The patient's hands twitched just as they had been doing since he was admitted that morning.

"Alright," Foreman said. "We're up to three-and-a-half minutes. Think you can stand it a little longer?"

"I don't know, doc. My arm's starting to turn white."

"Your color is fine." Foreman pulled out his pen and started taking notes.

The patient nodded and averted his eyes. The last hints of sun were showing through the window, illuminating the cold medical equipment like tools of the angels. "I've never been married."

"Hmm?"

He looked up at Foreman.

"What are you trying to tell me?"

The man leaned up a little. "I'm saying that I've never been married."

Foreman looked at his watch. "Five minutes."

Besides the normal twitching, the patient's arm showed no signs of change.

-

"So, he's gay," Dr. Wilson said, standing in the hallway.

Foreman shook his head. "Try again."

"Not many other reasons why an aspiring athlete never took a wife. Is he a swinging bachelor? I live with one of those."

"First," Foreman said, "House is not a swinging bachelor. Second, neither is our patient. He's a virgin."

Wilson folded his arms. "No chance of STDs then."

Foreman nodded.

"I'm no relationship expert, but shouldn't there be women all over him?"

"There are women all over him, but they only stay for a little while." Foreman pulled out a chart.

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Is this something that I'm not supposed to see?"

"This is something nobody should ever have to see."

Wilson snatched the chart. "Yes, but--"

Foreman nodded.

Wilson took in a breath. "Oh my."

-

Foreman and Wilson walked into House's office. He was sitting on the edge of his desk. The grandson sat in a chair. Cuddy was standing next to the wall.

"You're right on schedule," House said. He stretched. "We were about to have story time."

The grandson, despite his large stature, looked nervous and confused in the small chair.

Wilson smiled. "Oh."

House looked down and fiddled with his cane. "Your grandmother's French, isn't she? Or at least her grandmother came from France."

The man nodded. "How did you--"

"We'll save that for the end. Always makes it more exciting."

Cuddy gave Foreman and Wilson a glance.

House looked at all of them. "You know you're on the edge of your seat." He tapped his cane and stood up. He looked down at the grandson. "I usually equate painters with France. I think France had some good ones. They might have had some problems, but granny does, too. Alzheimer's is not an uncommon disease for someone her age. What usually happens is, as the mind breaks down, it will focus on activities that person has engaged in their entire life. In granny's case, that's painting."

The man shifted in his chair. "But--"

"Wait, wait, wait, wait," House said. "We don't want to ruin the surprise for our audience here."

Cuddy rolled her eyes, and Wilson laughed.

"The brain's a funny thing," House continued. "It operates on wavelengths of recognition, recognizing patterns. When we're set in an awkward situation that we've never been in before, we rely on base patterns to feel our way through and come out the other side. Let's say grandma forgets where the canvas is. Then she forgets that she forgot where the canvas is. Maybe it's in the closet, but she doesn't realize that she even has one anymore. She doesn't even know that a such thing as a canvas exists. She'd start painting on the wall, right?"

Foreman nodded. "That's logical."

House smiled. "But Alzheimer's isn't logical. I'm guessing granny has done quite a few portraits."

"Yes," the grandson said.

House leaned in toward him. "And now we know that she's been doing... self-portraits."

Wilson bit his lip.

House nodded to him. "The big, bad oncologist doesn't get what I'm saying, but I bet the neurologist does."

"She's been painting herself," Foreman said.

"She's been painting on herself," House corrected. "What's more is, granny's granny taught her an old French family recipe for keeping her paintings on the wall. And when granny can't find the paint, she reaches for the glue. Unfortunately for her, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, that adhesive, or marouflage as it's called, contains a large concentration of white lead."

"Lead poisoning." Cuddy put her hands on her hips. "Did you treat her?"

"Did I treat her?" House asked. He looked at his watch. "Well, sonny boy here has a few hours until the new magic treatment gets in from Britain. That gives him enough time to go pull grandma out of her study before she turns herself into the next Mona Lisa. Didn't I tell you not to leave her in there?"

The man stood up out of the chair.

"The good news," House said, "is that lately her Alzheimer's has been worsening." He looked at Foreman. "That means momma's madness may just be heavy-metal based and not actual worsening of her Alzheimer's. We'll get her on Dimercaprol and under close observation."

"You sent her home?" Cuddy asked.

House looked around. "Why, I can't remember."

Cuddy glared at him. "My office, fifteen minutes."

Cuddy patted the grandson's shoulder, and the two walked out the door.

Foreman tossed the chart to House. House looked down at it. His face contorted. "He's impotent?"

Wilson took a seat. "He's always been impotent."

House looked confusedly at his cane. "So much for flagpoles."