A man hopped, as best a man can hop with a bum leg, a cane and a heavy bag across his shoulders from the hot sweaty atmosphere of a bus and into the hot dry air of a city surrounded by desert.
Gregory House had arrived in Las Vegas intent on continuing his tumbleweed existence that had served him well for almost three and a half years.
It was four years ago since he'd woken up to find a large chunk missing from his thigh muscle. And after six months of trying to find it in his broken heart to forgive his girlfriend for approving the treatment, trying to walk without the aid of a cane and trying to remember why he became a doctor in the first place, he gave up. Gave up being Stacy's significant other, gave in to relying on a cane and painkillers for the rest of his life and decided that being a doctor just didn't work for him anymore.
And so, he found himself cane in hand, miles for Stacy doing the only thing that gave him the slightest feeling of escape and contentment after the infarction; playing the piano.
He lived a nomad existence, staying and moving on when he pleased as he followed his feet (and cane) wherever they led.
But it was not his feet that led him to Las Vegas.
After hopping from the bus he moved quickly to the side (as quickly as a man with a bum leg, a cane and a heavy bag across his shoulders can move) from the stream of backpackers, gamblers, students and tourists that came behind him and contruibuted to the sweaty atmosphere of the coach.
Standing to the side, and dropping his bag to the sidewalk he removed an envelope from his jeans pocket. He took the sheets of paper out unfurling them in his long fingered hands. First and foremost there was a letter from his best and only multiply married, subsequently divorced, can't keep it in his pants friend. On another piece of paper were directions to the nearest dry cleaners and the clinic where Wilson (his best and only friend) worked, accompanied by a map of the city his route highlighted in blue.
Both the directions and the map were useless for the fact that he had been to Las Vegas 7 times during his travels, but it all contributed to his latest theory about his friend.
He had realised that since his friend had lost his most recent wife, who had lasted longer than the rest, that Wilson had become increasingly controlling and particular about anything and everything.
Letters that used to be written in his doctorly signature scrawl, now they were meticulous in everyway. The map, directions, i's dotted, t's crossed and every word readable; House normally had to spend an hour decoding his friend's correspondence.
His friend's divorce and subsequent change in letter writing style were the main reasons why he had come to Las Vegas. The other reasons were the casinos and strip clubs he had yet to grace his presence within the city of sin.
Putting the envelope back in his pocket, he scowled and narrowed dark lens covered eyes at the feeling of the sun burning the skin on the back of his neck. He twitched the collar of his button-down shirt attempting to cover his neck before shouldering the bag that contained his life and hobbling in the direction of the dry cleaners through familiar streets.
The bell ringed as he crossed the threshold.
From his large green army-style bag he pulled a tux, a grey suit and four shirts (2 white, 1 blue, 1 pink) and handed them over and arranged to pick them up the next day, so that he could hit the usual spots where his pianist skills would be appreciated and well paid for.
He stepped back into the glaring sun, the weight on his shoulders lightened but still heavy.
4 band embellished shirts, 2 button-down crumpled shirts, 2 pairs of jeans, 4 pairs of boxer briefs, 4 pairs of socks, soap, shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste, towel, a small medical kit, his wallet, various important documents, black leather shoes, a polishing kit, his 'pretty' cane and a shaving kit. The last item was not there by choice but necessity; some establishments didn't take too kindly to his preferred five o'clock shadow.
All this was relatively light; most of the weight in his bag came from his black leather jacket, leather gloves and his motorcycle helmet.
Though he would have loved to just bike his way across the US he didn't think his leg could take it, instead he hired whatever bike took his fancy if he felt like going for a ride.
As he turned the corner and saw the building of the clinic looming towards him, various models of bikes where moving through his mind. He was intent on pushing the boat out a little this visit as Wilson had offered to let him crash in his spare room, as there was no wife for House to anger to tears or scare to hysterical fits of screaming, so he didn't need to fork out cash for a motel room for this stay.
He stepped into the cool air-conditioned waiting room of the clinic with a slight sigh on his lips. Taking his sunglasses from the bridge of his nose his eyes scanned the room.
"Jimmy!" he cried, a slight smile at the corners of his mouth as everyone in the room turned to look at him as if he were a mad man.
James Wilson, who had previously been leaning against the reception desk glancing over his next patients file, jumped and looked aghast at the crippled man before him.
"House!" Wilson replied shocked. "I didn't think you'd be this side of the country until next year."
"Can't leave my best buddy to sulk for another five months before I come and cheer him up after another horrible divorce." he said drawing a little closer and setting his bag down and leaning it against the reception desk. "That would just be cruel."
"Which sounds a lot like you." Wilson replied smiling.
"Jimmy, you know me so well." he said faking hurt, before smirking. "Come on, you know me Wilson. Any excuse to get really drunk and high and wake up with a hot naked girl." Then after a mock pause he added, "Well, hopefully. There was that one time..."
"Ah!" said Wilson holding up his hand to stop anything else incriminating coming out of his friends mouth. "Its good to see you and I am glad you're here." he said with sincerity in his voice, the holding out his hand, "Have you got your file?"
"What? Why?" House asked suspiciously.
"We might as well have you checked out and refill your Vicodin while your here."
House was not really happy about the check up, but the promise of drugs afterwards caught his interest and he conceded, taking a thick file from his bag and handing it to Wilson, who in turn handed it to the nurse at the desk.
"Take a seat." Wilson instructed him, then taking up the file he was looking over he called out its owner's name, before turning back to House. "Thanks, really... for coming so soon."
"Sure thing bro." he said smirking.
"I'll just put this in my office and you can get it when we leave later." Wilson said taking up House's bag. "Jez what the hell have you got in here?"
"Handcuffs, leather whips and this really sexy chick I picked up in Chicago." House replied sarcastically walking toward an empty seat in the small room.
By the time he'd sat with the slightest grunt in discomfort he saw Wilson's retreating back covered by his bag. Shaking his head slightly he took Vicodin from his pocket shaking two of the bitter pills into his cupped hand before swallowing them dry.
As he waited for them to kick in he wondered if he'd ever want to go back to being a doctor. He disliked hospitals, not because they reminded him of his leg, but because they were full of boring sick people. I have a cold. I have a sore head. I have cancer. I have a migraine. I had an infarction give me more Vicodin.
He shook his head slightly and went back to his train of thought.
People in general were boring. He liked a challenge. He liked things that were hard to figure out wither people or their diseases.
The benefit to his current life was that he could move on whenever he pleased. If it was getting boring, if he had figured everything out then he'd just go and find a new city to figure out.
And if he ever were to go back to working as a doctor again, then he'd like to had a place where he'd be challenged and there would be something different almost everyday.
He leaned his head back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes, enjoying the buzz of a pain free moment.
"Gregory House?" asked a heavenly voice.
And he opened his eyes to the sight of an angel.
