A/N: People actually reviewed. That rocks.

Okay, first things first. I don't like flames, but I don't need to say that because I haven't had any. Thank you very much for the detailed review, Forgottengargoyle, I really appreciate it (as I appreciate the others, too, of course). I did decide to give It a name to make things easier all round; I'll work on my description; I did write that line you mentioned and then look back at it and say "Oh, geez," and I've (wisely) taken it out; and thanks for the bit about the cross.

I hope everybody keeps reading this. I'm actually enjoying myself.

(The chapter's short. Sorry.)

Wilson continued to glare at him, more pointedly this time. House sighed. "Okay." He took a deep breath, partially for fortification, partially for sheer dramatic effect, and said, "What's your—ahem—name?"

"Katie," said Katie.

"Krystal, right," said House.

"Forget it," said Wilson, and left.

"So what do you want this time?" That was House.

"Well," It said, and paused, "I fainted last time I was here."

"Because you sprained your ankle. What else is new?"

"A woman told me I should come back and see you again. She said—er, she said you might 'find my case interesting.'"

House grinned. "You remember her name?"

It thought for a moment. "Rhymed with 'Buddy' and 'Fuddy-duddy'…"

"Did she have breasts you could eat a three-course meal off?"

"Um…"

"Let me guess. You're a girl, you don't notice that kind of thing, that would just be wrong."

"Er… actually, I think she did have the breasts you mentioned."

House's grin became a full-fledged evil smirk. If Wilson had been there to see it, he would have run. "And why, exactly, did she say your case was 'interesting'? Because I have dying people to save, a whole nurses' station to reduce to tears, a pet store full of puppies to kick, and a galaxy to terrorize."

It swallowed. "Well—maybe you should talk to her. I mean, she seemed to know what she was talking about."

"And you don't? It is you she was talking about, Caitlin, I assume, and not your evil twin sister. And if I had a dime for every time I heard that story from some bipolar freak whose other personality had syphilis, I'd have… a dime. No, two dimes. Got another one yesterday."

"House," said Cuddy, who was currently standing in the doorway, "I need to speak to you."

"Those pesky lawsuits again?"

"Just come here," Cuddy said, and looked remarkably serious. Her blouse, on the other hand, was very low-cut and completely ruined the effect. House shrugged.

"Sorry, Christine," he said, "be back in a few." He glanced at the muted TV. "Change the channel and die," he added. Then he was gone.

Katie waited until the door shut behind the doctor—what had his name been? Yes, House, that was it—before she sat in the exact same seat his friend had vacated, tucked her feet uncomfortably into the rungs of the stool, and began to think. She wasn't sure what to do.

Aside from the fact that the man with the cane could not seem to remember her name, was a snotty, cranky, old coot who thought he was some kind of god, and spent his days—or what she'd seen of them—obsessing over General Hospital, he wasn't bad compared to the sort of person with whom she was used to associating. Actually, she continued, reconsidering, that wasn't quite true. But she was sick, and when she'd lain on her bed staring at the hole in the ceiling, trying not to hyperventilate again, the first words that came to her mind had been "Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

No, that wasn't quite true either. The first words that had come to her mind were more along the lines of "Oh my God, I'm going to die." The hospital idea arrived a bit later, after she was able to inhale sufficiently and no longer feared a sudden encounter with the Reaper, and Princeton-Plainsboro had simply been the closest to her current location. So she'd left, and the clinic had seemed the best place to go.

She poked her head between her knees and studied the floor. Her cross was gone, and she figured she knew where it'd been lost; that was the reason she'd headed for the same room, not a search for the scruffy-faced doctor, not to carry a message from the woman with "breasts you could eat a three-course meal off," but to find it. She missed having it next to her heart. It was comforting, somehow. It was—ah, there it was, she thought, and reached out. Her fingers closed around the cross, her vision clouded, and she slumped forward. The last thing she remembered before falling completely unconscious was the silver against her skin.

It was hot.