A/N: I don't know much about medicine. It's not that central to the plot in this particular story, so please overlook any errors here or in future chapters. Hope you're enjoying this story, which is my first House fic.

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"For someone who never screws up, this was pretty big. I mean, it's like when …"

"I sense a metaphor coming, Foreman. You know how I feel about that. And, seriously, do you even check my office before you start in on me?" House delivered from the door between his office and the conference room.

"All I'm saying is, this guy could be really screwed up, and you didn't even take the time to sign the chart in the clinic."

"Remember what happened to those guys at the big death-star meeting when they questioned Vader's methods?" With that question, House approached the white board and started listing symptoms. "No matter whose fault this is, a quick diagnosis will solve everyone's problems. Ready? Go."

The initial differential session was short, as usual, and tests were assigned. The fellows got up to leave.

It's impossible to know what people are thinking about as you pass them on the street. They could be contemplating sex with poodles, or what to have for dinner with the new borscht recipe. Cameron, Chase and Foreman each kept a poker face, hiding their true feelings.

Cameron was worried. She was trying to figure out what could have caused House to be so irresponsible toward this patient – he passed off a quick diagnosis with no supporting evidence, and then passed the chart off onto someone else without even signing it. Someone at the nurse's station had screwed up and filled in the wrong doctor's name. While House was often distant (a euphemism for snobbishly brusque) with clinic patients, it wasn't like him to do something like this, was it? Was this just a minor screw-up or symptomatic of an underlying problem?

Chase was familiar enough with a situation like this to just hunker down, offer quiet support to House, and try to keep the patient from kicking off like Kayla had. House had supported him then, in his own way. But what troubled him was the seeming absence of a "mitigating factor" – House hadn't been sick, he hadn't received any shocking phone calls.

Foreman was a little pissed. Chase's job had been in jeopardy for doing very nearly the same thing House had done. House had been a little off his game these past few weeks, and Foreman wasn't sure he would let it slide. He was sure House wouldn't let anything slide if he, Foreman, began to slip up.

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House could never tell anyone about his "mitigating factor." No one could ever know. He would be fired, and no hospital would hire him unconditionally ever again. Increasingly, being himself at work meant being someone who hid, who was secretive. He wasn't sure he liked that.

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"He's always done stuff like this. Hell, he diagnoses people at the bus stop, at the bar."

"It's a little more serious this time, James," Cuddy said as she agitatedly stabbed at her cherry tomato. "Those people are not his patients, they're not seeking his help. Look, I wanted to talk to you about this because you know him. Is something else going on?"

Wilson had thought it was a little weird when Cuddy had asked him to lunch. They had even gone to an actual restaurant instead of the cafeteria. When it became clear that she only wanted to talk about House, he couldn't help feeling a little disappointed. But in the same way that most people love thinking and talking about themselves, Wilson actually loved thinking and talking about House. Cuddy had come to the right place.

"I'm not sure," Wilson said noncommittally. "Since I moved out, he's been a little distant. He'll come over to my new place, but he doesn't invite me over as often." He felt a little uncomfortable going into detail, like he was breaching a sort of unspoken trust between him and House, but he continued. "I think he's having an increased level of pain."

"You still think it's psychosomatic?" she asked.

"In some degree, yes. He seems a little frustrated about something."

"I know this sounds a little junior high, but could you try and find out what that something is? I can't have him work here when his mind is somewhere else."

Wilson hesitated. Cuddy added, "it would help all of us."

"Fine, but I think you may be overreacting to this whole thing. It was a minor mistake, a fluke."

"Yeah, well, with House, there are no flukes."

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Hamburglar guy… Bill McAllister was his actual name. Bill McAllister struggled to suck in air, sore from his stomach operation.

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5:57 pm: He only did it on bad nights, or bad mornings. Hamburglar guy – that morning, around 4, had been bad. He thought he'd be OK to go to work. After all, he did have a medical degree. Unfortunately, not even the pope is infallible.

Time to call it a day. Wilson's figure traveled from left to right outside the glass, briefly out of sight as he passed the frosted glass of the door. The fact that he didn't pass to the other side and appear again in a reasonably short period of time meant that he had in fact stopped at the door and was about to enter. Sure enough, he did.

"Can I come over and watch monster trucks with you tonight?" Wilson asked, tone casual.

"Only if you bring the good beer. And only if you don't mind the huge erotic poster of your mom that I just had framed above the mantel," House replied.

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