"So the guy from the funeral – the one who looked like Sean Connery – really is your father?" Wilson's mouth hung slightly open in amazement.

House shrugged and pinched another French fry from Wilson's plate. That wasn't such a big deal. He'd gotten over that piece of news in his twelfth year. He'd had plenty of thinking time that summer, what with his dad not speaking to him. Or allowing him to leave the house.

"Was," House corrected.

"And he's left you something in his will?"

House rolled his eyes. Wilson had a habit of repeating back what House had just told him rephrased as a question. House guessed it was what he needed to do in order to process it.

"Yes. But the kicker is that I have to go to the will reading and meet the family in order to find out what my loot is."

"Really?"

House could tell that Wilson was intrigued, astonished and ever-so-slightly jealous of House's little drama. It was probably time Wilson started dating again, if this was the highlight of his friend's week.

"How cool. House, you're going to get to meet your family!"

"What? No, I'm not."

"You're not going?"

"I can't believe you'd think I would." House was honestly surprised that Wilson thought he'd go.

"But, but, you have to!" Wilson spluttered.

"Why?" House leaned back in the cafeteria chair and took a long slurp of his thickshake, genuinely curious.

"What if he's left you something amazing? What if you're a millionaire?"

House shrugged. He really, truly, didn't care. He had enough money to live his life the way he wanted to. It wasn't like he had anyone to support or children to build a fortune for. If he suddenly did have millions, he was in no doubt that his life would barely change. Well, he might buy himself a new car, but that would probably be it.

"What if his family turns out to be wonderful and want you to be part of their lives?"

Only Wilson could think that could even remotely be a benefit. "Yep, Wilson, that's totally a possibility," House said in a valley-girl accent, his sarcasm thick. "Like I really need another family. 'Cause families are so wonderful."

"There are good families out there," Wilson protested.

"What, like yours? Mine? Anyone else we know? Families exist to fuck you up and then you spend your adult life either getting over it or having one of your own so you can fuck them up too."

Wilson seemed a little shocked at House's outburst and House himself was a little embarrassed – he hadn't really meant to admit that particular theory out loud.

"I still think you should go," Wilson said weakly. "Just for the money, if nothing else."

"I don't care about the money."

"I know you don't. But I bet you still end up going."

"How much?"

"Five hundred dollars."

"You're on." House knew he wouldn't go. But if he did, whatever he was going to inherit surely had to be worth at least five hundred bucks. He couldn't lose.

-

-

Despite the conversation with Wilson, House was completely and firmly decided that he wasn't going to attend the will reading. The final wishes of a dead man who was related to him by an accident of ejaculation meant nothing to him. For the entire weekend he lay on his sofa, watching mindless television and telling himself that he didn't care one iota what Andrew Barnes had dictated from his deathbed.

But despite his definitive decision, as he pushed open the doors of Bannister McKinnon on Monday lunchtime, House realised that he wasn't all that surprised to find himself there. He only hoped he was going to get at least five hundred dollars to make this capitulation to his curiosity worthwhile.

It was all an elaborate game, he'd decided. A game started by a dead man and House would play his part – for now. Once he found out the next step, then he'd decide whether or not he'd keep playing.

The Madison Avenue offices were plush: thick carpet underfoot, wood panelling on the walls, discreet but expensive art on the walls. The lawyers of a wealthy man. House wondered again why he'd never taken the time to find out more about his biological father. Why had his otherwise unquenchable curiosity faltered? It was like this issue was a curiosity black hole, sucking in light and letting nothing escape, a vortex of disinterest that he couldn't break free from.

"Dr House, thank you for joining us." The lawyer who'd come to his office walked over and shook his hand, looking in no way surprised to see him there. "Please come with me and I'll introduce you to the Barnes family. They are aware that you are joining them and Mr Barnes made sure they understood his feelings on this. They are well prepared to meet you."

The Barnes family. House once again refused to let himself wonder what his life might have been like if he'd grown up Greg Barnes. All weekend – ever since the lawyer had appeared with this news – he'd been battling a mental re-run of Sliding Doors, only this time he was poncy blonde Gwyneth and the missed train was a child that might have belonged in one of two families. The possibilities, both good and bad, were as enticing as one of those pizzas with too many toppings, and just as bad for his digestion.

No, better not to think about them at all.

"Dr House, this is Mrs Rachael Barnes." Without House realising, the lawyer had steered him into a conference room where three adults stared back at him with the blue eyes he saw in the mirror every morning. It was creepy enough to make him shiver slightly.

"To her left is Denis Barnes, their eldest child, and this is Miranda Barnes, their daughter."

My half-brother and half-sister, House thought in wonderment. How he had longed for a sibling when he was a child. A built-in friend, someone who travelled with them, not one he had to leave behind each time. The very thought was enough to stop him in his tracks and he stood there, frozen, staring back at them for a long moment of silence, broken only by the nervous shuffling of feet from the lawyer.

Denis Barnes was the one who recovered first. A tall, portly man, House guessed he was around sixty; he'd obviously lived well, had a problem with his cholesterol and from the purplish broken capillaries on his nose and cheeks was likely going to die from either a heart attack, liver failure or – hey, he was genetically predisposed – cancer. And probably soon. He was also almost completely bald and House had to stifle the impulse to pat his own thinning hair.

"Greg House? It's, uh, nice to meet you," he said, and despite the hesitation House could tell it was a genuine greeting with just a hint of the suspicion House had expected to find in abundance. He returned the man's handshake but strangely found himself unable to say anything.

Miranda stood up and walked around the large conference table that dominated the room until she stood in front of him. She also held out her hand to shake and gave him a watery smile, her eyes red-rimmed. She didn't say anything, but sniffed delicately. Her handshake was as limp as a dead octopus and now that she was up close House didn't miss the heavy makeup or the way her hair was deliberately brushed forward to cover her hairline. Her little turned-up nose and almond-shaped eyes didn't match her mother or her brother, and House wondered with the obvious family money why she hadn't gone to a decent plastic surgeon.

"Our dad—" she began, but her voice broke into a small sob. She put a hand to her forehead in a dramatic way and gave him an apologetic smile before turning back to her seat and rummaging through her purse for a tissue.

House guessed that they were both older than him, although Miranda's extensive plastic surgery made it hard for him to be sure.

Rachael Barnes was the last to greet him. She looked like the grandmother he'd have wanted as a child: soft, curly grey hair, apple-cheeks, bright blue eyes just like his mother. Andrew Barnes seemed to have a thing for blue-eyed girls, it seemed. Rachael was older than his mother by at least ten years, House guessed, but she was fit and healthy and House was shocked by the smile on her face as she approached him.

"Oh, Greg. It's so lovely to finally meet you," she said. And then she hugged him. Fully. Her arms threaded under his so she could wrap herself around his torso and press her cheek against his chest. She was short, House could feel her cheekbone against his ribcage, her pillowy bosom squished somewhere against his stomach. And although he'd never met this woman before, and although he was the illegitimate son of her unfaithful husband, and although this was one of the most surreal moments of his life, House felt comforted. He wanted nothing more than to hug her back, to curl up and rest his head on her shoulder, to have her tell him that everything was going to be okay and that she'd make it all go away. Because House had the strangest idea that he might believe her.

And because the very idea frankly frightened the crap out of him, he stayed ramrod straight, gazing out the window across to yet another glass office tower, his face as impassive as he had trained it to be.

After a moment Denis cleared his throat. "Uh, Mother . . . I don't think you . . ."

House could feel the rise and fall of Rachael Barnes's chest. She wasn't crying, her breathing was steady, but there was something in the grip of her arms around him that betrayed she was only just reigning it in, that her control over herself hung on a very fine thread. He reached his free hand around and patted her on the back, awkwardly, making House exceedingly glad there was no one he knew there to see this.

Eventually Rachael Barnes pulled back. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. She patted his chest as she stepped back.

"Don't mind me," she said. "It's just you're the spitting image of . . ." She trailed off, her eyes glazing slightly in memory.

House frowned. There was something a touch artificial about the woman, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what. Those tears seemed more convenient than sincere. And while he might not know much about his biological father, he did know what he looked like. House didn't see that much of a resemblance, but he did think that in comparison to Denis, he probably looked a little more similar. He had the same build anyway; Denis's beer and pizza – correction, red wine and foie gras – gut and complexion was nothing like the straight-backed, ropey build of Andrew Barnes. Even when House had last seen him, at the funeral – when he would have been about to re-succumb to the cancer – the man had still looked fit.

House's determination to make this all a game seemed hollow. He had a sudden urge to leave the room and try to forget any of this had ever happened.

"Shall we make a start?" The loud voice startled everyone. Without anyone noticing, including House, a small team of lawyers had entered the room. A severe-looking older man held a sheaf of papers in his hand and he walked to the head of the table as he spoke, gesturing for everyone to take a seat.

The smiles from his family – gulp! House swallowed hard at even thinking the word – suddenly disappeared, replaced with stern, worried expressions. This was, after all, about money. Now they were going to get to the part House had actually been prepared for – angry and resentful glares that the bastard son had dared to show his face to claim a slice of whatever fortune had been left behind. After all, that was the game that Andrew Barnes had set up – it was his chess board and he'd laid out the pieces. Now House, now everyone, had to play their part.

House quashed his urge to turn around and walk out, instead taking a seat around the large conference table. The other players weren't to know he had absolutely no interest in any material gain from this will. He just wanted to satisfy his curiosity and find out what on earth an absentee father would decide to leave his illegitimate offspring, and why he would insist on that son meeting the rest of his family after all these years.

However, House's attention quickly wore away as the lawyer droned on reading through Andrew Barnes' testament. It took the form of a long, tedious letter he had written on his deathbed to his family. He had obviously been medicated at the time he'd dictated it, and the lawyers had been meticulous in capturing his words verbatim, meaning that it was repetitive, rambling and often didn't make sense.

House stifled a yawn. So far the game was turning out to be less fun that he'd anticipated.

Suddenly there was a flurry at the door and a flustered looking girl poked her head in the door.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr Bannister," she said, talking to the lawyer who was reading out the will, "but Miss Brecht has arrived, her train was running late."

House couldn't help but pick up the change of mood in the room at those words. Each member of the Barnes family shared a shocked, apprehensive look. Denis straightened up in the chair and smoothed down his tie, his eyes gleaming with some emotion House couldn't pin down. Rachael frowned and her eyes took on a hard glint, while Miranda took no pains to hide the sneer on her face.

House was suddenly very interested in the proceedings again.

"Show her in." The senior lawyer looked over at Rachael Barnes. "I'm sorry Mrs Barnes, but she was one of the additional people invited to the will reading along with Dr House. Only, unlike with Dr House, Mr Barnes instructed us not to inform you of Ms Brecht's presence prior to today."

House noticed Rachael gave him a sharp nod before taking a sudden interest in the rings on her left hand. He suppressed a grin. A last minute addition to the game – intriguing.

"Ms Kitty Brecht," the girl announced as a tall woman walked into the room. House instantly understood the gleam that had appeared in Denis Barnes's eyes. She wasn't Christy Brinkley, but she was pretty darn close. In fact, if House added twenty pounds and a larger, slightly crooked nose to his mental picture of Christy, he pretty much ended up with the woman now standing in the room in front of him. Her blonde hair swung around her shoulders, and the Cuddy-style suit outlined a curvaceous figure. No cleavage was on show, but the pencil skirt showed off long, shapely legs. She had bright blue eyes too, and House had a fleeting thought about Andrew Barnes wanting to build the perfect Aryan nation around him.

"I apologise for being late." The woman held herself confidently, even regally, but House could see that it was a show: when she sat down, she folded her hands in her lap to hide that they were shaking. She sat down a few seats away from him – away from everyone else, actually – but House could see her eye make-up had been touched up; she'd clearly been crying.

Funny, House suddenly realised that of all the people in the room, she was the only one who looked like they were honestly grieving.

"Shall we continue?" Mr Bannister drew their attention again as soon as the blonde woman was seated.

House was burning to know more about her. He'd put her in her late thirties. His brain was filled with questions. Was she another half-sister? If so, what was the legal situation regarding incest between half-siblings? And her name was Kitty? Would she purr when he stroked her? Wicked thoughts running through his brain meant House was only half-listening to the lawyer.

"And to my son, Greg," the lawyer finally announced.

Suddenly his attention snapped back to the room around him. It was extremely peculiar to hear the words "my son Greg" all together like that. He couldn't recall his father, John House, saying those three words, although possibly that was because there was usually another adjective between the "my" and the "son" – like "idiot" or "annoying" or just plain "stupid".

"I regret that I was not in an appropriate position to be able to provide for Greg as a child or to be part of his life as an adult. I have a box of personal papers that will be passed on to him after this meeting. That is for him to decide and what he wants to do with it and . . . uh . . . whether he wishes to share its contents with anyone else is for him to decide."

The lawyer's tentative reading reflected the muddled grammar of the medicated, dying man who'd dictated it.

House sighed. So he was getting a box of crap? He'd come all the way to New York for that? He guessed the upside was the nice eye candy he'd had to spark his imagination for the last half-hour or so, but really, what a waste of a day.

And now he owed Wilson five hundred bucks.

"In addition," the lawyer continued and House paid attention again, "I bequeath my 2009 Mercedes SL63 AMG convertible, the Spring Lake beach house and my apartment in Paris – the Marais one, not the left-bank one," the lawyer qualified.

House choked. He quickly looked around the room, wanting to see the reaction of the dead man's family to this astonishingly generous gift to a bastard child. Bizarrely enough, no one seemed in the slightest bit perturbed. Clearly the Barnes fortune was considerable if a bequest like that didn't even cause his family to blink.

"However I do have one important stipulation to this bequest that I will get to in a minute.

"To my friend Kitty," the lawyer went on. House saw the woman stiffen slightly in her chair. My friend? Hmm. So not a half-sibling then. House could feel himself smirk.

"I know you remember the things we shared and the promises we made. I want you to know that although we haven't been close recently, I couldn't be more proud of you."

House noticed that the garbled tone of the letter so far had suddenly cleared up. The dying Andrew Barnes had definitely been paying attention when he'd dictated this part.

House saw Kitty swallow hard.

"I know that anything I give to you, you will find a way to auction off to raise money for that – excuse the language ladies and gentlemen, but I am reading verbatim – fucking charity of yours."

House was staring frankly at Kitty Brecht now, and he was surprised that the words "fucking charity" seemed to make her smile rather than offend her.

"So, with one small condition, I have set up a trust that will pay a stipend to the New Jersey PRC of half-a-million dollars annually."

In contrast to the bland reaction to his bequest, this time the family muttered and hissed, while Kitty gasped and put a hand to her throat.

"In addition," the lawyer continued above the murmured protests, "I have a small gift that you are to keep, it is not to be used to raise funds for the charity – I forbid you to sell it."

One of the other lawyers in the room walked over to where Kitty sat. He produced a small blue-and-white Tiffany bag and put it on the table in front of the blonde woman. She nodded curtly and House could see she was holding back tears.

The guy then pushed a large manila envelope in front of House. "Your keys and the titles to your properties," he said quietly. "The Mercedes is in the car park in the basement, and the box of papers referred to earlier is in the trunk. If you need assistance to drive it home, please let us know." House had caught the train into the city and couldn't help the stab of delight at knowing he was actually going to be driving home in a Mercedes convertible. His Mercedes convertible. Of course, he could have gone out and bought one for himself at any point – he had the money – but there was a certain thrill that came with getting one for free.

"Ah, there is still the small matter of the conditions for the bequests," the lawyer cautioned.

House's momentary thrill was suddenly quashed. Andrew Barnes had already established he didn't mind playing games. Inviting his illegitimate son and a woman House was now almost sure had been his mistress to meet his family at his will reading was the mark of a man who didn't mind messing with people. In fact, House thought with sour relish, it might be something he himself would do.

"Kitty, the PRC is in need of new blood, new ideas and new thinking. As part of my bequest to the charity, I insist on appointing a new Chairman of the Council, effective immediately and for a period of not less than 12 months. As part of my bequest to Greg, I insist on him taking up the position of Chairman, effective immediately and for a period of not less than 12 months."

Kitty Brecht's mouth dropped open and she turned to stare at House. House felt his face must have been a mirror image of hers.

"What?" she asked, her voice a breathless whisper.

"What?" House echoed.

"Should you not agree to this condition, Kitty, you will keep the jewellery but the trust will be diverted to another charity of Rachael's choosing."

Ouch, House thought. He didn't need to turn his head to know that Rachael's face would be a picture of vindication.

"Should you not agree to this condition, Greg, you will keep the car but you will have to return the properties to the estate."

House didn't particularly care about owning properties, not even a lake house just an hour and half from Princeton. He hated Paris, so he doubted he'd ever bother to see the apartment. But why would the father who'd never known him want him to take on a lead role in a charity? House had no idea what the New Jersey PRC was, or what it did. For all he cared it could be the Prostitutes' Rights Collective – actually, he internally shrugged, that could be kinda fun.

House decided he'd had enough of this particular game. He wasn't interested in playing for twelve months, no matter how nice the scenery might be.

Check.

Mate.

Game over.

"I'm not doing it," House said bluntly. He upended the envelope and three sets of keys fell out. He grabbed the one with the tri-point-star keyring and began to rise. "So, I'll just take my Mercedes and leave you to it."

"But—" Kitty stood up as if to stop him. "You can't! You don't understand, that trust fund would—"

"I don't care." House shrugged and took a step towards the door. He wasn't sure how to say good bye to the Barnes family, but seeing as it was fairly unlikely he'd ever see them again, he figured it didn't really matter. He waved vaguely in their direction.

"But Andrew didn't think this through," Kitty turned back to the lawyer and protested urgently. "The charter of the Council states that it must have a senior doctor as Chair! I can't change that, and the board would never agree to a change at this point in the year."

"Greg is a doctor, and I assure you, Mr Barnes had us research this situation extensively. There is a clause in your Council's operating agreement that states you are allowed to appoint a new Chairman at any time as long as the existing chair agrees. I think when you return to your office, you will find your board members – and your current Chairman – will all be in favour of this decision."

House paused at the door and watched as Kitty sputtered. He kind of felt sorry for her – clearly Andrew Barnes' game for her was complex and well-planned, to the point that the situation had been manipulated around her. She seemed equal parts angry, frustrated and sad and didn't seem to know which one to give vent to first.

But as sexy as she looked with her cheeks all flushed in righteous indignation, House wasn't going to hang around. Marching quickly he headed to the door, ignoring the calls from just about everyone else in the room. Rushing to an open elevator, he gratefully watched the doors close and hit the button for the basement. He rubbed the key ring between his fingers. He couldn't wait to see the car, but the bequest had in no way changed House's opinion of families. That father of his sure was a bastard.