House placed his guitar lovingly back on it's mount on the wall, finally relaxing after his long two day stint at the hospital. It had been a difficult patient, a child. He could never leave a child without finding out what was wrong. Taking a swig of scotch, he limped towards the kitchen to grab a cereal bar to replace dinner. It was nearing midnight, and he didn't feel like cooking. The knowledge that he hadn't eaten anything for over 24 hours, much less slept, had escaped him. As he was turning away, heading for bed, the phone rang. His brows furrowed. No one ever called him that late. He pulled himself along the wall to get to the phone. Picking it up just before the last ring, he said a breathless "hello"
"Good evening Gregory" the cold voice echoed in House's head. It was so familiar, calculating and manipulative as always. It struck the fear of God in him.
"Hey Dad" he said quietly, with all the submissiveness of his childhood.
"What are you doing right now?"
"I just got a cereal bar, and I'm heading for bed"
"Have you done drills?"
"No. I can't anymore, you know that" immediately, House regretted adding the last part.
"Don't talk back to me!"
"Sorry"
"You've been going on about that damn leg for far too long, Gregory. Time to get over it and be a man"
"They took 5 pounds of muscle out of my thigh! I can't run anymore than you can do math or play piano!" House's eyes widened at his unexpected words.
"You're pathetic, you know that? You're just weak. I can't believe I managed to raise such a loser!" John kept up the verbal tirade for about five minutes. House stood by the phone, looking at the floor. It was always the same. Every time his father called, it always ended up like this. The man called at least three times a month, all though his adult life, making sure to keep up the endless torture of childhood.
"Sorry Dad. Was there anything you wanted?" House wanted desperately to hang up the phone and go to sleep, his leg twitching under him, aching for his bed.
"They say you're a good doctor" John said it as though he didn't believe it, gruffly admitting the fact.
"The best" House was proud, even if the praise was veiled, it was praise.
"My mate, Peter, he's sick. No one can cure him. I said I'd ask..."
"What's wrong with him? I only take interesting cases"
"He's having a hard time concentrating, a couple of seizures, his neck's stiff, he's depressed, his head hurts, he's irritable, he's struggling with telling hot and cold, and he's generally tired and weak"
"That's it? That's everything?"
"Are you accusing me of lying?"
"No. Fine. Bring him in. I'll get Cuddy to check him in as an inpatient. I'll get to him day after tomorrow"
"Why not tomorrow?" John snarled, he expected instant results from his son.
"Spent two nights awake curing my last patient. He was six, getting diddled by daddy" House curled his lips around the words.
"No reason to delay-"
"I haven't slept in 54 hours. I haven't sat down in 13. My leg hurts. I'm exhausted. I'll see your friend day after tomorrow"
"Gregor-" House slammed down the phone, wearily staggering off to bed. It rang again and again for half an hour, and House finally went to sleep.