Hi, guys! You know what's coming, and in exactly what order, so let's just cut to the chase, shall we?

1) Thank you for all the reviews; my whining, for all of its annoyingness, really did the job. :P I appreciate the feedback, as always!
2) I don't own House.

Ah, and a slight diversion from the normal drivel before I let you read: Happy birthday to Hugh Laurie himself! Thanks for all the years you've devoted to our entertainment; they are greatly appreciated. Hope your birthday and the year to follow is the best yet!

Not that he's reading or anything. Just thought I'd mention that, in case. :)

Chapter Nine:

The next morning, my team and I are on entirely opposite sides of the work ethic spectrum. I'm the first one to the office, nine minutes early and ready to put Becca to the test.

Chase is the next to arrive.

"Hi, Chase," I say, sounding unusually pleasant. "Let's take a look at that EKG."

"What EKG?" he asks, giving me a blank look as he sets down a few files on the table.

"The one you did on Becca, of course."

"Oh…you wanted that done yesterday?"

I roll my eyes. Unbelievable. "Of course not! That might help us figure out what's wrong with her sooner, and God knows, we sure wouldn't want that. What were you waiting for, an engraved invitation?"

"I was already late getting home! Did you want me to hang around until midnight to do the damned thing?"

"I worked late, too – didn't stop me from doing my job!"

"You were covering your ass on the baby monitor incident."

"Wrong: I was covering your ass too. I got Cuddy to let us off the hook. In fact, I was so convincing, she even threw a good cover-up story into the deal. You should be on your knees right now worshipping me. A sacrifice would be nice, too." I spot Cameron walking down the hall and give her a wolfish grin as she steps in. "Something like that."

She lets out a low whistle. "Do I even want to know what you're talking about?"

"The god of Diagnostic Medicine is demanding sacrifices now," Chase says dryly.

Secretly flattered, I tell him to have the title mounted on my door by noon or risk being smited.

"Not a very forgiving god, is he?" he asks Cameron, amused.

"What are you smiling about?" I demand. The smirk disappears from his face instantly. "As I recall, you have an EKG to do, and I'm assigning you my clinic hours for the rest of the week for being late."

Foreman arrives at last. "What's on the agenda today?" he asks after exchanging greetings with everyone.

"Chase, after nearly 24 hours of shameless procrastinating, is finally sucking it up and doing an EKG. Once we get the results on that, we'll go from there. Meanwhile…" I pause and glare at Chase. He hurriedly stands and leaves the room. "Meanwhile, I'm going to brief you guys on our latest theory." I explain to them about drama and stress and teenage girls. Cameron just stares into space, no doubt unimpressed; Foreman listens eagerly. The poor guy probably didn't even notice until college that such complicated creatures exist. "What do you think?" I ask expectantly.

"I think it's barbaric to stress someone into a heart attack," Cameron says. "Why can't we do what normal doctors do? Blood tests, EKGs, lumbar punctures."

"They're painful, they're expensive, they're –"

"A hell of a lot safer than forcing someone into a heart attack." Foreman stares at me disbelievingly. "You like metaphors, so I'll use one. This case is a puzzle, and there are two ways to solve it. One is shoving the pieces into spaces where they don't fit. You do that, and your picture won't be the one you were trying to get. The other is to place the pieces where they make sense. It'll take longer. It'll be difficult. But the picture turns out much better."

"I'll be sure to remember that when I retire and have nothing better to do than play with puzzles. As artful as that was, it's irrelevant. We're testing a theory, not blindly jumping into a premature diagnosis."

"When do we not jump into a premature diagnosis?"

"When does it not eventually work out?" I can see I've momentarily stumped them; time to start handing out orders. "Foreman, go talk to Becca. I want you to find out what stresses her out. Bring a lot of paper and few extra pens. Cameron, tell the family anything you can to put them on edge. Hopefully some of it rubs off on Becca."

"What should I say?"

"Anything," I say, waving my hand dismissively. "Tell them we think she has acute cardiopathical inflammation localized in the right ventricle."

"I've never heard of that," she says, knitting her brow.

"That's because it doesn't exist."

"Couldn't we just stick to the truth? I'm sure they'll be scared enough to find out that we don't know any more than they do."

"Bor-ing."

"Fine," Cameron mutters, standing up. "Don't listen to me."

"I wasn't aware I needed your permission to do that. Guess I've been breaking the rules all along."

"Grow up," she mutters, stomping out.

Foreman and I lock eyes. "Oh, God. You're going to do that thing where you tell me you disagree with what I'm doing and take a stand, right?"

He chuckles humorlessly. "Something like that."

"Don't worry about it; they won't care what the hell we have to do to Princess Becca if it gets her well."

"Not everybody can be as laissez-faire about life as you can, House. There are other options for us to use, options that can save her life and pacify the family."

"So that's what you're worried about. You don't want to have to face Mama Bear and Papa Bear when Baby Bear makes a stink about the way we're treating her. Well, relax. It's not unethical to do a little bit of experimentation on the side of a diagnosis. Insensitive, maybe, but not unethical." When he just stares at me with sad, empty eyes, I sigh. "What's that thing you people always say? Oh, yeah: I got cho back."

Foreman rolls his eyes. "You're whiter than an albino caught in a blizzard."

"You're blacker than a burnt piece of toast against the night sky. Doesn't matter. Becca's parents will probably set aside the issue of race if you'd get out there and treat their kid already."

"If they'll ignore it, why the hell can't you?"

"I'm come to find that it's the only way to get you out of my face," I admit. "See, if I hadn't done that, you'd still be lecturing me about how I treat our patients or going on about your puzzles or something."

"And what am I doing now that's so much better?"

"One thing I've noticed you're not doing is what I told you to."

"You're distracting me!"

"So in addition to your insolence, you have ADD. Now all you have going for you is the ability to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide and a special talent for breaking into people's houses." I pause. "Heyyyyy…"

Foreman groans. "Can I at least wait until after the EKG? I hate it when I stage a break-in and then come back to find you've already cured the patient."

"I'll give you until noon."

"Thank God."

"We've known each other long enough; you may refer to me as 'Your Excellency' from now on." Judging from the upward rotation his eyeballs make as he walks out of the office, I don't believe he is as appreciative as he should be.

When he is gone, I eagerly contemplate the many futile but amusing activities with which I could fill the next few hours. I could go to the lab and change the labels on the chemicals, just for kicks. Or maybe I'll romance Cuddy; certainly after our deep and meaningful conversation last night, she'll be much more receptive than in the past. Perhaps I could trip people in the clinic with my cane. I wonder where Wilson is – he's always game for things like that. "I bet I can trip fifteen people before Cuddy notices." "Fifty bucks says you won't make it to ten."

It's worth a try.

But…

I don't have any extra Roosevelts lying around. My leg hurts. We've already done this bet (I won).

Oh, alright, the jig is up. I want to listen to the Donahues.

So sue me. All of my favorite soaps have already had their season finale. I'm drama-hungry. And I'm dying to see what sort of magnificent lie Cameron has concocted for the Donahues.

Giving in to my pathological need for amusement, I reach into my bottom drawer for the baby monitor. I twist the volume up expectantly…

Nothing happens.

Differential diagnosis for a broken baby monitor, I think, examining the contraption closely. I grimly conclude that the batteries are dead and, sadly, won't respond to CPR.

I search every nook and cranny of my desk for new batteries, a charger, anything to start the monitor again. My labor yields nothing, however, and I soon find myself wondering how to sneak out to a store without Cuddy noticing. If I pull the fire alarm in Dermatology and then cut the power in the clinic, she'll be so distracted she'll never miss me, I rationalize, tapping my cane rhythmically against the floor.

A hospital intern knocks on my door, interrupting my planning. "What do you want?" I ask.

"Dr. Cuddy asked me to give this to you," she says, setting a small box on my desk.

"I didn't know she was that sick of waiting for me to pop the question," I comment, dismissing her as I reach for the package. I take the folded note on the top and read.

House –
A gift for you as you practice your listening skills. I don't want to see you out of your office until you've found out what's wrong with her. Enjoy!
With love from the administrative offices,
Cuddy

A slow smile spreads across my face. When she puts her mind to it, Cuddy can be almost as underhanded as I am. I open the box to find an eight-pack of double-A batteries (she's psychic, too!).

I set up the monitor and put my feet up on the desk. Might as well get comfortable; it's going to be a long day.

At ten of eleven, I start to get bored. Really bored. Cameron told the Donahues the sad but inescapably dull truth, and their reaction came with the same vigor and not an ounce more. Isabelle, the only person in the clan with any morsel of excitement in her body, is at school, a pure waste of time when she could be helping us. Mr. Donahue went back to work, and even the missus finally excused herself to go home and catch some z's.

All I have to say is that, after nearly two hours of listening, all I have heard Becca do is snore. I consider smuggling her friends over just for a change in pace, but I can't figure out how to get them past the guards.

I'm hungry. My leg hurts. I have to pee.

But Dr. Cuddy has spoken. I am not to leave my office.

Unable to bear it any longer, I reach for my cell phone and dial Cuddy. "I need a coffee, two sugars, two creams, all the junk food you can find, and a chamber pot, stat!" I bark.

"That wasn't what I was hoping to hear," she mutters.

"I'm dying in here!"

"I'll start planning the farewell party."

"You should know by now that it's not that easy to get rid of me. I'm good and pissed off, but I'm still here. An angry House is much harder to deal with than a dead one."

"Maybe so, but I can still take them both."

"However, the angry one is the only one that can save Becca Donahue. The dead one would be too busy trying to resurrect himself to bother with that. Which one do you want on staff?"

"The dead House, any day of the week."

I pause, only for a second, then realize I've lost. "Just get down here, okay?" I hang up, feeling my face scorching under the fire of embarrassment. Cuddy wants me dead! And here I thought we'd gone and formed a connection.

Ten minutes later, she arrives, carrying my coffee and, God bless her, an entire back of junk food, courtesy of the PPTH gift shop. "Your chamber pot is on order from eBay," she grumbles, unceremoniously dropping everything on my desk. "What have you learned?"

"Becca needs a respiratory therapist," I report. "I don't know if she and Isabelle share a room, but the sound that girl makes when she sleeps could wake the dead, let alone her sister."

"I meant anything pertinent to the investigation."

"Not a thing."

"You know, House, there are a million other things I could be doing right now, and every last one of them is more important than –"

"But none of them are as interesting." We stare at the baby monitor and take in the soothing sounds of Becca's enormous snores.

"Fascinating," she says, standing and walking to the door.

The monitor crackles, then a familiar voice comes over the speaker. "And you think I'm ugly when I sleep? Close your mouth!"

"Cuddy!" I hiss, motioning for her to come sit back down. She does quickly. "Is that who I think it is?"

"What are you doing here?" Becca asks.

"School got kind of boring, so I cut out a little early. I just can't seem toget enough of this place."

Cuddy grins. "It's Isabelle."

"Care to stick around?"

"Things are looking up in here, that's for sure."

"I'm bored!" Becca whines. "Play a game with me."

"A game? You mean like Go Fish?"

"Like Truth or Dare."

Cuddy groans. "House, I have to go and break this up. Who knows what they'll end up doing?"

"Just give them a chance. Maybe it'll be an entirely innocent game," Wilson, who came in only moments before, insists. She shrugs and we continue to listen.

"You go first," Becca instructs. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth," Isabelle says patiently. Awww, what a lovely, accommodating sister.

"If you were a flower, which flower would you be and why?"

This time, we all groan; Isabelle just laughs. "Ask me something good, Becca."

"Like what?"

"I don't know…"

The girls begin to muse over the complexities of constructing good Truth or Dare questions. My holy medical trinity in the making walks in, the results of the EKG in Chase's possibly capable hands. "We have the –"

"Here's a good one," Isabelle says.

"Shh!" I say excitedly. "This is gonna be good."

"In the event that our doctors were immigrants and their green cards ran out, which one would you marry so they could stay in the States?"

"What does that even mean, Izzy?"

"Translated into your primitive language: which of our doctors would you bang? I'm asking you, in the event that our doctors were from another country and the government made them go home, which one of them would you marry so they could stay here?"

"They make people do that?"

I can just see Isabelle rolling her eyes. "Sometimes," she says, sounding pained.

"Oh, that's easy," Becca says. "Dr. Chase, 'cause he's a hottie."

I move to switch off the monitor in disgust, but Chase stops me. "Leave it on," he says. "This is very interesting."

"Tough luck, Cameron," I murmur. "He's back on the younger women." She gives me a dirty look.

"Who would you pick?" Becca continues.

"House," she replies instantly, unashamed.

Chase and Foreman break into a fit of snickering; Cuddy rolls her eyes; Cameron just stares at the monitor in shock, and frankly, I'm doing the same. How does this always happen to me?

"Ewww," Becca says. "He's old."

"I'm not marrying him for sex, dummy," Isabelle says, but I hear the smile in her voice. "He's…I don't know, so self-sufficient and confident. He doesn't need anybody else to be happy." This is not true, I want to protest. I need somebody. They don't need me. "It's the whole idea that he's complete by himself – like if he ever found someone else, someone to match his character, they'd be invincible."

"Huh?"

Isabelle sighs; her sister will clearly never understand anything beyond physical attraction as being love. "Never mind," she says. "But in any case, Chase is a fairy."

We all, with the exception of Chase, snort. "I don't care. She's a fifteen-year-old girl, for God's sake; what does she know?" he grumbles, glaring at the monitor.

"He's hot!" Becca counters, horrified.

"He looks like Jesse McCartney."

"Who is also hot."

"They both belong in Neverland with Peter Pan, wearing tutus and comparing magic wands."

Becca squeals in mock horror. "Shut up, ho!" she cries.

Isabelle laughs and continues measuring the faults of her sister's doctors. "And Foreman is so…rigid."

"What's that mean?"

"And Cameron's a girl," Isabelle reminds her sister.

"I'll try anything once."

"Except celibacy," she mutters.

"Stop using all those big words!"

"Maybe it's a good thing they're all US residents," Isabelle concludes. "Want to watch t.v.?"

"Hell, yeah! Lifetime for Women!"

"No way! We're watching Spike. They're running a CSI marathon."

"I'm the sick one!"

"I'm the one skipping school to sit here and play games with you!"

"Rock-paper-scissors, you bitch." We hold our breaths, waiting for the results. "No fair! You cheated!"

"It's not my fault you always play scissors." I hear Gil Grissom's voice begin to murmur in the background. "Give me an hour. Then you can watch your dysfunctional girl movies." Their voices fade as they drift into silence, mesmerized by whatever gruesome scene has come on the screen.

Jimmy gives a low whistle. "No further questions, Your Honor," he says, twisting the volume down. "That was…"

"Sickening?" Cuddy suggests. "I thought so too." She paces the floor, lips pursed, then turns to me. "Dr. House –"

"No need to thank me; I knew the monitors were a brilliant idea."

"They're not helping you diagnose the patient at all! I'm not paying you to sit here and listen to them gossip about you and your team!"

"You're just jealous because neither of them said they wanted to bang you."

As soon as I say, I regret it. The look on Cuddy's face is beyond terrifying; I begin to wonder if maybe, just maybe, I have crossed the line.

"Becca?"

The tone that so furtively made its way into Isabelle's voice in that one little word draws our gaze and fixes it in stone. I turn the volumeback up and we listen, frozen, as Isabelle begins to shriek. "Becca!" Her voice grows distant from the monitor, but we can hear winding through the halls clear as day. "Someone help us! It's happening again!"

(Gasp) What will happen next? You just never know...

Two chapters to go! Hope you've been enjoying this as much as I have!

And now I'll set you free to review and move on with your lives. Thanks for reading!