"She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah
She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah
She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah"
House was busy harmonising with Lennon & McCartney when he realised something was ruining the perfect rhythm of his dream song. Some moron of the highest order was knocking on his door. At 3am. He wanted to get back to 1963 ASAP so he disentangled himself from Cuddy, kissing her cheek lightly and almost dancing to the door, the song still emanating faintly from the depths of his mind.
"You think you lost your love,
Well, I saw her yesterday.
It's you she's thinking of,
And she told me what to say."
He wrenched the door of his apartment open mid-knock to reveal a frantic Wilson poised to have a cerebrovascular accident any second. "Pardon?" House mouthed sarcastically in a bad French accent, completely unaware of the massive grin etched on his face. Wilson spluttered "House… Hanna…. your patient… I only just got Foreman's 40,000 messages, I was ehm, with Sam, are you alright? Why are you smiling?"
"Well there was this hooker, she had a really long tongue…"
"She says she loves you,
And you know that can't be bad.
Yes, she loves you,
And you know you should be glad."
Wilson spys the still scattered vicodin lying ominously on the hall floor.
"Oh god, you're back on drugs!"
House just laughs.
"Non mon ami, c'est une femme!"
"She said you hurt her so,
She almost lost her mind.
But now she said she knows,
You're not the hurting kind."
Wilson ignores his retort and begins attempting to check his pupils and pulse rate like a twitchy diabetic at a cake factory.
"WILSON! Are you Doctor Shepard or Nurse Jackie? You do realise that even if I had taken Vicodin it has no visible physiological effect?"
"Well how come your heart is beating fast enough for a half a pharmacy worth of illegal substances?"
House smiles quietly.
"She says she loves you,
And you know that can't be bad…"
Cuddy wanders out from House's bedroom wearing only his leather jacket.
"Yes, she loves you."
