Author's note: When I got the idea to do a House/Holmes crossover, I thought that (given the obvious parallels) there must be tons of them out there already. Surprisingly, a search revealed almost none. Perhaps other authors are deterred by the time-period difference. Were Sherlock Holmes a real person, as my fic supposes, having been born in 1854, he would have died long ago. But "time is not a fixed construct" on House, so I'm lopping off 50 years or so from Holmes' age . . . just enough to make it barely plausible that he could still be alive today.

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"Merry Christmas, Dr. House," Lisa Cuddy intoned, depositing a case file on the desk next to House's sneaker-clad feet.

House briefly glanced away from his magazine as he replied, "That's not what I asked Santa for, it's July, and, for an elf, you're showing a bit too much of the ho ho ho."

But Cuddy kept standing there, and when House surveyed her features he saw a trace of a grin beaming out from behind her professional facade. That, in itself, meant nothing; it was no secret that Cuddy enjoyed forcing House to actually work for his paycheck. But there was something different this time . . . what was it . . . ?

That's it: the grin wasn't evil. She wasn't busting his chops. She genuinely thought she was giving him something he would enjoy. Of course, that didn't mean she was correct in her assessment. People were constantly overestimating the interest value of the cases they brought him.

He flipped open the file, skimmed the list of symptoms on the first page of the intake summary, and frowned.

Banal. Boring.

Cuddy cut off the incipient whining with, "It's not what, this time, but who."

"Unless you've got Lindsay Lohan hiding behind the door . . ." he leered, tossing the file back onto the desk.

"Please. You're old enough to be her father."

"Well, this guy could be her great great grandfather. Which makes my diagnosis simple: he's OLD. Things start breaking down around the century mark."

"Just look at the name," said Cuddy, losing patience.

There was no name written in the usual place, on the tab at the top of the folder. House started to point this out, but Cuddy cut him off with, "It's inside, to protect his privacy."

When House located the appropriate line on the appropriate form, his eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline. Cuddy smirked with glee at his momentary speechlessness.

"I . . . I thought . . . Isn't he dead? And in England?" Then cynicism kicked in: "Are you sure this isn't just some crazy old man who says he's the great Sherlock Holmes?"

"He has a passport." She turned to leave, then paused and tossed over her shoulder, "Also, the people who brought him in are the daughter and grandson of a Dr. John Watson . . ."

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This really is just a teaser – Sorry! I'll need to do some medical research in order to write the actual story, so it may take a while. But I thought I'd post this little introductory scene, and see what people think of it.