Rachel turned back around as House outstretched a hand for the shaking. It was the left hand. Rachel didn't fall for it any more than he thought she would, but she did acknowledge the gesture, "You got me, doctor," and then turned back to the door.

Intercepting his patient and her pathway to freedom, Doctor House leaned his back against the closed door and pointedly demanded, "Roll up your sleeve."

"We've already been through this -"

"You're not stupid. Don't act like it. Roll up your other sleeve."

It was that next moment - quiet and so unspoken - that everything became clear. House knew the truth. Rachel knew the truth. It was only a matter of proving it for House, and he was determined to do so. The girl was stubborn, but he was more so; he always would be more so. He crossed the line and grabbed her wrist with one hand, then applied pressure to the bend in her arm with his other hand. She flinched and tried to squirm away, but he didn't let go. It was for her own good that he didn't.

They each struggled for control until House yelled, "Hey!" Rachel became still. "So I've got a bum leg! Nobody said my arms didn't work - I'm actually pretty strong in that department. You wanna arm wrestle? Okay, loser has to roll up their sleeve. Let's go!" Neither moved, and neither let go. "What's the problem?" House mocked. "Oh, the referee - right. I almost forgot." He nudged the door open and yelled into the hallway, to no one in particular, "Foreman! Get your ass in here! We need a ref! First to hit the floor gets drug treatm -"

"Hey!" Rachel scolded and forced the door closed.

"We could both use some of that . . ."

"What the fuck is your -"

"Roll up your sleeve!" House ordered once again, ready to reopen the door and scream into the hallway until she surrendered.

So she did. She rolled it up. . . . . Nothing. There was nothing. Just like the other arm - no bruising, no marks, no scarring whatsoever. Just a healthy, smooth-looking arm. Very smooth-looking.

"Just as I thought," House's voice was low and disappointing. He let go and hobbled to the sink. Wetting a cotton swab with warm water, he hobbled back and re-attended to her arm, swiping the swab back and forth over veins. He noticed how she flinched in his grasp, as throbbing pain welled up behind her eyes. Her pulse quickened; he could feel it in her wrist. "Get over it," he didn't even look up from the arm, "if you can endure the pain of sticking yourself, you can endure the pain of a cotton swab."

Slowly, sinfully, the makeup was washed away, and the black and blue marks peeked their way out of hiding. They were exposed for what they were - raw and painful - and House had to say it: "Everybody lies." He shouldn't be disheartened - humans are disheartening creatures; he's always known that. They all lie, and they all let you down. But this time he actually felt something. Was it anger, at himself, for actually expecting otherwise this time? Or maybe anger at Rachel . . . but for what? He didn't even know her. She was a drug-abusing teenager. Another statistic. Another boring statistic. Ah, what the heck - so his jigsaw puzzle was over; move on to the next one, Greg. They're a dime a dozen.

Rachel pulled her sleeve down, retrieved her leather jacket from the floor, shook it out, and opened the door.

"What's to keep me from telling?" House couldn't understand why she'd just walk away after her secret was blown. She had nowhere to hide now. She was out in the open.

"The puzzle piece in your hand," she hoarsely whispered. House looked down at the x-ray sheet. "So now you know what no one knows; congratulations. I have a feeling you've always known what no one knows. So where's the victory . . ." she trailed off as a nurse walked by the doorway. "This is a game, doctor, and until you pave a path to 'finish', you're still the loser." She pulled out a scrunched-up sliver of paper and flung it carelessly onto the exam table.

"Why would I do this for you?" he held up the x-ray sheet. "What makes you think I care?"

"Your curiosity exceeds your judgement." She turned from his face and closed the door behind her. The 'thud' - the latching sound of the door slamming - was the worst sense of finality he'd ever felt upon leaving a patient - or upon a patient leaving him. He had outsmarted her, found her out, revealed her secret. But he still felt like the loser. And he hated himself - yes, his curiosity may just exceed his judgement. If only Cameron knew: this time it wasn't because it was right; it was because he never couldturn down a good mystery, or a good challenge for that matter.