Another Day in the Life of the Good Doctor
Another day, another diagnosis.
Joey Arnello didn't like protein or women. Those were the facts, that was the diagnosis, so no more steak, go easy on the Male Flame, good luck testifying and don't forget the bill.
With the Arnello case solved and Chase monitoring his stats, there was nothing for House to do. Foreman was on rotation in the ER, Cameron was rifling through his mail, and it was still early in the day.
Boredom set in.
He decided to seek out Wilson.
House knocked on Wilson's office door as obligatory forewarning of his arrival, gimped inside and then sat contemptuously on the paperwork stacked on the side of the desk. Wilson looked up at him with an interestingly morose glare and tried half-heatedly to push him off.
"Why are you here? Don't you have clinic duty? And isn't it your newest strategy to hide out in the clinic itself? Cuddy might actually look for you here, and then you'd be forced to help all those sick people and you couldn't possibly cope with playing doctor for two hours a week. And may I also remind you that there's a large, obstreperous millionaire walking around looking for ways to save money. Firing unproductive doctors is one of those ways."
House finally acquiesced to Wilson's prodding and relinquished his position on the newly compressed pile of paperwork, shifting to the lounge instead.
"I'm bored," he whined. "General Hospital's not on for another hour. And I need to buy some more batteries before I can resume level eight on Space Monkey Mission. You nearly done?"
"So I can assist you with….?" prompted Wilson.
"My search for the meaning of life."
Wilson stared at him for a long moment, then blinked resignedly. "You don't need someone to help you with that. The search for the meaning of life is a highly personal experience and I wouldn't want to impinge on your journey of self-discovery which ultimately leaves you enlightened and redeemed."
"No, the search for the meaning of life is a spiritual experience in which you come to realise that God is an apathetic smiter and as long as you recant on your deathbed…"
"I don't think the Catholics would agree with you…"
"The Catholics don't agree with themselves," retaliated House. "The Catholic church's indoctrination techniques are failing them in this modern age of free-thinking social activists. The power of rhetoric is just too strong for the ever-so-informed youth of our new Renaissance to accept a load of fabricated…"
"Don't you have a mobster to be looking after?" prompted Wilson, raising his eyebrows in a manner which suggested that House depart to the clinic, the cafeteria, the chapel, wherever Wilson wasn't.
"Nope. He's alive and kicking. He'll be fine. His brother's not too pleased but we can't be expected to deal with OTD and homophobia simultaneously. I'm sure there's a support group for that. If not, join some oil riggers and go work out on the Atlantic with the big burly straight men who visit their wives twice a year down in the deep dirty south."
"Right," commented Wilson. "You've had to deal with the feds and the mafia this week. Next week it might be the CIA or the KGB. You should go back to your office and rest up for next week's barrage of institutionalised attacks."
He opened up the next file on the stack and started writing. He looked up after a good two minutes and realised that House was just sitting and staring at him.
"You're still here."
House nodded. "Nice observation."
"Why?"
"Bored."
"What do you want?"
There was another pause in which House considered.
"No more Vogler, a couple of mill in cash, a Steinway….my automotive desires have been fulfilled already, so at least the first item on my '100 things I want before I die" list is taken care of. What else…?"
Wilson set aside the files, stood, and collected the lab coat hanging from the stand behind his desk. He shrugged it on swiftly and crossed the room without looking at House.
"Where are you going?" called House, unwilling to put in the effort required to get up and follow his evasive friend.
"I have these things called patients…" retorted Wilson as he left the office.
As the sound of Wilson's swift leather soles receded down the hall, House sighed to himself, a little mournfully.
He was bored and there was, indeed, an angry millionaire on the warpath.
His primary source of distraction was out of commission, there was nothing good on the second source, and the third was being elusive.
House hauled himself to his feet and decided to return to his office, where he could entertain himself online with virtual casinos, IQ tests and discussion boards about the newest Tom Cruise movie.
Another day in the life of the good doctor.