backward about going forward
Entwined arms and legs lay limp and lifeless like a dead vine clinging to its final resting place. The Floor in which this mound of joined flesh clung was cluttered with the debris of reckless and forbidden love laid bare. Shoes scattered north and trousers thrust south. One White shirt hanging dangerously on the lamp shade, poised; and ready to jump into the abyss below. A black T-shirt with the words, "Does Cuddys' ass look big in this?" followed by a solitary photo of her behind, nestled on the table which had that night previously, provided shelter for unnatural deeds to indeed develop. Upon the Ivory linen surface of its table cloth, laid two vicodin, a deck of cards and a whisky bottle; blood red tie wrapped around its neck..
Knock!
Two sets of eyes clawed mercilessly at the approaching daylight and then scrunched in terror at the sight, the fright and the throbbing pain which consciousness had delivered to them.
Knock!
The Vine so unproductive only moments before, now sprang to life, unravelling quickly and ferociously. Flesh which had surrendered itself to be knitted to kindred flesh only hours before was, in the cold light of day, being gladly torn to singular strands.
Knock!
Shoes were gathered from their worldly expeditions and trousers remained to the South but in such a way that would spare the blushes of whoever was making such an impertinent noise so early in the morning
Knock!
The suicidal shirt was talked down from the lamp shade by a hung-over oncologist Samaritan and being very skilled in the power of persuasion, he also managed to save the Whisky bottle from a hanging.
Knock!
Four knocks by the mystery caller and still not a word had been spoken. No words by the caller and no words by the receivers. However upon the fifth knock, and after he had retrieved his t-shirt and the two vicodin from the table, the master of the House now felt inclined to speak to his unknown guest
"I don't care who you are, I don't care If you're a Christian, Mormon, Muslim, Buddhist, Jew, Sikh, Scientologist, Santa Claus or Selma Hayek, get the hell off my property cause you just woke us up!"
Us! Who the hell is Us? You have a hooker in there when you're meant to be in the clinic!
It was then that Gregory House wished that Scientologists had indeed been the ones to beam down to his door rather than the woman whose ass now adorned his chest. He wasn't embarrassed about the t-shirt. He had planned to wear it to clinic that very day. And when he flung his front door open and her eyes eventually focused on it in horror, he definitely wasn't embarrassed. Triumphant and smug, not embarrassed. However what he was a little embarrassed about was the Oncologist standing behind him, left hand casually resting on the piano top, right hand firmly on his waist, smiling like Donny Osmond on crack, trying in vain to look normal, all the while whilst wearing his pants back to front. Now that was embarrassing.
Cuddy stormed into the middle of the living room her face like a gathering storm.
"House why the hell aren't you in clinic right now dealing with people that have kitchen pots stuck to their heads?"
"I specifically remember yesterday me saying, 'I'm not coming in tomorrow' and you saying 'over my dead body' then I said 'we can only hope', then you said 'get out you asshole'
'House just shut up, get cleaned up and get the hell into the clinic'
House gave a little salute to his captain. To many reading you would be forgiven for thinking this a playful term of endearment between friends. However never make this mistake with Gregory House. The salute in which I speak was one favoured by Hitler's Germany.
It was then that the other person in the room chose to acknowledge his existence. He did not do this through any other means than a low level chuckle to himself. A chuckle that he quickly regretted
"Spend less time smirking and more time working on how to put your pants on correctly Dr Wilson"
And with that she was gone, never stopping to close the door which was ajar behind her, or even to look at her employees bright red cheeks as the realisation of what had just occurred hit him with full effect.
As House looked at his bosses a$$ getting smaller with each passing sway on the horizon and then towards the oncologists perfectly formed one struggling violently to be released from its prison into the early morning chill, only three words sprang to mind
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