Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it's done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.

"You don't ask people with knives in their stomachs what would make them happy; happiness is no longer the point. It's all about survival; it's all about whether you pull the knife out and bleed to death or keep it in."

Nick Hornby, How to Be Good

October 29th

The last time Greg shopped at a mall, hair bands were hot and his old Malibu had just clocked one hundred thousand miles—in other words, ages ago. He detests huge temples to consumerism. Most of them suck because they're too expensive, too crowded, too crass. He's not into the latest noxious scent, overpriced kiosk cell phones and jewelry, gargantuan cinnamon rolls or food court meals contaminated with bacteria and perfume from the handler's unwashed piddies, hordes of narcissistic teenagers dressed in their 'I'm so unique' uniforms of the latest fashion, or any of the other boring, useless details of mall culture.

"I'm well aware you hate shopping," Wilson says when Greg confronts him with this knowledge. "I know you don't want to go with me. But you've forced the issue. You've been living off takeout and spent all your waking hours in front of either the computer or the tv. Cuddy's starting to think you're a figment of her imagination, and Foreman's making plans for a coup." He pinches the bridge of his brow and assumes a pained look. "You need to get out. This is a baby step, but you have to take it."

After much coercion, threats, and a couple of first-class bribes, Greg agrees to accompany his friend on a mundane errand. Thankfully, Wilson doesn't go to Quaker Bridge, Oxford Valley or even the Flemington outlets, at least not on a regular basis; he likes a local place, the Princeton Shopping Center. It's a bit more pleasant aesthetically than your average pile of big-box and homegrown businesses . . . Okay, that's a total lie, it's a pile of shit like all older strip malls are. From his vantage point he can see numerous examples of advanced age: water leaks, broken tiles, not to mention scuffed and chipped paint here and there. But at least the benches are relatively comfortable, and there are plenty of them.

So Greg sits outside Kitchen Kapers while he waits for Wilson, and to keep himself from utter boredom, he diagnoses the passersby. There are plenty to choose from. It's Friday afternoon and everyone's out to get last-minute goodies for Halloween parties and trick-or-treaters.

Obese . . . wrist splint . . . shifts bags from one hand to the other . . . hypothyroid with carpal tunnel damage, no zebras there. Jesus, Wilson—how long does it take to buy a jack-o-lantern cookie cutter? Bet you're stuck on whether to get another coffee-bean grinder. You probably want to grind the clerk's beans, haha, nice euphemism . . . Stiff neck and shoulders, recent weight loss . . . where do all these ugly middle-aged women come from? They all look like they're constipated . . . She's probably a victim of polymyalgia rheumatica, otherwise known as 'gettin' old sucks donkey dicks'. Bet her c-reactive protein levels are through the roof . . . Who knew so many decrepit people could move around enough to shop?

A mother with her young daughter enter a pediatric dentistry a few doors down. Greg frowns and stares at the girl. She looks to be around five or so, but of far more interest is the fact that she has a slight humpback with just-noticeable scoliosis. He gets up and limps to a bench in front of the dentistry but doesn't sit, and watches as the girl's mother speaks with the receptionist. After a moment he goes inside the office. The mother is now settled into a chair, a two-year-old copy of US magazine in hand; her kid wanders over to a corner full of cheap plastic toys. Mom glances up as Greg looms over her. "I'd like to examine your daughter," he says. Her eyes widen.

"What?"

"Your rug rat-I want to take a look at her," he says, impatient with the confusion and incipient alarm he sees in her expression. "She's got curvature of the spine and a humpback. Does she have scars on her knees and elbows?"

"Are—are you with the dentist's office?" the mother asks. She clutches the magazine in her hands. He can just make out Angelina Jolie's impressive bosom between her fingers.

"Yeah, it's an extra service with the sugar-free lollipop," he says, and turns to the girl, who stands amid the toys with a pink iPod in hand, and stares at him with wide eyes. "Hey," he says, and hopes he sounds friendly. "I'd like to take a look at your hands and then your elbows."

"You leave my daughter alone!" The mother stands up, indignant now. "Who the hell are you? You don't work here!"

Greg sends her a glare. "I'm a doctor," he snaps. "At least I was, until my license was suspended. But I'm getting it back after my surgery next week. They're implanting another head so I'll have a backup career as a sideshow exhibit. I can give you the information if you're interested so your own kid can have it done. Oh wait, she's already a freak."

The mother goes straight for the receptionist's window. He figures he's got about a minute to get to the girl and find the signs he's fairly sure are there. He turns back to the child.

"I just want to look at your hands and elbows. Bet you can bend your fingers the wrong way," he says, and limps toward the little figure. He's two steps away when he reaches out to touch her wrist. The girl gives a loud shriek, hurls her iPod at him and runs like a rabbit. He ducks the phone and is blindsided by two hundred pounds of angry adult male.

"Fuckin' pervert!" Hands encircle Greg's throat, slam his head into the floor. "Goin' after a kid in public! You goddamn asshole!"

Right-should have waited until I got her home, he says, or tries to, but the words are stuck in his throat, quite literally; his vision goes grey and there is a roaring sound in his head, along with a sharp pain. He tries to push the guy off but darkness takes him down, down—

The horrendous pressure on his throat and chest is released and he gasps for air. His head throbs with his heartbeat, hard stabs with each thump. If his leg could speak it would shriek in agony at the top of its lungs. He's concussed enough to find the idea of a leg with lungs to be humorous.

"What the hell are you—what do you—he's—he's not a child molester!" he hears Wilson yell. His friend's voice shakes with fury and something else. "Dammit, get off him . . ." Words fade as a black tide rolls over Greg, thick and stifling. His last thought is Everything fits . . . if I can just . . .

He comes to and finds he lies on something flat and hard with cold metal around his wrists—handcuffs, he knows the feel of them all too well. He tries to open his eyes and groans as pain flashes through his head, but after a few moments he manages it. A cop stands over him, big and burly and very pissed off, if his red face and angry glare are anything to go by. The sight makes Greg feel strange—scared, yeah, but more than that, worse somehow. The knowledge intrigues him in a distant sort of way, but he's a little too preoccupied to follow up on it at the moment.

"Okay asshole, just what the fuck were you trying to do?" the cop asks. His voice is low and soft. Greg swallows on a dry throat. It's as if someone's given him a shot of adrenaline or speed. Just the sound of that quiet, angry voice makes his anxiety jump sharply. His breathing is shallow, heart races, his skin's clammy, he wants to run like hell. He tries to speak but his throat is too bruised and dry. He coughs and the world spins and wavers, then gradually rights itself.

"The girl says you told her you wanted to touch her hands," the cop says. "Why did you ask her to do that, as if I didn't know?"

Actually I wanted to check her elbows, but start small and build, he thinks. He raises his cuffed hands to indicate he needs something to write with. The cop looks at him for a long moment, then reaches around to a cluttered desk and picks up a pencil and a notepad. Greg takes them when they're offered and writes EDS in shaky print. The cop squints at the letters.

"What's that mean?" he says. Greg writes ask wilson. It takes him forever; the fear within rises like a tide, slow but relentless. He manages to finish and hands the pad to the cop.

"Wilson's the guy who came in with you?" Greg manages a nod and immediately regrets it as pain and nausea flood him. "He's talking to the mother right now, trying to convince her not to press charges. He wants you taken to the hospital." The cop peers down at him. "You look like shit."

I've looked a lot worse, Greg thinks, and suddenly sees John House loom over him with a belt. Without warning the fear slams into him full force, raises him right off the stretcher, his back arched as he tries to get up and escape.

"Hey," the cop says, and he sounds worried. "Hey, are you having a seizure or something—"

"House, it's okay. It's me." Wilson rests his hand on Greg's shoulder. Greg flinches at the contact and his head tries even harder to explode. He takes a shuddering breath and tries to focus on what Wilson says. "It's okay, the mom isn't pressing charges. I called Cuddy, she's sending an ambulance."

"He wrote something, said to give it to you," the cop says. There is a rustle of paper, a moment's silence.

"A diagnosis? That's what this is all about?" Wilson sighs a little. "Shit. Yeah, okay. I'll tell the mom."

Wilson's about to leave, Greg knows it. It amplifies the anxiety past all endurance. He reaches out with both hands and tries to catch the other man's arm. His head lights up with agony but he doesn't care.

"Can we please take the damn cuffs off?" Wilson says. He is furious, but still polite—typical. The man is a total doormat, the cold, rational part of Greg's mind thinks. The terror recedes just a little as the bracelets are unlocked and removed. Wilson takes Greg's hands in his, examines them with care. His touch holds reassurance. "I won't go anywhere," his friend says. "Lie still, I'm not sure how much damage that guy did to you beyond trying to cave in your head and giving you a bruised hyoid. The ambulance will be here in a few minutes."

The next few hours are a confused mess of sensations, snapshots taken between periods of empty lethargy and grating, relentless pain. Greg finds he slips in and out of consciousness, not a good sign. When the EMTs load him into the ambulance they pester him to stay awake, which increases his misery threefold, if that's even possible. He's hauled off to the hospital, his clothes replaced by one of those damn open-backed gowns he cannot stand. He is poked, prodded, measured, imaged, hooked up to an IV. They give him something to make him relax, but the pain meds don't even make a dent in the endless shrill pain his leg and throat and head cause. Eventually however, his muscles lose tension bit by bit; fiber by fiber is what it feels like, but he'll take it. He endures a jagged, rusty slide into sleep, and welcomes the darkness when it finally steals over him. Wonder if Wilson got his cookie cutter is his last conscious thought.