In the darkness of his living room, he sat with an open bottle of bourbon on the coffee table in front of him, almost perfectly halfway between the leg that rested there and the phone he was stoically ignoring as it rang. The ice in the crystal glass rattled as he lifted it to his lips for a sip – the liquid burned at his throat as he drank, but left a sweet after-taste on his tongue.

The TV flashed white haze, the light jumping through the prism of his glass and casting a partial rainbow effect on his wrist; he watched it pensively, not wholly appreciating the beautiful spectacle. His mind was otherwise occupied with flashbacks and memories so close he could taste them, but so far away he wasn't sure they mattered anymore.

As he mused, the phone rang once more. He didn't need to answer it or even look at the caller ID to know who it was because his best – and arguably only – friend had been calling non-stop for approximately three hours. Or, if he were to be exact, two hours and fifty-seven minutes.

But he didn't need company, not right now. Loneliness was his solace from the ache of humanity, and home was his perfectly misanthropic paradise against stupidity and falseness. His epitome of truth was that everybody lies, and he himself was no exception. He was the biggest liar of all, because all of his omissions added up to all the lies in the world. The biggest lie of all, he pondered well into the darkness of night.

Sonia Harvey.

He was working part-time in a tiny little book store, working through a medical degree whilst battling a suspension from his last medical school. It was a slow day but then, every day was a slow day. Behind the front desk he sat, reading a second edition Conan Doyle and waiting for the bell of the door to ring. He was happiest when it didn't.

It was after lunch one day when the bell finally rang. Almost instinctively he sighed, closing the book a page before the final chapter and rolling his idle eyes. The culprit hadn't surfaced yet, choosing to disappear between the shelves and go straight to the source of their poison before braving his sunny disposition.

She had already known what she wanted before stepping inside, because she was at the desk with a pile of medical books from here to Canada in less time than he had to take a breath of her sweet perfume. Her eyes hit him square in the face, and he was forced to make a rare double take.

He started from her feet up. Snow boots don't often mix with denim jeans but on her, they worked. Her legs were longer than the Nile, meeting an ass at the Med sea that he could have bounced a quarter off; the Bon Jovi shirt knotted at the waist didn't discourage him. Her long, red hair fell in waves down her denim-clad back, held back by a pretentious beret that was held in with pins.

The button nose sat between cheekbones that would make Marilyn cry, gently apple-red from the angry gale outside. Snow was still crystallised and unmelted in her hair, reflecting the light in the tiny book store like rubies and diamonds. Her lips, rouged and softened by some tinted balm, curled into a smile that made even his heart thud a little.

But he could never forget those eyes.

He couldn't quite recall how it happened – or maybe it was more that he didn't care for 'how' – but they'd spent the night together. She was great and she thought he was great. In between locking lips and limbs, they talked extensively about radical new medical procedures and invasive new machines. They'd fallen asleep in his small, college dorm-room just as the sun began to rise.

When he awoke in the morning, she was gone. He'd kept his eyes open for her, but she seemed to have disappeared without a trace, and he wasn't the guy to ask around and chase. Waiting was never his style, and she was at the back of his mind by the time the next girl came along.

But he never forgot her.

'House.'

It was half past ten – he was already very late. As he limped through the automatic doors, leaning heavily on his cane and looking everywhere but at her, Gregory House sighed through his nostrils. His mood wasn't particularly high anyway, and having his boss in his face after a poor night of sleep was not going to help it any.

'House!'

Finally, his eyes fell on her. Lisa Cuddy, in all of her mediocre attraction, was particularly striking when she was furious. Ever the antagonist, House grinned at her – it provoked the desired response and she glowered at him, the blue file in her hand crumpling slightly under the pressure of her frustration.

'Cuddy!' House beamed sardonically as he approached her, dipping his hand into the bowl of lollipops. 'Your ass is looking particularly titanic today.'

'Can it, House,' Cuddy seethed, forcing the file into his hand. 'Thirty year old male presenting with vomiting and abdominal pain.'

House pulled the candy from his mouth, regarding the woman with haughty derision. 'You're handing me a simple case of vomiting and abdominal pain?'

'Yes,' Cuddy said simply, moving the bowl before he could plunge his hand in for a pop for later. 'And you're gonna take it because you're ridiculously late.'

Another look of derision. 'That's not a good enough reason.'

Cuddy exhaled in fury, pinching the bridge of her nose as she chewed over their typical morning dance against The Man, and then – much to House's amusement – smiled, her eyes nipped at the corners to reveal how forced it was. 'You're taking this case because I'm your boss. End of story.'

She pushed it once more, rather hard, into his hand before whipping around – he was hit in the face by her typical perfume – and beginning to walk away. House's eyes had barely fallen to her backside when she turned back around.

'Oh, and there's a woman in your office.'

'What does she want?' House asked, his mouth still full of lollipop.

Cuddy shrugged. 'How the hell should I know? She asked for you. Now deal with it and leave me alone.'

House smirked to himself as she walked into the clinic, anger flowing from her in waves. He hobbled towards the elevator, lifting his cane so he could call it from three feet away. He'd always thought it was cool that he could do that, even if that was the only reason his cane was cool.

'House!'

Who now, he thought. His days were filled with constant annoyances, and one of said annoyances was walking briskly up behind him. The elevator arrived and House stepped in, turning around to see the horrified face of his best friend as he ran to catch the lift.

When the panic eclipsed every other emotion in his eyes, House smirked and threw his cane out in front of him, jamming it in the doors before they closed, causing it to slide back open in protestation. James Wilson stood, sweating just a little from his exertion, and fixed House with a look of pure annoyance.

'You bastard.'

'You love it,' House retorted, his smirk more broad.

Wilson shook his head and stepped into the elevator, and this time the doors were allowed to close comfortably. House's smirk was ever-fixed as they moved up the building, and Wilson sighed through his nose as he adjusted his askew tie.

'So. Your phone not working?'

'I was busy,' House lied, stepping out of the elevator as soon as it opened.

Wilson followed, not backing down without some modicum of a fight. 'On a Tuesday night? I hope she was worth the money.'

'Always hookers with you. You have sex on the brain, Wilson; you need to get laid.' House felt pleased with his remark, and pressed on towards his office as fast as his cane would take him. Wilson kept pace easily with his long strides.

'Always with the put-downs. Maybe if you stopped systematically destroying every single one of your relationships before they have a chance to blossom, you might feel less of a need to take it out on me.'

House stopped and turned to his best friend, mock trauma on his face. 'Words hurt, Jimmy.'

Wilson gave House another of his typical looks and sauntered past him towards his own office. 'Goodbye, House.'

His words weren't heard because House was staring through the glass door of his private office. In his peripheral he clocked his three fellows pouring over their latest case – Cuddy had got to them first – but it was the least of his concerns.

In his office, with her back to him, sat a woman. Most people would have been pleased that she had the decency to sit in the guest chair, but House overlooked this because she was playing with his over-sized tennis ball. Now he would have to deal with her, because she was touching his stuff.

As he burst through the door, he kept his eyes to the ground as he shrugged off his coat, ambling over to his desk. At his chair, he threw his grey long-coat over the back and flopped heavily into the cushioning, leaning forward and squeezing his damaged leg as it ached. He ignored the woman, taking the orange bottle of pills from his shirt pocket and shaking five or six into his hands. He threw them into his mouth, swallowing them all in one go as he closed his eyes at the relief.

The woman cleared her throat and House opened his eyes, staring at the tiled ceiling.

'Doctor... House?'

House looked down, staring for a few seconds at his computer screen before turning to face the woman. The first thing that hit him was her eyes. Her poker-straight brown hair was pulled into a ponytail that fell in layers to the middle of her shoulder blades with bangs that tickled her lashes, surrounding her relatively pointed face that squared off into a strong chin. A long, rounded nose with a slight upturn was ensconced between her oh-so-high cheek bones, slapped apple-red from the New Jersey cold.

He stared at her and she dropped her eyes to the floor, biting her lip in a manner pulled straight from his memories.

'I'm Jess,' she said quietly, holding out her hand and meeting his gaze again. She dropped the hand when he ignored it, still staring at those eyes. 'My... mom said you'd be here.'

House couldn't gather his thoughts. Those eyes – they were the same size, the same shape, even the same shade of green. Sonia's ghost there to haunt him, just one more time, just like she had last night.

'What d'you want.' It was a statement, not a question.

The girl looked flustered, knotting the fingers she stared at. He noted that her voice was lower in tenure than Sonia's had been, almost mannish in pitch, and the girl chewed her nails – a nasty habit, House thought.

'I'm here because my mom... told me to come here,' she finally uttered. She sounded nervous, almost afraid. The girl looked up again, her whole face a delicate shade of pink. 'She said you were the greatest man she'd ever known, and that you were the best doctor ever. She said you were...' The girl laughed nervously and looked down, a flash of something in her eyes so brief that House couldn't catch it. 'Awesome.'

'Well.' House spoke finally, sitting back in his chair as his interest peaked. 'I am awesome.'

'Yeah, she said you'd say that.'

House stared at the hunched girl, the familiar crease forming between his eyes. She was a new puzzle, one he didn't want to want to figure out, but one he knew he couldn't not figure out. Grammatical nuisances aside, House was drawn to this Rubix cube of a girl.

As if on cue, the door to the conference room opened and in stepped his team, each holding a copy of the new case. Allison Cameron's eyes went straight to the girl, who seemed to shrink even more in her unobviously obvious jealous stare. Eric Foreman also clocked the girl, but his look didn't linger as Cameron's did – he wanted to get on with his job. Robert Chase did the opposite to everyone and ignored her, believing that was what House wanted him to do.

'Guys,' House announced, hopping out of his seat and balancing his weight insecurely on his cane. 'This is...' Holding out his hand in introduction, he realised he couldn't remember the girls name. He rounded his gaze on her; in response, she turned pinker.

'Jessica,' the girl sputtered, tugging at her sleeves. 'Jessica Harvey-Porter.'

House tried to keep his reaction off his face, but knew he wouldn't succeed for long. Instead, he utilised his time-honoured method of walking away from the situation. He pushed roughly between his black Fellow and his foreign Fellow, figuring pushing past Cameron would probably break her shoulder.

His storm out carried him to Wilson's office. Without stopping, he pulled open and walked through the heavy, wooden door and carried on across the office, until he threw himself down on the squat grey couch. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wilson staring, but kept his own eyes to the ceiling.

'Here to apologise?' Wilson asked sarcastically, turning back to his work. 'You shouldn't have.'

'Her name,' House started, ignoring his friends remark. 'Is Jessica... Harvey-Porter.'

Wilson placed down his pen and looked at House, puzzled. 'Who's name?'

'The girl in my office,' House explained quietly.

After a seconds silence, Wilson spoke. 'Harvey. Why does that sound familiar?' It was a few more seconds while Wilson rifled through the desk drawers of his memory, searching for relevance. His eyes widened as he realised. 'Harvey, as in...?'

'I don't know.' House was feeling a little irate. 'She just said her mom sent her.'

'She didn't say who her mom is?' House shook his head. Wilson tried deftly to ease the situation and placate his friend. 'Then it could mean something else. She could be someone else.'

House shook his head again, still not looking away from the ceiling but spinning his cane on his fingertips slowly. 'I know those eyes...'

'Lots of people have green eyes, House,' Wilson argued, fixing him with his best don't-be-an-idiot look.

'Not like these.'

Wilson narrowed his eyes, picking up his pen again for something to do. 'So... what does she want from you?'

'Don't know...' House stood, again placing all of his weight precariously onto his cane. 'Don't care.'

With that, House left Wilson's office, leaving the other man at a loss for words. He didn't go back to his own office; she was a reminder of someone who he used to know, long before his medical career, long before the infarction that changed his life. He didn't need to know her, and he didn't want to.