Summary: "But his courage is perfect! And that, after all, / Is the thing that one needs with a Snark." -- Lewis Carroll

Disclaimer: I'm pretty sure my parents didn't mean for me to turn out like this. Also, no copyright infringements intended nor profit being made. The crossover was just so improbable, I had to give it a whirl.

My thanks to eluki and Dori for the beta work, with special mad props to eluki for midwife-ing the plot and for suggesting the title I've now conscripted from Mr. Carroll.

"I engage with the Snark -- every night after dark --
In a dreamy delirious fight:
I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes,
And I use it for striking a light: "
--Lewis Carroll

As usually seemed the case at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, Greg House had barely turned his back when everything went to hell in his patient's room. Before he had rounded the corner in the hallway, he heard the clatter and muffled cry behind him and swung himself around mid-stride; pivoting on his left leg and caning toward what sounded like quite a struggle.

The nurse he had left to assist Chase slid open the door to call for help. House brushed her aside, saying, "Shut up, stay there," as he thrust his jacket into her arms, hoping he could trust her to handle that much.

Chase thrashed wildly against the side of the bed, arched in a surprisingly limber backbend as the Amazon's booted heels dug into his chest. House shrugged his backpack from his shoulder and let it swing to the floor. He pinned the nurse with a thunderous look as he crossed the room. He had obviously overestimated the nurse's competence, seeing as how the nitwit had only restrained his patient's hands before Chase had administered the atropine. In fact, she hadn't done much more than start the I.V. and remove the patient's corselet, armbands, and wrist braces, piling the pieces of armor with the weapons on the foot of the bed. With a shake of his head, House silently marveled at how long that some people apparently needed to get a woman out of a leather dress.

The Amazon had jackknifed and twisted her body to trap Chase between her thighs in a vise-like grip that was a thing of beauty to behold. Some guys have all the luck, House thought as he reached the crash cart, glad that Chase's flailing hadn't knocked it over or dislodged the I.V. line. The monitor was safely on the other side of the bed. Sixty-two bpm, O2 stats were fine, and blood pressure was steady at ninety-five over sixty. A little on the low end, that last, but still within normal.

He quirked the corner of his mouth, thinking If normal is the word I want then scowled as he had to block a kick from Chase with his cane. House cut a look at Chase, who was still lucid and obviously not as calm during a crisis as an intensivist ought to be. Nevertheless, House decided to assume for the moment that the kick had been involuntary.

"Release me," the woman said, straining against the restraints securing her wrists. Her voice was quiet but clear. And call it a hunch, but House was willing to bet a full year of Wilson's salary that she was accustomed to speaking in imperatives. "Release me," she repeated with only a slight hitch to her breathing, "or I break his neck."

House made a derisive noise and countered, "Break his neck, and you're still in the restraints." He duh'ed a look at her as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Perusing the contents of the crash cart, House said, "Like I'm at any disadvantage here? Hello?"

"You think I won't kill him?" she said and flexed for emphasis. Chase made a sound like a chiropractic adjustment.

"Oh, stop flirting, I'm not that easy," House said virtuously. He leaned across her, careful to stay out of biting range, and poked forcefully around her wound. "Feel how you didn't feel that?" he asked, and found he had to hold back a smile at her eloquent expression in response to his prodding. "Aconite numbs the flesh, slows the heart, shuts down the lungs, but keeps the mind sharp and aware. That bolt you yanked out -- very sexy move, by the way -- was tipped with aconite. But then you already know that."

He turned back to the cart and drew one and a half cc's of Ativan into a syringe. Chase stamped and shuffled; his hands ineffectually pulled at the woman's knees. Apparently, fancy little prep schools don't teach self-defense or let fancy little rich boys watch the WWF, thought House, still pissed Chase had let this happen in the first place. And, all right, maybe just a little annoyed by that kick.

Turning to his patient, House continued, "I'm disappointed that you didn't know death threats wouldn't make a huge incentive for freeing your decidedly sculpted ass, though." He administered the sedative and she made a soft sound, her body relaxing gradually. House tossed the syringe onto the crash cart, pulled off the gloves, and retrieved his cane. "Still, you recognize my authority, which I definitely like. Very attractive quality."

Chase had twisted to the right and slid down to kneel against the bed, gasping and holding his throat. The nurse rushed to Chase's side. Given how useless she was proving to be, House made a mental note to have her fired once he had less pressing matters to occupy him.

"Attend to the patient," he snapped at Nurse Nitwit. "In case you still haven't figured it out, her legs need to be restrained." When the nurse hesitated, House smiled and widened his eyes. "Oh, please tell me you're more afraid of her than you are of me. I do love a challenge."

The nurse dropped his jacket on the foot of the bed and finally got to work. House managed not to roll his eyes out of his head as she busied herself with the restraint and the patient's boots. Instead, he returned his attention to his patient and blinked in mild surprise to find the woman watching him.

Holding her slightly unfocused gaze, he said in a thoughtful voice, "You know what else I like? I just hit you with three milligrams of Ativan, which means you should have been out before the needle was. And all it did was take the edge off." House made an impressed face and glanced at the monitor. "My, my. All Valkyrie, no valetudinarian. Which," he added, voice low and just between friends, "is as rare for me to find in a gal as it is for me to get to use either of those totally cool v-words." He dropped her a wink.

"Dr. House," Chase began hoarsely as he regained his feet, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar.

"I know, I know," said House as he held up a staying hand, still watching his patient. Her eyelids fluttered but her eyes remained fixed on him. Her breathing continued to hitch slightly and her hands were fisting and flexing. In a singsong voice, House said, "'What's "valetudinarian" mean?'" He screwed his face into a rueful grimace and tipped his head toward Chase, all convivial good nature. "These kids today. Next thing you know," he said, swinging around suddenly and utterly without humor, "you'll have to hold their tender hands while they do their fucking jobs."

Chase started to speak, but House said, "Shut up. The Ativan did you more of a favor than it did her. How much atropine did you give her?"

A fresh flush pinked Chase's cheeks. "Three milligrams, just like you--"

"Shut up. That was fill in the blank, not essay. " House glanced at his patient and said to her, "Look, since you seem so damned determined to fight the sedative, tell me your name. I'm Dr. House. I'm the man who's going to save your life. I'd offer to shake, but I'm already down one limb and I'd just as soon not draw back a stump."

The woman wet her lips, worked her mouth, before she replied, "Xena." Her leather dress creaked softly as she shifted against the white cotton sheets. "You have to release me."

"You're an optimist. Adorable." But there it was in her speech. Only a slight slur, but there, nonetheless. "All right. Xena. Hippy parents did you no favors. You're losing feeling in your mouth, aren't you?" At her nod, he said to Chase, "Perioral parathesis. Respiratory distress. Poison's spread. Start her on a barakol drip, ten milligrams per kilogram, and keep it going until you've cleaned her up and you've gotten those images. That should inhibit the aconite. Since this lovely lady appears to have an extraordinary constitution, don't push the next dose of atropine until you've finished. Also, I want you to add hair analysis. I gotta know how she's acquired this tolerance to aconite. You did get the blood?"

"Yes." Chase retrieved the vials of blood and the plastic test tube rack from the floor. Fortunately, the snap caps had been sealed correctly and Chase hadn't stepped on any of the vials. Tossing his head to clear his hair from his eyes, he quickly said, "Dr. House, there was no way to know she would respond to the atropine like that."

Before House could reply, Xena said, "Shit."

"Took the word right of my mouth," House said, still looking at Chase. "Although I might have gone with 'bullshit' for the full effect." House resettled his grip on his cane and explained carefully, as if to an idiot pretty boy, "Had she been restrained properly, there might have been a way to never find out she'd respond like that."

"No." House finally glanced at Xena, only to discover she could manage an annoyed look even as she finally began to nod off. "Shit. Shit and garlic. Mixed with the lycotonum. Just cauterize."

"Cauterize?" said Chase, naturally picking up on the wrong word, House noted.

She rallied enough to glare once more from beneath her bangs. "What in Tartarus else do you do? Yes. Cauterize. Ares," said Xena, and her eyes drifted shut. She murmured, "Ares, in Arcadia, here," and slept.

House raised an eyebrow, puffing air in and out of his cheek rapidly, eyes moving to some middle distance as he considered for a second.

"Well," he finally said, "that was all Greek to me." Catching Chase's look, House wished briefly for Wilson. Wilson appreciated him. He mirrored Chase's expression and said, "Just in case you're wondering, Dr. Chase, don't actually cauterize that."

House gestured for the nurse to fetch his backpack from where he'd dropped it near the door and used the opportunity to fold his leather jacket around the ring-shaped weapon. He picked up the bundle then made an impatient motion for the rising nurse to hand over his pack. House glanced toward the foot of the bed to make sure the restraint across the patient's ankles was secured correctly, which it miraculously was, and found his attention drawn to her bare feet.

He stole a look at Xena's sleep-softened face then met Chase's eyes. He saw that Chase had noticed the scars on the top of the patient's feet, too. As House rested his backpack on the bed and stuffed his jacket and latest score into the blue nylon bag, Chase inspected both sides of Xena's hand, much as House had earlier.

"Who could have done this to her?" Chase asked. He was making an obvious effort to keep his revulsion purely professional; to keep his voice stern rather than appalled. Efforts like this, however pitiful in execution, gave House some small hope for Chase. "This...this is barbaric."

House zipped his pack shut and, leaving it where it sat for the moment, he moved to the end of the bed. He paused, running his thumb lightly over the grip of his cane. Tilting his head slightly, he was able to make out the scar on the sole of each of her feet. His eyes returned to Xena's face as he wondered what lies she would tell when pressed to explain what she had survived.

"X-ray her hands and feet while you're checking her shoulder," House said to Chase. "Get the film to me immediately. I still want the MRI after you've taken care of that puncture, but the X-rays will be quicker." House looked at the nurse. "And I still want all of her effects delivered to my office."

Both Chase and the nurse nodded, and House grabbed his heavy backpack. Already lost in thought even as he slung it over his shoulder, he made his way down the hall. House glanced at his watch. It was a quarter past ten. Cuddy would have wrapped up with whatever media had taken interest in this kooky little filler piece and would now be well into her first interview with the police detectives who would be overseeing the crime scene in the lobby.

All right, House decided, changing course to head for the elevator. Time for a pre-emptive strike.

#

Twenty-three ass-numbing minutes later, House emerged from Cuddy's office, leaving his boss and the two generic detectives behind. Steering clear of all the yellow tape and blue uniforms in the lobby, he returned to the elevator. As he hit the call button for the second floor, House squinted and found himself thankful that the events of the morning were being treated as fairly routine despite all of the flashy props and gloriously toned thigh that his patient had to offer.

When he had first arrived, Cuddy had risen from her seat, moving to meet him at her office door even as House had blown past her secretary's token protests.

"Pre-emptive strike?" Cuddy had said under her breath, and had only smiled when he had pretended not to understand, before she had introduced House to the detectives.

His voluntary update to her confirming his diagnosis of poison and his subsequent strained cooperation in the brief interview with the detectives regarding his role in the morning's events had bought him two things: Cuddy's continued support, and the next seventy-two hours free of police interference, except for the uniform who would be posted outside of his patient's room, while the coppers collected their evidence and the D.A. determined what charges would ultimately be brought against his patient.

Once he reached the second floor, House stopped in the bathroom for a pee break. After he washed his hands and face, he leaned heavily on the sink, taking as much weight as he could from his right leg. He looked at himself in the mirror, his own blue-eyed stare all the more intense in the frame of his thinning hair and unshaved face. His features were lean and heavily lined, and he thought he looked like a man who didn't get a lot of sleep.

House lifted his chin and touched his fingertips to the side of his neck, just above the collar of his grey dress shirt, brushing his fingers over the spot only just spared from that sword.

"What in Tartarus," House said softly, meeting his own eyes again. "What in Tartarus, indeed."

With that, House stooped to pick up his backpack and hauled it up onto the sink, shifting it a little when the automatic tap began to run as soon as a nylon strap trailed into the basin. Unzipping the backpack, he fished out one of his bottles of Vicodin. He took another two pills and assured himself that it was only because his leg had understandably started to throb with the morning's exertions.

As he put the bottle away, he discovered the slim bundle he'd hastily made of his shirt and the bolt had shifted to the top of the pack's contents. He removed it and unwrapped the vintage black t-shirt with care, pulling back enough material to reveal about half of the bolt. With a small fanning motion, he wafted the smell toward his face. Sure enough, he could pick out piquant top-notes of garlic and feces over the sharp metallic odor of the blood-covered tip.

He eyed the tip, guessing it was bronze, and noted again the unusual number of barbs. That had actually been one of the big clues that the bolt had been poisoned; you didn't bother with that many barbs unless you needed the surface area. Cautiously, he touched his tongue to one. He felt a small but unmistakable tingle from the contact, much as Xena must have when she had done her own crude test. He absently spat into the sink, still focused on the bolt.

Under the faintly quivering fluorescent lighting, House peeled the t-shirt down further to reveal the faded NIN logo and most of the bolt's shaft. The shaft had been made from some sort of hardwood rather than aluminum or fiberglass. He rotated his wrist, angling his hand so that the shirt fell away from the other end of the bolt. The fletching and the crudely carved nock confirmed that the bolt was undoubtedly handmade and, just as undoubtedly, handmade by an expert.

House sighed and bundled the bolt again. Repacking it, he started to withdraw the other weapon when someone else entered the bathroom and made for a urinal. He casually zipped up the backpack, shrugging it on as he grabbed his cane. What he needed right now was a nice scotch and a nasty blowjob; what he'd settle for was a cup of coffee and some time to think before his team assembled.

What he got was Cameron looking conflicted as she fell into step with him as he approached his office. Life was like that sometimes.

"Well, there's a look." He pulled his face into the funhouse version of hers, which got him the barest twitch of a smile. "All right. Since I know you got the video, I can only assume you had a complaint about the lap dance?" House asked. He pushed open the glass door to the general office next to his that his students shared, pausing long enough to let Cameron catch the door before he released it. He glanced over his shoulder at her as he dropped his backpack onto the conference table, making his way to the coffeepot.

Cameron was watching him, a challenging eyebrow raised. "How do you know I got a copy? Maybe I'm just kicking myself for forgetting my sequined thong," she retorted in the snippy tone that she usually reserved for Chase and Foreman when she thought House couldn't hear.

Pleasantly surprised, House said, "You should have said something. I would have loaned you mine." He picked up the carafe and sniffed to see how burned the morning's brew smelled. Pretty much like scorched ass hair, House decided as he dumped the old coffee down the sink, reminded by the smell against his will of the frat boy and the tale of mind-numbing misadventure that had brought the moron to the clinic last month. "And don't be coy. Of course you got the video. You obviously did whatever you had to in order to get it, too." Giving her a lecherous look, he added, "And I want every single salacious detail. Feathers? Latex? Spanking? No, wait. I think that last one is Chase's thing. But enough about my fantasy life. Let's hear what you did for love of king and country."

Cameron pulled a thin plastic case from her lab coat pocket without a word, pushing it into his hand even as she took the coffee carafe from him. It was a jewel case with an unlabeled Maxell DVD. He glanced up at Cameron, who turned her back to him and occupied herself with rinsing the carafe. She flipped her long ponytail over her shoulder and finally said, "I had to agree to go out with the security guard on Friday to get that. You're welcome."

"Old Freddie-at-the-Ready?" House smiled. Wilson owed him another fifty bucks, having bet against the security guard ever working up the nerve to hit on Cameron, especially after word had apparently spread to everyone in a five-mile radius that House and Cameron had gone on a date. "Finally made his move, huh? Good man." House set down the jewel case and, reaching in front of Cameron for his mug, made Bambi eyes at her profile. "Oh, cheer up. It's not like Freddie's actually settling for my sloppy seconds, no matter what everyone says."

Cameron blushed but shot House a reproving glare then returned her attention to measuring out level scoops of the coffee into the coffee maker. "I almost said no, you know, but then he offered to dub some of the earlier tapes from this morning from other floors and I thought you...well. I thought they might help. Anyway, Freddie was very nice. And very helpful. So, I said yes, and there you are. You got what you wanted, he gets what he wanted, and I think men are pigs." She snapped the lid back onto the coffee canister with a great deal of force, more frustrated than angry.

"You think I'm a pig," House corrected mildly, "because, in the course of doing your job, you got cornered into a date with a very nice and very helpful person from the hospital. You must tell me what that's like some time." He moved behind her, reaching around her this time to snag the sugar. "But I think we both know the problem here isn't that I'm a pig, but that you aren't into the nice, helpful guys."

She stiffened then turned unexpectedly, her breasts brushing his right arm. Cameron had to tilt her head back sharply; she was almost six inches shorter than he was even when she wore heels. Her color was high and the look in her eyes was almost fierce. Almost amused, too, for that matter. "That's right, Dr. House. I'm into the bad boys." She was close enough to House that her chest grazed against him with every breath she took. "And do you know what I like best about the bad boys? When they shut up."

"How nice of you to say," replied House, enjoying this little staring match immensely and wondering why this Cameron hadn't made an appearance on their date. "And so helpful."

However, now aware the conversation had the potential to jump track from casual sexual harassment to something less in his immediate control, like actual flirting, House told himself that he was not retreating but instead simply moving strategically toward the table. For no particular reason, he held her eyes while he solemnly shook the sugar packet and tore it open, as though sweetening his coffee ranked as an act of great ritual and significance. "I assume your new boyfriend had to do a fast dub off the redundant system since the tapes from the main system had to be all ready for the police. So, what's on this?" he asked, inclining his head toward the disk.

Her arms folded across her chest and her lips pressed into a thin line, Cameron watched him in silence for another moment. Heating water gurgled and sputtered in the coffee maker and the familiar aromatic smell of coffee filled the air. Finally, Cameron gave a little dismissive shake of her head, made soft scoffing sound, and said, "There's about twenty minutes from the lobby camera. Before that, the woman was caught on camera on the third floor, which is where she attacked Dr. Foreman. Freddie also said a couple of the other cameras caught some weird stuff, but he didn't elaborate. He just dubbed those as well." She turned back to the pot of freshly brewed coffee and filled his mug and her own. She dropped a stirrer into his and passed it to him.

"In that case, if you don't plan to put out for Freddie, tell him that I'll so totally do him." House blew gently on the coffee and sipped, careful to avoid the stirrer, before he set the mug on the conference table. He hung his cane on the corner of the whiteboard, grabbing a black Expo marker. Uncapping the marker with his teeth and sucking back his spit so he didn't drool around the cap, House began scrawling out the differentials. The board wobbled a bit with each stroke of the dry-erase marker, the felt tip tapping against the surface with muted thumps and squeaks.

The glass door behind him opened with a soft whoomping noise. He heard Foreman say, "Is there any chance we can pretend that you've made all the jokes you're going to need to make about some broad kicking my ass, and how you thought a black man with a juvie record should have been street enough to take her down -- you know, all that garbage -- and just get to business?"

House spat the cap into his left hand, biting back a smile, which quickly became biting back a grimace as he turned carefully. His bum leg protested even the brief weight he put on it and he felt the first back spasm of the day; kneeling for the Taser had taken its toll. However, seeing the expression on Foreman's bruised face -- flat-eyed with grim resignation, and looking ready to kick some ass himself -- made the pain so worthwhile.

All scandalized and righteous indignation, House huffed and said, "I would never refer to a woman as a 'broad' while I'm observing in a strictly professional capacity how you totally got beat down by some white chick. I'm shocked -- just shocked -- by the very suggestion. Well, I can see now that you'll be taking my spot next week in that workplace sensitivity course that Cuddy's been going on about." He recapped the marker and snagged his cane from its resting place, wondering if he could love this day any more.

Bolstered, House managed to round the table without wincing, saying, "No concussion? No fractures?" He closed the distance to examine Foreman. An unmistakably bootsole-shaped bruise puffed and darkened Foreman's right cheek. His right eye was bloodshot but his pupils were the same size.

"Just a hell of a headache," Foreman replied, pulling back from House's scrutiny with a slight frown. He took a seat at the table, then added meaningfully, "Pride's maybe had all it can take for the day, too. Seriously, can we let this go?"

With a sympathetic nod, House said, "If it's any consolation, you're not the only sissy-boy around here. Chase almost had his neck broken when the lovely Xena caught him off-guard."

"And Dr. House was almost decapitated while he knelt at her feet," Wilson added from the doorway. "At this point, it sounds like Dr. Cameron is the only one who isn't a sissy-boy around here." He winked at Cameron, who lost her startled look at House's announcement to smile at Wilson. "Thank God for that."

House scowled at Wilson, annoyed to be upstaged by such a cheap, showy entrance. Wilson, who had changed into fresh slacks and had presumably been patched up, caught House's look as he entered the office. He clapped a comforting hand to House's shoulder as he passed by, saying, "I know, I know. First the limp, now the theatrics. Man, you are going to need a whole new schtick."

"Only after I've broken this particular schtick off in your stalkery ass," House replied, tossing his cane up and twirling it through his fingers. He stopped it with a flashy catch and resettled his grip on it as he moved back to the other side of the table, near the whiteboard.

Smiling, Wilson poured himself a cup of coffee then turned to pull out a chair for Cameron at the end of the table before seating himself. House eased himself into a chair as well. He propped his cane against the side of his chair and, reaching for his coffee, he continued, "And, anyway, you're just a wanna-be sissy-boy. You still haven't earned your jersey for Team Bitch-Slapped. That limp you're affecting was entirely self-inflicted." House stirred his coffee and, removing the little plastic straw from his mug, he turned to Foreman. "What were you doing up on the third floor this morning, anyway?"

Foreman blinked but, having worked for House long enough to be accustomed to these sudden shifts in conversation, replied gamely, "Dr. Chase and I were following up with the Stavely kid." At House's vague frown, Foreman prompted, "The leptospirosis case, the guy originally diagnosed with dengue fever. He's in one of the overflow rooms. He's responding well to the streptomycin and dialysis, by the way." Foreman shook his head even as House gave a sudden nod of recognition. "I just wish he'd mentioned the damned rats earlier. Seriously, I could've gone my whole life without tromping around in a sewer." He fixed House with a reproachful look.

House toshed and made a flapping motion with his hand. "Oh, stop stalling. Get to the part where there was some guy blah blah blah something something you get kicked in the head. What happened?"

Foreman lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. "While Chase was talking to the patient, Dr. Weiss pulled me out of the room and asked for a consult on an EEG."

"Weiss?" said Wilson, obviously drawing a blank. He cupped his own mug between his hands and glanced around the table.

"Hashimoto's disease, mild depression, both successfully medicated," House provided immediately, adding, "and breasts that could set a new industry standard for adult films. Wow, what a pair." He widened his eyes appreciatively and he swung his head toward Wilson. House had finished most of his coffee and was now tying the stirrer into an increasingly complicated knot. "Remember? The green sweater that made me find religion that day in the cafeteria?"

"Ah. Yes. I do recall your very inspired take on the phrase 'come to Jesus' now that you mention it," said Wilson, easily swatting away the little snarl of stirrer when House launched it at him with the flick of a finger, "and I definitely remember that sweater. Although perhaps 'the new neuropsych resident' might have sufficed in describing her just now." He glanced apologetically at Cameron then looked at Foreman. "Please continue."

Foreman, whose face made clear he knew exactly what sweater they were talking about, continued with, "Not much more to it. Dr. Weiss started back to her office and I went to tell Chase where I was going. Only this skinny dude, tall, maybe Chase's age, ran into me. Just came out of nowhere. At first, I thought he was talking crazy, yelling a horoscope or something. I had no idea that he was running from the lunatic with the sword and trying to warn everyone until after I called a code."

"Yelling a horoscope?" Wilson frowned thoughtfully. "That's a new one."

But House had a feeling that the rest of this wasn't going to be all that new to him. "Exactly what did he say, Dr. Foreman?" he asked, reaching for his cane again.

"Um, well. I didn't catch all of it, but he was definitely talking to me when he said 'watch out,' and 'you can't see the danger you're in.'" Foreman shrugged. "Before that, he was yelling something about 'Aries.' I assumed he meant the astrological sign. I didn't give it a lot of thought, to be honest."

"That was your first mistake. Besides not knowing how to duck, I mean. God is in the details," House announced sagely, "and in this case, the particular god is the god of war." He paused a beat to enjoy everyone's blank looks before he briefed them on what he had observed after Chase had administered the atropine to Xena.

That brought House stiffly to his feet and over to the list he had written on the left side of the whiteboard. "Numbness, bradycardia, difficulty breathing, everything you see here has been accounted for at present by the aconite. However, some of these have great cross-over potential, and who doesn't love that?" House picked up a marker, green this time, and uncapped it. "How 'bout we get cracking on what the poison doesn't explain?"

"Like the fact that we now have two patients referring to the same Greek god?" asked Cameron.

"Like the fact that I only have one patient who has referred to a Greek god. I haven't claimed this other guy," said House. He looked at Foreman. "Do you think he was with her, or just repeating what he heard her say?" House asked. "Did he attack you, too? Or attack anyone else, for that matter? Display any aggressive behavior? Have any weapons?"

Wilson spread his hands and said, "Any chance that he was the one who shot this woman?"

"Because answering the questions about aggression and weapons wouldn't have covered that," said House. Wilson picked up the knotted stirrer off the floor and flicked it back at him.

Foreman shook his head slightly, then winced and massaged the right side of his neck. "The guy seemed terrified and maybe a little clumsy, but no weapons. At least none that I saw. He didn't try anything violent, didn't seem particularly aggressive. Just half-tripped over himself and grabbed me to keep from falling. He had a cut above his left temple, his lower lip was bloody, and he was babbling." To House, Foreman said, "I can do a follow-up later. You know, get his file, find out why he's here, since I'm pretty sure they've still got him in the psych ward."

House nodded then said, "In the meantime, we have a woman in her thirties who has a remarkable tolerance for pain, poison, and electric shock. She revived unexpectedly with atropine and fought the Ativan like a scantily-clad trooper." Turning to the board, he began to write as he spoke. "Aggressive behavior, abnormal strength. Presenting as delusional. Previous physical trauma to extremities and torso. Oh, and shot with poisoned arrow." He paused, briefly amused. "How often do you get to have a differential like that? That just rocks." He returned his attention to the others, "By the way, I've already ruled out schizophrenia. PCP abuse, too. The tox screen will get my back on that."

Cameron said with genuine interest, "How did you rule out schizophrenia so quickly?"

"Unimpaired eye movement was the big giveaway," said House, snapping the cap back onto the marker, "but the general lack of schizophrenic symptoms didn't hurt."

"Could it be something similar to schizophrenia?" Cameron asked, undeterred. "In Freud's essay 'On Narcissism,' he describes a lesser form of schizophrenia called paraphrenia, which involves feelings of persecution and audio hallucinations."

"Interesting choice in reading," Wilson said casually, with obvious amusement and deliberate care in not looking at House, "but the scars that House described and, well, that poisoned arrow indicate actual persecution, as opposed to perceived persecution."

"Yes, but physical trauma is an established pathogenesis for delusions. Head injuries resulting in cortical damage in particular," replied Cameron. "Because of whatever she might been through in the past, she may now suffer from some sort of persecutory delusional disorder."

Foreman shook his head. "Not like this. You can get persecutory delusions with cortical damage, yeah, but they're usually simple and poorly formed. The weapons, the costume, everything points to the fact that she's living in a fantasy so elaborate, she might as well be from another world." He considered. "But you know? Lesions on the basal ganglia would elicit more complex delusions and result in excessive dopaminergic activity and reduced acetyl cholingeric activity." Eyes sharpening, Foreman continued with more certainty, explaining, "Excessive dopaminergic and reduced cholinergic activity have also both been linked to the formation of delusions." He looked at House. "The MRI will reveal any lesions, but we could look at her cerebrospinal fluid and plasma HVA, too. She may not be schizophrenic, but she could be schizotypal, and schizotypal patients typically show elevated levels of both those indices compared to patients with other or no personality disorders."

"Excellent point," said House. He absently began to work the marker end-over-end through his fingers. "Only problem is excessive dopaminergic activity and reduced cholinergic activity typically produce excessive unwanted, involuntary movements, and that just doesn't fit our girl. Still, it's a place to start. CSF will rule out bacterial, viral, and fungal infections, as well as prion diseases in her central nervous system. The concentration of 5-HIAA in particular will tell us about her serotonin activity. As for the homovanillic acid, that usually drops when a normal patient is under mental stress, and it'll give us the scoop on her endocrine system. We should have some idea then whether we're dealing with a diseased mind or a diseased body or both." House tapped the capped marker against his chin. "I like it."

He looked at his students. "Dr. Foreman, go forth, catch up with Chase and our patient, and do your thang." He turned to Cameron and said, "Dr. Cameron, I want you to take care of the blood analysis. I had samples sent to the lab for a tox screen and metabolic panel, and I don't have the time or the trust for the techs. I want you two to meet back here with Chase, and we'll look at the CAT scans and X-rays he's bringing to the party." With a nod, Foreman took off, Cameron following after she had rinsed her coffee mug.

"As for you," said House, throwing the green marker at Wilson, who caught it deftly. House picked up the jewel case off the conference table. "You owe me fifty dollars."

Wilson looked from the case to House and said, "What?" Realization dawned and, with a sigh, Wilson shifted in his chair to pull his wallet from his hip pocket. "Just tell me that you actually wanted to see the security footage and that you didn't send Cameron solely so you could win this bet."

"Of course, I want to see the footage," said House, taking the money Wilson pushed toward him. "Critics all agree it's the feel good hit of the season. Why, I understand this picture has everything."

Wilson laughed. "It has a hot chick in a leather dress kicking ass and, in all likelihood, kneeling on a few tracheas. That's everything?"

Pausing in the act of putting the money in his own wallet, House looked at Wilson. Wilson hesitated as he was returning his wallet to his pocket and looked back at House.

"Well?" said House at last, raising his eyebrows.

"You're right," Wilson said, rising and straightening each leg gingerly. "God, I love being a guy."

"So, then, we're on for dinner and a show?" House looked at the case. "Minus the dinner, of course. Although I might still have a bag of chips in a drawer somewhere."

"Depends," Wilson said as he put their coffee cups into the sink. "Are you going to keep your hands to yourself when the lights go down?"

"Why? Would it be an incentive or a deterrent if I do?" House countered, already crossing to the glass door that separated this office from his own. Pushing the door open, he told Wilson, "Get my backpack."

Wilson rolled his eyes but obliged, dropping the green marker back onto the whiteboard's thin aluminum tray as he moved around the table. He lifted the backpack and looked up at House in surprise. "Good Christ, man. You don't need me. You need a sherpa to tote this. What, do you pack everything you own because you want to destroy your rotator cuff, too?"

"No," said House, still holding the door. "Because I want to hear you cry like a little nutless wonder when you have to pick up something besides a doe-eyed nurse in the oncology breakroom. And now, at last, my life is complete," he told the back of Wilson's head as he followed the younger man into the office. Painted a warm ochre color and sparingly decorated, his office was lit by the late morning sun. House glanced around the room as he veered to the left toward his desk while Wilson headed toward the right to drop the backpack on the footstool of House's comfortable chair. "Where'd you put the sword?" House asked.

"You know, that's the problem with us little nutless wonders," Wilson replied, looking at House and crossing his arms. "We get so busy crying, we forget the small stuff, like where we stashed that really cool sword that you haven't had a chance to look at yet." He smiled, unfolding his arms, his brown eyes bright with humor. "And it's a really cool sword. One I'm so happy I got to examine for myself. Man, it just wouldn't be the same, having to hear about that sword second-hand and never getting to see it up close. I'd go on, but I think I'm starting to tear up again."

"Oh, come on," said House, dropping the jewel case and turning from his desk to approach Wilson. "I called you a nutless wonder. Hello? Compliment, there." He stopped in front of the footstool and handed Wilson his cane, then unzipped the backpack and reached carefully into the folds of his jacket. "Besides, I'll show you mine if you show me yours," he said, pulling out the ring-shaped weapon.

Wilson's brow furrowed briefly then smoothed as his eyes widened in recognition. "You stole that, too?"

"Yeah, I almost grabbed the whip while I was at it, but I already have a couple of those," said House, examining the weapon. Tapering from a thickness of a half-inch on the inside to a razor-sharp exterior edge, the ring appeared to be made from steel with a geometric bronze inset. The outside diameter was about ten inches, the inner, maybe seven and a half. "You know, the Greeks and the Romans had something kind of like this. Called the quoit." He turned it carefully in his hands as he and Wilson examined it. "They used something similar in ancient India, too. A chakram, I think. I'll have to Google to be sure," House said as he gripped the weapon carefully and flexed his wrist experimentally. He glanced at Wilson, who gave a little why-not shrug. With that, House tossed the thing toward his desk, wanting to test the aerodynamics for himself.

Given the shape and the weight, House had expected it to sail and sink like a Frisbee. Instead, it skimmed the surface of his desk and inexplicably lifted, gliding toward the heavy plexiglass window that overlooked the hospital's courtyard. The ring struck the glass and suddenly ricocheted toward them. And just that quickly, the next several seconds passed in a blur of ducking and bobbing, whizzing sounds and sharp cracks, and ended with an abrupt thunk and the oscillating twang of vibrating metal.

Heart pounding and eyes wide, House straightened. He had grabbed Wilson's shoulder for support even as Wilson had caught House's elbow, the cane forgotten in Wilson's other hand. They looked at each other, then at the weapon, which had finally embedded itself, still quivering, in House's phrenology bust.

House and Wilson looked at each other again. A little at a time, their shocked expressions began to twitch and their short, panting breaths chuffed into helpless laughter. Still braced against each other, they laughed out their surprise, taking in the cracked glass and gouged plaster that marked the half-dozen points of impact until, as gradually as it had started, their laughter subsided back into soft panting.

"Dude," Wilson said, still a little breathless but making an effort to pull himself together. "What is it about today?"

"And, more importantly, where was this thing when Vogler was here?" House wiped his eyes and said, "Right. I think it goes back in my bag until I've done a little more research." He motioned for Wilson to hand over the cane and they finally released each other. "Online research," House clarified, deadpan, as he moved to the bust.

With much care and some effort, he managed to extract the weapon. He looked at it in wonder, unable to immediately spot anything in the design that betrayed how it could defy physics to travel the vectors it had.

Wilson joined him, bringing over the backpack and holding it open. "Just promise me I can be there when you tell Cuddy what happened in here."

"When I tell her you did this? Sure," said House, tucking the weapon back into his bag and heading back to his desk to retrieve the DVD. "We'll come back to the sword. Right now, let's see what there is to see on this."

#

They settled in quickly enough, Wilson pulling up chairs and House spinning up the DVD on the player under the old TV that he liked to insist was intended exclusively for his daytime soaps and late-night porn.

There were three chapters on the main menu, uselessly identified as Chapters One through Three. House, seated with his cane propped against his inner thigh, selected the first one, which turned out to have been dubbed from the tape of this morning's excitement in the lobby. He and Wilson watched the silent black and white footage and provided minimal color commentary, taking in the remarkable efficiency and grace with which Xena set about to clear the lobby and dispatch any guards in her way.

The chapter ended and, after a few seconds, the main menu reappeared. They sat in silence until House finally said, "Did you notice that she only used the sword when she couldn't make do with a kick or a punch?"

"Oh, she used the sword enough," said Wilson. He ran a hand through his hair. "And that's what that chakram thing can do when you know how to use it? Jesus. That was practically a Tarantino film. I'm amazed there weren't bodies stacked to the ceiling by the time she was done."

House nodded and, still thinking aloud, said, "Exactly. She could have killed pretty much anyone she wanted to kill. All those people were basically lined up like so many retarded sheep, ready for the slaughter. But even when she used the sword, she'd hit with the pommel or the flat of the blade rather than stab if she could." House looked at Wilson. "Non-lethal force. From an armed woman who clearly has any number of lethal skills." House made a perplexed face. "Doesn't that take the fun out of good, old-fashioned sacking and pillaging?"

"Well, yes, I'd have to say so, based on my extensive ransacking experience," said Wilson. His expression was thoughtful and somber. "For real, though, if she was actually just trying to evacuate the lobby, why wasn't she letting anyone near the front door?"

"I've been wondering that, myself," said House. "We'll watch that again later." He glanced at the remote control for the DVD player, finding the play button. "Maybe Chapter Two will provide us clarity and stunning insight."

What Chapter Two provided was the abrupt image of most of Foreman in a three-quarters profile shot on the far left of the screen as he gripped the arms of a tale, pale, clearly terrified young man. The young man was alternately glancing over his shoulder and speaking urgently to Foreman, clutching at Foreman's forearms. He had blood running into his left eye from a cut near his hairline; more blood ran down his chin. With a final desperate look, he started to break away from Foreman and, just as Foreman's head vanished out of the frame as he presumably called a code, House paused the scene.

"Son of a bitch," he said thoughtfully, moving to the edge of his seat and leaning heavily on his cane as he peered at the screen. "Dr. Foreman was holding out on me."

"What?" said Wilson. "Where, how?"

House pointed at the grainy image of the young man, frozen mid-escape attempt. "That guy's wearing armor. Not like hers, but it's definitely armor. Boots and his own share of leather, too." House shook his head, marveling. "Oh, Foreman had better have been kicked real damn hard in the head to have missed that." He pressed play again.

The events that followed onscreen happened so quickly, House found it necessary to rewind, pause, and frame advance through them. Foreman reached for the young man again. Three nurses appeared from behind Foreman. Two of the nurses were abruptly yanked out of frame; the third stumbled away of her own volition. The young man stared over Foreman's shoulder. Foreman turned his head. A boot connected with the right side of his face and his head pivoted sharply to the left as House switched from advancing frame-by-frame to the slow scan.

Wilson hissed in sympathy. "Okay, that looked like a real damn hard kick to his head."

House ignored him, intent on the silent images on the screen.

The young man stumbled back, arms pinwheeling and only just catching his balance. A couple of orderlies and Chase appeared from the upper right of the frame. Foreman, amazingly, did not fall but turned a dazed look toward his assailant. A second kick caught him, he staggered back, and Xena now moved into view. As Chase had earlier described, she made sharp jabbing motions with her hands, connecting with various spots on Foreman's neck. The orderlies were restraining the young man and Chase seemed to be trying to reason with the woman. Foreman swayed, standing as if immobilized, his arms limp at his sides. The young man said something, his mouth briefly blocked from the camera by an orderly's arm. Xena looked at him. She jabbed at Foreman's neck again. Even as Foreman now fell to his knees, clutching his throat, Xena looked at the young man again then at something off-screen. Chase hurried to Foreman's side, kneeling just in time to catch Foreman as he lost consciousness. Clearly having made some sort of decision, Xena launched herself toward the off-screen spot that had held her attention.

House and Wilson found themselves watching the static main menu again.

Without a word, House selected Chapter Three.

According the timestamp, this had been recorded eleven minutes before the start of the last piece. The footage now switched between seven-second static shots of two different angles on the roof and one of the landing in the stairwell that led up to the roof.

"Flip cameras," said House absently. "For the lower traffic spots."

For the next twenty-eight seconds, the recording flipped between the two empty patches of roof and the vacant stairwell. Abruptly, the young man who had encountered Foreman was on the screen, already bleeding and sweaty and looking completely bewildered. He turned. The footage flipped to the other still-empty patch of roof then to the empty stairwell.

When it flipped back, Xena was there, giving the young man's shoulder a push and pointing, presumably toward the door that led to the stairwell. She was looking in the same direction the young man had been watching. The bolt was already buried just beneath her clavicle.

Flip. Flip.

The first roof camera now had nothing but when the image flipped to the stairwell landing, the young man was standing there, staring up the stairs. Xena! he called silently, and then he ducked.

Flip. Flip.

The young man was helping Xena to her feet, only the back of his head visible in the shot. She shrugged away from him, breathing heavily and her eyes fixed on whatever was on the top of the stairs.

Flip. Flip.

Go, she soundlessly said to the young man. He hesitated. She speared him with a look, her pale eyes widening as she repeated the word, GO. Her attention returned to the top of the stairs and her hand went to the weapon at her hip.

Flip. Flip. Flip.

Nothing else in those final static shots.

The main menu appeared again on the screen.

Easing back in his chair, House began to meditatively twirl his cane. "She wasn't attacking that guy," he said. "She was trying to protect him."

"That's...yeah. That's what it looked like," said Wilson. Wilson looked at him. "So...third floor, psych ward?"

House gave a slow nod, considering. "Apparently, crazy is the new black, and you know what a slave to fashion I am." He directed his gaze at Wilson and smiled. "Let's go try some on."

-end Fit the Second-