"Go home."

"No."

"Go home."

"No, not until the lab tests come in. It will be within the next few hours and then we'll have a clearer picture of what we're working with."

House groaned and dug around in his pocket for the narrow bottle. "Chase went home. Foreman went home. If I had any food in the fridge, I would be going home. Be normal, dammit."

"Not 'til the tests." Cameron stared up at him determinedly and, in a familiar stalemate, his mocking gaze was met with her usual damp-eyed sincerity. Jesus, it's like working with Bambi.

"Ok, fine. Hang around in the lab, paint your toenails, order pizza. It's going to be negative. We'll brainstorm tomorrow." He walked off down the corridor, snatching the paper bag off his desk. Food time at last. It was mere seconds before Wilson met him in the corridor. House glared at him incredulously.

"What the hell is wrong with the staff here? It's past midnight! Go home! You're making me look bad."

"Paperwork. You might want to try it sometime before your inbox collapses under its own mass. Since when did you worry about looking good?"

"I don't. I just don't want you looking better."

"Going to eat with vegetative-state guy?"

"I thought the coma ward for today. Intimate. The repartee is so much fresher."

"You could go check on not-coma girl."

"Not-coma girl?" House quirked an eyebrow. "Did I mention I'm going to the coma ward?"

"Admitted three days ago. Doesn't have a feed in because her blood sugar is maintaining itself along with her levels of pretty much everything else, no abnormal brain function beyond what's expected of - well, a coma. They're keeping an eye on her vitals, but - that's pretty much it. She's basically just really asleep. I'm surprised Cuddy didn't mention it to you."

"Tried yelling in her ear?" He paused. "That kid? The red-head?" A pale girl on a gurney rolled past in House's mind.

"Ah, so you do know. Avoiding the tricky cases?"

"It probably wasn't mentioned to me because it is scientifically impossible to remain in what you are basically describing as suspended animation for three days. Cuddy and Co. have tested wrong."

"That's not what I heard."

"That's what medical science demands must be true, as you well know." He paused before the elevator and drummed his fingers on his cane. "I'll keep her on as a candidate."

"You could sit with her for dinner. Maybe the prospect of a date with you will snap her right out of it," Wilson called back as he strolled on towards Cuddy's office. It took a second for House to realise that this comment could swing as a compliment or something much more offensive.

Housewife, bald guy or red-head? House twirled his cane thoughtfully as the elevator doors dinged open and he stepped out onto the lower floors. A perpetual twilight seemed to fill the three rooms neatly lined up before him; lights respectfully dimmed, televisions quietly murmuring, glass glinting in the shadowy half-tones. Bald guy, he decided. He always had the uncomfortable feeling that housewife would be disapproving, and red-head's room let in the traffic-whine through the narrow window. He resisted the urge to peek in at her and stayed on course, easing himself into the chair by the man's bedside and pulling a Reuben from the paper bag. "We're doing an all-nighter," he informed the still form as he rustled deeper for chips. "Make sure I don't fall asleep." He propped his legs up on the bed's edge and settled his eyes, unseeing, on the murmuring television screen. Two hours at least 'til the tests came back. The tests would almost certainly tell them nothing they didn't already know. Cameron would still be hovering around the lab anxiously, clinging for anything that might cancel out the inevitable delivery of bad news. He was sure they were negative; he could just drive home. But switching off from the puzzle until tomorrow morning seemed inelegant, a bit too nine-to-five for his occupation. He couldn't confess his own late night scheme though, for fear that Cameron would misconstrue it as a sign of him developing her own patented doe-eyed concern.

He absent-mindedly dusted some crumbs off bald guy's chest and suddenly sat up, fingers still fluttering above the blanket. Footsteps. Cuddy coming to chastise him for his meal time antics? He glanced down again at his silent comrade. Don't grass me up, buddy. He smirked into his sandwich. At least she'd have to stop calling me anti-social.

Many footsteps. Sneaking, hesitant, non-doctorly steps, he decided. Cuddy's stride was distinctly more aggressive and recognisable to him, ever heralding the threat of clinic duty. The sound passed by the half-closed door, away from the elevator, and he heard a low voice. He sat up in interest and seized his cane, gently laying his sandwich down on the table. Turning right out of the elevator meant only one possible destination: red-head's room. Definitely not visiting hours. He hopped up and stealthily headed for the door.

"In here, come on!" It was a hushed male voice.

"Xander! Don't drop it! You do not want to make me go back and do that again. I will manage to make sure that you regret it more than I will." Female. Two of them.

"Yes, the anti-venom extraction was a little - erm, gruesome. Be careful with it."

House's frown deepened. Three voices. This one sounded older, British and somehow scholarly. And from the sounds of it, possibly insane.

"Let's just hurry up. This place gives me the wiggins." The what?

"Hospitals? You aren't immune to them by now"

"Shut up, both of you! We don't have much time."

House's curiosity went cold and unfurled claws into his chest as he heard the younger male voice whisper hurriedly,

"Ok, ok - who wants to actually - you know - do it? With the whole syringe-thing. 'Cos honestly - not me."

Shit.