A/N: Any resemblance to any authors living or dead is purely coincidental.... (lol)

-

First thing on Monday morning House had to push thoughts of Kitty and Andrew Barnes to the back his mind for a little while. Cuddy was waiting for him, a file in hand. House hadn't even put his backpack down before she began to speak.

"Patient, a thirty-five year old woman, admitted to the ER with an irregular heartbeat, vomiting, and double vision,"

House shrugged. "Sounds boring."

"It's KL Rawlings," Cuddy said meaningfully.

"So?" House had no idea what that meant.

"You know, Henry Baker and the Magic Dragon?"

"What are you on this morning Cuddy? Did someone slip you a roofie over the weekend?"

"The world-famous children's author," Cuddy said, getting annoyed. "Jeez, your pop culture references are limited to television only, aren't they?" She slapped the file down on House's desk. "She collapsed in the middle of a book signing. The media are all over it and we've got a group of fans camped out the front. She specifically asked for you – said she's been unwell for months and no one has been able to work out why."

"And this is my problem why, exactly?"

"You don't have to care, you just have diagnose her," Cuddy snipped. She walked to the door. "And her liver and kidney function have started to decline."

House sighed, realising this was one of those instances where he didn't have any choice. He gathered his team assigned various missions: Taub to take a history, Thirteen to check the woman's hotel room and Foreman he left with paperwork, just for the fun of it.

House did some research online and decided on the next lot of tests he'd run. Of course, he'd wait for the team to report back, but it was highly unlikely anything they'd say would change in mind. Then he checked his email – smiling when he saw there was one from Kitty. He clicked to open it, a little too eager and then a little too disappointed when he discovered it was all PRC business. It was a reminder about the fundraiser on Friday night and something about making a speech that he instantly decided to ignore.

He replied, flirty and dirty, just to see what she'd do.

Before any reply appeared, the team returned and they convened in the conference room to discuss the patient.

"She's now got tremors in her hands," Taub reported, "muscle weakness, and a headache she says the medication she's been given is having no effect on. She does keep asking when she's going to get to see you," Taub added as if that was strange enough to warrant being listed as a symptom. "She has this weird way of talking – as if she's the queen and everything is a speech. She keeps saying 'when will Dr House grace us with his presence', talking about herself in the first person as if she's at a podium."

House puffed up his chest. "Oh good, she read the pamphlet I had printed. That's just the usual level of adoration I require," he said. "You guys could learn a thing or two—"

"Nothing out of the ordinary in her hotel room," Thirteen interrupted, getting back to the patient. "She does travel with a teddy bear, which I guess is a little odd."

"The woman has made millions getting adults to read children's books about a talking dragon and a mischievous pixie," Foreman scoffed. "She's a little odd."

"A talking dragon?" House asked, raising his eyebrows.

Foreman shrugged and held up a brightly coloured novel. "Seeing as I didn't have anything else to do." Everyone laughed, and Foreman bristled defensively. "There're actually quite a lot of adult references in it."

House reeled off a list of tests and sent them off to do his bidding, keen to get back to his emails and find out if Kitty had replied. It was early enough in the diagnosing process that no one had any particular objections to his planned course of action, so they all rose to go off and do his bidding.

"House – got time for lunch?" Wilson dodged the outgoing fellows as he made his way into the conference room.

"Nope," House said, giving him a cheerful smile.

"It wasn't really a request," Wilson said firmly. He looked behind him to make sure the other doctors were out of hearing distance. "I haven't heard from you since Friday night. Remember? You appeared with all that stuff from your father, babbled on about a stripper and then disappeared! I was worried – you didn't return my calls."

"Oh yeah." House shrugged. He knew Wilson had called, but he'd erased the messages and promptly forgotten about them.

"Oh yeah?" Wilson echoed sarcastically. "Come on, I want to hear more about what it all means. Not to mention the fact that you left all that stuff at my apartment."

"I've just got to check my emails." House quickly went to the computer and, disappointed not to find any reply from Kitty, decided to take Wilson up on his lunch offer.

House was sure that whatever Wilson wanted to know, their lunch didn't give him the answers. House was evasive and vague. He didn't say anything about Kitty, mostly because he wasn't exactly sure what he wanted Wilson to know about that just yet. And he didn't say much about the puzzle involving his father because . . . Well. Wilson should know House better by now. When he was working on a mystery there were times he needed to talk it out, to get feedback. Then there were times he needed to internalise it, let it mull around in his brain for a while.

That was where he was up to with it all now.

So there'd be no answers for Wilson just yet.

When House and Wilson returned to their respective offices, House's team were waiting for him. They didn't even wait for him to be fully in the room before Taub began speaking.

"She's hallucinating. Seeing characters from her books – pixies – in the corner of the room. Says they're talking to her, giving her cakes."

"Pixies with cake? Cool," House said, flopping down into a chair. "I'll have what she's having."

"She also seems to believe that the room is made of gingerbread," Foreman added, "and that everything in it is edible. We've had to restrain her to stop her from eating the sheets."

"Her tachycardia can be explained by low potassium," Thirteen said, reading from a sheet of test results. "She's also got low phosphate and low magnesium."

"Whipples?" Taub suggested.

"Crohn's disease?" Thirteen countered. "It'd explain why she complains it's been chronic."

"What about Bartter's syndrome?" Forman asked.

"Which would be a fine idea if she was an infant," Taub said nastily.

"There have been rare cases in adults."

House sucked in a breath and considered the options. They were all ideas he'd thought of too. "Okay, go test for all of them. And give her something for the hypokalemia before her heart stops."

The three doctors got up to go run their respective tests.

"Oh, House?" Foreman stopped on the way out of the room.

"There was a guy here earlier hanging around outside your office, said he was looking for you."

"What guy?"

"I don't know. A fat guy. I told him you were at lunch and he said he'd come back later. Cuddy came along and she seemed to know him."

"Hmph." House wasn't really listening. He had absolutely no idea why his patient had begun hallucinating. He needed to give this case more attention than he'd first thought.

-

-

Cuddy appeared in his office doorway a couple of hours later.

"House, I need to talk to you."

"About what? Don't worry, if you're here to check up on magic dragon lady, my minions are running tests as we speak."

Cuddy sat down opposite him and waved a hand in the air. "Oh yes, I know that's all under control. No, it's about something else."

House sat back in his chair slightly concerned. This look from Cuddy never meant anything particularly good.

"One of the hospital's donors is acting very weird," she began.

"And I should care about this?" House asked flippantly.

"It's something connected to the PRC."

House grimaced. "Talk to Kitty. I don't care."

"Kitty?"

"Catherine Brecht."

Cuddy frowned, but clearly decided she didn't want to pursue it. "No, I think it's do with you. Personally. Do you know someone called Denis Barnes?"

That made House pay attention. He leaned forward narrowed his eyes, peering at Cuddy over his glasses. "Why?"

"He was here today, looking for you."

"What did he want?"

Cuddy looked confused. "I don't know. He said he came to the hospital to look around, but he made it clear he was keen to see you."

"Why would anyone want to 'look around' a hospital?"

"The Barnes Trust is one of the hospital's major donors – to oncology primarily. Denis's father died a few weeks ago and Denis is the new head of the Trust. I think he's checking out how the funds are spent. They also fund the PRC."

"Yeah, I know," House muttered bitterly.

"So House, I'm worried that he's here because they're rethinking their donation. If we lose their funding it would be a big hole for me to fill."

"And?"

Cuddy threw her hands up in frustration. "See? Now do you understand why I thought this whole PRC thing was a bad idea? If they're funding the PRC and withdrawing funding from Princeton Plainsboro I'm going to be furious. And if I find out you've had anything to do with—"

"Don't have a stroke, Cuddy," House said evenly.

"I have every right to be concerned."

"I'm almost positive Denis Barnes's visit has absolutely nothing to do with funding."

"What?"

"He's my . . ." House gave a heart-felt sigh. "He's my brother. Half-brother, to be precise."

"Half-brother?" Cuddy gasped.

Quickly, House filled Cuddy in on the visit from the lawyer, the bequest from Andrew Barnes, meeting his family, the requirement that he take on Chairmanship of the PRC. He left out any mention of Kitty.

"House, that's astonishing," Cuddy said when he had finished. "And now I understand why Denis was asking me all those questions."

"What sort of questions?" House asked, wondering what exactly it was that Denis Barnes would want to know about him.

"Oh, they were weird questions to come out of the blue, but now I know this, they make perfect sense. He was asking me what sort of person you were, stuff about your background, that sort of thing."

"What did you tell him?"

"Don't worry, I didn't tell him anything he couldn't find out from the internet." Cuddy gave him a gentle smile. "But House, I think this is really nice. Denis clearly just wants to get to know you. He wants to know more about his brother. I think you should make time to get to know him too."

"Yeah, right," House muttered.

"But it's—"

Cuddy was interrupted when House's fellows came rushing into his office. "House, she's starting to become jaundiced. Her liver's failing and she's anaemic."

"No more time to chat, Cuddy. Our little pixie friend's going downhill fast."

House stood up, glad for the opportunity to escape Cuddy's no-doubt well-meant concern.

"We'll talk later," she said, giving him a chirpy little smile.

"Sure," he muttered.

"So, what's going on?" House addressed the team.

"There's blood in her urine; we're going to have to start her on dialysis," Thirteen said.

"Any chance she's been in an earthquake on her travels?" House asked, his brain searching for new reasons to explain the patient's symptoms.

"You're thinking Rhabdomyolysis?" Taub asked.

"She's still hallucinating too, we think. She keeps asking to see you, but then she also keeps asking to see Willy Wonka," Thirteen said. "But otherwise she seems articulate and lucid."

"Did anyone check her blood sugar?" House asked a new idea starting to form.

"No."

"Is she suicidal?"

"Nothing she's said so far would indicate—" Taub began.

House turned to Thirteen. "Were there any syringes in her hotel room?"

"No, but the maid had just serviced the room, so if they were in the trash I wouldn't have seen them."

"I think it's time I went to see the little pixie queen myself." House grabbed his cane and headed for the patient's room.

He opened the door with a dramatic flourish, startling the nurse who was preparing the patient for dialysis.

"I'm Dr House and you're an idiot," he said.

The patient struggled to sit up a little. "Dr House. At last." She straightened her shoulders and raised her chin, and House remembered what Taub had reported, that everything she said seemed like an official speech. "When we first fell sick we asked our doctors for a solution. But like the mist, they hedged and weaved. I came to the kingdom of the new state of Jersey and at the castle they told me to see the king at the chocolate factory. And now I am here in the gingerbread room and have granted you an audience. You must understand that our subjects will be upset that the dragon had to go away, but I had no choice. It was him or the trolls and the trolls can be very persuasive as you well know." She gave him a conspiratorial wink and chuckled slightly.

House looked at his fellows who, like him, were all looking stunned.

"It's the poison, you see," she added. "I must take the poison or they'll make me eat all the cakes. The little swords they fill with poison and my veins drink it like sherry."

House was impressed by her presentation, as completely bizarre as it was. "Well," he said finally, "that was—"

"Weird," Thirteen finished for him. "Dr House, can we talk to you outside for a moment?"

House would usually not bother about discussing a case in front of the patient, but something in the expression on the faces of the three doctors around him told him it might be a good idea this once.

As soon as the door was closed behind them House shook his head. "That was creative. I hope her books are better than that because—"

Foreman spoke up urgently. "House, that's almost exactly what she said to us before. Word for word. Only she said it better then, to you. It's like she was rehearsing earlier."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, either she's having a psychotic episode or she's been practicing, waiting for you to come and see her."

"She has been asking when you were going to come to treat her," Taub recalled.

House grimaced. One disadvantage of being such a well-known diagnostician was that he occasionally attracted the odd loony, hell-bent on proving him wrong or being his next challenge.

"Has anyone checked her blood sugar?" House asked again.

"I'll go do it now," Thirteen volunteered.

"Go do that. Then give her glucose. She's overdosed on insulin. She's most likely been giving herself slowly increasing doses over the past few weeks and she finally reached overload. I'm guessing she's suicidal." House turned to walk away before turning around and adding, as if it was an afterthought, "Oh and you might want to call for psych consult. That woman's nuttier than a fruit loop."

"Why?" Taub asked.

"Why what?"

"Why do you think she's suicidal?"

"How should I know?" House said, irritated. "Maybe she just wanted to meet the pixies for real."

House was faintly annoyed as he made his way back to his office. The whole day had been wasted, he felt. He sat down at his desk and waggled the mouse to activate the screen. He checked his email – a reply from Kitty. In response to his lengthy, lusty email she'd replied with two lines: My place 7.30, bring food. I don't want pizza again.

House chuckled. He quickly typed a reply. No, MY place at 7.30, I'll have food. I'll show you my bath. 221B Baker. He added the address in case she'd forgotten.

He checked his watch – it was only three-thirty. Four hours to kill. He sighed and looked at his cluttered desk, wondering what to do to make the day go faster. Sitting on top of the clutter, clearly only recently delivered, was a messenger envelope. Figuring it was probably yet more stuff from the PRC – he'd been receiving reams of paperwork from their office daily – he almost ignored it. But then some niggling insight caused him to pause and pick it up.

He opened it and drew out a single sheet of paper, the words written in neatly inked letters that belied the sinister nature of the message.

Kitty Brecht is a gold-digging whore. Lucky for you, her heart is already broken.

Puzzled, and more than a little concerned, House examined the envelope further, turning it over to find the sender's address square blank. As he turned the envelope over again, a clipping from a magazine fell out. It was old, slightly crumpled and yellowed around the edges – it was a photograph, clipped without a caption or any surrounding text. It showed a group of men in suits laughing, all holding beers and looking relieved and happy – House might have guessed they were celebrating the closing of a deal. He realised that the man on the far left was his father, Andrew Barnes. Next to him, with his arm around her shoulders, laughing along, was Kitty. She was wearing a short red dress that didn't display much cleavage, but revealed almost all of those luscious legs. She looked young, her hair was longer and wavy, her expression had some kind of innocence around it, and yet her eyes told another story; they betrayed a darkness, a weariness with the world.

House stared at the photo for a long time trying to see if it would communicate with him, tell him the story of what was happening. It could easily be interpreted in so many ways. And yet whoever had written that note clearly wanted House to see Kitty as a "whore", and from a certain perspective the photo could be seen that way.

It didn't add up.

Why would someone send it to him in the first place? Who would send it? House remembered Foreman saying that Denis Barnes had been hanging around his office earlier that day. But why would he risk delivering something like this personally?

House grabbed his things, returned the paper and photo to the envelope and stuffed it into his backpack along with some of the files he'd received from the PRC. He needed to go home, pour himself a whisky, and see if he could get to the bottom of this. But first he had to make one quick stop.

-

-

Wilson looked up from his paperwork as the door opened, not surprised to see House striding in. He'd been acting so weirdly over lunch, Wilson had been sure there was more to what was going on and that he'd hear about it soon enough. He usually did.

"I need a script," House said quickly. "Viagra and don't ask any questions."

Wilson spluttered. That had been about the last thing he'd expected House to say. "Viagra?"

"Or Levitra. I don't really have a preference."

"You're having sex?"

"I am over eighteen, dad, don't have a cow," House whined.

Too shocked to know what else to do, Wilson opened his desk drawer and reached for his prescription pad.

"Catherine?" Wilson asked with a raised eyebrow as he quickly filled out the piece of paper. She was the only woman he'd seen even vaguely in House's orbit, so while it was a guess, Wilson was fairly sure he was right.

"I promise I'll be careful."

House avoided the question, Wilson noted, but that simply confirmed his suspicions.

"I'm happy for you, House. She seems like a nice person. But are you sure it's a good idea getting involved with her given your position on the PRC?" He held out the prescription.

House grabbed the piece of paper out of Wilson's hand and stuffed it quickly into his pocket. "Business is business. Mind-melting pleasure is mind-melting pleasure."

Wilson winced. It was enough he had to write out the prescription. He didn't want details.

"Well, be good," Wilson said, putting on a pretend lecturing tone. "And by that, I mean both be good and be good. Have safe sex. Take care of her. Be nice for a change."

House pulled a goofy face and was gone before Wilson had a chance to say anything further.

Wilson sat there a moment longer, thinking things through. He recalled the hypothetical scenario House had gone through on Friday night – Wilson was almost positive House had been talking about his biological father. And there was apparently a stripper the man had both supported and abused. Wilson sat up straighter as a sudden thought occurred to him.

Could it possibly be Catherine Brecht?

Wilson thought about the times he'd met her at fundraisers, and he remembered meeting with her a year or so ago over a study into pain relief for ovarian cancer. She was smart, organised, professional and, for a non-doctor, had a surprisingly good understanding of medicine.

A stripper? No way.

He shook his head and let out a little snort at the ridiculousness of the very idea. She was hot though. Wilson had to admit he was just the teensiest bit jealous.