Please Note: Still don't owe anything save for this idea and what I have written, and still most appreciative of SpaceAnJL's help! Enjoy!
Chapter Two
It had taken every molecule of restraint the Doctor had to not jump off the exam table and follow the energy signal when the tracking device had gone off again in his pocket, never mind not even sneak a peek at it. But he couldn't further arouse the suspicions of the man standing before him. The Doctor realized he had to be the Dr. House the nurses had been talking about. Funny, he didn't look like the Grinch . . . or Scrooge for that matter, even with the dark-gray hair and at times dour expression. But there was a brightness, an attentiveness behind his eyes . . . one the Doctor had seen in many of his travelling companions over the centuries. And as such, the Doctor knew the man wouldn't be easily dissuaded from finding out why his coat pockets were so spacious.
But the Doctor didn't get to be brilliant by being slow to think on his feet (or his seat, as the case may be). "Oh that," he began with a tug on his left ear, "is due to a hole in my pocket. A rather big hole, in fact, which means a lot of things can fall down into it. And this is a rather long coat so as I'm sure you can understand and have probably now already realized — for you look to be a very clever chap — I can stick my arm a far ways down it to get to what I need. Or, in this case, don't need at the moment." He swung his legs out in front of him, crossing one ankle over the other before letting them fall back against the exam table.
Dr. House stared at him, his blue-eyed gaze penetrating. The Doctor didn't flinch nor did his own brown-eyed gaze waver. He had experienced such scrutiny at one time or another for a good part of his life now and found a grin from him often did much more to disarm the other person than anything he could say. And that was saying a lot. His grin, that is, said a — oi, he was getting off track. Not a good thing to do as Dr. House was asking him a question.
"Show me the hole."
Okay, that was not so much a question as a statement. Or had it started out as a question? He had to pay better attention. And why hadn't his grin worked? It always worked! Well, mostly. Well, at least half of the time. Well, sometimes.
"Why should I show you?" the Doctor questioned with a jut of his chin. Leaning forward slightly, he made a bit of a show of looking around the room as if to make sure they were truly alone. "What do you think I'm hiding? A gun? A biological weapon? Or —" he fumbled around in the pocket until he grasped what he needed "— a boring old mobile?" he finished, brandishing the object in the air. Flipping the device open he frowned at the screen. "Two missed calls," he said strictly for the benefit of the doctor before him before tucking it back into his pocket. "Besides which," the Doctor added, his tone grave, "the hole in my pocket is on the seam. If I show you, I'll just make it bigger. Then who knows what all I'd lose down there!"
The Doctor almost chortled when Dr. House muttered he would probably lose what was left of his mind, but he managed to keep it in and allowed Dr. House to properly check his throat, take his temperature and look in both his ears. Dr. House would have been an excellent foil for Captain Jack Harkness. Too bad he had to leave Jack behind . . .
But enough of that — best to keep moving. And the Doctor still had an energy signal to sort out and his other heart to get going again (and hopefully not while on the run). Right then. Allons-y and all that sort of thing. And he really didn't mean to be rude, but he was glad this fellow wouldn't be able to give chase, what with his cane and all. Still rude and not ginger.
"Do you mind," he said, keeping his tone light as Dr. House scribbled something in a file, "if I make a quick call?"
~wh~
If House didn't know any better — and had he still been popping Vicodin like he hoped there would be no tomorrow — he would have thought he was caught in some sort of Dickens-inspired episode of Punk'd. As it was, he was seriously starting to think John Smith had somehow escaped from the psych ward or, at the very least, should be checked into one. Maybe Mayfield had an opening. Smith would give House's former roommate Alvie a real run for his money in the bi-polar — wait a minute!
"You want to make a call?" House said, pen paused in mid-air and the file he had been writing in forgotten. "Now?" The man was definitely up to something and House knew it had to do with whatever was inside his coat pocket. Hole in the seam his a —
"Yes; sorry, sorry," Smith replied, pulling out his cell phone as he hopped off the exam table. "I know how valuable your time is, it really is for all you lot, really, but I'll only be a —"
"—tick, yeah." House tossed the file onto the nearby counter. "Got it, guv'ner," he added with his own British accent.
Smith paused by the doorway. "Not bad," he said with an approving nod, "not bad at all." Then he was gone with a grin, a wink and a flurry of brown fabric billowing behind him. He reminded House of a tall, skinny cheshire cat.
The door clicked softly shut and the sound spurred House out of his musings and into action. Whatever the game was with Smith, he knew he didn't have much time in which to figure it out. Grabbing the file, he finished up his last notation (all the better to keep Nurse Brenda off his back for a while) before getting his cane and hustling out of the room.
A loud shriek followed by the sound of a door hitting a wall led House out of the clinic and down the small hallway on the other side of the main reception area that led to the labs. Rounding the corner (Shrieker was already threatening a law suit to Cuddy and for once it wasn't his fault), House caught sight of a flutter of brown fabric as someone ducked around the corner to his left. Increasing the length of his gait, House made it around the corner in short order then almost stumbled over Smith as he leaned against a wall and repeatedly pounded a fist to the left of and slightly down from his right shoulder while muttering for something to start.
"Soooo . . ." House let his voice trail off as he leaned against the wall opposite Smith. "What seems to be the problem?"
"Oh. Hello!" Smith said with a grin as he straightened up, letting his arm fall to his side. "Would you mind giving me a hand here?" he continued, turning so his back was to House. "Hit me, as hard as you can, just to the left of my right shoulder blade. And quickly," Smith added, pulling a device out of his pocket which definitely was not a cell phone. "So hard to do this by myself," he said somewhat absently, frowning as he flicked at the Y-shaped device. He turned back around when House failed to do as he had asked. "I won't sue you, I swear. Just can't go on running without a good thwack on the back. Hey, that rhymes!" He grinned, but quickly schooled his features into a more neutral expression when House just stared impassively at him. "Right then." Tucking the device back into his coat pocket, Smith took several deep breaths and moved as if he were a boxer preparing for a sparring match. And before House could stop him Smith then slammed the right side of his body into the door frame, letting out a very satisfied-sounding "Aha! Much better!" before dashing down the hallway and taking the corner in a squeal of rubber soles on waxed linoleum.
House was patting down his pockets, making sure he hadn't somehow accidentally began taking Vicodin again when Smith reappeared with a wheelchair and, as if it were possible, an even more manic grin than before.
"Fancy going on a trip?" Smith asked.
