Bat-guy woke with a manly grunt as he tried to get up. Unfortunately for our rabbit-eared friend, the fiendish Dr. House had cuffed him to the dusty four poster bed that sat in his basement. Okay, that sounds vaguely unhealthy, but trust me, I had really a good and devilishly smart reason for it.

One of them being, I really don't like getting punched in the face by muscular goths.

His panic subsided as he realized he still had his mask-thing on. Then his eyes lit up on little old me, sitting half a meter from his bed. I met them, looking for any violence or malice. To my very uncommon surprise, there was none; only a really calm kind of appraisal. Note to self- Bat-guy is either really tough, or he's used to being tied up. If I was betting man, which I am, I'd say both.

"At last, sleeping Batty awakes." I remarked.

His gaze didn't shift. "Who are you?"

Interesting. "So, you wake up bound to a bedpost with half your bones turned to mush, and your first question is who am I? Gee, smart."

He opened his mouth, then grimaced. My guess? No matter how big a brute he was, the pain was a-knocking at his brain.

"To answer your question," I said with a flourish, "My name is Dr. House."

"You're a... doctor?"

I raised a sarcastic eyebrow. "No, Halloween came early this year. If you can be a Bat, can't a guy be a doctor?"

He glared. Sheesh, could the guy be any more of a sour-puss?

"Why am I here?"

I gave a clap. "Yes! Now we're getting the right type of questions. Let me think," I raised my cane and leaned over to poke at his knee. He tried to kick, but only managed to hit his knee hard on my cane. He gave a howl of pain.

"And that's why you're here, dumb ass." I finished.

He wasn't really happy. Wonder why.

"Now my turn." I asserted. "Do you have a secret identity?"

He stiffened. Oh boy, oh boy.

"Really?" I said with an unplanned little laugh. "A secret identity? What are these, the 80s?"

Seeing how it had been going so far, I almost expected him to say "What, these aren't the 80s?". He didn't. Instead his eyes widened.

"I landed on your car. After he..." He paused. "After I fell."

I flicked my finger in an incriminating way. "No, no. You see, dear Watson, I have the uncanny ability to smell bullshit. I also have the ability to hear dramatic little pauses that give people time to think of suitable lies. Who threw you from the building, Bat-guy?"

He said nothing, instead started straining at the handcuff that had him stuck to the bed. It groaned, but I was pretty sure a guy as nicely banged up as my deliciously mysterious patient wasn't going to break it, no matter how disgustingly fit.

I stood up. "Don't hit me, I'm a cripple!" I said dramatically, then shook my head. "No, wait, you can't hit me."

"Why...? Because I'm... cuffed?"

I noticed the gaps in his breathing. He was gasping a little now. Bleeding lungs? Exhaustion? Out of breath? Or something else entirely?

I gave a satisfied smile. "No, because I'm going to fix you up."