Well, I'm doing a bit of branching out and trying something new. This is my first House fic, so bear with me if the wit isn't as scathing as it could be. I do my best, but I'm just not as brilliant as he is. Also, I'm probably not going to focus hugely on the medical aspects because I don't really have the time or energy to research conditions, symptoms, treatments, and tests. If anyone would like to suggest places to look, or interesting maladies, I'll certainly check them out and be grateful. Now enjoy

Disclaimer: I don't own House M.D. If I did, the House posse would continually break into people's houses and complete death defying acts, and Wilson would be much love an appreciated by all, with no failed marriages and an awesome, swinging, bachelordom.

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Absence Leads to Heart Attacks

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Lunch. The most blessed time of the workday, where one was able to sneak away from the responsibilities of the real world in favor of more carnal pleasures. Food, House mused, was definitely one of the perks of life. When you died, you stopped eating, and that just wasn't right. There should honestly be pudding cups after death.

Sucking the remnants of vanilla off a standard hospital issue plastic spoon, House was at peace. But as is dictated by lady karma, moody woman that she is, all good things must come to an end. A foreboding shadow fell across his small pile of twinkie wrappers and orange juice bottle (so no one could call him unhealthy) and House looked up into the saccharine smile of Lisa Cuddy.

"You're teeth seem whiter than usual, Cuddy," House said blandly, face already scrunching up into his usual scowl of contempt. "Are you hoping to turn your smile into a death ray?"

"You have clinic duty."

"If you managed it, I suppose that means you'd kill me every time you tried to enforce clinic hours that you and I both know waste my talent." He pretended to ponder the implications of his statement. With a slight grimace, he got to his feet and brushed past her. "In that case, smile more often. Death can't be much worse than people who only think they're sick."

"Dr.House..." Cuddy fell into step beside him as House tried to make his getaway. "You try and try to get out of it but in the end, you know it's pointless to fight me. Just do the clinic hours and stop wasting everyone's valuable time." She shoved a thin folder at him. "You could even do it with a smile. Perhaps you'll get the death ray before me."

Rolling his eyes, House grudgingly took the file. "If only I were that lucky. Then I could blow this popsicle stand and terrorize Japan."

"Only you're not fifty feet tall or Godzilla." Pleased with herself, Cuddy quipped a cheerful 'have fun' and proceeded back in the direction of her office. House scowled after her and then glanced down at the file.

And his day had been going so well, too.

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"So then I told my boyfriend that he was stupid and he only glared at me and said I didn't know what I was talking about. I told him that Jane, that's my friend, had seen a sale at the mall and that I absolutely had to go and buy something because it was too good to pass up..."

House, near comatose, sat staring at a perky red head who had been rattling about her day for the past ten minutes. He couldn't remember what he'd said that sounded anything like 'please tell me about your day in excruciating detail'and was beginning to think this was all some sad joke that Cuddy was playing on him. Revenge was formulating in his mind though it was slowed due to numbing facts about low cut high cut vintage orange tees that currently danced about his brain. Whatever the hell those were anyway.

"And I totally saw the shirt first, and it was totally my size, but this other girl - a total bitch, I could tell - sees me going for it and just snatches it up. She smiles all sweetly and says 'oh, did you want this?' and then runs off to the change rooms-"

"Okay, shut up," House finally cut in, unable to absorb one more detail about female fashion. "I've been sitting here for the last fifteen minutes listening to you babble. Now tell me, what's Cuddy paying you? I'll double it if you go and annoy her for a while."

The girl stared at him, bewildered. "What?"

With a heavy sigh, House frowned. "Oh darn, not on the payroll. That means you're here legitimately, right?" She nodded. "Alright, then. I have one question for you."

"Uhuh?"

"Do you suffer from depression?"

There was a long moment of silence as the new vocabulary word filtered slowly through her thick skull. "Um?" she offered helpfully.

Exasperated, House grabbed his cane and stood. "Are you sad? Do you go home and cry your bitty eyes out every night?" He glowered down at her.

She brightened. "Yeah. That's my problem exactly, doc. You're good."

House nodded curtly. "Yes, I am. But what you need isn't a doctor. Well, not a hospital doctor." He began scribbling something on a prescription pad. "What you need is a psychiatrist." With a flourish, he flicked the slip of paper at her and turned toward the door. "Show that to the nurse and she'll get you sorted out." He hobbled out of the room and closed the door with a snap.

What was it with these people? Apparently the human race was getting stupider by the minute. The red head was the fifth in a series of patients with minor, hardly important maladies. The first was yawning a lot. He was tired. The second was having problems sleeping next to husband who snored. Earplugs. The third was itchy. Mosquito bites. The fourth sneezed every time she saw her boss. Allergic to the cologne. Why was he, Dr. Gergory House, miracle doctor and resident genius, stuck listening to the woes of the stupid percentage of the population?

Distastefully, he eyed the clock. He still had ten minutes left on his sentence of clinic hell. What circle of Hell was the clinic in, anyway? House would put money it was in one of the worst ones, next to the spot where all the murderers would roast for eternity.

He snatched up a file, tossing the red head's down somewhere nearby, and glanced over what was inside. This would make idiocy case number six. It just wouldn't do. House decided it was time for a consult. After all, this could be the start of an epidemic. It was his duty as a doctor to find out just what was causing people's IQs to drop so rapidly. And who better to help him than one Dr. James Wilson, expert regarding tumors that related to the brain?

"I need to make a page," House said to the receptionist nurse, mustering up all the fake sweetness he could. "Dr. James Wilson. Urgent. Needed in the clinic."

She gave him a look. "Dr. Wilson is scheduled to be working clinic right now. In fact, he's in exam room three." She pointed off behind him before going back to her clerical duties.

House was slightly disappointed. The fact that Wilson was handy meant there would be no delay while waiting for him to show up. But there was nothing to be done about it now, except go and politely interrupt and steal him away. "Thanks," he muttered, orienting on the door.

Seven hobbled steps later, House was swinging open the door to exam three, whistling cheerfully, folder clutched under one arm. The expected 'I'm with a patient' response greeted him, only it wasn't Wilson's voice. The whistle halted as House found himself staring at a completely unfamiliar man who was in the process of listening so some bald guy's heart.

"You're not Wilson," was all he could come up with.

Not-Wilson removed the stethoscope from his ears and looked up at House. "No, not Wilson. Dr. Alex Thatcher, cardiology." He extended a hand which House stared at as if it were some alien protrusion. "Did you need something?"

House pointed accusingly at him. "Wilson-napper! What have you done with him? I'll have you know I'm on excellent terms with Cuddy," he threatened. "Don't make me sic her on you."

"I think there's been a bit of a misunderstanding. I'm-"

"Not going to talk, eh? Well, we'll just see about that." House turned and marched back out into the waiting area. "Dr. Wilson has been kidnaped!" he bellowed loudly at the receptionist nurse. "Call Cuddy."

"I didn't kidnap anyone." Dr. Thatcher closed the door to exam three and, noticing the strange looks from the waiting patients, drew closer to House, lowering his voice. "Dr. Wilson got called to a conference on short notice. He'll be gone for most of the week and I'm filling in for his clinic hours."

House sized him up momentarily and then turned back to the stunned nurse, banging a hand on the desk. "I want to speak to Cuddy. This man obviously hoped to masquerade as Dr. Wilson in the hopes of... of...doing something evil."

"Fine. Call Cuddy." Thatcher sighed. This was hardly what he expected when he'd agreed to take up the extra hours in the clinic.

"Here you go." The nurse handed House the phone.

"Hello darling," House began. "Did you know that Wilson has suddenly turned into a man? No, I mean a different man. Wilson certainly wasn't a woman before." There was a pause. "That's what he said. Are you sure he can be trusted?" House shot a suspicious glance at the cardiologist who merely looked back blandly. "You're sure? Alright, alright." Another pause and House's face fell slightly. "Another half hour? Why?" He was almost whining. "But it's not my fault no one changed Wilson's name on the roster!" He grimaced. "Fine," he grumbled, and hung up.

Thatcher looked expectant. "Well? Am I legitimate?"

"Yeah, you're an ivy league scholar boy with rich parents all right." House scowled at him.

"Great. Now that that's settled..." The cardiologist made to turn and go back to exam three but House would have none of it, grabbing his arm.

"Not so fast. I need a consult." House wasn't pleased that Wilson was gone, but he had a plan, damnit, and he was going to slack out of his clinic duty one way or another. "And you're the lucky guy who gets to do it."

With much effort, House dragged an unwilling Dr. Thatcher to exam two and shut the door. Inside was a man of about thirty, pudgy, and hairline starting to recede. The two doctors stated at him and he stared back at him. House eyed Thatcher, who stared at House, and the patient looked between the two.

Finally, Thatcher spoke. "So what's the big problem?"

A file was held out under his nose. Accepting it, the doctor flipped it open and read the reason for the patient's visit. He glanced up at House, eyebrows effectively communicating his disbelief and then glanced back at the papers to be sure he read it right.

"Um, excuse me... Am I going to get any help?"

"Can't you see Dr. Thatcher is reading? Be a good boy and wait a moment while he finishes," House patronized.

"You didn't make this up, did you?"

House held a hand to his chest and gasped. "I'm shocked. I certainly did not alter the files in this man's folder to read his medical concern is that he's gradually starting to go bald." He shook his head firmly.

"Is it bad?" The patient looked between the two, worried.

"You called me in to consult for this? Why?" Thatcher handed the file back.

"Because you're Wilson's official stand in. Thus, you get consulted when the world is coming to an end." House examined his nails casually.

"It's bad." The man sighed and looked down at his hands.

"You're fine, you idiot!" House whacked the corner of the exam table with his cane, startling both the patient at the consulting doctor. "You're going bald. It happens. Blame your mother. Now get out." The man hurried to obey.

Thatcher raised his eyebrows in askance. "That wasn't very nice. And you wasted my time."

"Blame it on the stupid people. And Cuddy. It's all their fault." House hopped up on the exam table and fished around in his pocket for his mp3 player. It wasn't as good as his game boy or his portable tv, but it would suffice. "You can go now, too. I'm sure your bald guy needs you desperately."

"I think I'm going to ask Cuddy to find someone else to do Wilson's clinic hours," was the cardiologist's response just before he ducked out of the room.

Amateur, House thought as he turned on a rousing techno version of the classical piece, L'inverno. Wilson would've joined in with some witty banter, and might've even caught onto House's gripes about stupidity. It was going to be a long week without him, House knew. There was only so much Cuddy, clinic, and everything else a man could take alone. Wilson had better come back soon.

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And there you have it. Dr. Alex Thatcher is co-owned by myself and Duchess Nire, so no stealing. Tell me what you think, and I promise more reflective House musings in the future. And an appearance by Wilson, though not how you might think .