House was writing on the whiteboard, mainly for the benefit of his colleagues. It was better than paperwork, at least. Clearer. It didn't need every detail on it; those could be kept to his head and expanded on in their rightful home. He liked the whiteboard.

As soon as he had finished, he lapsed into his own thoughts. Foreman and Chase sat on chairs behind him; the case file was slung over Foreman's lap. He was frowning and flipping pages. When House turned around, he observed him turning a page over and then flicking it back.

"There's nothing new since you looked at it a split-second ago," he commented. "Let's focus on the whiteboard for now, children."

"Where's Cameron?" asked Chase. "She doesn't like to miss a good brainstorm."

"Talking to the patient," said House. "She's taken an interest. Better to let her do her thing if she 'takes an interest'." He pulled the cap off and put it on the pen. His movements were quick and irritated; he very quickly varied between periods of absent thought and loud speed.

"Female, seventeen, in and out of hospitals since she was eleven," he said.

"Couple of really terrible diagnoses," Chase said, "when she first went to hospital. Is that why she's here?"

"Well, what do you expect?" House said. "Misdiagnoses, then she got worse. Symptoms popping up like daisies. Soon it was at a point where they couldn't even figure out what it was. That's how she got here."

"No, but seriously – these are absolutely terrible diagnoses," Foreman said, "you'd think she lived in a third world country. This is some of the worstwork I've seen in my life." He put the file down hard on the floor and looked up angry.

"She was in the papers," Chase tugged at a newspaper clipping sticking out of the manilla folder. "The press put some sort of 'unlucky' spin on it. Meningitis from influenza, that sort of thing."

"And of course, that's how her GP and the hospital made it seem," House tapped the cane on his knee, and leaned back in the chair. The ceiling wassoothingly white. "They want to make it 'unlucky' rather than 'incompetent and worthy of investigation'." He frowned. "There is an investigation underway, isn't there? Please tell me there is."

"Doesn't say anything about it here," said Chase.

"Never mind," House cut in. "Doesn't matter," he regretted mentioning it now. Shoddy work was only a problem if it was his shoddy work. "She's here now, being embraced by Cameron's sympathetic bosom."

Chase chuckled, his white teeth showing. His hair flipped back as he crossed his arms.

"I wouldn't mind a sympathetic bosom," House said, "is that your thought? Your professionalism, Chase."

"Hey – you said it," Chase shrugged, at ease, still grinning.

"Not much of a bosom, to be honest," House said, very low and under his breath, making a meaningless mark on the blackboard to further distract from the comment. Foreman sat up straighter, looking at him.

"What are you writing?" he said, his voice slightly raised, staring House down as he looked around; fully prepared to call House in on his comment.

"'Not much of a bosom,'" House said bluntly, and wrote it a moment later. "Questions done?"

"What, the patient?" Foreman tapped a pen to his palm; he was chasing House now, and would corner him soon enough; or so was his hope. House's antiprofessionalism could reach a certain point – and then it had to be chased.

House ignored him. He had met Foreman's challenge once, and couldn't really be bothered to do it again.

"Her parents are both dead, aren't they? Who's looking after her?" offered Chase in the silence.

"Doesn't matter," said House.

"Her brother," said Foreman, but only after House's comment. "Albino guy. He's hard to miss. About five years older than her."

"I'd say about five and a half years," House rubbed his finger across the board, his brow lined in irritation. "If Chase disagrees with the both of us, maybe we could submit it to Cuddy and put the case on hold until then."

"I get the point," Foreman said. "Fine, then – you ask the questions. We won't say a word until your say-so." He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, then put an ankle over his knee. House raised his eyebrows at Chase.

The door opened and Cameron came in, her hair pushed to one side over her shoulder; a piece of it was flapping the other way. She looked stiff and frustrated, and sat down without looking at anyone.

"Well, that was completely useless," she said, opening a notepad and throwing, rather than pulling, a pen from her pocket. "They had to drag her into the hospital. Not just drag her; she screamed like a child. I spent most of my time calming her down; once she was calm, she wouldn't say a thing. Apparently she didn't want to come."

House laughed.

"Apparently. Hmm. Difficult to say - was she kicking, or just sort of treading water?"

"No – her brother told me," Cameron glanced up to mark down what was on the board for her own noted copy.

"You couldn't tell by the dragging and the screaming?"

"Yes," said Cameron patiently, "but he explained it more fully than dragging and screaming does. She thinks the hospitals make her sick. She doesn't trust the doctors; same reason."

"As well she might, with these diagnoses," muttered Foreman. "Look what they pulled from these symptoms – the medication they prescribed – no wonder it got worse."

"She's paranoid, you mean?" asked Chase. "Thinks the doctors are out for her?"

"Or a hypochondriac? What exactly did he mean?" Foreman directed this to Cameron, but kept glancing toward the uncharacteristically silent House, who was gazing at the board.

"I don't know. Couldn't get much from him; he was almost as hysterical as she was," said Cameron, "so could me a mix of both. He kept getting up to get her things – check things – check the room. If anything, I'd say he's the paranoid one."

"Either way, I don't think it matters," Foreman said. "We have her symptoms. She's been diagnosed badly before, assumably by bad doctors – so we should be able to find something."

House turned around, provoked byForeman's confidence, and flipped the pen in his hand. Caught it. Then said,

"So, what's your first diagnosis? Look at these symptoms. She could have anything from Elephantitis to Timbuctoo disease. She claims to have experienced all-over pain, but it's never consistent – one day it's a dull ache, the next it's tingling, like nerve damage – then a written statement, 'my heart almost feels nauseated'," he read from the file. "Smells like the worst sort of clinic crap," House said all of this very fast, leaning his weight to one side, and then the other. "This is psychological. No, Foreman, don't get up – psychological, not neurological."

Foreman rolled his eyes and leaned on a fist.

"You're saying she's making it up?" Cameron said at this, raising her head. She clicked her pen when he didn't reply. Always subtle signs of irritation with a woman this professional. "I don't think she was making this up. Her brother's told me that her legs have been so weak that she'd had to be in a wheelchair. What seventeen-year-old girl would want to put herself in a wheelchair? Her temperature soared when I took it. She really is ill – I'm sure of it. Just because it comes and goes doesn't mean it isn't there."

"I didn't say it wasn't there," House said. "I said her problem was psychological. Her temperature soared when you took it, because you were taking it. It was going up since she came in. Her problem isn't an illness, it's severe nocebo. Placebo's evil twin. You know, the one that pops up at the end of the movie."

His three colleagues interjected, and House wished most fervently that he could work alone. Then he could be right without having to convince people who were stubbornly wrong.