A/N: Yes, it was day two of being snowed in. No music rehearsal. Ah well, I had a pretty productive day anyway. Drank hot tea, petted the cats, finished crocheting a gift scarf, wrote some, and finalized my order of bushes for spring. Nice warm thoughts on a cold day.

Speaking of Star Trek, my favorite cartoon from the last week showed a groundhog in a Star Trek uniform holding up a sign that said, "Dammit, Jim, I'm a rodent, not a meteorologist!"

Speaking of Kutner, this case has a lot left on it. I think he'd definitely see House as Kirk when he was delirious. I preferred Picard myself, but House has that Kirk attitude.

Enjoy 24.

(H/C)

A $50 appeared on the back of the couch in front of Foreman as Hollingwood left with the phone and he and Templeton started searching Kutner's apartment. "I'll give you $50 for the inside scoop on House," Templeton offered.

Foreman looked over at the younger doctor. "What makes you think I'd be interested?"

Templeton gave him a "let's not kid ourselves" smile and added another $50. "You just want to know what my final offer is. $100, take it or leave it."

Foreman carefully folded the bills into his wallet. "Keep working, though. House is bound to be timing us."

They divided the living room into halves by unspoken agreement. "You do this a lot? Breaking in, searching places?"

"More than I ever expected. They don't teach the course in med school, but with House, it's fair game."

"So which one is the real House?" Templeton opened the desk drawer, looking through the contents. "The one who had us wasting time playing Operation or the one who has us breaking into places? Or the one who solves all those cases they talk about?"

Foreman sighed. "All of them are. He's . . . hard to pin down." Odd, Foreman thought. A few years ago, he would have been certain he could describe House succinctly and accurately, though his assessment would have uncomplimentary aside from the solve rate. Somehow, it wasn't that easy any longer. Too many of Foreman's surface judgments had been revealed as shallow ones, and House had turned out to be deeper than he ever would have imagined.

"Is he as good as they say? I wondered last week a few times if it was all some joke someone was playing on us, no real position, no real department."

"He's the most brilliant doctor I've ever met." That at least Foreman was sure of. "The position is real, and the cases are real." He stepped into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. No suspicious or outdated-looking food. "But there will also be days where House is sitting around playing video games and watching soaps. Try to find something else to do those days, clinic hours or something. If you stay within range, he'll use you for target practice. Or you'll wind up playing Operation. If you do get the position, someday when he pulls something like Operation on you, refuse and walk out. He'll respect you more for it. But wait until you have a few good cases behind you first."

"You think Ramirez has the inside edge at this point since he asked her to stay?" Templeton's mind was going full speed, partly genuinely focused on the search, the other part trying to work out how he could restack the cards a little if they were stacked against him.

"Not this early. He hasn't even seen you three work yet, and in spite of what he tells you, he won't give this position on how you play Operation. He does care how you add to the differentials." Foreman switched to the counter. There were a few teacups sitting on it but no plates. He pulled out the trash can and started to fish. "One thing, though. When House is seriously dialed in on a case, don't ever question his assignment for you like you did back there. He'll plow straight over you if he thinks you're wasting time on a diagnosis just to make some personal pride point."

"Do you know what Kutner's current password is?" Templeton asked. Foreman came back to the kitchen door. Templeton had opened the laptop on the desk. "Email's as good as the phone, maybe, if House wants a timetable and details."

Foreman nodded. "Not a bad idea. It would be something pretty straightforward. Try Kutner. Or Lawrence Kutner."

"Or Star Trek?"

"You got the idea." Foreman returned to the trash. There were two empty containers in it, one of Tylenol, one of ibuprofen. He dropped both in a baggie. Damned idiot must have thought he just had a bug. But why hadn't he called one of them when it didn't get any better? The whole apartment had a faint smell of sweat at this point. Kutner had been lying there in that bed a good long while. Nobody went from a few aches and pains to incapacitating fever in 60 seconds; he should have had time for self differential unless his mind really had been in outer space.

"Damn." Templeton's fingers could be heard on the keys as he tried yet another password. "Not Star Wars, either."

"Bring the laptop back with us, and we can keep working on it. For now, keep moving."

"Pretty small apartment, at least. I'm heading for the bedroom." After a moment, he called back, "Suitcase in here."

Foreman left his trash excavation and went to provide a second opinion. Yes, it was a suitcase, laid aside open in that sloppy, "I'll unpack by using the rest of the clothes out of it," manner. He checked the handle for airline tags. None.

"He went somewhere, but he drove. Wouldn't have torn off the tags and not unpacked." He rifled through the rest of the contents. Standard short trip supplies, a few changes of clothes, a shaving kit. Shaving kit. "If this is his only one, he got sick fast enough that he didn't feel like shaving any day since he got back." He headed for the bathroom. No other shaving kit in sight. Foreman started to inspect the toilet, seeing if he could spot any vomit residue around the rim.

"What else do I need to know about House?" Templeton asked. He was digging through the nightstand.

"Two major areas that you never mention. First is his leg. He'll bring it up now and then, trying to get any reaction. Don't give him one; anything at all would be used against you. The pain varies; you'll get to know the signs. On bad days, stay quiet and stay clear. If he trips, rubs it, anything, you didn't see nothing. If he falls, let him pick himself up unless he snarks at you for just standing by. If he snarks at you, that's a signal he needs help to get up, but he'll get even sharper when you do. Just help him if he needs it and ignore what he says."

"Got it. What's the other forbidden topic? His background he gave at that trial?"

"Yes. Don't ever bring up his father or anything you learned from the media. Does. Not. Exist. Don't make any personal reference on a possible abuse case. He gets even more dialed in on those, but he won't admit why. By the way, his mother died back at Christmas, and I think he's still touchy on that. It wasn't that long ago."

"What about Dr. Hadley? The one one of us is replacing?"

Foreman closed his eyes, remembering her in his bed, in his life, in the hospital. The thought suddenly flashed through his mind that she might well have been dead by now anyway, probably would have been incapacitated functionally if not. She had been developing symptoms there at the end that were starting to interfere with her work. Dead or alive, she would be being replaced at the hospital.

"Foreman?" Templeton called.

"Don't mention Hadley, either." His voice was a little rough. He finished his inspection of the toilet - no signs of vomit that he could see - and went back out into the hall.

Templeton was standing in the door of the bedroom, looking around the living room thoughtfully. "What is it?" Foreman asked. "Find something else?"

"No. That's what just struck me as strange. He was a real Star Trek fan, right?"

"All sorts of sci fi. He loves it."

"But there's not a single souvenir from that convention. No program. No autographs. Nothing."

Foreman looked around quickly. Templeton was right, he realized. Kutner had gone to a 4-day convention, one with Captain Kirk himself, yet had returned without any memorabilia either lying around openly or in drawers, though he hadn't even unpacked his suitcase yet. Odd. "That's the kind of thing we tell House."

(H/C)

Hollingwood's father's nickname for her was Sunshine. From childhood, she had been an incurable optimist. Her mother joked that she had been born organized. Many people dismissed her at first as inconsequential, not realizing that her brightly positive outlook and steady, methodical ways covered an IQ of 142 and a history that included overcoming two years of cancer treatment as a child. Classmates had been flabbergasted to find her at the head of her classes. She hoped that she would get the House fellowship, and she believed that she was a qualified candidate, but if she lost this chance, she would have no problem finding a position elsewhere.

Unlike Templeton, she hadn't taken House's assignments as a ranking of where the candidates stood. No, House had sent her to retrieve the phone and talk to everyone because he judged that she was the best choice to talk to people. It was her first real homework from him, a chance to show herself, but equally important to her, it would help the case. She remembered House's expression as he had sat there on the edge of the bed, taking Kutner's vital signs with one hand, barking out orders harshly, holding Kutner's hand with the other hand. Just holding it, letting him know that help had arrived if he was capable of feeling the contact on some level. Hollingwood had realized then that House cared. He truly cared; he just didn't show it easily.

He was educational, too. She never would have considered before today how breaking into an apartment or rifling someone's cell phone might ever be medically relevant. If she did get this job, she had a feeling that her limits would be pushed to the max.

Once she had the phone, she retreated for privacy to her rental car down in the parking lot of the apartment building. Hopefully, her own car would come to Princeton soon, and she would rent an apartment herself instead of living in a hotel, but for this trial period, all arrangements were on a temporary basis.

She turned the phone on, pushing away the sense that she was invading his privacy. She had a valid purpose here. She first checked the list of calls and then of texts and worked out that Kutner's last communication with anybody had been Friday night. The thought of him lying there in that apartment sick and helpless and alone all weekend pushed in, and she set sympathy aside for the moment. A quick call to House on her own cell reported the time stamps, and then she went to Kutner's address book.

His parents were easy to find, listed as a single number under Mom and Dad. She dialed, and it went to an answering machine. She'd been afraid that the single entry meant they didn't have cell phones, apparently resisting the intrusion of technology as some older people did. She left a message identifying herself and giving both her number and House's, asking them to call as soon as possible, that their son was ill. Hopefully they were just out for an hour or two and would arrive home soon. They needed to know, would want to come, and they also might have more information on the last week. House also needed formal consent for treatment, although to this point, they were justified in filing it under the emergency circumstances clause.

Backing out to the address book main screen, her eye was caught by another entry. The Man. She recognized the number attached; it was House's cell phone. The Man. Kutner's overwhelming respect for his boss nearly leaped off the screen.

Returning to the recent calls and texts, she ran through them, looking for the person he'd apparently had the most detailed contact with lately. That one would be her first to call to fish for information on Kutner's status last week. Skimming the texts rapidly, she stopped, coming to sharp attention on one. It was dated Thursday night. Too bad you couldn't come. Awesome! IDIC!" She recognized the Vulcan motto: Infinite diversity in infinite combinations. Was that sent from the convention?

She shifted quickly to the sent list. Kutner had replied about an hour later. Yeah, had to work this week. Get good pics for me.

She reread that exchange three times, coming up with the same interpretation each time, then urgently resumed her scan of the remaining texts. There were clearly two stories being presented. To two people, apparently themselves at the convention, Kutner had said that he couldn't get off work after all. To anybody else, he had said he was attending the Star Trek convention.

Picking up her own cell phone again, she called House.