Chapter 1: The Problem of Calling In Sick

It was starting out all wrong. His leg was throbbing and screaming before he had even really woke up. His stomach felt tight and uncomfortable. God, was it hot!

Throwing off the sheet that had tangled around his waist while he had slept fitfully, Greg House managed to swing his legs over the side of the bed. He waited. He was still half asleep and his leg, he knew, was threatening mutiny if he tried to put weight on it. So, he sat there for a few minutes, trying to wake up his sleepy brain and steel himself against the inevitable pain he would feel when he decided to get finally stand.

It wouldn't have been quite so bad if it hadn't been for the fact that as soon as he stood, House knew he had caught a case of the flu from his clinic patient who had been coughing up a lung a few days ago. Unsteady, he swayed on his feet and clutched the bedpost for support. His head was now swimming with dizziness, he could feel sweat beading on his forehead, and now his stomach was beginning to churn like he had eaten a hotdog at a traveling carnival. It was safe to say that he felt like complete crap.

Making his way to bathroom, House was suddenly forced to clap his hand over his mouth as his stomach decided now was the time to empty itself. By the time he got to the toilet, most of the contents of his stomach were in his hand. He leaned over the porcelain bowl, coughing and gagging as he grabbed a wad of toilet paper to wipe himself up a little. He stumbled to the sink after flushing everything away, ran the hot water, then looked up into the mirror. He was not pleased.

His face was pale and sweaty, his eyes bloodshot, and his mouth hung open in a dazed fashion that was usually sported by his clinic patients. Well, it was true. He was sick.

After washing up, a task which would've been easier had he not had a second bout of vomiting in the shower, House staggered back into his bed. He closed his eyes for moment, intending only to rest a bit before calling Cuddy to tell her he was dying and could she please save any interesting cases for when he was alive again?

He was startled to hear the phone ring. After letting it ring a few times, he scooped it up and pressed it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"House, where are you? Your team is wandering around because you're not here to bully them around." It was Cuddy. "You're not playing hooky are you? Because I can totally dump more clinic hours on you if you are."

House blinked. "My God, Cuddy. I'm not even supposed to be in yet! At least wait until I actually need to be at work before you tear me a new one."

"It's 1:30!"

House scrambled at the bedside table, tugging the alarm clock onto the bed. It read 1:32 pm. His mouth hung open.

"1:32?" he asked.

Cuddy was quiet for a moment. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," House started to sit up, but changed his mind when his stomach threatened to rebel again. "I think I've caught the flu. I woke up, threw up, then got back into bed." He could almost see the disproving frown on Cuddy's face. "I was going to call."

"All right, but do you realize how backed up we are?"

"I could throw up on some them," he volunteered.

"Thanks, anyways. How's the leg?"

"I have the flu."

"I… yes, I know. Do you need anything?"

House moaned. "No, thanks, Mom. I think I'm good."

He could hear her mouth part into a smile. "Well, get your butt here tomorrow. Unless you plan on passing your plague to everyone else."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Goodbye."

"Yep."

House pressed the off button on the phone, then pressed his hand against his forehead. He was burning up. He could barely think straight and he knew he needed a Vicodin, but he couldn't remember where he had left them last. His coat pocket? On the kitchen table, maybe. Of course, he couldn't exactly look for them while he couldn't even make it to the bathroom without puking.

He shifted his weight so that he could lie on his good side. It had him dizzy again and once more he began to murmur vehement curses at the free clinic. He would've said them louder, only he didn't quite have the strength for that.

Time faded out once more. He was barely aware of the sun setting or the way the noise level grew when school let out and when it shrank when it was dinnertime. The alarm clock glowed toxic green in the hushed bedroom. He felt nausea rise up inside of him several more times, but managed to clench his jaw and set his mind to keeping everything down. His body was drenched in sweat, but he couldn't even imagine getting up to change his clothes.

He didn't even notice the sound of keys scraping at the lock on his front door or the sound of the door swinging open and being shut tight again. He only became aware of things when he heard his voice being called. He managed to open one to see a woman's face floating in front of him. Her eyes were concerned.

"House? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he coughed. "Just the flu…"

The woman never answered. Well, she might have, he conceded, but he never heard anything. He started to slip back into his fever hazed sleep as a rough washcloth began to wipe against his forehead and cheeks. He tried to groan and swipe it away, but he could barely turn his head from the offending cloth.

"Stop."

"Be quiet."

He opened his eyes, but wasn't able to focus on the woman. He squinted a couple times, then gave up. She said something else, but he didn't care. Unconcerned with what happened to him, House slipped down into a troubled sleep.