-27-

"Shift 2"

Life goes on. It has to. The world can't stop just because House has gone off on another binge. Wilson blames himself, of course. This time there was no enabling; this time Wilson simply allowed the game to play out, agreeing to provide the transportation. How did it feel being the yes man, the partner in crime?

Shitty.

How did House goad him into it? Wilson sits at his desk and mentally replays those hours. First in grainy slow motion, then in glorious high definition. He has done this many times over the past couple of days and somehow the pictures in his head don't sit well with him. They seem more like clips from a dream than actual memories, like peering through a fog enshrouded wood, picking out shapes that could be trees, could be deer, could be rocks.

could be...

Life goes on. He has a consult with a lymphoma patient in an hour, rounds to do now. The fever kids' tonsillectomies are history. Time will tell if House was on the mark with his diagnosis or had allowed his addled brain to get the best of him and everyone else.

Before leaving his office, Wilson picks up the phone and dials House's number just for the hell of it. While the phone burrs in his ear, Wilson makes silent entreaties to a bored entity who'd certainly rather be strumming a harp or flexing his wings than dealing with a frazzled oncologist. But Wilson perseveres, vowing to do an extra hour of clinic duty if House picks up the phone. If House picks up the phone, Wilson promises to donate one hundred dollars to the Make A Wish foundation. If House picks up the phone-

There is no reason to worry about making good on those promises. House's phone goes to voicemail and the world continues to turn.

The lights come at him from everywhere, so bright they make his pupils shrink to the size of pinpricks and cause a thousand discordant tunes to play in his head. His chest heaves as his breaths hitch sharp and hot in his chest. The tips of his earlobes burn. He needs to lean against the cold brick to regain his equilibrium. The colors sure are pretty though: pinks and yellows, reds and golds. Every possible variation of these hues greets him.

Ah, but it is it a greeting or an assault?

He just barely hears the sound of a door hissing shut. Maybe he's not supposed to be here.

His teeth ache.

After an eternity of speculating and attempting to squint past the lights, a breeze whips by, gathering up the colors and the pain. Staring open mouthed, he watches as it vanishes into the night's blackness and starshine. Space debris circling the earth for all eternity. Slowly he moves away from the wall. Step one, step two...

...and finds himself in a transportation depot. A list of color coded destinations is posted on a kiosk beside a cherry-red bench. Here is a taxi stand, a bus stop and an empty tram idling...and...he is intrigued. Not even the stench of rotting garbage and stale urine can quell the curiosity lapping over him like a cool blue wave. He considers moving closer to the sign, to perhaps get an idea of where he is.

As he makes his tentative approach, he glances over his shoulder. Of course, McDuffy's metal door is gone. Melted right into those bricks. Why are you not surprised? His only choice now is to face the night down and keep going.

The three-sided kiosk offers schedules for each mode of transport and a list of fare options. There is a price of admission here. You need money here. Pleasant Hills was a free ride.

Before he can scrutinize the details, he is distracted by three young women swaggering along the curbside. They are chattering, giggling, moving free and slow like they have all the time in the world. Their uniforms are simple yet provocative: leather pants and halter tops that sparkle pink or blue or firetruck red. Their stiletto heels make little scrtiching noises on the cement. Each wields a glossy black stick that resembles a billy club only in shape and form. These sticks have other uses, House surmises with a lascivious smirk. Some wicked, provocative purpose. He narrows his eyes. One of the ladies winks at him; she exhibits a talent for twirling her stick in a seemingly infinite variety of ways. Despite the residual ringing in his ears, he feels good, game for anything. This time he doesn't hesitate, just takes long, purposeful strides, moving closer...

They're on him in a flash and House finds himself down for the count, flat on his back, a stiletto heel planted firmly in the center of his chest. The rough coldness of the concrete seeps through his suit jacket, but there is another distraction: a heady scent of musk and these three women studying him, devouring him with their eyes. This would have been way cooler had he been prepared for it. But the moment does have its merits. The one with the auburn hair and green eyes leans in closer, smiling pretty, those red lips shine like apples, like cherries, like arterial blood. She raises her stick; a glowing circle of pink and white adorns its tip.

"Pret-ty darn phallic, I'd say," he croaks, struggling to lift his head as the first stirrings of an erection rouse him.

She shakes her head, her mouth pursing in mock disapproval because she knows. A woman always knows-

With a gentleness he would not have thought possible, she touches the pink/white tip of her stick to his temple, which sends him off somewhere beautiful and warm, a place filled with a lusty carnal promise. Just a taste and he's back.

"Uhh," Is the only sound he can manage. He closes his eyes, swallows hard. The laughter of his captors is like the twitter of birds greeting the day. He is glad they're amused and wonders if MissAuburnHair will touch him with that stick again. Lower would be better...

"...usually fourteen hundred credits apiece," one of them is saying. "But tonight it's on us."

For some reason this comment inspires a gale of husky laughter to whip round him and he's unsure if he's still intrigued. The heel digging into his sternum is beginning to really hurt. He needs to get up, get his bearings. Explore.

"Some other time," he grunts.

"Aw, who knows if there'll be another time." MissAuburnHair heaves a sigh of regret and the others follow suit. "You're going to give up a chance to spend the night with all three of us? At once? In the Top of the Mark suite at the Wylekirk?"

House knows nothing of the Wylekirk, but the Top of the Mark suite sounds pretty darn bodacious.

"No charge?" he asks.

"Absolutely. It's on the house." Again they dissolve into peals of laughter, which compels him to snicker just a bit.

It would be nice. Better than nice. But it would most likely kill him. He shakes his head with remorse for a night that will exist forever and always in his fantasies. With a look of genuine regret, he says, "The love muscle shall not be flexed tonight. So sorry, ladies." The brunette with the dragon tattoo on her neck removes her heel from his chest but looks ready to take her turn with the phallic glowstick. Another time, another place, he might have pulled down his pants, tossed up his hands, and surrendered.

But not tonight. Not now. The rabbit hole is pretty deep already. Another mile or two down and he will be lost for good.

"Ah, ah," House wags a finger, which stops her in her tracks. "No means no."

She turns away, head lowered. The third good time girl, a sultry, statuesque blonde, takes her despondent colleague's arm, murmuring words of comfort as she leads her toward the bench.

MissAuburnHair hasn't moved. It seems she has one more thing to do. "Just a little reminder...," she says, sprinkling a silvery substance over the length of House, like powdered sugar over a cooling cake. "...so you don't get too lonely."

Leaning on his elbows, he eyes the slow roll of her hips as she walks toward her friends.

Another time, another place.

"What is McDuffy thinking about?" Sarno's eyes widen; his fists pound the arms of his chair in an edgy staccato rhythm. The muscle below his left eye twitches in time with the red sparks in the mosaic city's sky. Touching the jittering spot beneath his eye with two fingers, Sarno casts a troubled look Garrett's way. But Garrett is too busy to offer words of assurance. Sarno's emotional state is not his problem. It's details of the Doctor's whereabouts that require his attention. A sudden shift in the flow demands that adjustments need to be made before anything else. So he fiddles with the handlink adjusting the Doctor's stats and switching data to Nova City mode.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Sarno whines. He sounds oddly like Garrett's younger sister back when she was little enough to battle it out with him for the last cupcake on the plate.

"Sssh!"

"What?"

Looking up from his work, Garrett is pleased to note the sparks in the mosaic have dissipated, a sign that the Doctor is becoming acclimated to his new location. "Obviously McDuffy thought the Doctor needed more stimulation than Pleasant Hills could provide."

"McDuffy's got an attitude," Sarno grouses. "Thinks he's so fuckin' smart."

"He is the shrink."

"He's a psychologist. Not even a real doctor."

"He's the best in his field, Sarno."

Sarno's eyes scan the blue mosaic sky. "But the Afterburn's reading were fine. There was no hint of disruption in the flow-"

"There was a shift. We need to be careful. We're dealing with a human being here, after all."

"God." Sarno huffs out a humorless laugh. "Irie's going to be pissed."

"Irie's not here," Garrett gaze falls on the link. What he sees causes his lips to thin, his brow to furrow. "Shit."

Sarno grabs at the link but Garrett holds it just out of reach. "He's wandering."

"How far?"

Garrett turns the screen so Sarno can see it again. "About a mile out."

"Get security."

"Not yet."

"What the hell-?"

"Not. Yet." Garrett meets Sarno's agitated look with a small, confident grin. "Let's see what he does."