with a fellow doctor–a psychiatrist. House was arguing that he had no redeeming qualities.

“I’m the pinnacle of what everyone aspires to be,” said the psychiatrist. “A specialist.” Then he started pulling FedEx mailers out of his briefcase. “Conscience, conscience, conscience,” he said, each time smacking a parcel on the table in front of House. Somehow I knew that all his notes were in those mailers, and that he meant he had ample documentation of House showing he had a conscience.

Then my alarm did go off. I strained out of sleep like I was drowning and fighting my way back to the surface.