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.

"It's a Snark!" was the sound that first came to their ears,
And seemed almost too good to be true.
Then followed a torrent of laughter and cheers:
Then the ominous words "It's a Boo-"
--Lewis Carroll

"Out of curiosity, what're your thoughts on Crazy Guy Number Three, mystery man with a crossbow?" Wilson asked as he stood and leaned over the ancient TV. Wilson clicked off the power then pushed the little trolley back toward the glass wall that divided the offices, saying lightly, "Think he poisoned the bolt just to compensate for crappy aim?" He glanced over his shoulder when House didn't answer immediately.

"You doing okay?" asked Wilson, turning.

House had held his breath while he'd pushed to his feet, not wanting to give in to the urge to make some pathetic sepulchral sound at the feeling that broken glass was sliding just beneath the skin of his right thigh and hip. His crippled leg had no intention of forgiving him the activity of the morning apparently, and while House had sat lost in the thrall of the videos for almost forty minutes, the damaged muscles had tightened almost unbearably.

"I'm fucking peachy. What do you think?" House said, exhaling slowly. He made for the little decorative black box on the shelf under his exterior window, situated between his Magic 8 Ball and his marble mortar and pestle. He lifted the lid, retrieved another Vicodin, and didn't look at Wilson until after he had dry-swallowed the pill, not bothering to chew.

"Keep going. You were on a roll there, about to make a stunningly incisive yet medically irrelevant observation, because being shot, Dr. Wilson," he said, leaning against the low file cabinet and picking up the Magic 8 Ball, "no matter how exotic the projectile, is merely one of her symptoms and the least interesting thing about this patient." House gave the ball a little shake.

YOU MAY RELY ON IT, the ball predicted.

"See?" said House. He showed the ball to Wilson and put it back on the cabinet. "The Fates concur. What, do you need it spelled out in chicken guts?"

"God, I love it when you're condescending," Wilson said with wry exasperation. "Stop acting like an asshole just because I asked if you're okay."

"Oh, these mixed signals from you." House swallowed back a smile to feign bafflement. "You love it but you want me to stop? How kinky." His gaze lifted through the glass walls to watch as an orderly approached the general office with a pile of metal and leather in his arms. He glanced at his watch then offered Wilson meek eyes and an outthrust lower lip.

"So, is it all right if I act like an asshole just because I am one?" House asked as started toward the interior door, motioning the orderly to hurry up and come in.

Wilson looked over his shoulder to see what had House's attention and said, "Oh, you didn't." He turned around as the orderly entered the general office and, catching the door to follow House, he said quietly, "There's no way the police will let you keep that stuff."

"But it followed me home," House replied plaintively as he gestured for the orderly to put everything on the conference table and vamoose. "And I promise to feed it and wash it and play with all of this leather every single...wow." He propped his cane against the edge of the table to examine the whip. "This is quality work."

The cracker was starting to fray and would need to be replaced soon, but the tapered fall and plaited thong were still in good repair and quite well broken in. He glanced at Wilson, who had picked up the sheathed dagger. Wilson looked up from the blade.

"Stockwhip," House said, using his thumbnail to scratch at the dried blood on the whip's handle. "Easier to use from horseback."

"Fascinating," Wilson began as House half-turned from the table and limped a few steps away to get clear of Wilson, the whip trailing behind him, "but--"

With two sidearm straight throws, House used the whip to turn on then turn off the silver gooseneck lamp at his students' desk on the other side of the office.

"Sweet," he said, loosely gathering the supple leather as he hobbled back to the table. He caught Wilson's incredulous expression and cocked his own eyebrow in response. "Wanna see my other tricks?"

Blinking a few times, Wilson said, "Ah. Yes, well. Maybe later, but thanks for that little demo, Lash LaRue." Wilson stole another sidelong glance at House before sheathing the dagger again and picking up a bronze and leather armband. "So, any interesting plans for the sword once I tell you I stashed it behind the file cabinet behind your desk?"

"Define 'interesting,'" said House. He smiled as he carelessly tossed the whip back onto the table, a couple of feet of thong dangling over the edge.

Wilson only glanced at the ceiling, laughing to himself.

Grateful that, unlike the rest of the world, Wilson knew when to can it and let him think, House picked up the leather dress. Crazed with cut marks and repaired punctures, the garment had clearly and not surprisingly served a practical purpose as armor. He brought it to his face, again smelling musty horse and body odors, although he thought he could make out the scents of wood smoke and fish in the leather, too.

"Wherever she's been hanging out," said House, releasing his breath and examining the stitching, "there's no car emissions, no cigarette smoke, none of the chemical smells you get with most women, like perfume or hairspray or aerosol deodorants."

"Oh, so you think she's maybe not like most women?" Wilson touched the back of his hand to his forehead, apparently on the verge of a swoon, and declared, "Why, that changes everything! My God, Dr. House, you must tell me how you managed to deduce such a thing." Clearly charmed with himself, Wilson swayed close enough to bump House's shoulder with his own.

House cut an amused watch-it-pal look at Wilson's grin and bumped Wilson back, then said, "Hey, you know what would be good right now?"

"What's that?" Wilson said obligingly.

"If you shut up," House immediately replied, smiling faintly as he returned his attention to the dress, and Wilson laughed.

The dress appeared to lack any recognizably modern materials in its construction. Obviously, it wasn't a costume piece, any more than the weapons or armor that he had examined appeared to be museum-quality replicas. The scabbard, the boots, the bronze corselet, and the sundry pieces of protective gear all showed the same signs of heavy use and careful maintenance.

The small leather carrying pouch that Wilson passed over to House contained a bit of folded skin that held two bronze fishing hooks and a needle almost thick enough to be an awl, along with a small packet made from what looked like grape leaves, a whetstone, and about thirty quarter-sized coins of unrecognizable provenance. He pocketed one of the coins for later study, returning everything but the grape leaf packet to the pouch.

The grape leaves, he discovered, had been folded around some sort of hardtack, although the small, unleavened wafers were a rich purplish-brown and smelled of anise and cumin, with a hint of bay. He took a bite of the fragrant hardtack and chewed thoughtfully, impressed with the balance of spices and the obvious wealth of quality calories this would provide. Realizing he was a little hungry, House decided to finish off the wafer.

He saw Wilson's disbelief and, pleased, House thickly said around the last bite, "Much better than any of those crappy energy bars. Want one?"

"Someone tried to poison her and you're eating her food?" Wilson asked. He sounded as if he needed some quiet time with a stiff drink more than an actual answer.

Actually, a drink sounded pretty good. The hardtack was incredibly dense. House swallowed and transformed his expression into sheer horror.

"What? Oh, my God. Maybe you should get me to a hospital! Quick! Find a doctor!" He paused a beat, glanced around. "Oh, wait." Sticking the rest of the leafy packet back into the leather carrying pouch and grabbing his cane, he headed for the mini-fridge by the sink and snagged a bottle of water.

After a couple of swigs, he said, "When you try to settle a quarrel with a quarrel, you don't resort to back-up measures like baking up a batch of poisoned munchies." He took another drink and added, "Did you like that pun, by the way? I've been waiting to use it all morning."

"Ipsum dixit, huh?" Eyebrows quirked, Wilson said, "Basically, you're telling me that this guy with the crossbow isn't a problem until you give him your blessing to be a problem?"

"Well, yeah. Duh. Stop worrying about the guy with the crossbow. Stealth is obviously not one of his personal strengths, so I think we'll know if he shows up to finish the job." His eyes moved past Wilson once again and House spotted Cuddy coming toward the office, an X-ray envelope in her hand.

"Oh, shit," said House, setting the water bottle on top of the microwave. Another glance, and he saw Cuddy had paused and half-turned, her back now to them, to speak to a passing nurse.

"Shit, shit, shit." He hustled back to the table and hurriedly swept all of the patient's belongings into a chair, hoping to conceal everything from Cuddy. Only problem was, when he started to push the chair under the table, he registered that the tabletop was glass, just like too damned much in this hospital. Fucking smeary fingerprints all over the place and worthless for trying to hide anything.

"Shit," he said again and, first yanking the chair back out from the table then grabbing a very bewildered Wilson by the arm, House unceremoniously shoved Wilson into the seat just as Cuddy opened the office door.

"Hey -- ow!" Wilson protested while House said loudly, "Well, of course, I'd be down with a mnage trois but only if you're sure we can get Cuddy drunk enough to go for it."

Cuddy smiled serenely as she crossed to them. "What makes you think I'd have to be drunk?"

House drew back with a little gasp, all delicate astonishment, while Wilson went still, apparently lost in a moment of philosophical introspection.

Cuddy laughed under her breath and, giving House a knowing look, said, "Right. We'll have to negotiate who gets to be in the middle later. Obviously, you know part of the reason I'm here." She looked at Wilson consolingly then told House, "Let him up. The detectives need this woman's property for the investigation." She raised a silencing hand, ignoring the face House made.

Wilson had gotten to his feet, moving with evident care not to get tangled in the whip thong. From the corner of his eye, House now noticed Wilson pick up the whip and begin to coil it neatly.

House slid an inquiring sidelong look at Wilson, wanting to know just how effeminate you have to be to get dainty with something like that. Wilson replied with a mild look that suggested that House obviously had a few issues of his own to sort out if House couldn't pay attention to Cuddy while Wilson was holding a whip. House, very much able to multi-task, thank you, turned back to Cuddy.

"Fortunately for you," she was saying, "this is not an urgent investigation. Someone will be by to collect these items once the interviews are completed, which will be by the end of the business day. And just so we're clear, for every hour that you contrive to hold onto her things after the police come for them, you will owe me two hours of clinic duty." She pointed at House. "Non-negotiable."

"But the position in the middle is still up for grabs?" House inquired, intent upon the envelope she held. "Because I haven't heard a word you've said since that." He met her eyes and began to thump his cane against the floor like a metronome marking his growing resentment now that he could see why a radiology tech hadn't delivered the X-rays to him. "Why do you have my patient's X-rays?"

"After the update you so kindly and unexpectedly volunteered, I could understand the need for the blood work and the X-rays, even the MRI," Cuddy said with a smile. "But then I saw a request for an enzyme immunoassay measuring HVA and HIAA after you said you had ruled out schizophrenia. And with it, a request for a lumbar puncture. And no signed consent forms." Cuddy arched an eyebrow. Her smile, still warm and sincere, sharpened ever so slightly into something more predatory.

"Well, fortunately for you, the lawyers assure me that I can approve those tests without her written consent, given the circumstances. That is, if I'm actually given all of the circumstances." She paused, the tiniest hesitation, as if to savor a sweet taste or to picture having his balls in a bureaucratic bitch of a deathgrip with this. Her smiled deepened.

"So, since you tend to be somewhat...selective on occasion about the information that you choose to disseminate, I'm giving you the option to rethink whether this is going to be one of those occasions. I just want to know what's actually going on here. Otherwise, if all you want to tell me is that you still think that she's 'maybe some sort of stunt woman' disoriented by a deep puncture wound and poisoning, I'm going to rethink how quickly I release her into police custody."

"Nice." House stopped thumping his cane and lowered his head, still holding her eyes, pissed off with himself for not anticipating this. Unblinking, he said, "Just so you know, this just tells me that I should be even more selective about the information I choose to disseminate in the future." He pointed over Cuddy's shoulder toward the whiteboard, drawing her attention to the differentials.

"You know perfectly well there's more going on with her than the arrow thing." House studied Cuddy's face. "But that's not why you have her X-rays."

"No, it's not," Cuddy conceded. House realized she was studying him just as intently and almost took a step back. Instead, he frowned and her smile returned.

"I wanted to know what it is about this particular patient that's holding your interest," she said. "You've already diagnosed and started treatment for the poison, which means you should have already started avoiding work while you complain about...oh, hell. Like you need a topic."

She rolled her eyes and continued, "And considering that the hospital will probably have to eat the costs for her tests and treatment, yes, I felt free to ask the radiology lab to send her X-rays to me. That's why I asked to see them." Cuddy finally handed him the envelope and, for the first time, there was something solemn to her countenance. "But that's not why I'd like to discuss them. It's time for a consultation, gentlemen."

Without a word, but still a little indignant at the suggestion that he could be considered predictable, House turned toward his office, headed for the film illuminator mounted there. Cuddy and Wilson followed and flanked him as he turned on the illuminator. House handed his cane to Wilson then slid the radiographs into place as the box's lights flickered, brightened, and steadied. The last one secured, House took a step back, retrieving his cane from Wilson as he did so, to appraise the stark images of his patient's hands and feet.

The shafts of the third and fourth metacarpals on each hand, proximal to each wrist's capitate and hamate, had at some point in recent years been shattered by comminuted fractures into more fragments than House could readily count. Likewise, the shafts of the second, third, and fourth metatarsals in each foot had been destroyed by similar comminuted fractures.

Remarkably, there was no sign of surgical intervention: no pins to help the healing, no resected bone despite the fact that there had clearly been significant medial displacement and lateral angulation of several of the larger distal fragments. This had resulted in remodeling and occasional malunions in her hands and feet that must cause pain enough to possibly equal his own.

Not that any of those big words would mean much to his patient, House decided, since it was probably pretty hard to get too impressed over sterile terminology that ultimately translated into Nice work, princess, looks like you survived a hell of a crucifixion.

He realized that he was kind of starting to look forward to hearing this particular patient history because, given the quality of her people skills, House had to wonder exactly whom she had pissed off and just what she had needed to do to piss 'em off this badly. Lies or no, whatever she had to say should at least be a little less banal than most of the stories that patients usually told.

"Well," House said, "today definitely isn't the worst day she's ever had." He pursed his lips briefly, his eyes roaming over the images of the calluses and ossified trabeculae that had knit the splintered bones together. "And to think she was making such a fuss about those cozy little restraints on the bed. Why, you'd've thought she was being nailed to something." He glanced at Wilson then Cuddy. "Again."

"I know," Cuddy said impassively. She had something of the controlled and unsurprised quiet about her that House had observed Cuddy draw on when she attended rape victims and battered children brought to the clinic. "This couldn't have been done with bullets. At the very least, a bullet would have powdered most of the fine bones. But with the size of the spikes that must have been used, it still doesn't seem possible that she's not a multiple amputee at this point."

"True 'dat," agreed House, "and she certainly did a fine job of demonstrating she could still make a fist today." With another glance at the X-rays, he remarked, "Now, how cool is it that not only is there no osteonecrosis but the fragments somehow didn't just fuse into twisted masses? Because that's a really neat trick. Especially since she obviously hasn't been hanging out with any orthopedic surgeons."

"Exactly." Cuddy looked up at House, a hint of incredulity having crept into her expression.

"Nothing assisted with the appositions, but nothing interfered either. There's no sign there was ever any infection or soft tissue interposition. I mean, yes, there are a few malunions, but, my God, these bones shouldn't have been able to come back from this sort of trauma at all." Turning back to the film, Cuddy seemed almost as outraged as she was amazed by the thought, which, House had to privately admit, was a fairly reasonable response.

"It's as if everything just more or less lined back up spontaneously, coasted through the inflammatory and reparative phases, and remodeled to leave her with a full flexion and extension range," she said, sounding frustrated.

"Am I the only one wondering how she actually survived this?" Wilson asked, irregular shadows catching at the angles and planes of his face as he craned to peer at each of the X-rays in turn. "The shock alone should have killed her when this happened." He shifted his weight, leaning closer to House, his finger tracing the discontinuities in the fracture margins and then lingering on the images of notable protuberances.

"Just look at the incidental trauma," said Wilson, "like here, where she avulsed these CMCJs and, again, over here, even more avulsion fractures and butterfly fractures all over both of the talonavicular joints, there and there." Wilson blew out a heavy breath and turned his head toward House although another few seconds passed before he managed to look away from the X-rays and make eye contact. "When you mentioned the scars earlier, I don't think I fully appreciated the damage you were describing."

Reaching over to turn off the illuminator, House sighed. "Yes, well. Story of my life." He looked at Cuddy. "I need those tests, Dr. Cuddy."

"I already approved them, Dr. House." Sadistically gracious in victory, Cuddy smiled when she saw his irritation. "Just don't try to bullshit me about this patient again the way you did in front of those detectives."

"Language!" House primly chastened just as Wilson turned his head and coughed discreetly.

When Wilson looked up, House caught his eye. He glanced significantly into the other office at the neatly coiled whip that Wilson had left on the table and scowled a warning at Wilson to find Cuddy's tacky, manipulative ways a little less funny. Wilson had glanced at the whip when House did and now whatevered a look back without bothering to hide his grin this time.

Following their looks, Cuddy eyed the whip then looked thoughtfully at House. "Still any good with one of those?" she asked him.

"Better than ever," House said, smiling just a little. He leaned close to add, "Just ask Wilson."

Then he straightened and checked his watch, tapping his cane against the floor twice as he did some quick time estimates. "The Bloodhound Gang should be checking in soon with the rest of the test results. Hopefully, we'll have a better idea about the secret recipe for this tough little cookie currently in my care. In the meantime--"

"Dr. House," Cuddy interrupted, her voice now cool and contemplative. She had begun a slow study of the surroundings. "May I ask what happened to your office?"

House exchanged a quick look with Wilson; the starred glass, chipped plaster, and scarred wood had completely slipped his mind. Wilson, the bastard, made an airy little gesture, indicating that House could field this one. House almost made a gesture of his own right back at Wilson, who had abruptly become quite taken with the tall squiggly floor lamp by the comfortable chair.

"Oh, God," Cuddy suddenly said. "You were playing with her weapons." She touched her fingertips to her temples then pulled her hands away, palms raised and upturned in a gesture of swift comprehension. "In my hospital, you were playing with her weapons." Uttering a short, exasperated laugh, Cuddy shook her head just as her pager began to sound from her lab coat pocket. She pulled it out, silencing it while she read the message.

Seizing the opportunity, House glowered at Wilson for failure to assist. They conducted a heated exchange in pantomime and eyebrows, subsiding when Cuddy dropped the pager back into her pocket.

"We'll discuss this later," she said, indicating the office. "And leave the weapons alone. All of them. Trust me, Dr. House, you're dangerous enough without being armed."

"Oh, all right." As though afraid he might blush, House dipped his head. Peeking through his lashes, he said, "If you're going to talk that pretty, I'll let you have a turn with her whip."

With a half-smile, Cuddy cut a sidelong look at him that said Don't tempt me even as she announced, "Keep me posted on what you find." Her pager went off again. Cuddy let the pneumatic door swish shut behind her, passing Cameron in the hall without looking up as she reached in her pocket.

Wilson cleared his throat and curled the corner of his mouth up enough to deepen the dimple in his cheek. "You know, you really ought to be careful, making offers like that to Cuddy on a day like this."

"Why? Afraid she'll take a piece out of you when she finds out you were playing with the weapons, too?" House asked, motioning Cameron to join them. He wondered what could have distracted Cuddy from threatening him right then and there with an itemized bill for the damages to his office. House timed himself, making sure Cameron was just entering as he said to Wilson, "Or are you just saying that because I made you sit on that whip handle in front of Dr. Cuddy?" House caught Cameron's startled expression and leaned in conspiratorially.

"I know. Like it was the first time." House rolled his eyes and appropriated the printouts she held.

When she didn't complain about that, he glanced up to see the sympathetic look Cameron was giving Wilson. Vexed to find she was so easily distracted, and by Wilson, no less, House asked, "Well, if you aren't going tell me what you learned from the blood work, aren't you at least going to ask what happened to my office?"

Cameron stole a quick look around and pressed her lips together in a wry smile before saying, "I'll pass. Maybe Dr. Chase can ask."

"Spoilsport. You're spending too much time with Foreman," House said. He held up the printouts. "The results?"

"She knows how to not take your crap any more?" Wilson offered, openly amused by his own deliberate misunderstanding.

"Have I mentioned lately what a funny guy you are? No? Huh. Think maybe there's a reason?" House said disdainfully, unable to believe he had set himself up for that.

Cameron's survival skills must have been improving, because she maintained a carefully neutral expression as she cut in to say, "There wasn't anything in her system but the aconite. We'll need to rerun the metabolic panel after we know she's fasted for a few hours, but the results of this CMP showed a high level of creatinine."

"But that's pretty normal for an advanced athlete," Wilson suggested.

"Well, yes, and her high BUN-to-creatinine ratio could be explained by shock," Cameron said. "However, the results also show abnormally low potassium and elevated sodium in her blood, which means--."

"Issues with her kidneys, huh?" House interrupted. He smiled and glanced at Wilson. "This chick, Xena? She is so into me." He turned back to Cameron.

"Get a urine sample to check her creatinine clearance and her current level of androgenic steroids," he said. "Then give her an oral dose of dexamethasone so we can recheck the androgenic steroid levels in her urine tomorrow. Her blood pressure was normal, but the aconite may have been masking hypertension, so I want you to draw blood for aldosterone and PRA tests, too."

"Plasma renin activity?" Cameron considered. "This obviously isn't Cushing's, so...what? Do you think this is Conn's syndrome? Or some sort of adrenal adenoma or hyperplasia?"

"No, I just think until I see the MRI results, it would be really hot if sending you for samples could spark up a little girl-on-girl action. Page me if she tries to overpower you the way she did Chase. I'll throw in fifty bucks if it ends with an open-mouthed kiss." House winked broadly at her, delighted by the disgusted noise Cameron made.

"Oh, speaking of swapping spit, collect salvia every six hours for an adrenal stress index. Sadly, I have to recommend not using an open-mouth kiss for that but I can still pretend." House sighed wistfully.

"I think I see where you're going with this," Wilson said then paused when House smiled at him. "Not the girl-on-girl fantasies. Stop it," he said, obviously trying not to smile back for Cameron's sake. "I'd recommend running both 24-hour urine and plasma catecholamine tests, just to see if there are any pheochromocytomas or other neuroendocrine tumors. They'll also show how much of her dopamine is turning into HVA, which you can compare to Dr. Foreman's test results."

"What he said," House told Cameron. "Go on. Scoot. And let me know how warm Xena likes the massage oil. I've got five different flavors in my office, you know." He raked his eyes up her body and added in a voice low and dirty, "And I know you know." That was sufficient to send Cameron stalking off without another word from her.

House went to his backpack and fished out a bottle of Vicodin. Pocketing it, he turned back to Wilson. "Still up for the crazy?"

"Well, obviously, since I'm friends with you." Wilson held the door and fell into step with House as they made the short trip to the elevator.

"Is it just me," House asked, "or was there something intriguingly subtextual in your reply?"

Pressing the call button, Wilson regarded House blandly. "You tell me, pal. You're the one impaling me on whip handles."

A thought clearly occurred to Wilson just then and he crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing slightly. "By the way, how did Cuddy know about you and the whip?"

The elevator arrived and they entered. House smiled and, turning to face forward, said, "Oh, the stories I could tell," as the door slid shut.

#

House and Wilson made their way to the nurses' station in the psych ward. The ward, with notably less natural light due to the notably fewer glass walls, offered only a few signs of this morning's disruption. A ficus plant was still on its side, loose soil spilling from its cracked blue plastic pot. There was a long gash in the soothingly neutral grey fabric covering one of the waiting room couches. The few employees that House saw seemed slightly more harried than usual, likely thanks to the unexpected personnel shortage that Xena had caused.

Wilson immediately swooped in on a lovely blonde nurse with green eyes, a rumpled uniform, and a sloppy ponytail who blushed when he smiled at her. Unimpressed, House leaned over the countertop, looking at the desk on the other side for anything listing the room assignments.

"Excuse me," said another nurse. Seated at a computer across the desk from House, just to his right, she was a plump woman with olive-toned skin and over-waxed eyebrows that gave her the appearance of perpetually outraged astonishment. Her nametag proclaimed her "Lucrecia."

House only just managed to hold back a snort of amusement as he wondered if she offered drinks that were as poisonous as her glare. Or maybe that look on her face really was just because of the eyebrows. Hard to say.

"May I help you?" Lucrecia asked coldly. She clicked her mouse and the printer began to hum before she deigned to spare House a disinterested look.

Nope, not just the eyebrows. House said, "I need to find the patient who was with Dr. Foreman at the time Foreman was assaulted. Tall, skinny kid. Who is he and where is he?"

"Who, that one who started singing after they sedated him? That Joxer guy?" Lucrecia said, her eyebrows refusing to betray whether she really was that disgusted and overwhelmed at the thought. House hoped the song had been about her and the fact that she at least needed to invest in a good brow pencil.

"That's right. Ask me the questions like I'll know," House said, the novelty of this fucking conversation well past over. He was glad to see that at least the items belonging to Xena's little friend were here. However, that meant the investigating detectives must have watched the security tapes and would be along to pay a visit to this guy before too long.

Lucrecia pulled the pages off the printer and straightened them. Setting them aside, she glanced around her workspace. She stretched and lifted with one hand a neatly folded stack of clothes, topped with a round piece of metal that was either a battered trashcan lid or a breastplate.

"Where's my stapler?" she muttered.

"Hello?" House snapped. She jerked her hand back and glared at him. House returned the glare. "If I knew who he was, I wouldn't be spending this quality time with you. Tick-tock, cupcake. Where the hell is he?"

"You know, you could take some lessons from that other doctor who was here just a little bit ago," Lucrecia said with a sniff. She was clearly quite the braintrust, now lifting her keyboard as if the stapler could be under there. Unexpectedly, a hint of a girlish smile softened her round face into a slightly less hostile, if still astonished, expression. Lucrecia added a little breathlessly, "He was in a hurry, too, but Dr. Iolaus was such a gentleman."

"Iolaus," House repeated in disbelief. Another Greek freak. Great. He noticed Wilson's attention had turned from the little blonde nurse to this conversation. House exchanged looks with him, then asked, "This Dr. Iolaus, did you recognize him? What department is he with?"

"I don't know what department he's with. I never saw him before, but I won't mind seeing him again when he comes back with that patient you were asking for." Lucrecia continued to move binders and folders around on the desk, apparently still after the goddamned Stapler of Delphi for a consult. Her hand strayed again to the pile of clothes, now sliding into the folds. Blinking and frowning, Lucrecia asked again, "Where's my stapler?"

"Paperclip!" House sang. He gripped the edge of the counter instead of her neck. "What did Dr. Iolaus look like? What was he wearing?"

At the mention of that name, Lucrecia snatched her hand back and her frown eased once more.

"Mm. He was about six foot one, broad shoulders, brown eyes, black hair, mustache, and this little scar, right about here," she said, dragging a finger dreamily over her chin. "Looked so nice in that lab coat."

"And he's apparently able to induce estrus," House said, his temper about to redline. He snapped his fingers in front of her face and she jolted, her expression finally functioning as an appropriate reaction. She shot him a nasty look and resumed her eternal quest for that stapler.

House had had enough. He slammed his fist on the counter, knocking over a smoked black plastic cup and scattering the cheap pens it had held.

"Focus," he snapped as she reached under the pile of clothes again.

"Where's my stapler?" Lucrecia said with a movement of her shoulders that was almost more of a twitch than a shrug. Her eyes flicked up to House and then back to her workspace. Lucrecia glanced around jerkily and muttered once more, "Where's my stapler?"

The little blonde -- nametagged Nicole, House now saw -- moved closer, sliding a hand over the top of the counter to gather the pens. She said anxiously, "I'm sorry, Dr. House. Can I help you?"

"Yes," said House, watching Lucrecia. From the corner of his eye, he saw Chase approaching. Without looking away, he motioned to the younger man to hurry up and join them. "Call a code."

Lucrecia's head suddenly snapped up again. Her face went slack and her eyes were blank. House only had time to think absence seizure before Lucrecia lurched to her feet.

"Where's my stapler? Where's my stapler? Where's my stapler?" she repeated without inflection. Suddenly, her eyes widened with rage.

"Code!" Wilson shouted just as Lucrecia jerkily snatched the Nicole's crooked ponytail and slammed the other woman's face into the edge of the counter, shrieking, "WHERE'S MY FUCKING STAPLER?"

Lucrecia yanked Nicole's head back. Streamers of ropy snot and blood swung from Nicole's broken nose and her eyelids fluttered wildly. Lucrecia slammed the other woman's face into the edge of the desk once more before Wilson and two large orderlies intervened. The orderlies pried Lucrecia off of Nicole, while Wilson eased Nicole to the floor.

Chase had moved to assist but House had stopped him. The situation was under control and House wanted whatever update Chase had come to give him.

"What just happened?" Chase asked. They watched as the struggling, screaming Lucrecia was taken away by the two large orderlies. Wilson was overseeing Nicole's care with the help of a newly-arrived nurse but he spared House a concerned and questioning glance.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I just learned not to fuck with that woman's office supplies," House absently replied. He was reconstructing everything that had transpired in the last few minutes. Looking at Chase, he said, "How did you know I was up here?"

Chase blinked and said, "I was there when Dr. Foreman was attacked, remember? When you weren't in your office, I figured you came up here to follow up."

"Lying by omission is still lying. You watched some of the DVD you found in my office and then guessed," House corrected, his eyes drawn back to the pile of clothes on the desk. "Remind me to show you where I keep the porn flicks so you can really figure out how I work. Now, what do you have for me about the patient?"

"Foreman and Cameron are in the lab, working on their analyses. The patient's shoulder's patched up, and we managed to do the MRI and the LP before she came 'round again," said Chase. He planted his hands on his hips, looking down briefly before he continued. "That woman's back is a mess. From the scars, I'd say she was flogged pretty badly at some point. I don't even know what to make of what we saw in the MRI results."

"Well, thank God you're not the one in charge, then," said House. He appreciated the crabby look that Chase gave him. "What else? Atropine working?"

"Her vitals are improving. Since she won't answer any questions, that's mostly what we have to go on until we get the results on the latest blood work." Sounding pissy and harassed, Chase added, "No patient history from her, though. She refuses to speak to anyone but you."

"And the patient's reason for this is, what?" House asked, a little surprised. "She decided she liked you more when your face was between her thighs?" Just past Chase, he could see Cuddy and a hospital security guard coming this way.

"No, actually. She's a crazy woman. That's why I assumed she was asking for you," Chase snapped.

He obviously caught the leisurely smile spreading on House's face as House silently invited him to continue. Discretion being the better part of survival, Chase released a slow breath and continued more evenly, "She seems to think the hospital is some sort of healing temple and that you're the one in charge."

"She thinks House is running this place?" Wilson asked, rejoining them. "Maybe she really is your dream girl, then." He looked tired and somber as he glanced over at the orderlies now tidying up the nurses' station. "What do you think that was about, House?"

"House, tell me you didn't have anything to do what just happened over here," Cuddy said grimly, still a short distance away.

"How could you even suggest such a thing?" House demanded. He looked at her pointedly. "It's not my fault there are so many screamingly insane women in this hospital."

"You underestimate yourself," Cuddy said dryly. "For once. What are you doing up here?"

The uniform with her turned out to be none other than Freddie Landauer, security guard extraordinaire. Short, slender, and with fine, sandy brown hair that tended to curl at the ends, Freddie glanced uncomfortably at House and then away at nothing in particular. Freddie obviously was worried that House might have learned of the terms set for dubbing the security tapes and would have something to say about the matter.

House, now looking forward to providing some dating advice, waited until Freddie stole another nervous look at him then smiled with intent at the other man. Freddie looked a little desperate. Pleased, House finally answered Cuddy.

"Following up on a patient," House said truthfully enough. Not wanting to an earful for admitting that he had acquired the morning's security footage, he added, "The leptospirosis kid. You know, what's his name, came in last week. And, what? You're setting up new digs in the psych ward?" He threw a hugely knowing look at Wilson and Chase. "It was only a matter of time before the mothership called her home."

A flicker of tired amusement touched Cuddy's eyes. "I'm trying to figure out how to keep this place running while the eleven employees from this floor alone are being treated for their injuries. And unfortunately, we've had a number of issues up here this morning besides that little visit from your patient." She sighed, rubbing her forehead briefly before she glanced over the top of the nurses' station.

"Shit. That's still here?" She turned back to the security guard, pointing to the pile of clothes and crappy armor. "Freddie, take those things downstairs. Detective Williams will be here shortly to collect them. Oh, and he's going to want a number of items from Dr. House that Dr. House will only be too happy to relinquish to you."

House ignored her broad hint, as unsubtle a display as the plunging neckline of her silk blouse, and watched Freddie nod and slip around Cuddy. The security guard was just tall enough to stretch over the counter and grab the pile.

"Freddie," House said, thinking again of Lucrecia and the way she had unhinged after handling those clothes. Well, this would be as good a time as any to find out if there was a connection. As Freddie straightened, the stuff in his arms, House said, "Wait a sec."

Freddie stared at him, hazel eyes wide and briefly uncertain. He answered in an attempt at casualness, "Um, yeah?"

"How are you feeling today, Fred?" House asked pleasantly. "Anything on your mind? Anything you'd like to talk about?"

"Hey, House," Wilson began, apparently only catching on to half of where House planned to go with this. "Lay off. This isn't the time."

House held up his hand, still watching Freddie. Freddie finally broke and said hurriedly, "Look, if this is about Dr. Cameron..." then stopped himself with a guilty glance at Cuddy.

"Well, it sure can be," House said agreeably, thinking, Provoked. Then Lucrecia felt provoked. "She's a real sweetheart, let me tell you. Kind, generous, compassionate. You'd never know she could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch until you get her into a bathroom stall at a monster truck rally."

When Freddie jerked as if he had just been struck a physical blow, House pressed on, pointing to himself and adding, "And just remember, you must be at least this tall to ride that ride, little man." And now Freddie was staring at House, but not blankly, just hurt and humiliated and angry.

"Dr. House! That's enough!" Having recovered from an instant of shocked speechlessness, Cuddy now looked furious. "Freddie, go. Now!"

She was still yelling but House tuned her out easily enough. The security guard turned away with one last dark but unfortunately untwitchy glance at House.

Well, hell. House sighed. His weird little theory about that stuff had been fun while it lasted.

Wilson dragged a hand over his face, stealing a prayerful look at the ceiling, and Chase just stared between House and Cuddy with open fascination.

Getting ready to distract Cuddy with, well, whatever would work, House opened his mouth to speak. Before he could get a word out, he heard a soft whumph, like heavy fabric being dropped, and the dull clatter of metal striking the floor just behind him.

"About Dr. Cameron. About Dr. Cameron. About Dr. Cameron," intoned a loud, inflectionless voice.

A chill prickled House's neck. He was suddenly aware that he was equally more brilliant and more stupid than even he had known.

House turned to face Freddie as Wilson called another code.

The security guard had let the pile of clothes and armor fall unceremoniously to the floor. With a sudden jerky movement Freddie's right arm came up, a gun in his hand.

"About Dr. Cameron," Freddie said, his voice as dead as his eyes were livid, and fired.

Wilson was already shoving House even before the gun's report. House was falling, then Wilson was falling, and their combined weight landed on House's bum leg with so much force that House would have screamed if he could have choked the sound out as more than a sob.

He shoved desperately away from Wilson, certain the bullet had somehow buried itself in his ruined right thigh. When he managed to pull his hand away from his leg, though, it was clean and dry.

Blinking back involuntary tears of pain and still struggling to catch his breath, House rolled over to see the blood spreading over the lower left side of Wilson's torso. Wilson was breathing shallowly but still breathing. Chase was already gloved and fast at work with the assistance of a nurse as Cuddy efficiently coordinated all other efforts.

"I am not his friend. I can be his doctor," Chase said, without looking up as he finished securing the oxygen mask over Wilson's face, without slowing as he started to hook up Wilson to the cardiac monitor. "House, are you all right?"

"When you get him to the OR, make sure Steele assists," House said. He tore his eyes away as Chase cut open Wilson's shirt to yell to Cuddy, "Do you hear that? Make sure it's Steele! This is Wilson, so make sure Steele assists!"

"She's already scrubbing up," Cuddy said, snapping shut her cell phone and kneeling next to House. "OR will be ready by the time we have him downstairs."

Wilson's breathing became notably more labored. Chase pulled on his stethoscope and moved the chestpiece, listening.

"Left lung has collapsed," he told the nurse as he yanked out the earpieces.

Chase swabbed a spot between Wilson's ribs, pushed a local anaesthetic, and made a small incision with a scalpel. Handing the scalpel back to the nurse, Chase took a chest tube from her and inserted the end into the incision, feeding the tube carefully into Wilson. Following a quick stitch, Chase taped it into place. The nurse began draining the fluids from around Wilson's lung into the small bottle of sterile water attached to the other end of the tube. Chase checked Wilson's vitals again.

"He's good to move. Let's go," Chase said.

Only as Wilson was transferred to the waiting gurney did House become aware again of the pain in his leg.

The brain has a gating mechanism for pain, House thought desperately as he clutched at his right thigh, words from Wilson returning unexpectedly. Registers the most severe injury and blocks out the others.

With a guttural sound, he curled on his left side, squeezing his eyes shut when he saw the blood that had spread where Wilson had been. House had never been so thankful for his ruined leg.

"House," he heard Cuddy say, still kneeling over him. "House--"

"Go. Go with him," House ground out, unable to meet her eyes. "You have to go with him. I can't keep up. Just go. I'll be fine. It's just my leg."

As a spasm wrenched his back, House clamped his teeth together then managed to say, "And keep the idiots away from me. Back 'em off. It's just my fucking leg." When she hesitated, he finally looked at her.

"For Wilson. Please," said House, trying to catch his breath. "It's just my fucking leg."

Cuddy sighed and nodded, already straightening and directing everyone away from House before she hurried to catch up with Wilson and the others.

Concentrating on breathing normally, House rolled onto his back. His left hand moved to the bloody patch. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, closing his eyes again briefly. Then he pulled his hand back and reached into his pocket for the Vicodin.

House sat up on his elbows just enough to get the cap open and shake a few pills into his stained hand. Barely lunchtime, he realized without really caring, and with this dose, he would be over his usual limit for an entire day.

He dry-swallowed the Vicodin. Only after, when he wet his lips and tasted that distinct metallic tang, did House register that he'd just gotten Wilson's blood on his face.

He recapped the bottle and returned it to his pocket, wiping his face against his shoulder. House glanced up in time to see an orderly reaching for the discarded pile of clothes and armor.

"No," House said. The orderly froze and looked at House, alarmed.

"Get away from that." House dragged himself first to his left knee, then to his feet. He willed himself not to faint when he finally had to shift some weight onto his right leg. House made his way over to the pile and told the orderly to get lost while he prodded at and shifted the clothes with his cane.

When he saw the small dagger hidden in the folds, a cracked black stone in the bronze pommel cap catching the light unevenly, House only nodded to himself. He reflected for a moment. He looked back at the blood, already being cleaned away by a custodian, and realized he had nothing left to lose.

House awkwardly stooped to pick up the dagger, balancing on his left leg and the cane and groaning in spite of himself with the effort.

"Are you all right?" asked someone from nearby.

"It's just my fucking leg," House said again, his fingers closing around the hilt, and suddenly the words seemed to thunder and echo in his head.

It's just my fucking leg, House thought, a white rage building as he jerked his head around to glare at the hovering nurse. It's just my fucking leg. It's just my fucking leg.

The nurse took an involuntary step back at whatever he saw in House's face. That was when House let out a shaky breath, reigning in the anger he'd felt every day of his life since the infarction had left him fucked up and ruined.

Because, really, it was just his fucking leg and House knew how to live with that.

"Hand me that," House said to nurse, glancing at the coarse blue shirt at his feet. He took the shirt from the nurse and wrapped it around the dagger.

"Where's Freddie?" House asked when he was certain of his own calm.

The nurse pointed over to where two orderlies stood, obviously waiting for the police to make it upstairs and assume responsibility of Freddie. Freddie was seated on the floor, his hands cuffed behind him apparently with his own handcuffs.

"About Dr. Cameron," Freddie said in that dead voice. His malevolent eyes locked on to House as House approached. "About Dr. Cameron."

"No," House said quietly. "About Dr. Wilson."

Putting all the weight on his right leg that it could take and bracing his left hand on the shoulder of a startled orderly, House tossed his cane, caught it by the shaft, and swung it forward to slam the handle into Freddie's face.

The orderly tried to flinch away from the sudden assault but House tightened his grip on the man. Fresh pain flared through his body as House again had to shift his weight slightly to rebalance himself.

That gating mechanism really is a beautiful thing, House thought, inspecting his work with clinical regard. Satisfied with the dazed listlessness he now saw in Freddie's eyes, and certainly with the spumes of blood from Freddie's nose and mouth, House let go of the orderly and gave a little nod.

"Thanks," said House to the speechless man that he had used for support. He flipped his cane and caught it easily by the handle. He glanced again at Freddie just in time to see the security guard drool out part of a tooth in a thick string of bright red saliva.

"See that he gets that looked at," House ordered dispassionately, already making his way for the elevators before anyone could, or possibly dared, stop him.

#

It was easy enough to get rid of the uniform stationed outside of his patient's room. House conjured a wild-eyed urgency he didn't feel at and impressed upon the nave young woman the need for her presence upstairs. Cruising on automatic pilot, House pushed all the right buttons to assuage her doubts and send her hurrying away.

He distantly hoped her supervisors fired her, although he wasn't entirely certain if she would deserve it since was abandoning her post to respond to what had actually been at one point a life-threatening situation. Then House realized he really didn't give a shit one way or another, and he was okay with that.

He was so glad that he was finally starting to feel the Vicodin and nothing else.

His patient was on her side, her back to him. Where the johnny gaped, he could see where Foreman must have recently done the LP, which explained why she was still on her side. Someone would probably be by soon to return her to a supine position.

And probably armed with a tranq gun and animal handler's loop, thought House, studying with more interest the scars that Chase had described. At least two different whips had been used to flog her on at least two separate occasions, judging from the shapes of the scars. If they're smart.

"Who's there?" she asked, lifting her head and looking over her injured shoulder but not turning over to face him. House could see both of her hands were restrained on the rail in front of her, although someone had had the good sense to secure them far enough apart that she couldn't work the straps free herself.

"I heard you wanted to speak to me," House said, sliding the door shut and drawing the curtain over the glass wall again. "Start talking."

"What's happened?" Xena asked, her eyes moving from his bloodstained hand to the bundle tucked under his arm. "That's Joxer's shirt. Where is he?" She gave a violent tug on the restraints, her nostrils flaring.

"Where is Joxer? What have you done with him?" She tugged again, shaking the bed with the force. "I thought this was a temple of Aescalpius."

"Well, I swear by Hippocratus, myself," House said, automatically checking the monitor above her bed. Everything looked fine. He moved around the bed so that he faced her. "Let's start with, oh, say, who are you? Where are you from? How did you get here?"

She compressed her lips into a thin line and House patiently bore the weight of her scrutiny, allowing her time to assess him. His intentions. Her eyes moved to the shirt again under his arm again and back to his face.

"I told you. My name is Xena. I was born and raised in Amphipolis. I'm not entirely sure how I got here." Her brows drew together and she asked again, "Where's Joxer?"

"In a minute," House said. "Elaborate on what you do know about how you got here."

They started each other down. House smiled. He had the advantage here because she had something to lose. Her eyes narrowed and she finally relented.

"I was helping another friend, Autolycus. He'd gotten himself in trouble, tried to take refuge at Hermes' shrine in Arcadia, but Ares...Ares wouldn't knock it off. He sent an entire barbarian horde after Autolycus."

House drew on a reserve of inner strength that he didn't know he had to refrain from commenting on any of this. He just fiddled with his cane, determined to hear the rest of her story.

Xena looked disgusted and eventually added, "Those two have had this thing going ever since Discord got turned into a chicken. Ares retaliated, and they've been fucking with each other ever since." She rolled her eyes again.

"Men," Xena said irritably. "And gods. They're all a bunch of idiots."

"A profound philosophical perspective, one I agree with completely, but you didn't answer my question," House said, choosing to set aside the rest of the story for the moment. See, that was the good thing about Vicodin: it made the stupid shit so much easier to ignore. "How did you get here?"

"I told you what I know." Xena watched him, her eyes half-lidded. She was clearly growing more impatient. House noted with interest that there was no change in her vitals, however.

"We were at the shrine in Arcadia. Ares appeared. He went after Autolycus, then Joxer, and I'm pretty sure I heard Hermes mouthing off. Then Joxer and I were here, with Ares still after us. Only there's something wrong with Ares now and, trust me, he wasn't all that right to begin with." She glared at him.

"Where's Joxer?" Xena fell silent again, this time clearly determined to wait him out.

House enjoyed the silence for a bit before he said, "Actually, that's another one of my questions. I was told he was with someone named, curiously enough, Iolaus. Ring a bell?"

A genuinely bewildered look touched Xena's face. "But that...no. Iolaus is with Hercules. They're at Jason's farm, all the way out in Corinth. How...I don't...that doesn't make any sense."

Unable to help himself, House laughed a little at that. It was a short, brittle sound, but it was still a laugh. "Right. I'm glad we finally isolated the part of today that doesn't make sense." He thought for a moment and said, "Describe Iolaus."

"Short, blond, built like--" she began, but House waved her quiet.

"Not the guy I was told had taken your friend, Joxer," he said. "Tall, dark eyes, dark hair, moustache, scar on his chin."

With obvious surprise, Xena said, "Autolycus." She seemed to consider then said on a sigh, "Oh, shit. What's that moron up to now?"

And that, in all its naked and exasperated honesty, decided House on his course of action.

Moving close enough to the bed to prop his cane against the rail, he resituated the little bundle under his arm. House turned off the monitor and withdrew the I.V. from the back of her scarred right hand. He let his fingers return there, peeling off a piece of tape and tracing the uneven line of her second metatarsal, before he began to unbuckle the restraint around her right wrist.

"Why?" was the only thing she said.

"I don't believe you," House said, refusing to let her catch his eye. "I don't believe any of this."

His hands moved to the other restraint, unbuckling it easily. He picked up his cane, lowered the rail, and went to the other end of the bed. When he had freed her legs, House finally met her steady gaze.

"But that doesn't mean you're lying." He turned away, saying, "Now get up. Come with me."

If Xena made any noise as she rose from the bed, House didn't hear it. With grim amusement, he decided not to look back to see if she was following.

He wasn't Orpheus, after all. He'd have to trust that she would be with him every step of the way.

-end Fit the Third-