Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine.

A/N: This is a story I have been meaning to write for a while, and have finally started. Updates will hopefully not take long, though they may be sporadic. The story isn't completely written yet. I'm going to use my system of posting a chapter after the following one has been written; it's worked well in the past. So far, I have written through chapter three.

This story is set after Lockdown. All season 6 events happened. Cuddy and House are together. I guess that puts this story sometime in season 7, but I can't say for sure since I'm not sure how long ago Lockdown was. Just go with me.

A/N: To my lovely beta, I thank thee for all your hard work.

If House were to make a list of his top ten biggest pet peeves, 911 pages to the clinic would certainly make the top five, with the exception, of course, being 911 clinic pages from Cuddy to empty clinic rooms. (Those topped an entirely different top ten list.) House therefore answered this one with hopeful hesitation. He did not hurry down to the clinic, not wanting to look too desperate, but instead took his time meandering the hallways. When he reached the door of the clinic room he had been paged to, he was pleased to see that the lights were off, meaning there was no patient inside. He adjusted his shirt collar, trying not to look too pleased with himself, and then pushed open the door.

"Wilson just lost a bet." He heard the door slam shut behind him as he reached for his shirt buttons. He had barely gotten the top button undone before the lights were suddenly turned on.

It took a moment for the entire scene to register. Three people, two of whom he was close to, and one of whom he hadn't seen in several months, all sitting on the floor, with their backs against the wall. He could not see anything binding their arms or legs, which meant something else must have been keeping them rooted to the ground. He wondered vaguely if this was a hallucination, but how could it be? He hadn't been on the Vicodin in over a year, nearly a year and a half. His drug intake of any kind had been moderated and monitored. That only left one possibility.

The scene before him was actually real.

Though all three of them were staring at him, he could only look at the one in the middle. Her face was pained. She looked almost apologetic. He caught sight of the pager on the ground, a few inches from her feet. And then he knew.

"Don't turn around."

He felt the cold metal against his neck and knew that whoever was behind him was holding a gun, or, at the very least, pretending to. He fought the urge to turn around and yank the curling iron, or other household appliance, out of the speaker's hands, but she, sensing his intentions, shook her head. He distinctly saw her lips form the word.

Gun.

"Well this is a nice hello," he quipped. He was listening for the response, but was more focused on assessing the three people in front of him. None of them seemed to be injured in any way. And while this should have comforted him, it actually made him more nervous. If none of them had been injured, but the man still had a gun, it might be only a matter of time. His frown deepened when he looked to the person furthest to the right, the woman he had last seen nearly a year ago. She had her arms wrapped around her knees, but when he caught her eye, she shifted them slightly, and he saw what she had been hiding. Comprehension dawned on him as the pieces came together.

"I haven't hurt any of them."

"I can see that," House informed him. "Can I turn around now? I generally like to know what my hostage takers look like."

"Who said anything about taking you hostage?"

House fought the urge to roll his eyes, but then after remembering that the man couldn't see them, rolled them anyway. "You're holding a gun to my head. This does kind of make me your hostage."

He seemed to consider this for a moment. Then he said, "Put your hands on your head and turn around. Slowly."

"Can I at least get your-"

"Now!" He jabbed the muzzle of the gun harder against House's head for good measure. House saw the fear flash across Cuddy's eyes and slowly raised his hands to his head. He broke eye contact with her only at the last possible second, as he turned completely around to face his attacker.

The man was a good three inches shorter than him, and no more than half as good-looking. His disheveled appearance did nothing to help the matter; it looked as though he hadn't shaved in days. House thought the man looked vaguely recognizable, but nothing came immediately to mind. If anyone behind him recognized the man, they didn't show it either. He supposed that ruled out their specialties.

"What are you doing?" House had to ask. The man still had his gun – and House could clearly see that it really was a gun – raised and pointed at his, House's, chest. He continued calmly, "Or I'd settle for your name, at least. Since you are aiming a gun at me, and all."

"My name's on the chart," the man said gruffly. House looked at him appraisingly, wondering what illness he could possibly have, and hoping that it was a nastily painful one. Then it dawned on him: the man wasn't sick at all. He had simply lied about an illness to gain access to the clinic. Clearly some new security measures would need to be taken. Keeping his eyes on the gun, House reached for the chart on the chair.

He brought it up to his face and read aloud, "Mr. – wait, what? Come on, that can't be real."

"It's what it says on the chart, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but, Sid Vicious? That can't be your real name. You know, insurance doesn't cover visits made by fake people."

"Good thing I'm not actually sick, then."

House narrowed his eyes. "You could have at least made up something believable. This is just overcompensation." He noticed the gun shaking slightly in Sid's hand. Remembering the people behind him, he desisted. "Okay, enough of that." He threw the chart to the ground. "Why are you really here?"

Sid considered this. Finally, he said, "Let's go with social experiment."

"Social experiment," House repeated skeptically. "Psychology 101 project? You want to see how doctors act under pressure or something? There are easier ways of doing it. Legal-er ways, too."

"It's not that kind of experiment."

"What then?" House asked impatiently.

"Just a little experiment to make sure you're still human. To see how you rationalize what should be an impossible decision. Doctors force impossible decisions on family members all the time. This time it's your turn."

"So, you've set up a little game here because one day you had to make a hard decision and now you're trying to-"

"The scenario," Sid continued, cutting loudly across House, "is this. Three family members need an organ from you, but you can only give the organ to one of them. Without the organ, they will die. You have to choose who to give the organ to."

This time, House couldn't restrain himself. "That has to be the stupidest, most irrational scenario I've ever heard. You can't reenact that with real people-"

"So here's how this is going to work." Sid gestured behind him. "These are your three family members. They're all going to die. You just have to pick the one you want to save."

House looked at the three hostages. He could tell from their expressions that they had not heard about this scenario before. One stare was pleading, a silent, desperate cry that House not do anything stupid that could get someone killed. His eyes fell on Cameron next. She had wrapped her arms protectively around her swollen stomach, and her gaze was flickering between House and their assailant as she nervously accessed the situation. Finally, he looked at Cuddy. Of the three of them, she looked the most outwardly calm, but he knew that she was as nervous as any of them. He could tell she was considering the probability of security managing to find them and weighing that against the risk of making a mad dash for the border. When she caught his gaze, she shook her head ever so slightly.

He turned back around. "Why are you doing this?"

"Just an experiment."

"You're obviously taking revenge on someone. No one just wakes up one day and decides this is a good idea."

Sid leveled the gun. "Answer me."

"What if I don't want to play?" Behind him, House heard Cameron give a low groan.

In an instant, Sid had shifted his position and was pressing the gun against the temple of the only man among the three hostages. House found himself staring at Wilson in disbelief, his friend's eyes widening in fear.

"House," he insisted, "just answer him!"

"Shut up," Sid snapped. House saw him wrap his finger around the trigger. "I'm going to count to five. You don't have to play; you can walk out of this room right now if you want. But if you do, I'm going to kill them all. One."

House looked at Cuddy uncertainly.

"Two."

No, she mouthed.

"Three."

Or had it been go? It was hard to tell.

"Four."

"House!" He didn't need to turn to know it was Cameron who had screamed.

"Fi-"

"All right!" he announced loudly. "All right, I'm staying. Put down the damn gun." Sid looked at him suspiciously. "Put it down now!"

He watched as Sid slowly lowered the weapon, and he took that as his cue. Settling himself onto the unoccupied patient table, House leaned back and made himself comfortable. "Let the games begin."

A/N: Please review! I would love to know what you personally thought. Updates will come faster if my muse is satiated!