Chapter 1: Opening Moves

Disclaimer: I don't own House MD! All rights go to David Shore and the Fox Production Company.


Gripping his cane, House plodded out of the hospital into the abysmal and stormy weather waiting for him outside. It was unusually bad. Massive power outages had caused PPTH to rely on back-up generators to maintain electricity in the hospital. House decided that he wanted to get home before the roads were flooded too badly, and he ended up stuck in the hospital for God only knows how long.

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have completely loathed the idea of being trapped in his office with his music and porn, but since their recent patient was now lying dead in the morgue, he decided that around the remaining applicants, or Cuddy, who would no doubt be furious, was the absolute last place he wanted to be.

House ducked his head against the harsh wind and rain, which spattered loudly on his leather jacket and stung the side of his uncovered face. He had often mocked Wilson for always having an umbrella with him, even in the nicest weather, but now he saw the use of carrying one. The elements sucked.

His cane had very little purchase on the slick pavement, so his progress across the parking lot was haggard and slow. He finally arrived at his motorcycle, which he was mentally kicking himself in the ass for driving to work instead of his car. He decided if there was ever a time to wear his helmet, it was now. Fitting it over his head, the pouring rain was now an obscenely loud pattering on the hard surface of the helmet. Huffing loudly, he threw a leg over his motorcycle and revved the engine. He quickly sped out of the parking lot, the freezing cold rain hitting him hard. The only visible part of his body were his hands, which were stinging while the iced fire hit his bare skin.

The ride back to his apartment was arduous and unpleasant. By the time he arrived home, he was drenched quite thoroughly and was shivering.

"Goddamn." He swore to himself as he parked his bike in front of his apartment. Stumbling off of his motorcycle, he grabbed his cane from the side and began wearily making his way towards his home. Once inside the apartment complex, he took off his helmet and shook out his hair, not unlike a wet dog that had just been let inside. He plunged his hand into his pocket for his apartment key, and quickly opened his door, stepping into his dark apartment.

In the hazy gray light being let in by the windows, his apartment looked positively morbid. The usual soft light that infused the warm earth tones was gone, making everything seem dank and attic-like. Something about the way his home looked disturbed him... which was odd, because it was usually very difficult to unsettle House. He flicked on the light, and the cold fear that had began creeping through his freezing bones quickly dissipated. He breathed a sigh as he peeled of his jacket, which although water proof, was still completely water-logged. Shaking it off, he hung it on his coat and rack and kicked off his wet sneakers. He immediately made a beeline for the bathroom.

Stepping onto the linoleum, House quickly threw off his shirt, which landed untidily next to the laundry hamper, which House noticed (much to his misery) was overflowing. Tomorrow was going to have to be laundry day. Limping forward, House discarded his damp cane by the side of the tub as he turned on the hot water spigot to full blast. He made sure his cane was just close enough to the tub so it could be easily reached for when he needed to get out. Next his socks and jeans accompanied his shirt next to the hamper, and finally House stepped out of his boxers into the shallow pool of steaming water that had already built in the bathtub. House had no patience to wait for it to be completely full to get in, so he was half warm and half freezing for the next few moments. Finally, once the water was threatening to spill over the sides of the tub, House turned off the water and settled comfortably into the curve of the tub.

Picking up an old copy of Gossip Weekly, House relaxed his usually tense muscles and began perusing the magazine. Although his eyes raked over the words, he wasn't taking in much of it. He was content just sitting there, really. The usual intense pain in his leg had been reduced to a dull throbbing by the hot water, and it was a blissful relief.

Speaking of blissful relief...

Scooping up his cane with his free hand, he used it to pick up his jeans by the waist band and lure them towards him. Once within his reach, House grabbed the garment and grabbed the familiar orange bottle within the right hand pocket. Once in his hand, House realized he had only eight pills left.

He had just gotten the new bottle two days beforehand.

Sighing as he poured two into his hand and promptly dry swallowed both of the tablets, he decided he would have to go easy for the next few days and dip into one of his other stashes, or else Wilson would be up his ass about his 'addiction', his 'problem'.

Sighing yet again, House tossed the pill bottle to the side and let his eyes drift close. He would lay here, away from the troubles of the world, away from his pain for a little while longer. Until the tepid bathwater forced him out. Lulled by the warmth and his tired eyes, House soon slipped into a comfortable sleep.


Demetrius Ivashkov was not a bad man. He was simply a man that understood necessity, that understood what needed to be done. He believed that everyone was born with a God given talent.

His was taking human life.

Expecting him not to act on his gift would be like asking Tolkien not to write, Newton not to study the sciences, Washington not to lead. It was impractical to disregard his own talents for a more mundane profession, for a... legal profession.

This was not to say he particularly enjoyed what he did. He often found the people he was paid to kill were undeserving of his reaping, but, once again...

He was a man who understood necessity. This was his career choice, his expertise. Just like a man with a typical nine to five job relied on his work to pay his bills and feed himself, so too did Demetrius rely on his job to cover his expenses. The only difference was a desk job was considered normal and respectable, while the art of killing was considered a taboo by normal society.

Of course, no one knew what he did except his clients, and their information on him was shallow to say the least. They knew how to get in contact with him, and that was the extent of their information. To them, he was Karma, his cover name which he found eerily fitting.

It especially seemed fitting in this situation, with his current target.

As Demetrius laid flat against the rooftop of the building he was hidden on, with rain spattering loudly on his sniper rifle, he considered the man who now had a laser point sitting directly between his eyes as he napped in his tub.

Dr. Gregory House.

His client had given him just the most basic information, but Demetrius was not a man who would kill a complete stranger. Aside from his own curiosity, he wanted to know what he was dealing with when he went on a job, what problems to expect, if any. He diligently researched each of his targets before their elimination, and with Dr. House it had been no different.

It had not taken long at all to find out all he needed to know and more about the doctor. A world famous diagnostician who worked at Princeton Plainsboro, Dr. House was well known in the medical community for being a brilliant doctor with a positively atrocious bedside manner. Further research showed that the diagnostician had not spent his long, sordid career making friends. He hacked into the hospital mainframe, and it was easy to see that most of the caustic doctor's patients, although cured, did not walk away happy. Dr. House had gotten more lawsuits in the past year than all the other doctors in the hospital combined.

From what he had read, it seemed like the mysterious House was a narcissist with a God complex, and it was unlikely he would be sorely missed.

Having followed the doctor for the past two weeks to get a sense of his schedule, habits, and personality, he had noticed that House didn't seem to have a great number of friends, which was unsurprising. A young brown haired man had come to House's apartment several times, either to spend time with him their or to pick him up to go to a restaurant or bar. He had also seen House leaving the hospital with the man, so after a little digging, Demetrius discovered it was Dr. James Wilson, head of Oncology at Princeton Plainsboro, and by the looks of it, House's sole friend.

He investigated the hiring 'game' House had been playing for the past two weeks, and had memorized the names and addressed of all of the applicants, three of which he knew had been fired several hours before, after they had killed their recent patient. It was amazing what information you could get merely from a janitor disguise.

He made sure to keep close tabs on all of the people his targets assosciated with, in case he needed bait or leverage to lure them to their deaths. It was curious the lengths people were willing to go to for the people they loved. He had never understood the human connection, the willingness to sacrifice yourself for someone you cared about... some would say it made him a psychopath, but in his opinion his method of living made sense. Other people were liabilities, problems. If you only had one person to look out for, difficulties could be taken care much more easily, and in a more timely manner. It was really a matter of self-preservation.

Of course, he thought with a smile, it looked as though none of this information would be needed. As a loud thunder strike shook the building, he carefully steadied his rifle. The persistent noise of the storm would cover the sound of the glass breaking in House's apartment, and since his rifle had a silencer, no one would hear the bullet firing from the barrel. It would likely be many hours, perhaps days, before Dr. House was found, and by then he would be on a plane back to Russia with a fresh million sitting in one of his many foreign bank accounts.

Still smiling, Demetrius pulled the trigger.


House was awakened abruptly by a dull thunk next to his head. Jerking his head, he saw a deep indentation in the bath tile, and with horror he saw a pale gold shell casing floating in his now lukewarm bathwater.


A heavy rain drop flew into his eye just as his finger hit the trigger, and much to Demetrius' consternation, his bullet flew of course, missing his target by centimeters. No matter. He thought. I will not miss again.


"The hell-" House yelled as another bullet zoomed past his head, and with a painful sting he realized the projectile had nicked his right ear. With a yelp he scrambled, completely naked, out of the bathtub and onto the icy bathroom floor. He army-crawled to the space below the window as two more bullets soared through his window, now completely shattering the glass. Two holes appeared in the floor where he had been only moments before. He was now directly under the window, and he knew there was no way that whoever was aiming for him could get him now. Holding a hand on his ear to stem the trickle of blood, House tried desperately to calm his breathing. He reached out for a towel under his sink cabinet and wrapped it around his lower half.

Police... got to call the police...

The only problem was that his cell phone was snuggled in the pocket of his jeans, which were in a crumpled heap on the bathmat. The only way to get to them would be to put himself in the direct line of fire of his mysterious assailant. Of course, if no one knew House was here, then they could just as well come over to his apartment and kill him here anyway.

It was a risk he was going to have to take, he decided. Taking a deep breath, he jettisoned himself across the bathroom, landing neatly on the bathmat. A sharp pain ripped through his leg, but he ignored it, because just as his hands clasped around his cell phone, a tearing, searing agony shot up the length of his arm, the epicenter being his shoulder, eliciting a scream of pain as he fell back on the floor, writhing.

It took all of House's willpower to drag himself, one armed, across the slick bathroom floor, which was now wet with both bathwater and blood. Just as he was almost in the clear and back to the safety of the window, another shock ripped through his left ankle, and he threw himself against the wall, one hand clutching his ankle, the other his shoulder.

Focus, focus! He berated himself mentally. He tried desperately to block out the pain, biting down hard on his lip as he flipped open the cell phone. A coppery taste filled his mouth. Blood.

With fumbling fingers, he dialed 9-1-1.

"9-1-1 Dispatch, what is your emergency?" a pleasant female voice came on the line. House was hoping his haggard breathing would be enough of a tip that he was in a bad situation, but he decided he was going to have to speak.

"Send an ambulance and an officer to 221B Baker St." He murmured, fighting to stay conscious.

"What exactly is the nature of your emergency, sir?" She asked. As his vision blurred and his head fuzzed from blood loss, House answered.

"I've... I've been shot." These were the last words out of his mouth as he collapsed backwards, his head smacking against the bath tile. He dropped the phone with a clatter as the world went black.