AN: House is not mine. If he was...I won't even go there. It would be good. For me anyway. They belong to David Shore. He does an amazing job. I'm just a fan. This is my first attempt at a fanfic, please read and respond.
Staring apathetically at the door labeled 'Exam Room One', the tall figure reached into his pocket and produced a bottle of medical pills. Shaking them as though it served some kind of purpose, he removed the lid with a soft pop. Dumping the contents into his hand, he chose one particular white pill, examined it, and then popped it into his mouth. His tongue lulled over the tablet before swallowing it dry. Replacing the bottle, and grasping a blue file under his arm, he entered the room.
"Patient presents with back and neck pain. Mr.," he paused a moment to look at the file "Thomson." He completed, finding the patient's name on the upper corner of the blue folder. Finally looking up to observe the patient, he let his sapphire eyes examine every inch of him. It was routine, really, looking for anything and everything that could give him a clue to a patient's condition. Here in the clinic, it was not really necessary to inspect the patient so fully, as most of them were idiots anyway. Of course, with his patients, he could diagnose them without even looking at them. However, visual presentations of certain symptoms, he would admit, could aid in the solving of the puzzle.
The man was tall; and attractive for that matter. His hair was dark, and he had a dark skin tone. Of Italian decent, the doctor was sure. He reserved his snide comments for later, however. The man wore a plaid shirt with jeans. His expression was almost eager as he stood up from the examination table and walked eagerly toward the doctor.
"Dr. House! Pleasure to meet you," He extended his hand to shake, and House simply stared down at it as though he was offering him a piece of trash. The man let it fall to his side, his face falling.
"I assume your back doesn't hurt that badly then? Nice sticker. You get that from Wal-Mart?" He pointed to a badge that the man sported on his breast. It read ACP, circled in orange, black, and yellow colorings.
"I'm head of the ACP, that is, the African Child Protection. Ever heard-?"
"No," House stated simply. He did not want to deal with the tedious conversation that this man would have with himself. Examining the way the patient was standing, he assumed that the patient had merely slept the wrong way, causing the back and neck pain.
"Well I am conducting a sort of experiment, you know? My whole family, we are living like the African children. Eating little. Sleeping on the hard ground. Working-,"
"Brains and brawn do not come in a pair do they?" House asked, cutting the man off yet again. It was stupid enough that he was making his whole family live like poor African children, but he could not even decipher that his back pain was caused by the hard ground he was so intelligently sleeping on. "Go home. Take some Ibuprofen. Have sex with your wife on a nice, comfy mattress."
"My wife left me," said the man, looking a bit startled.
"I can't imagine why! Your dog, then. Assuming it hasn't left you too." With that he limped swiftly out of the room, and the door clicked behind him.
Outside he leaned his head against the wall and sighed. Clinic hours were not something he enjoyed. In fact they were so far from enjoyable, it was like day and night. The clock across from him on the wall read 4:45. It was close enough to two hours that he had been working the clinic, he decided. He picked up the cane he had leaned against the wall, and twirled it absent-mindedly. After a moment, he stepped away from the wall and walked to the exit.
"Five o'clock, Dr. House signs out," He reported in a mockingly cheerful voice.
"Its only quarter of. You have a patient-," the receptionist began, but the glass doors had already swung shut.
----
Lisa Cuddy ran a shaky hand through her dark, curly hair. Clearly stressed, she examined the files and papers on her desk. She had far too much to do, and she really wanted to get home. Sitting in her chair, she opened a drawer and dug through several papers. At long last, she found the one she was searching for. Tossing it on her desk, she began jotting down words on a piece of yellow paper. As she finished, she ripped the paper from the pad it was bound to, and stood up to leave. She would finish the rest of the paperwork when she arrived in the morning.
As she walked briskly to her office door, the phone rang. She planned to ignore it, but knew she would feel guilty if it were important. She sighed and walked over to the phone, grasping the receiver in her left hand. She placed it by her ear and stared expectantly at the door.
"Hello?" She asked rather sharply.
"Lisa. It's Stacy. I need to talk to you."