The ambulance screamed down the road, headed toward the emergency room of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

In the back, Wilson hovered over the stricken musician. Bonnie followed reluctantly in their car.

"How's the pain?"

No answer.

"Stay with me," said Wilson, getting concerned. "Come on."

With an effort, Skins opened his eyes. He was pale, sweating profusely and moaning loudly. His heart was racing dangerously. He was headed toward cardiac arrest.

"Can't you give me anything?" he managed to ask around moans. "It's… awful."

"The aspirin didn't help?" Stupid question. Obvious answer.

The suffering man shook his head.

"Not even close."

Wilson conferred a moment with the EMTs, who agreed that Demerol was the best choice. They gave him an injection, and within a few minutes, the shaking man unwound, his eyes closing in relief.

"Have you been exercising much lately?"

The patient sleepily opened his eyes to find himself in an examining room looking at the doctor from the ambulance. Must be in the ER, he thought. Hot Lips was sitting next to him, a concerned look on his face.

"No," he said. "Nothing out of the ordinary. A little jogging, some handball… that kind of stuff."

Wilson left the room, heading upstairs to confer with Lisa Cuddy.

"Seems like a simple muscle cramp," she said when he explained the situation. "Give him bed rest, heat and antibiotics."

Wilson shook his head.

"I don't think so," he said. "This wasn't like any muscle cramping I've ever seen. It was far too intense. He literally collapsed on the stage in the middle of a number."

"Fine," said Cuddy. "I still think it's muscle strain, but since you feel so strongly about it, let's keep him here overnight for observation. Give him heat anyway, just in case."

She hesitated for a moment, and then went on.

"You know, he is a musician. Could this be drug-seeking behavior?"

A stereotype. Great. Just what he needed at noon on a Sunday. Wilson shook his head again.

"Don't think so. There's no way he could have known there was a doctor in the house. Whatever this is, it's real."

After a moment's hesitation, she agreed.

"Sir…" She hesitated, not knowing his name. He'd been unconscious when he was brought in, and the paperwork hadn't been filled out yet.

"It's Skins," said Hot Lips, looking with concern at his friend, who was moaning as he attempted to focus his eyes.

"Mr…. uh, Skins?"

Skins reluctantly opened his eyes.

"We're going to admit you for observation. Do you think you feel awake enough to fill out the paperwork? I can read you the questions, if that's easier."

Skins nodded. He didn't think he could handle filling it out himself. Right now, he felt drugged… and not in a good way… but underneath, the pain was still there. He'd never felt anything like it in his life, and hoped he'd never feel anything like it again.

The sharp-faced nurse looked down at her clipboard.

He tried to keep his eyes open.

First question.

"Name?"

Stupid woman.

"Yes."

"I beg your pardon?"

"A name. Yes. I have one."

Oh, great. A funnyman.

"Your name."

"Is that a question?"

"What is your name?"

Some days, they just didn't pay her enough.

"Gregory House."

"What is your occupation?"

"Musician."

Hot Lips interrupted.

"Actually, he's a doctor."

The nurse looked confused. Then she looked annoyed.

"Which is it? A musician or a doctor?" She was just doing her job, on a Sunday yet. Why did people always have to mess with her?

Hot Lips nonverbally asked Skins if he could divulge. His response was a shrug. Fine. Tell her.

"The guy's got a medical degree. Just kind of fell into music instead."

"Okay," said the nurse, whose name seemed to be Brenda something, according to the tag on her chest. "I'll put them both down. Gregory House. Musician and M.D." She looked up. "May I ask…" She wasn't sure how to phrase the question. "Specialty?" she added, lamely. And then quickly, before he could make some smart remark: "What is your specialty?"

"Double, in nephrology and infectious diseases."

She looked startled.

"With that kind of background, why aren't you practicing somewhere?"

Skins smiled grimly before answering.

"I am practicing. I'm practicing drums. Also piano and guitar."

"Medicine. Why aren't you practicing medicine?

She was going to make it difficult. This question can't really be on her form.

House sighed.

"Hate the routine. I mean really hate it. A lot. Get bored and frustrated. Then I tend to piss people off. When I piss people off, they tend to fire me. So I'm back to music. Seem to do better in this world. Musicians are a lot more laid back than doctors. A lot more accepting. Better life. Less dough, but much better life."

The nurse wasn't willing to let it go.

"But as a doctor, you'd be healing people."

The patient grimaced, then looked at her steadily.

"And as a musician I make them feel good. What's the difference?"

She looked flummoxed.

All that talking really took it out of him. He closed his eyes wearily, and Hot Lips saw a flash of pain cross his face.

"Still hurting, man?" asked Hot Lips, concern obvious on his face.

House nodded, his hand kneading his right thigh.

Back upstairs, James Wilson was still talking it over with Lisa Cuddy.

"Wish we had a department of diagnostic medicine here," said Cuddy. "If we can't figure this out easily, I'd hate to have to send him off to Manhattan General for a diagnosis."

"Well, when you're running the world, maybe that can happen."

Cuddy smiled. When she ran the world…