Saturday

Wilson was taken to the nearest New Orleans police precinct, where he was booked, fingerprinted, strip searched and placed into what was referred to as "the drunk tank" without his jacket, dress shirt, shoes, tie, and belt. He considered himself lucky that they let him keep his pants and socks.

His head swimming, Wilson sat on the thin mat on the floor and leaned back against the wall of the small cell. He was mortified at the thought of having to call Sam and explain what had happened. Considering she'd just served him with divorce papers, he was convinced that she'd let him sit there until his bond hearing on Monday just out of spite. He'd been charged with Vandalism, Destruction of Property, and Assault - although he couldn't for the life of him figure out where that last charge came from.

Resigned to spending the weekend in jail, Wilson closed his eyes and tried to sleep, images of throwing the bottle of booze into that antique mirror replaying itself in his mind. He dozed fitfully, wishing that they had at least given him a blanket.

House went up to his room and crashed. His last coherent thought before the darkness claimed him was, The only person at the entire fucking conference who isn't boring, and he goes and gets himself arrested.

House allowed himself to catch up on some much-needed sleep, waking up in his own time and going through his morning routine at his own pace. He briefly considered making an appearance at the conference and just as quickly discounted it. He had way more interesting things to do.

As he was tying his sneakers to head over to the diner for breakfast, House noticed a worn copy of the Yellow Pages on the bottom shelf of the nightstand. He took it and a hotel notepad and shoved them both into his backpack before heading out.

House arrived at the diner to find it nearly packed with locals. Lisette noticed his tall, lanky form when he came in and directed him to a stool at the end of the counter next to the wall. As House sat down she saw that he was dressed casually in jeans and t-shirt with a backpack slung over his right shoulder. He was clean-shaven, which she thought made for an interesting change from the last time she'd seen him. Lisette made her way down the counter with a fresh pot of coffee, systematically refilling mugs. By the time she got to House, he was flipping through the Yellow Pages and making notes from the listings for attorneys.

"Getting yourself into trouble already, Doc? You've only been in town a few days."

House looked up at Lisette and shot her a cocky grin. "That doesn't sound like me."

Lisette filled a mug and put it in front of him, chuckling. "F'true, boo? That look alone'll get you into all kinds of trouble 'round here." She pulled out an order pad from her apron pocket. "Y'all know what you're gonna have?"

House took a quick glance at the menu and ordered biscuits with sausage gravy, cheese grits, and a beignet. Lisette nodded with approval as she went off to give Bobby the order. When she returned several minutes later with his food, House's stomach growled. He'd been so preoccupied that he hadn't realized just how hungry he was. Lisette barely set the plates down before House began to dig in.

"You really need a lawyer, Doc?" Lisette asked as she watched him eat.

"Yeah. There was a bar fight at the hotel last night. I need to go bail someone out of jail. The lawyer's for him." House shoveled more food into his mouth.

Lisette pulled out her order pad again and jotted down a name and phone number. Tearing off the slip of paper, she handed it to House saying, "Call this guy. Give him my name. He'll do right by your friend." She pulled a set of keys out of her pocket and dropped them on the counter in front of House. "Here. Car's in the back. You'll know it when you see it. Easier than trying to get a taxi this time of day."

House thanked her between bites. Lisette nodded and left him to finish his breakfast, returning only to refill his coffee as she made her rounds of the diner. When he was finished House left enough to cover the bill and a sizable tip under his coffee mug. Lisette never saw him leave.

Wilson woke slowly to a banging sound that seemed to coincide with the pounding in his skull. He opened his eyes, the glaring light in the cell that had burned all night only making the pounding worse. Lifting his head slightly, Wilson could see a guard looking at him as he unlocked the cell and swung open the reinforced steel door.

"Wilson!" The guard barked at him. "Y'all made bail. Let's go."

Immensely confused in addition to being monumentally hungover, Wilson followed the guard meekly to the caged window where he collected and signed for his personal property. After putting on his shirt, belt and shoes, and stuffing his tie into the pocket of his suit jacket, Wilson was released. He walked out of the building carrying the Express package and a manila envelope that contained his other personal effects into unfamiliar surroundings and bright sunlight that stabbed through his eyeballs even worse than the lights in the cell. He had just started walking toward the street to hail a cab when he was intercepted by a tall athletic guy in jeans and a t-shirt with a backpack slung over his shoulder.

"I took care of it," the man said.

Wilson looked at him, bewildered, the words not quite sinking into his still-muddled brain. The man studied him closely, tilting his head slightly. "I took care of it," he repeated.

Wilson finally found his voice. "Who are you?"

House handed him the piece of paper with the lawyer's name and phone number on it. "Greg House. Give this guy a call and he'll be there at your arraignment on Monday."

Wilson read the information on the slip of paper, then eyed the man in front of him again. "Where did you come from? How did you know I was here? I don't - "

House chuckled at Wilson's confusion. "The convention was boring. You weren't. Throwing that bottle into the mirror just sealed it."

"You saw that?!"

"Yeah. Fucking brilliant. I was going to buy you a drink after that, but those two idiots threw their shot glasses and brought the whole thing down, then got into a brawl with the bartender. Didn't see much point once the police arrived."

"I had nothing to do with that fight!"

"I know. But I'm not the one you have to convince." House pointed at the piece of paper still in Wilson's hand. "Call this guy. He's going to see about cutting a deal at your arraignment. He'll be expecting you." He turned and started to walk away, saying over his shoulder, "C'mon. I need coffee. Hungry?"

Wilson shoved the paper into his pocket and hurried to catch up with the taller man, falling into step alongside him. His mind swam with questions. They walked to the parking lot across the driveway from Booking and Release. House pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the driver's door of a beautifully restored classic sedan. He slid behind the wheel and reached across to unlock the passenger door for Wilson, who sighed audibly in relief that his ordeal was over as he got into the car.

Wilson leaned his head back against the headrest, then remembered that he hadn't introduced himself. He turned to House and offered his hand.

"I'm sorry. Thank you. I didn't mean to… I'm…"

"Dr. James Wilson." House finished for him, ignoring the offered hand. "From the lectures I saw you at, I'm guessing you're probably an Oncology resident, haven't been out of medical school all that long."

Wilson pulled his hand back and looked at House, mouth agape, as House continued. "You got an Express package yesterday morning at the hotel. You carried it around the conference all day - you wouldn't let it go and you wouldn't open it. I saw the return address, which looked like it belonged to a law firm. The look on your face when you came out of the bathroom told me that you'd probably been served with divorce papers and I wanted to see what you'd do next."

"You were following me?!"

House shrugged as he started the car. "I was bored."