Deep House Nine

This story is complete, but is waiting for me to type up the conclusion which is handwritten. Hopefully coming soon. This was the product of a prompt to write a crossover of ST: Deep Space Nine and House M.D. It was a lot of fun. Reviews and comments are most welcome and appreciated.

Julian Bashir rubbed his eyes with exhaustion. Five years ago, he would never have wished to be anywhere other than on the Defiant, exploring the Gamma Quadrant, expanding the Federation's knowledge of new planets and species. Now, however, the determination to continue their scientific missions seemed like folly in the face of the Dominion threat. Since entering the Gamma Quadrant three weeks ago, they had experienced five sorties with the Jem'Hadar. Everyone was working double shifts to keep up with repairs and security, on top of carrying out the planetary surveys, and tempers were fraying.

Bashir closed his eyes. It wasn't just the mission. He'd spent nearly five years trying to live up to the Federation's ideals, believing that every humanoid life was precious, that everyone had the same opportunities, and where had it got him? Not one of his friends, not even Jadzia or Miles, had noticed that he'd been replaced by a changeling. No one had even asked if he was ok after spending weeks being beaten, threatened, and starved. He glanced at his reflection in the comm panel and noticed how gaunt and tired he still was from the experience. Sleep took him back to solitary confinement, the darkness, cold and hunger with no sense of time and no idea when it would end. Food stuck in his throat when he sat with his friends and saw them eating with no idea of how it felt to fear that you'd never see it again. On top of all that, he had barely got back from his imprisonment when the secret of his genetic enhancement came out. He'd seen the dirty looks he received when people thought he wasn't looking. He expected it of Worf, who would never consider someone's feelings over his rigid sense of right and wrong, but he'd even caught O'Brien's fleeting look of resentment as he was beaten at darts again. Sisko had been decent, but he knew that Julian had been lying to him from the start. He wondered if Sisko would really trust him ever again, or if any of them could.

Julian sighed. When he'd arrived on DS9 he hadn't minded the lack of close friends and family. He hadn't been able to believe his good fortune that he was actually a doctor, actually in Starfleet, and no one was any the wiser about his fabricated past. He'd told himself he was only interested in his career and a good time, that he didn't need relationships. In truth, he feared intimacy and the discovery of his secrets. Now that they were out anyway, Julian felt the force of what he'd sacrificed for the first time. He'd carved himself a life in which no one loved him at all; worse, in which those whose friendship he could claim had every reason to hate him.

"Dax to Bashir"

Julian jumped at the interruption.

"Bashir here. Go ahead."

"There's something here I'd like your opinion on Julian."

Julian sighed again and stretched out. At least duty would put off the nightmares. He acknowledged Dax's request and headed for the bridge.

The first thing House became aware of was pain. Not the unrelenting ache of his leg, but an excruciating pounding in his temple. He tried to recall what could have caused it, or even what he'd been doing before he found himself here. He became aware that he wasn't lying down, but sitting, strapped into his seat. The plasticky smell brought it back to him. Cuddy and the team had come to find him. The hallucinations had returned and he'd taken off with three packs of Vicodin, intending to hole up in the dankest squat he could find until the dead stopped haunting him and he could find a few hours of oblivion. But they wouldn't leave, and House was lying in his own vomit when Cuddy and the others had come and hauled him into the SUV and headed back to Princeton-Plainsboro. Why weren't they there now? Why wasn't he hooked up to a drip in bed gazing at Cuddy's disapproving face, and ready to sneer at her concern? A burst of light and another stab of pain in his temple brought it back to him: they'd been driving and suddenly been blinded. Foreman had swerved, Thirteen had screamed, and … that was it. The light was intensifying and changing colour, and House felt another wave of nausea before the pain obliterated his consciousness once more.

Julian took a moment to gaze at Jadzia, engrossed in her work, before puncturing her concentration. Worf was glaring at him of course, and he'd accepted her choice, and yet she was still so beautiful, so joyous, so alive. His loss had felt even more painful since his return from the Dominion prison camp. Her joy was enhanced by his misery; she had grown in her security in Worf's love just as all his certainties had vanished forever. Now, more than ever, she represented everything he could never have.

"Doctor! You are required to observe the scan results."

Worf's interruption was as brusque and unwelcome as ever, but he was right. Julian would get more trouble, not sympathy, if anyone suspected how he felt.

He headed over to where Jadzia and Kira were bent over the comm panel.

"What do you make of this Julian?" said Jadzia without looking up. We're too far away right now for visual sensors. It's a spatial anomaly, but the readings I'm getting are like nothing I've seen before. Do you see how the readings keep fluctuating? I thought at first that our sensors were having trouble, but in fact, the anomaly itself keeps changing its mass and composition."

"How is that possible?"

Miles butted in. "If you'd done more than extension courses at the Academy Julian, you'd know about Revok's theories concerning inter-dimensional objects."

Julian fought down the impulse to retort. He could recite Revok's theories verbatim to Miles if he chose to, but he had no desire to remind anyone on the bridge of his lately revealed talents. Plus, if he was honest, the habit of hiding his abilities, of playing the wet-behind-the-ears officer who couldn't be expected to know everything, was hard to break. He settled for reminding Miles that he hadn't invited himself to the bridge.

"Actually, I wanted you to take a look at this scan Julian," Jadzia continued. "It was just a glimpse but that looks like traces of a life sign to me.

Julian bent over the information. "Not just a life sign," said Julian. "My God, I think it's human. How is that possible?"

"I can't imagine how a human can even be alive in the middle of that anomaly." She turned to Worf: "Commander, I recommend we travel to within 5000km and launch a probe."

Worf's habitual frown became more pronounced. "Doctor! How can you be sure of what you are reading when Commander Dax can't see if it's possible?"

Julian felt irritated now. "I can recognise a human life sign when I see one, even from partial readings. There is sufficient information to determine that there is no other possibility among humanoid species. And if Chief O'Brien checks the flow regulator on the scanners, he will see that the readings are emanating directly from the anomaly, and are therefore not being reflected or diverted from another source."

A long silence greeted this statement. Eventually, Miles meekly submitted that Julian was quite right. Worf crossed his arms.

"Very well. Helm, set a course. Commander Dax, prepare the probe."

As the ship approached the anomaly, Worf called Julian over to the captain's seat, but as he took a step towards it, Julian was caught by a blinding white light and sudden immense force hitting the Defiant. The only one on the bridge not seated, the first thing he was aware of after the light was being smashed against the bulkhead, hearing a sickening crack and feeling an agony that blended with the light, that grew as the light intensified and seemed to suck all the air out of the room. He heard Jadzia and Miles shouting his name, but their voices sounded flat and distant. As the pain and light swelled again, he scrabbled to remain conscious for a few seconds before it all went dark.

When House awoke again, he could tell immediately that he was no longer in the car. He was now lying down. His head felt better; maybe it had just been the light, and he'd escaped actual injury. But what had the light been? Had he downed so much Vicodin? He opened his eyes and gazed into a familiar face.

"Where the hell have you landed yourself this time House?" Amber asked.

"Nowhere. Anyway, I've slept off the Vicodin. What are you doing here? Can't you float off back to Cutthroat Bitch heaven or wherever you came from?"

"No. Sadly not. Because I'm your hallucination House."

"You'd think I could come up with one who was less of a drag." House ignored Amber and tentatively sat up. He was relieved to find he was still clutching his cane, but had no idea where he was. He appeared to be in a large, white room, empty of furniture, and with no doors or windows. More disturbing than this lack of an obvious exit was the fact that the room appeared to be constantly changing. When House first looked around, it was the size of a cathedral, but it had since shrunk to the size of his living room. He tried to think how that had happened without him noticing, but when he focused his eyes on the walls of the room his attention rolled away. Somehow, he couldn't quite perceive where the room began and ended, and he had no conception of where such a space could exist.

He was about to see if Amber had gone when a tall, slender young man appeared a few feet away, lying on the ground and obviously injured. Or maybe he'd been there all the time and House had only just noticed him. He shuffled himself over without standing to take a closer look. The man was bizarrely dressed. His clothes looked like a mixture of jogging gear and pyjamas. House didn't care about that. He could see that the man needed immediate aid. House suspected a fractured elbow, and from the matted blood in his hair and the fact that he had collapsed, he suspected a concussion or possibly a fractured skull. He retrieved a pen light from inside his jacket and moved to open one of the man's eyelids, when a hand shot up and gripped his wrist as his patient's eyes flew open.

"Who are you? Whe…"

The young idiot, as House now thought of him, was prevented from finishing his question by a wave of pain and nausea that caused him to screw his eyes shut and double up.

"Oh that's original," House retorted. "And stopping a doctor from treating you. Great idea. You could really have kicked my ass right now if I'd been a bad guy. Now, moron, let me examine you. If you've got a concussion, you'll soon have even less brainpower than you did when you grabbed my arm."

The moron merely looked confused, but at least he meekly allowed House to examine his arm and head injuries. House was certain he was right about the elbow: a bad break that would need to be pinned in surgery to heal properly. The head injury looked ok. For the moment, the patient was alert enough. House was relieved. When he'd first seen the man he was certain that he had a concussion, and was possibly at risk of falling into a coma. House removed his jacket and shirt, then put his jacket back on, and used the shirt to bind Moron's arm to his side to prevent further damage until they could reach the hospital.

"Ok. Can you tell me your name, and how old you are?"

"Julian Bashir. I'll be 32 in a few weeks."

"Well, it seems that you're just dumb, without the additional burden of a concussion, but that's a serious break. I've done what I can but we should get you to a hospital as soon as possible. I'd like to run an MRI as well on that head injury to be safe," said House.

There was a very long pause before the Moron replied.

"Thank you," he said. "But I'll be perfectly fine if I can just get back to my ship."

"Ship? Wow with that accent you must be beating them off with an oar in the Navy."

"What?" Julian replied feebly. "Navy? No, I'm in Starfleet. Starfleet. I'm talking about getting back to the USS Defiant."

"Hmmm. I'm going to retract my opinion on that concussion. You're not making sense, Friend. This is 2010 and Starfleet is something you just pulled out of your ass. Where do you think we are, because this is Princeton, NJ, not Alpha Centauri?"

For all his mockery of the Moron, Bashir or whatever his name was, House was concerned. His patient had seemed lucid initially, but now he was almost delusional. On the other hand, House's own confidence that they were in Princeton was shaken by the weirdly shifting white room. Wherever the hell they were, it was urgent that they get out of there and back to the hospital before Bashir deteriorated any further. Julian had not offered any opposition to the information that Starfleet was imaginary, but had closed his eyes and slumped to the ground from where he sat. While he explored the confines of the room, House decided to keep the patient talking.

"So … can you remember how you got here, ummm Bashir? I'm Dr House. I normally hate to talk to patients, but as I'm stuck here with you, we may as well talk."

Julian seemed to take some effort to gather his thoughts and respond. "The last thing I remember is being on the bridge of the Defiant. I was only there to give a medical opinion."

"Medical? You're a doctor?"

"Chief Medical Officer of the Defiant and Deep Space Nine, shortlisted for the Carrington Prize, second in my class at Starfleet Medical."

"Second?" House snorted. "I said you were a moron. So what's your specialty? Tricky cases of space sickness?"

"Actually I do a mixture of research and general practice, but I'm considered a leading authority on genetic engineering and biological warfare in the Gamma Quadrant."

House stopped abruptly. Having been moving towards the opposite wall of the room, once again cathedral-sized, he had found himself facing Bashir again in a space a little bigger than a hospital room. He was struck at the same time by how elaborate Bashir's delusions appeared to be, but without any hint of instability or paranoia from the man himself. House was also uncomfortably aware of his own form in this area. He was starting to wonder just how badly he might have OD'd, and yet he thought that Cuddy and the team had found him before he'd taken more than a couple. He needed to know more.

"So, Future Doc, now you're in the year 3000 or whatever, you must be able to bring people back from the dead huh?"

Julian smiled. "Well, I only did that once, but medicine has moved on significantly since, 2010 was it?"

"You seem to be taking an awful lot for granted. How do you know I'm not full of shit?"

"Full of what? I don't understand a lot of what you're saying, but it's obvious that wherever we, we're in an interdimensional, possibly even intertemporal space, and that you're human, but not from the 24th century. I've no way of verifying what you've told me about yourself, but you're clearly a doctor, and you've shown some basic concern for my wellbeing, so I have to take the rest on trust."

House paused again before responding. "What else would I be but human? Ok doc, if that's what you are. You and I both know you need to keep talking. So tell me everything."

Four hours later, Julian felt strange. Physically, he was in a bad way. He had a steadily worsening headache that concerned him, he was nauseous, and the pain from his elbow was excruciating. He was light-headed and increasingly parched from talking and from the lack of water. Added to that, he felt unusually irritable and could feel a throbbing ache developing in his right thigh. He couldn't understand how that had appeared when it hadn't hurt when he was first injured, but maybe he hadn't noticed in all the confusion.

Despite his predicament, Julian had to admit he had no complaints about the company. Dr House was irascible but evidently brilliant. With so few medical researchers visiting the station, Julian had rarely had such a stimulating discussion since starting his assignment. House started up again after lapsing into a brief reverie after Julian had outlined the breakthrough treatments for cancer of the 22nd century.

"It's so simple," House marvelled. "And we have the means in the 21st century. We just don't know enough yet."

"Exactly. You don't have a sufficient knowledge of the genetics of cancerous cells yet, but with the invention of new sequencing technologies, knowledge will increase rapidly."

"But not soon enough for a lot of people."

"No," Bashir acknowledged. "I've never met a terminal cancer patient, but I know how it feels to be desperate to save someone's life."

House peered at him enquiringly, as though trying to read his thoughts. "So, let me ask you this, Julian. What can you do for chronic pain? Does anyone even suffer that any more?"

Julian was suddenly thrust back to the Dominion camp through his waking eyes, feeling the same cold and thirst, and feeling and hearing a sickening crack as his head struck the wall of his cell following a blow from a Jem'Hadar. He flinched instinctively, sending another wave of pain through his elbow.

"Yes," he replied faintly as he tried to repress the image. "We still feel pain."

Julian was getting dizzy and nauseous again. He'd actually forgotten about the concussion from the camp since arriving in the strange white room. That could be why he seemed to be responding so badly this time around. After all, he'd only received cursory medical treatment from the Dominion, and since the revelations of his genetic background, he couldn't bring himself to submit to another doctor's curiosity long enough to check the injury was properly healed.

"It depends on the cause of the pain, naturally, but I presume you're asking about chronic pain resulting from the removal of necrotic tissue? In that case, I'd carry out a series of treatments to regenerate the missing muscle, followed by physiotherapy to overcome the effects of a long-term limp. I'd predict excellent results."

He could tell that House was astonished, not only by his diagnostic ability, but by the medical advances, but the older doctor's look of wonder disappeared quickly.

"Yeah well, doc, you're not going to be doing any procedures if we can't find a way …"

"Dax to Bashir."

Julian started. "This is Bashir."

"Am I glad to hear your voice? We've been trying to get a lock on you for hours. Are you alright Julian? Did you find the source of the other humanoid lifesign?"

"I've felt better, Jadzia. I'll need some treatment. I'm here with another person. We're not sure how he got here, but …"

"House. Can you hear me? House? We're trying to reach you. Sit tight. House?"

Julian's eyes met House's as they both heard a woman's voice, deep with concern, emanating from the middle of the room and getting clearer. Julian tapped his combadge and started struggling to his feet.

"Jadzia. We can hear Dr House's reality as well as you. I think we might both be able to get back to where we're supposed to. Lock on to my combadge and prepare to transport me out."

"Acknowledged."

Julian turned to explain his theory to House, but never laid eyes on him as he felt something hard smash into his face. In his already weak state he dropped to the floor, rolling and vomiting as he fell. As his momentum took him back on to his back he caught sight of House standing over him.

"You seem like a decent guy, Future Doc," he said. "But I can't take any more pain." Julian felt himself being dragged, and briefly heard the strange woman's voice again before he lost consciousness.

"Transport."

Julian's command rang a little oddly to Miles's ears, but he transported him away from the anomaly immediately. It had been disturbing to see his friend thrown against the bulkhead before disappearing, and spending hours searching before they could find him or make contact. Miles would be glad when they were back on Deep Space Nine, and if Julian were really hurt, they would surely have to abandon the mission and get him back to the medical facilities on the station.

Completing the transport, Miles looked up and froze. Where he was expecting to see Julian, there stood a tall bearded man, holding a stick, a combadge attached to his jacket, and an unpleasantly gleeful expression on his face.

"Whoa-hoooo. Your doc wasn't crazy after all, unless I took like a truckload of Vicodin. Now, I presume humans haven't got smarter since the 21st century, so, Midshipman Moron, if you want to see your doctor again, you can take me straight to your surgical facilities."

Julian seemed to be occupying a twilight world of consciousness for the longest time. At times he could feel himself moving, at other times, he heard voices that might have been talking to him, or felt people touch his face or move his arms and legs. He experienced odd stabs of pain, and drifted in and out of sleep.

Eventually, after what might have been hours, days or weeks, he found he could open his eyes and focus on something beyond the fuzzy images of faces and lights he'd been seeing up until then. He was in a bright room, not recognisable as a hospital by his standards, but sterile-looking like a medical facility, with a faint chemical odour and decorated an unattractive shade of orange. When he was sure he was really awake, he moved his head slightly to look around the room. His eyes caught those of a striking woman wearing a white coat over a short skirt and blouse. She had long dark hair, dark eyes, and was petite but compensated for it with her presence. She gazed at him curiously.

"How do you feel? Can you tell me your name, and what happened to you? Are you resident in Princeton?"

The flurry of questions nearly sent Julian back into the twilight zone. He screwed up his face in concentration and attempted to think. She seemed to realise that she had overloaded him and spoke more kindly.

"You've sustained some serious injuries, but we hope you'll make a full recovery in time. Your elbow was smashed and we had to carry out surgery to set it. You also suffered a fractured skull and concussion. We need you to tell us your name, and how you feel, so we can help you."

Julian only caught half of what she said, but that was sufficient to let him know that he was nowhere familiar, and for all he knew could have gone back in time. At the moment, though, he was too weary and confused to think about the timeline.

"My name … is Julian. Julian … Bashir," he rasped. The effort of speaking was enormous. He felt as though he'd forgotten how. "Feel … terrible." He was rapidly losing focus again, but there was no mistaking what the woman did next. She took from her inside pocket what was evidently a weapon, and loading it with a click as she locked the door, she pointed it at him and spoke:

"Now that you're able to talk, you can tell me exactly what happened, and what you've done with Dr House."

Jadzia stood with Worf and O'Brien at the entrance to the Defiant's sickbay, eyeing their visitor with unease. He was in the middle of abusing Nog as he taught him to play tongo, but even at that moment he looked up and blew them a kiss, propelling Worf into an angry speech.

"That man is despicable! I have never understood why humans, unlike Klingons, are so eager to repudiate their history and make themselves into an advanced people. When I see what you were like in the past, it all becomes clear."

"He'd be an arse whatever period of Earth's history you put him in," retorted O'Brien. "But until we do as he says, or persuade him to give us Julian, or find him on our own, we're stuck with him."

"Not necessarily," said Worf. "There is the question of whether we are taking an unacceptable risk by remaining in the Gamma Quadrant beyond our mission-time for the sake of a single crewman, and by harbouring this person."

"You can't be serious," O'Brien exclaimed. "First of all, what do you intend to do with him, throw him out of the airlock? Second, this is Julian you're talking about. I know he'd risk his life for any of us, and I hope he could say the same about any member of this crew."

"Perhaps not," Worf responded. "After all, his is not a human life any longer, is it?"

Jadzia had been musing on their next step while the two men argued, but was roused by Worf's question and attacked him.

"You mean because Julian's genetically engineered? He's smarter than other humanoids? Well, you're stronger than other humanoids, Worf, and don't you resent the fact that it makes you an outsider?"

"That was different. I could never hide who I was. He has lied. He lied to all of us."

"And does that mean he deserves to die in your eyes? No wonder he lied. And when, concerning anything else, has Julian been anything other than honest and honourable?" Jadzia was as incensed as O'Brien.

"Maybe," replied Worf. "But perhaps you'd be less quick to accuse me if you did not feel guilty about your own feelings. Neither of you has spent time with Dr Bashir since the discovery. I have noticed in your eyes that you too feel betrayed, that you regard him differently now. Who else must that be true of among this crew, if it is of his closest friends?"

Jadzia opened her mouth to deny what Worf had said, but was interrupted by Dr House, who had limped over and was now inspecting Worf like a lab specimen.

"Are you another alien," he said. "Or did you just frown so much you got stuck like that?"

Worf punched him and he fell to the ground.

"Listen to me, you p'tach. You are without honour, and we will not bargain with you. Your plan was ludicrous because you have removed from our crew the only person who can heal your injury. Your only option is for us to return you to the anomaly and attempt to send you back to your own reality."

House smirked unrepentantly as he replied, "Oh, and you never cared about your doctor anyway? Was that what that display of bullshit was supposed to show me? Well, friend, you can't tell me you throw your crew away like litter, and you can't tell me there's only one doctor in your shit-hot medically advanced galaxy, so we'd better return to Plan A, huh?"

A few minutes after she had first pointed the weapon, Julian was still staring in confusion. House, House. The name seemed important, but he couldn't attach it to anything, and he certainly couldn't remember what had happened to him. He was spared answering by the appearance of a strange man, banging on the window that separated the room from the communal area outside.

"Cuddy!" he called. "What are you doing?" The man peered through a gap in the blinds and caught sight of the woman, Cuddy's, weapon.

"Lisa," he implored. "You're not going to help House this way."

To his surprise Julian saw that the woman was crying. It was shocking to witness in someone who gave such an impression of self-command and competence. But to his relief she lowered the gun and opened the door.

The man burst into the room as soon as the lock clicked, looked quickly from Julian to Cuddy, and took the weapon from her, removing the contents – whatever they were called – in the process. Bullets, that was the word. He remembered from when he had visited the 21st century with Sisko…

Julian was suddenly struck by another flash of memory. Not the prison camp that was etched in his mind no matter how many blows to the head he sustained, but the memory of a bearded face with a sardonic expression, of discussing the treatment of infectious disease, palliative care, cancer, the memory of another doctor.

"… House," was all he managed to say, but it was sufficient to distract the strange man from where he had been knelt, whispering solicitously to the woman called Cuddy. He approached the bed.

"I'm Dr James Wilson. Do you know where House is? House was in an automobile accident. His colleagues in the car got free and went for help, but when they returned, they found you sitting where he had been, wearing his seatbelt. Can you explain that?

"House … punched. White room. Defiant." Julian was infuriated by his inability to articulate his thoughts properly. He became agitated as the man started shaking his head, clearly thinking he was still confused. He struggled with his one good arm to sit up and grab hold of the man called Wilson.

"House. Defiant. Dangerous. Must … white room."

Wilson's expression hardened as he turned to Cuddy. "He's going to do more damage to himself if he carries on this way. Call Foreman. He should be sedated."

Julian was alarmed. How much time had he lost already, and what was House doing if he had made it to the Defiant?

"Noooo," he shouted. "Jadzia. Need to stop him. Listen."

Another three people with white coats piled into the room and started pushing him back onto the bed while uttering the sort of soothing platitudes he would reserve for patients who were unstable. They weren't too form, but as one of them took out a hypodermic, the others held his arm so he had no chance of resisting. Still shouting at them to listen, he quickly blacked out as the sedative took hold.

"So that's … 15 strips of gold-pressed latinum you owe me? Don't worry, I won't collect it so long as I get out of this place quickly."

House gloated over Nog as he beat him at tongo again. Nog was incredulous.

"I don't understand how you're doing it."

"You've got a head for numbers, Little Big Ears, but you don't have enough experience of lying. Like all you squeaky clean Starfleet types. Your parties must suck. Don't ever try poker."

House leaned back and stretched. They were nearing the place they all referred to as "DS9," where they had called ahead for a doctor to treat his leg and synthesize Vicodin, which hadn't been produced for some centuries. Not that he trusted them, but he had fewer options than he would like them to know. He had assumed that his little trip would be far more straightforward, and was even feeling a little regret over his treatment of the injured doctor. Added to which, he'd been experiencing remarkably little in the way of leg pain or withdrawal from the drug. He felt positively cheerful. What the hell was this place doing to him?

"Bridge to Nog."

He heard the Ferengi acknowledge the communication.

"We'll be docking at DS9 in a few minutes, if our … guest … would like to come with you to meet the doctor who will treat him."

House pushed himself to his feet with unfamiliar ease and gestured to Nog to lead the way.

"Shall we?"

Nog turned to go but then suddenly stared at House curiously.

"What?" asked House impatiently.

"You looked … Nothing. It's just that you reminded me of Dr Bashir for a moment."

"Clearly your eyes don't work as well as your giant ears, friend. Now get moving. I want to change my life already."

Julian did not see Wilson or Cuddy for a week after the previous incident. The three younger doctors, who he had managed to identify as Taub, Foreman and, for some reason, Thirteen, came in regularly and discussed his progress with him. He was a lot more clear-headed and able to talk almost normally after a few days. What was less satisfactory was the fact that he felt irascible, irritable, and contemptuous of everyone he encountered, and that he was increasingly bothered by an unidentifiable pain in his right thigh, despite the drugs he was being treated with. He also looked like hell, with over a week of unshaven stubble and even grey streaks appearing in his hair. As a medical student, he had studied cases of brain injury before modern treatments, of people with permanent physical disabilities and changed personalities. Was this the life that awaited him now, separated from his own time? Or were the recent events just another strain on the physical and emotional resources that had been so battered by his experiences in the camp and since his return? And where the hell were Dax and the others? Probably celebrating the fact that he was gone. Julian was struck by his own thoughts. Since when did he use the word hell? And was he being fair to his crewmates? This primitive place must be rubbing off on him, he thought.

He was taken from his gloomy thoughts by the entrance of Wilson, who sat down by his bed and arranged his face into an open, non-threatening expression that did not fool Julian for a second as to his true intentions.

"I hear from House's team that you're much better, but our people haven't had any luck tracing your social security number, or contacting your family."

"No, they won't. I don't have any family. Don't trouble yourselves," Julian replied.

"No family at all? Well what about friends? Surely you'd like someone to drop by, maybe bring you some clothes or books? Won't they be worried about you?"

Julian paused before replying; the question had produced a stab of bitterness.

"I … I don't know what my life is worth to my friends any more."

"Every human life is precious, Julian."

"A human life … yes, indeed, that is precious."

Julian saw Wilson's brow furrow at the strangeness of his reply, but he evidently decided to abandon this line of questioning.

"I wanted to ask you more about what you said about House. You said something about him being defiant. When did you meet him?"

Julian considered how to answer without giving away too much of who he really was, and risking being branded delusional.

"There's so much I don't remember, but I can recall being with my friends on our … ship. That's what I was referring to; it's called the Defiant. I'm the medical officer. I was injured by a sudden impact, and then I just remember talking about medicine with House in a white room. I know you want to know, but I have no idea how I came to be here."

"You said 'punched' when I first met you. Did somebody hurt you? The MRI showed you'd had a series of head traumas in the last few months. Has someone been abusing you?"

As Wilson referred to abuse, Julian felt a wave of anger and irritation wash over him.

"It was your friend Dr House who punched me, when I had already injured my head in the crash. That's what he thinks of the Hippocratic Oath. He was obviously suffering chronic pain and drug addiction. If you couldn't predict he's capable of leaving you all on a whim you must be a moron."

Wilson was now looking at Bashir with open astonishment.

"You sound like you understand House very well. I thought you said you couldn't remember much?"

"Everybody lies, Wilson," Julian replied, and ended the conversation by turning his back on the other doctor.

House walked smartly beside the hot lieutenant – Dax – through the series of airlocks.

"Just tell me one thing," she said. "How was Julian when you left him in that place? Is he already dead?"

"So you care about "Julian" now do you? That's not what Commander The Argument for Botox thought when he was yelling back there."

Dax's opportunity to respond was lost. A muscular middle-aged black man with an air of authority and a pissed-off expression was awaiting them, accompanied by a strange man with a curiously featureless face.

"What the hell happened to you? Did Worf steal all your wrinkles?"

The man started towards him but was held back by a gesture from the first man, and contented himself with glaring and muttering. House got the feeling he'd like him.

"I'm Captain Benjamin Sisko. Commander Dax, Commander Worf, we'll be discussing all this at some length, but I need to understand some things right now. Dr House, I want to know what guarantees I have for the return of my doctor, or I'll have you in a Federation prison before you know it."

Dax looked abashed and the alien meat-head, Worf, looked constipated, but House was undaunted. Brazenly, his response was to unfasten his belt and pull down his pants, exposing the wasted thigh hidden by the fabric.

"I live with pain every day. I am addicted to pain medication. Your doctor told me he could regrow the dead muscle. I had to try. When your ship contacted us, I sent him back to my reality, and I came here instead. He was injured, and I sent him to the doctors I trained myself and the best medical facilities available. He will be alive and well-treated."

Sisko's eyes narrowed.

"You make it sound like altruism, when you cast him into a strange reality just to promote your own comfort! Now, humanity has grown more generous since your time, and we have a duty of care, so we'll take you to our medical facility. After that, the second we've finished analysing the data from the Defiant, I will be leading the mission to return to the anomaly and restore both of you to your proper time, and if that doesn't work, I may just leave you there anyway. Dax, Worf, with me."

Sisko stormed away. House was impressed with his aura of command – even the imperious Worf looked small next to him.

The smooth-faced man was still standing there, and he now offered a smirk that even House himself couldn't have mustered.

"Well, while he's busy, Captain Sisko has asked me to take care of you. I'm so looking forward to it."

Wilson sat outside Cuddy's office while she finished off a meeting. He was still musing on their new patient. He was intrigued by the man. They hadn't been able to find out a single thing about him apart from his name. No friends, no family, no job, no insurance. He was only able to be treated, though he didn't know it, because Cuddy had pulled strings in the hope that he would lead them back to House. A group of wealthy-looking people – donors, no doubt – filed out of the office and Cuddy beckoned him in.

"How's our mystery patient?" she asked.

"Physically … better. Emotionally, grumpy and uncooperative. He must be channelling House in his absence."

"Did you find out where he's from? Or where House might be?"

"No," Wilson sighed. "He seems to think House just took off, but from what you say he wasn't necessarily in a fit state to get too far after the crash. He also said something about working on a ship called Defiant, but I can't find any record of one, and he openly admitted he'd lied to us right off the bat, so I think it's just an avoidance tactic."

Cuddy looked annoyed.

"Well if he won't cooperate, we should threaten to kick him out. He's using up valuable hardship funds. Maybe that'll persuade him to be honest."

"No!" Wilson asserted. "I think that's a mistake, Cuddy. I still think he's key to finding House, and in any case, he seems depressed. I don't think he'd honestly care whether he was in the hospital or not. I think we need a subtler approach."

"Well, what do you have in mind?"

Julian shrank involuntarily as Cuddy entered the room again, remembering their earlier meeting.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Lousy," Julian replied. "The arm is healing fine and my head, but I can't get rid of the pain and numbness in my right leg.

Cuddy examined his chart.

"Dr Foreman examined it yesterday, I see. He believes it's related to the head injury. When you're a little better we'll begin some physiotherapy. Now, Wilson tells me you're a medical officer?"

"Yes."

"How's your diagnostics?"

"What?" Julian replied grumpily. He found it hard to focus through the persistent leg pain.

"Well, our head of diagnostics is missing; we have you instead, and there's a case puzzling the team. Perhaps you'd like to take a look?"

As she handed him a large file of notes and test results, Julian found that his ill health had become a little more bearable.

House stared up at the ceiling of the holding cell. He was superlatively bored. Odo, as he now knew the smooth-faced man to be called, had interrogated him about Bashir for a while, but when he realised that House wasn't hiding anything, he'd given up and shoved him in here. He looked up eagerly as a deputy or whatever the hell he was brought a tray of food.

House grabbed it as soon as the forcefield was down and opened the container.

"Hey! What the hell is this?"

He was looking at a plate of live worms.

"It's gagh. Constable Odo said that you'd really wanted to come here and sample life on the station so he ordered it for you. It's actually replicated from the air around us."

"Oh really, because it looks like it's replicated from sh—"

"Well, aren't you a breath of fresh air around here? It's such a pleasure to meet a human who isn't, forgive me, crippled by the banal need for politeness. Deputy, why don't you fetch some human food while I chat with our guest."

House stared at the man, who combined the most alien, reptilian features with the smarmy manner of a top-class hotel manager.

"What are you supposed to be?" he said.

"An interesting ontological question, Dr House. I think the answer you are looking for is that I am a Cardassian."

"And what's your role in the little space navy set-up?"

"Oh, no role at all. I am just a plain, simple tailor, content to sew dresses and alter suits for those employing more crucial roles. I do, however, have lunch with Dr Bashir from time to time. I recently accompanied him back from the Gamma Quadrant, a Dominion prison camp."

"Look, I'm sorry your boyfriend isn't here bu…"

House's reply was lost as he was struck by a powerful image like an electric shock. He was huddled on a dank, freezing floor, parched with thirst, while a brutish-looking alien kicked him in the stomach. He tried to shield his head, but another of the aliens hauled him up while the first cuffed him with his rifle. He tried to scream, but he seemed to have frozen. As he opened his eyes and saw the Cardassian standing over him, he recognised him.

"Garak help me," he pleaded, before the impact of the injury caused him to collapse.

Julian sat up late with House's associates and Wilson, in a wheelchair due to the ongoing pain in his thigh and broken arm. He was finding that he rather liked them. Foreman was haughty, probably annoyed that Cuddy hadn't allowed him free rein in the absence of House, but Taub and Thirteen had a black humour about them that was refreshing. There was also a subtle quality he had rarely encountered before, but admired in Garak: the acceptance of their own fallibility. His father fantasised about his greatness, always just over the horizon; Quark wore his selfishness and veniality like a crown. The others – Dax, Worf, Sisko – were just too perfect, so much so that he resented them. When had they ever compromised their integrity? Worf had endured exile to preserve his, and Julian was furious with him for it. No wonder they despised him for lying about his genetic background. And yet he couldn't blame himself entirely, despite his guilt. Since gaining his commission, he had sacrificed his personal life in order to help as many people as possible. He had created a vaccine that would save an entire planet in the case of the Quickening. Worf had already been welcomed back into the fold by Martok. Without his deceit, and that of his parents, Julian would never have had a worthwhile life to be taken from him in the first place.

"You ok Bashir?" Thirteen asked.

"Yes, sorry, I was just thinking." He resumed the task of reviewing the patient's test results. He was certain it was amyloidosis, and a minute with a tricorder could have confirmed it if he'd had one, but it was crucial to follow the methods they had available carefully and avoid overconfidence. This wasn't his time, and goodness knows what disease of this era he had no knowledge of. Only two things were disturbing the peaceful routine of work and chat for him. One was a curious smell. It was incredibly faint and no one else seemed to notice anything, but something seemed … off. When he'd started sniffing earlier Thirteen had shot him a curious glance and he'd stopped quickly. It could be yet another product of his enhanced senses, and meaningless. Besides, the second thing disturbing him was a lot more problematic. His right thigh was becoming increasingly painful, and at the same time he felt the urgent need for some form of relief that he couldn't identify. He felt clammy and his heart-rate had increased. He realised he had lost track of the conversation and attempted to push back a wave of nausea and concentrate.

"So, Dr Wilson," Julian ventured. "What's your specialism? You don't normally work with Dr House's team I understand?"

Wilson looked pleased at Julian's effort at openness.

"No," he replied. "In fact I'm Head of Oncology here."

Julian's face was blank momentarily while he dug around in his memory for the meaning of the antiquated term. Then he remembered with a jolt. He'd discussed it with House: the treatment of cancer.

His moment of uncertainty hadn't been lost on Wilson, who looked at him with confusion and concern, so he fell back on the old over-eager, naïve persona that had been his mask for so long on Deep Space 9.

"That's a fascinating area. Tell me, have you read any interesting research papers lately?"

"Well, funnily enough I heard something kooky a little while ago. Some folks were interviewed for a magazine claiming their dogs diagnosed their cancer. Now, I'm open to alternative methods, but I had some trouble buying that!"

Julian began to laugh politely, but stopped as he heard an unfamiliar woman's voice in the room.

"Ugh," she groaned. "That's typical James – ask him to share his brilliance and he gives you a story about cancer-sniffing dogs."

Julian turned and felt his eyes widen with shock as he saw a woman who looked little more than a corpse. She had evidently once been beautiful, but now her lips were blue, her skin grey, and her body marked by evidence of desperate medical intervention. She looked as though she had walked out of an operating theatre, ripping needles from her arms as she went. Julian felt an unwelcome stab of fear as the woman, unnoticed by the others in the room, addressed him directly.

"Why are you here?" she demanded. "You're not House." She looked him up and down. "You're not House yet. But you feel it don't you? That hunger? That desire? Be careful. When you know my name you're in trouble.

"Doctor Bashir?"

Julian's attention was wrenched from the woman's gaze by the interruption of Taub. He realised he was shaking and that, unconsciously, his good hand was searching the drawers of the desk where he sat. House's desk.

"Who am I?" the corpse-woman insisted. "Have you found it yet?"

Julian's hands shook harder. He felt dizzy and the pain in his thigh was growing again. His hand groped in the drawer and found a small, cylindrical container. As its contents rattled, Julian suddenly knew the source of relief.

"Who am I?" demanded the woman.

"Doctor Bashir!" Now Wilson was rising, but he wasn't quick enough for Julian. Using his precise, concealed strength the doctor crushed the container, grabbed a few of the small tablets that spilled out into his bleeding hand and swallowed them. His thigh was suddenly on fire and he collapsed to the floor as the four doctors surrounded him.

"Who am I?" The woman's voice was now tauntingly seductive.

"Amber," he whispered.

He just had to time to register Wilson's look of alarm before a final wave of crippling leg pain sent him into blackness.

Sisko stood at the entrance to the infirmary with Dax and Garak, watching their curious visitor as he lay on a biobed. According to Julian's deputy, Dr Girani, he was now fine, at least physically, but Sisko was deeply concerned by how much the man seemed to know about them. He turned to the Cardassian.

"So you're certain, Mr Garak, that you didn't reveal your name in the conversation?"

"Naturally Captain. You asked me to go an find out what I could from our guest. I would never begin an interrogation by revealing more than I needed to."

"But then how could he have known? Odo has reviewed the security logs and no one else has mentioned your name anywhere near him. I wonder if anything he's told us is true, and what he's up to if it's not."

Dax, who had been bent over her tricorder, contributed to the conversation for the first time.

"As to that, Captain, I may have a theory. When we first encountered Dr House on the Defiant, he told us that he needed medical treatment, and initial scans showed serious muscle and nerve damage to his right leg – a consequence of historic surgery to treat necrosis. Tests also showed evidence of a serious chemical dependency on an opioid used in on twentieth century Earth to treat chronic pain. It was discontinued eventually because it was highly addictive and only partially effective."

"Anyway, compare all that to the most recent scans of Dr House." She projected the readings onto the infirmary viewscreen.

"You'll have to tell me what I'm seeing Old Man," said Sisko impatiently.

"The main thing is, that the damage to his leg is far less extensive than it was, an improvement impossible without medical intervention, and the evidence of the opioid dependency is less pronounced too. But that's not all. See these neural scans? These were taken when we scanned him immediately after the incident in the holding cell. Now compare those with this image from Julian's most recent medical."

Sisko and Garak exchanged shocked glances.

"How can that be?" Garak asked.

"I'm not certain," replied Dax. "But I believe it has something to do with House and Bashir both being exposed to the anomaly. Dr House described a "white space" that shifted in size, and we know he believes we exist in his future. Whether he's from another dimension or the past, I think he's not supposed to be here. He's occupying a dimensional space that should be filled by Julian, and I think reality is being reasserted."

"But he's not Dr Bashir. We're not seeing him return." said Sisko.

"Right. Something very strange is happening, and it makes me wonder what Julian might be suffering, if House is right when he says he sent him back to his own time."

"That's not the only thing that should worry you Commander," Garak volunteered. "If Dr House, a deceitful, violent, embittered, pain-ridden drug addict, collapsed when he got a taste of our own good doctor's thoughts, what exactly has Dr Bashir not been telling you?"

Sisko opened his mouth to retort and closed it again. What Garak said had too much truth in it for comfort. With the developments in the war, Sisko had had no time to consider the wellbeing of individual officers, and he'd never been close to Bashir of his senior staff anyway. The doctor had seemed normal when he'd last spoken to him, but that had been a while ago, and now Sisko thought about it, the young man had suffered a huge amount of trauma lately, with his imprisonment by the Dominion and the revelation of his genetic background just a few weeks later. He asked himself how well he'd ever really known the doctor, and how many friends Julian still had since his deceit had been laid bare.