Standing Accused (Part Two)
A Crossing Jordan/House Crossover Fanfic
Chapter One: Remember When I Told You Not to Visit?
Rating: PG-13 (I think)
Word Count: 1,175
Disclaimer: I own House. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except seasons 1 & 2 on DVD and my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.
Summary: When the man who shot House turns up dead in his Boston hotel room, House turns to old friends to prove his innocence.
Author's Note: Okay, I can't really hide behind the "this is my first fanfic" to excuse any mistakes and OOC anymore. That's scary. Still, the characters may be very, very OOC. It is possible. I have no medical or forensic experience, therefore anything I write is probably very wrong. This is set somewhere after season 2 of House and season 5 of Crossing Jordan, and after my other fic "Sickness and Health," though I'm not sure you'd have to read that one to get this one. This is an AU fic, diverging from canon after season 5 and season 2, but also assume that in between "Sickness and Health" and this story, House has recovered/reverted to his cane like he did in the first episodes of season 3. However, I am not necessarily going to use anything canon from either season 6 or season 3.

This has also not been beta'd...if it's not perfect, that's 100 percent my fault.

Since I can't think of any other warnings to give, on with the story...

Chapter One

Remember When I Told You Not to Visit?

"Hoyt," he answered groggily, turning on the light. He rolled out of bed, pulling on his shirt. He rubbed sleep out of his eyes. He heard the words, processing them subconsciously. He was used to this by now. He'd be at the crime scene before he was really awake. He'd never forgotten anything important, though one time he had buttoned his shirt wrong and was razzed for weeks.

Jordan hadn't spoken to him for two of those weeks. It had been nearly impossible to convince her that he'd buttoned his shirt wrong because he'd been too tired. She'd heard the other cops teasing him about his girlfriend; only he'd gone to bed alone that night. Jordan either hadn't believed him or maybe just wanted to torment him about it. She still wouldn't admit to either option.

He took his keys and headed down to his car. Someone had better have coffee at the crime scene. It was two in the morning, and his shift ended at eleven. It should have ended sooner, were it not for Jordan's insistence that his suspect in their last case was innocent. In the end, she'd been right, but their argument had them going home alone.

Woody parked next to the black and white near the front entrance. He was recognized by a uniform, who led him inside the hotel and to the floor where more uniformed officers kept watch over the door to room 513. Some young kiss ass handed Woody a coffee. He took a sip and sighed. It was going to be a long night. "What have we got?"

"Man, dead. Two shots to the chest. Small caliber. Owner of the room found him here, or so he claims."

"Anything on him?"

"Just this," the uniform held up a bottle of pills.

Woody looked at it. "Vicodin? Where's the owner of the room?"

"Over there, Detective," the CSU man said and pointed Woody towards the other room of the suite. Woody glanced in that direction, and turned the other way, heading into the bedroom. He stood over the body. "ME's on the way."

Woody nodded. He drank his coffee. He had two options. He could wait for whoever Macy set over, or he could interview the man whose room it was. He would probably fall asleep while he waited. "What is that banging?"

"That's all pill popper," the uniform answered. "Keeps banging his cane against the wall."

"His cane?"

"Yep. Claims the vicodin is for his pain."

Suddenly, Woody was fully awake. He shoved his coffee at the office and went to the next room. The man on the couch stopped the cane midway through his strike on the wall. "Detective Hoyt. Would you please tell these idiots that I didn't kill anyone?"

"Sure thing, Dr. House," Woody answered. "But you'd better tell me why you're in Boston."

"Jordan Cavanaugh, I'm with the medical examiner's office," she explained to someone who was obviously a rookie. By now almost everyone who worked in any part of the justice system in Boston—and a few other places, most recently Princeton—knew who she was. She flashed her badge and looked around. Victim in the bedroom, no sign of the detective in charge. She shrugged and went into the bedroom.

"Ow," Woody said, causing her to look up at him. "You would think a man responsible for getting someone a kidney transplant would know better than to poke them in the gut with a cane."

"Wait a minute. House is here?" Jordan said, getting to her feet.

"This is his room. He's in town for a medical conference," Woody explained, not missing Jordan's incredulous look. "Not his choice. Says he had a few drinks with Wilson, came back, found the body. Seems he cursed loud enough for the entire floor to hear."

"Impressive," Jordan muttered. "Are you going to arrest House?"

"CSU didn't find any GSR on him. So unless you tell me our friend here wasn't killed by a gunshot, I have no reason to arrest him. And I'm not arresting him unless I have to," Woody said, leaning over her shoulder, his breath on her neck making her wonder why she had gone home alone earlier. She hadn't gotten any sleep, and if she wasn't going to sleep, at least she could have been—Crime scene, Cavanaugh. Don't go there.

She rolled the body over. "Woody, did you look at this body?"

He shook his head. "Didn't get that far. House was banging his cane on the wall. Why?"

"Woody, I don't know how to tell you this," Jordan began, "but this man wasn't shot."

"Jordan, please tell me you're kidding," Woody said, peering at the body.

She shook her head. "These wounds look like bullet holes at first. But they're not. I need to take him back to the morgue to figure this out."

Woody moaned. "No. No. No. This can't be happening. Jordan, you have to find proof that he didn't do this. I cannot arrest that man."

"Calm down, Woody. We both know that House didn't kill anyone. I'll take the body back to the morgue; see what I can find. Maybe you should talk to Wilson, see about collaborating House's story?" she suggested with a smile.

"You're having fun with this, aren't you?" Woody demanded. Jordan looked at him, trying not to laugh. "Great, Jordan. Just great."

"Hey," she began, biting her lip apologetically. "I know this isn't easy for you. House saved your life. And he's not a killer. We both know that. So just do your job and I'll do mine. And we'll prove it, because we're the best."

"You're the best," Woody told her, and he smiled one of his Farm Boy smiles. She found herself grabbing him by his awful tie, and they were close, their lips almost brushing.

"Hey!" House bellowed, coming into the other room. "Can I go now? Whatever idiot was dumb enough to get himself killed in my hotel room is not my problem. I want a new room. I want my medication back and I—"

"How long do you think it's been since he had a vicodin?"

Woody dug in his pocket and threw the bottle to House. House caught it, opened the bottle, and tossed back a pill. The uniformed officers and CSU men all stared at him and then at Woody. He shrugged. "Trust me, it's easier this way. Dr. House, which room is Wilson in?"

"I'll show you," House offered. Woody looked at him. House smiled and limped towards him. "Come on, Detective. He's got a mini-bar."

Woody closed his eyes and grimaced in pain. Jordan rubbed his arm comfortingly. "I'll catch up with you later."

"Breakfast?"

"Only if it comes in a bed," she answered.

"Hah," House cried, hurrying out of the room. "They're still together, Wilson. You owe me five hundred! They're still together."

Jordan thought maybe Woody was the lucky one. He was able to leave. She had to prepare a body for transport in front of everyone.