His cell was lying benignly on the desk when it rang Grounds for Divorce, by Elbow playing out as he picked it up. House must have been plying with it. Who on earth can it be at this hour? And on my cell no less? Wilson looked at his phone's caller ID – Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. Tentatively he picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. One person, and one person only.

"House?!"

"Yes. How many other friends do you have in the asylum?"

"Well, a few I consider acquaintances, but, when you put it like that…"

"Ha, ha, very funny, what's Wonder boy up to in his office at such a late hour? Helping the needy little bald kids?"

"That's my job isn't it? Give the young dying consolation. What are you up to calling me at such a time of night? I never pegged you for much of a night owl, but then you aren't an early bird either so…"

"I need someone sane to talk to, everyone in here crazy," House whined

"Yeah, no shit Sherlock, you're in a Mental hospital,"

"I prefer the term 'loony bin' it makes me feel better,"

What a load of shit. He thought, but that was just like House to say something that preposterous. Leave it to the hallucinatory doctor to ask for his metal hospital to be called a loony bin.

"And what is it that makes you think that everyone at Mayfield is loony, to use your term?"

After a pause House responded. "Loopy, that's a better one for this circumstance. What make me think that they're all loopy, well…"

I had just entered the Mayfield Psych Hospital for the first time. My hair had already been buzzed. In the hallway before me two clinical staff was helping a patient into his wheel chair. The patient was mumbling random syllables and the staff was talking to him as if he could understand. The point was the soothing tune, but he didn't seem to find it soothing. He began to laugh insanely, stopping suddenly when my intimidating figure threw a shadow.

I looked down on the group incredulously. "You guys are crazy," I said in an indicting way, one eyebrow high on my forehead. This was probably the most outrageous decision I had ever made in my life. But it was necessary.

"Yeah, they sound like they should all be admitted," Wilson replied sarcastically to satisfy House's craving for familiarity in conversation. "So really, what's up?"

Another pause. "I'm bored,"

That's House for you. Bored, in a mental hospital. "So what are you going to do to combat your boredom, raise Hell till it ices over, or till they throw you out or lock you up for good?"

"Something along those lines, yes. I've decided to assuage my boredom by planning my dramatic escape and then execute it, however successfully or otherwise futile my efforts may end up being,"

"Just to take your mind off nothing, or are you second-guessing yourself about Mayfield?"

"A Big Mac Combo of both, my tights wearing friend,"

Wilson shakes his head envisioning House's smirk. "Well, have fun and good luck with that. I'll bet you fifty dollars that you get a hundred yards into the out of bounds area before they catch you at it,"

"$150, 125 yards and we have a deal," Asshole.

"Fine, deal, now get going before we're both busted,"

"I salute you sir,"

"Yeah right,"

"Remember 150 buckaroo's and 125 yards,"

"Sure House, whatever," and the line dies. House, grand schemer of the 21st century.

His cell. What a comforting notion. He had his own cell. And he was to stay in that cell. Not sneak out to use the phone at night, even though he had really just wanted to see if the bathrooms for the personnel were better than those for the patients. Honest Injun, he had sworn.

And was promptly hauled away to his room. But they had called it a cell. And it felt like one too. Had Wilson tipped them off to shake is resolve in the bet? Either way, his pride was deeply hurt. He, Greg House, the master escape artist, had been caught.

He felt that he needed to occupy his thoughts with some break out schemes. And the other grand schemer decided to drop by.

I think we should draw our plan of escape out on the cold dirt ground of our cell, shall we?

"Cutthroat, there is no dirt floor,"

Well, by the looks of this place there might as well be, don't you think? Cause if I think so, you must too, right?

"Are you going to help formulate our getaway plot , or are you going to sit there and antagonize me so that I can't finish it before the light of day breaks and we get caught with the evidence red handed?"

Fine. I'll help. But, you should be nicer, or I might tip off the guard.

"Sure you would, you're trapped here too. If anything I think that we should use you to distract the guards so that we can lift the keys and skip this joint," retorted House to the hallucination of Amber. Flexing his sarcasm muscle always made House feel like he was 'on top'.

Or, we could just play Battleship on our wall with the prisoner on the other side, and when we call out 'E 19 sink and destroy' they'll think that we're plotting to overthrow the head of security and break out.

"Playing 'I'm a dangerous criminal who is trying to come up with a plot to escape' is fun and all, but the 1930's origins of Battleship story is just a little overboard, pardon the pun,"

Of all the random knowledge in his head, Amber chose to spew 1930's gangster trivia. House shook his head and laid down on his cot of a bed in the large and empty room. This little bump on his road was more comparable to a pothole in the highway - things just got better and better. And a bump on a road is a lot better than a pot hole in the freeway when you're riding a motercycle without a helmet.

And then out the blue Amber was lying next to him.

You know what you should do?

"What?"

Use the little jaunt to the carnival to stage your getaway. You're way out of bounds then, and they'll never know what hit them when all of the sudden the mad doctor is on the loose.

"Ha. Very funny. I'm laughing so hard that I'm not making any sound. Good suggestion. Now let's take the initiative and plan this out so that we don't botch it up too bad. Otherwise Wilson might not pay up,"

Oh, he'd never jip us.

"You so sure about that?"

Yeah, he liked the birthday sex too much.

"TMI, Cutthroat Bitch, TMI,"

The light in the hallway switched on and House closed his eyes, calming and breathing naturally. The shadow passed by his door. Without opening his eyes, a sneaky grin appeared on House's face, his features mischievously contorted.

Piece of cake.