August 8th

Sarah closed the study door behind her. She put her briefcase on the desk and popped it open, extracted House's journal, set it on the blotter. She stared at the battered cover and found herself prey to a number of emotions, none of which she wanted to examine too closely. After a few moments she pulled the chair to her, plunked into it, took a deep breath, and lifted the cover.

An hour later she got up and paced around the study. She had gone through the entire journal and found it very nearly incomprehensible-something she had expected, but not to this degree. That it was the work of a brilliant mind, she freely admitted. That she was locked out also was true . . . but it was imperative she find the key. A quick glance through the pages told her the patient had revealed more about himself than he realized, and that was why she had given this method a chance. It had been an act of utter desperation on her part-one that had had paid off, but she would have to dig deep to get the gold out of the ground.

"And now I'm mixin' my metaphors," Sarah said under her breath. That was never a good sign for her mental state. With a sigh she went out to the kitchen and the cupboard where they kept the liquor and glasses. She extracted a tumbler along with the bottle of Glenfiddich and poured a shot, took it back with her to the office. It wasn't often she had more than a taste of wine in the evening, but tonight she felt something stronger was warranted. She swirled the whiskey in the glass and took a sip, savored the smoky-sweet burn on her tongue.

A soft knock sounded at the door before it opened. "Mind a little company?" Gene propped his lean frame against the jamb. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of the whiskey, but only said "I'll join you, if that's okay." She nodded and he moved away, to return with his own drink. A few moments later soft music filled the room. Sarah smiled a little as Glenn Frey began to sing above the mellow jangle of a twelve-string and a rhythm guitar. She turned to her husband and found him draped in the shabby office chair by the stereo. He drank his whiskey in an absent manner, and watched her with a slight smile. She walked to him and took a seat on his long thighs.

"Thanks," she said, and offered a kiss.

"What's up?" he asked after a time. "I could hear you fulminatin' clear across the house."

"Can't tell you," she said. His smile widened.

"You mean Greg House," he said. She groaned.

"Shit. Does the entire hospital know who he really is?"

"Maybe a couple of the staff but they haven't said anything to date, which is damn close to a miracle. I don't think the patients care one way or the other." He tipped his head back. "I met him once, you know. Brilliant diagnostician. Complete bastard with it, or at least he worked hard to make you think so."

"I've been seein' him since June and have one decent session's worth of notes. And now this damn bargain with the journals! What the hell was I thinkin'?" She wrapped a curl around her index finger and yanked at it in frustration. "The man's too smart—" She stopped.

"If you're uptight about confidentiality, consider this a consult," Gene said, his tone reasonable. He untangled the errant curl from her finger and kissed her hand before he released it. "We can make it official tomorrow. You said he needs a pain management specialist." He smiled. "Good thing you're married to one."

It was a sensible suggestion. She got up, brought him the journal. He set aside his glass and opened it. When she resumed her seat he made room for her. His arms encircled her in a loose embrace as he turned pages. "It's a puzzle," he said after a time. Sarah made a rude sound. "Hey now," he said in mild reproof, and she laughed. "More than that, he's testing you. He wants to see how smart you are, how far you'll go. If you don't meet his expectations he won't give you anything else."

"No surprises there." She sighed softly. "What's the key then?" Gene closed the journal.

"No clue," he said with what she considered to be excessive cheerfulness. "But someone else might know. Several someones, in fact." He gave her a brief smile. "Why don't we ask a few of the staff at Princeton-Plainsboro over for dinner?"

"House would definitely consider that to be cheating," Sarah said. Gene tilted his head and let his gaze settle on her. The love there always made surprised her a little, even as it warmed her like the whiskey in her glass.

"I think he thinks all's fair," he said. "I also have my suspicions the man was a pirate in a past life, and you'd do well to remember it. He'll expect you to use every resource at your disposal. And he wants to see how far you're willin' to go to get your diagnosis. Let's not disappoint him."

"One pirate knows another, I guess." Sarah kissed his cheek. "I'll call Wilson and see what he says."

August 10th

In the end Sarah decided to have the meeting in Princeton; it was simply more convenient for the people with whom she wished to consult. Wilson opened his home to her and even made dinner himself.

"You know this could mean trouble for you," Sarah had said in a phone call the previous day. "This is bending doctor-patient confidentiality rules, but I'm desperate."

"We're only in trouble if no one likes my cooking," Wilson said. "Look, it's for the cause. Besides, I've faced a lot worse for your patient and lived to tell the tale. He's good at setting up no-win situations."

Now Sarah stood before the people grouped around Wilson's dining room table. She sent him a silent thanks for his courage and generosity, took a deep breath and began. "You're probably all wondering why I've asked you here," she said. "This is definitely outside normal protocol, not to mention HIPAA regs, but I need some help with a case. Hypothetical, of course."

Doctor Foreman gave Sarah a cynical look. "Of course," he said. "Come on, Doctor Goldman. We all know this is about H-"

"-Lorenzo de Medici," Sarah said, her voice raised to cover Foreman's. "We have to preserve as much confidentiality as possible."

"Torquemada would be a better choice for a pseudonym." Foreman said, and smirked when laughter followed his comment. "What's the point? If this is all hypothetical," his voice dripped with sarcasm, "what difference does it make?"

"The less you can say you know, the better. If somehow I do end up being held to account for what's going on here tonight, at least you can't be," Sarah said quietly. "You might take this little gathering as proof of my desperation. To be honest . . ." She hesitated, not sure she should say more. Oh, what the hell. In for a penny, in for a pound. "I'm afraid for my patient." A shocked silence fell over the room.

"How-how bad is it?" Doctor Cameron asked, her words hesitant. Next to her Doctor Chase looked away, but not before Sarah saw a flash of resentment in his eyes. Aha, she thought. Book-of-Love triangle stuff. Plenty of backstory there. Wonder if she and Greg . . . She pushed the thought away as irrelevant at the moment.

"Bad enough. Your insights might help me help him find healing," she said. "Anyone who wants to leave now can do so, no questions asked." There was some shifting of position, a few covert glances at each other, but they all stayed.

"So what do you need from us specifically?" Doctor Taub asked at last. Sarah relaxed a little. They were willing to help-to varying degrees and for different motives of course, but that didn't matter to her.

"Your collective expertise in differential diagnosis," she said. "We have a complex puzzle to work on. Let's get started."

Once the table was cleared and coffee brought in, she took out her legal pad and said "I'd like you to sit in a circle around the table, please."

"This wouldn't be a séance, would it?" Chase said, and flushed as Sarah raised an eyebrow. The group obeyed her request with a few jokes and barbed comments. Sarah noted body language and seating preferences, and stored the information as potentially useful later. When she produced the notebook, the atmosphere changed from a general air of amused cynicism to intense interest.

"My patient created this journal," she said. "He's given me permission to read it. Of course I've tried to, but haven't gotten very far. You'll see why." She set the notebook on the table. "Letting you see this is pushing that permission to its limits, and maybe beyond. I'll ask you all to keep private anything you learn." Sarah put a protective hand on the battered cover. "Trust doesn't come easily to Lorenzo. Don't betray him by gossiping about this in your workplace."

"And you're sure we can figure out more than you have?" Taub shook his head. "Considering who we're dealing with-hypothetically speaking," he sent Sarah a sly glance filled with quiet amusement, "that's a lot to assume. Especially with the de Medici."

Sarah acknowledged his gibe with a smile; she rather liked his laconic manner, though she doubted Greg did. "You've worked with him, know his patterns and quirks better than I ever will." She ignored Foreman's soft snort. "Any idea or insight that comes to you, no matter how trivial it might seem, would be welcome." She opened the journal, let them pass it around and examine the pages. To her surprise there was little or no conversation. Each person was focused entirely on the book and its contents.

It was Cameron who gave the first suggestion. "Look at the way the entries are structured," she said. "They're like whiteboard lists."

"Good! That's great!" Sarah scribbled a note on her legal pad. "Excellent start, keep going."

"Wait-hold on," Wilson said about five minutes in. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a menu. "Go back to the page written in Hindi."

Sarah obliged. He opened the menu and lay it next to the list. "Patel's," he said. "It's a takeout place, we get pakoras and curry there all the time! Look-" He pointed to a side order. The Indian name had an English translation added beneath it. Several of the names matched the writing on the journal page. "This must be the patient's favorites. At least that's my hypothetical guess," he added, his expression sober while his dark eyes gleamed with humor.

The next breakthrough came from Doctor Hadley, or Thirteen as the others called her. She paused over a page full of number-letter strings with a little frown of concentration. "Enigma," she said softly.

"That's pretty obvious," Foreman said.

"Not literally," Thirteen said. "You know, like the machine they used during World War Two to encrypt messages. It's a code-you substitute ciphers or numbers for letters based on a rotation . . ." Her slender finger followed a line of text. "Hazelnut," she said after a few moments. "Chocolate and blood orange, vanilla bean, rhubarb and pear . . ." Her lips curved just a little. "The Bent Spoon."

"The what?" Chase sent her a quizzical look.

"It's an ice cream shop on Palmer Square West. They make seasonal flavors with local ingredients." Thirteen set the book back in the middle of the table. "Hou-the patient loves their stuff. He got me hooked on the double chocolate. Made me pay for his orders too."

"You, eating ice cream? You live on yogurt and Special K bars," Foreman said. Thirteen sent him a mock glare.

"I'm not on a diet," she said. "And I happen to know for a fact that hazelnut is the patient's favorite flavor."

Sarah regarded her notes. Her pen tapped a slow tattoo on the legal pad. "I'm beginning to see a pattern."

"But we've only decoded two pages," Cameron said. Sarah shook her head.

"Three," she said. "I can read hieratic-well, basics anyway."

"Hieratic," Taub said, clearly impressed. "That's ancient Egyptian-a sort of shorthand created by scribes. Easier and faster to work with than hieroglyphs." He glanced at the journal, then at Sarah. "You can read and translate a dead language?"

"So can you," Sarah said, amused. "Latin hasn't been anyone's native tongue for almost two thousand years, but as a doctor you use it every day." She rubbed her arm in an absent manner. "The hieratic list is a verbal map of exhibits in the Cairo Museum."

"That makes sense," Wilson said. "The patient lived in Egypt for a while. He loved the Museum, used to hang out there whenever he had a chance."

"So what pattern do you see?" Cameron asked.

"Favorites," Thirteen said. She looked at Sarah, who nodded in confirmation. Foreman folded his arms but said nothing, his expression one of long-suffering resignation. Thirteen shot him a warning look. He grinned at her, and his features softened just for a moment. Sarah hid a smile. Office affairs everywhere, she thought. Greg must have a field day with this hormonal angstfest.

"It can't be that easy," Chase said. "Nothing's ever simple with-uh, with Lorenzo."

"Oh, I'm sure there are plenty of layers," Sarah said. "Once we get more pages figured out, we might be able to find the subtleties. For now, I'll settle for basics."

Wilson stood. "We're gonna need a bigger coffeepot," he said. "I'll make a run to the Acme for a bag of beans. Anything else we need?"

[H]

Greg sits in a lumpy excuse of a chair, and looks out the window. They've finally put him back in a room with a view, though it's not much of one. Outside a hot September wind sweeps down the lawn and scatters brown leaves fallen prematurely from the relentless drought.

Wonder how it's going, he thinks. Wonder if she's called everyone in yet. Wonder if Cuddy will show up. Her participation is a long shot, the longest of anyone possibly involved with the solution what he privately calls the Obvious Joke; for her to plausibly deny knowledge of his specific whereabouts while on his 'sabbatical', she has to avoid even the appearance of collusion. Still, the thought of Cuddy distant, maybe even uncaring makes him flinch.

"You're a fool," Amber says. She lies on his bed; her pale eyes glitter in the semi-darkness. "The good doctor's not going to keep her promise. She'll take one look at what's in that notebook and make sure you never leave this place. She'll know you broke the deal."

Fear stabs at him. I won't last all that much longer in here. The knowledge terrifies him. He feels as if an unseen enemy stalks him, waits for the right moment to strike. The drugs that don't begin to cover his pain but leave him groggy and listless, the endless afternoons spent in front of the common-room tv, the lack of anything on which to focus his mind, especially now that the journal is finished-they are all crows, ready to pick at his decayed corpse. He winces at the self-pitying and weak metaphor. Boredom is killing me, he thinks, and knows that isn't the whole truth. But the trouble is, he doesn't want to know all of it. Does he?

"Of course you don't," Amber says, her tone one of mockery. "Where's the fun in that?" He turns his face away from her and looks out over the withered lawn, fights the panic welling up inside. Come on, people. Find something, anything to work with . . . He fights the last word, gives it up with helpless reluctance.

Please.

'Tequila Sunrise,' the Eagles