House's plan was simplicity itself; Krishna was to create a diversion while House sneaked into the patient's room.

"That's it?" asked Krishna, trying to focus on the cab driver, who kept acquiring a second head.

"That's it."

The cab veered sharply around a garbage truck. Krishna's stomach veered with it, bringing back memories of the tequila House had insisted on teaching him to drink. Salt, shot, lime, repeat. His eyes watering from the agave fumes rising within his troubled interior, Krishna tried to stay with the conversation. "What kind of diversion?"

"You'll think of something," House assured him.

As it turned out, the only thing Krishna could think of to do was to fall out of the elevator and lie on the floor gurgling a little. It was enough: the entire night staff rushed to assist him, scooping him onto a gurney and hurrying him to an empty room for rehydration and monitoring. Being young and very cute with big brown eyes and good manners is no guarantee that people will drop everything to help you in times of trouble, but it doesn't hurt. When House arrived in a separate elevator minutes later, the coast was clear.

He made his almost silent way to the patient's room, pausing once to disengage himself from a magazine rack that tipped over with a crash. No one came out to investigate; the staff was too busy laughing at poor Krishna, who was trying to explain what he was doing there at that hour.

House entered the patient's room unobserved, locked the door, and swiftly disabled the call button and telephone. Then he positioned himself at the end of the bed, steadied himself with one hand on the footboard, and called the patient's name. It was not his intention to look or sound menacing, but in the dim light the effect was sepulchral. The patient's eyes flew open and his face turned ashen.

"You!" he aspirated. "What're you doing here?" He fumbled for the call button, saw it was unlit; reached for the phone, noted the plug dangling in House's raised hand. The patient settled back into his pillows and drew the blankets up around his chest. He said, with more distaste than fear, "Jeeziz, you look like death on toast standing there. I almost shit myself!"

"The time has come to speak frankly," House informed him pompously. "The time for evasion is past." The patient turned on the light and stared at his face.

"What the hell happened to you?" he demanded. "Did you set a broken arm and accuse the patient of trying to fist-fuck a water buffalo?"

"That's funny," House said, belching gently. "The fact is, I was assaulted by a cowboy at Brokeback Mountin'. He apologized profusely and he bought me a drink."

"More like twenty of them. You're drunk!"

"And you, Mr. Director, have VD," said House, trying to sound Churchillian. "But tomorrow, I shall be sober." He hiccuped, and swayed a little.

"That's impossible," the patient snapped.

"How do you know?"

"The, the test results. Came back negative."

"You don't know that yet," House informed him owlishly. "Whitbred won't tell you the results for another six hours at least."

The director rubbed his forehead.

"Anyway, I'm over boring, ordinary STDs like herpes," House said dismissively. "My bright young associate has come up with one I like even better: Lymphogranuloma venereum."

"Nympho what?"

"LYMpho. Granuloma. Venereum. You may call it LGV for short. Allow me to enlighten you. LGV is a sexually-transmitted disease caused by the Chlamydia trachomatis bacteria. It usually starts with a painless sore on the genitals, like the one I found on you this morning. After a couple days, couple weeks, it spreads to the lymph nodes in the groin, and they start to swell, like the swelling I found this morning. Couple more days and they might start rupturing and draining. Then they'll heal. Then they'll swell up, rupture, and drain again, and so on. Nasty business all around. And, of course, the same thing'll be happening to the person who infected you." He stopped himself. "Why are you so sure the syph and herpes tests are negative?"

The director stared at the ceiling. "Because we all got tested first."

"We?"

"Me. My wife. Rico. Clap, syph, herpes, AIDS, the whole nine yards. My own private doctor did all the tests. They were all clear."

"Did your doctor test for LGV?"

The patient shook his head. "This is the first I've ever heard of it."

House hobbled over to a bedside chair and sat down. He reached into his pocket for the prescription bottle, took a pill, and offered one to the patient. It took two glasses of water and a lot of choking and coughing before he managed to get it down, and he gaped as House swallowed his dry.

The two men sat for a moment, lost in their own thoughts. Then House said, heavily, "I'm surprised your doctor didn't think to test for this. It's pretty rare up here, but where Rico's from it's as common as mango trees." He bounced his cane on its rubber tip a few times. Then: "You knew about the affair right from the start—and you even had everybody tested on your dime?"

The patient declined to meet his eyes, but he smiled. "Pathetic, isn't it? Sad old fart, married to a woman half his age, sells out his manhood to keep her from walking away. That's what everyone would say, isn't it? Everyone knows that when someone cheats on you, you're supposed to stop loving them. Cut them out of your life forever.

"I spent the first two thirds of my life listening to what everyone else said about love and never stopping to ask myself what I thought. I was told I should want passion and mutual respect. I was told I should demand compatibility and excitement. I was told to hold out for a woman who would make me the center of her universe, but to watch out for golddiggers. I'm a perfectionist in my work and I was a perfectionist in romance, and I drove myself and a lot of women crazy trying to put all of those things into one package, and I never managed to do it. Well, no shit. Who can meet all of those criteria?"

He paused for a moment. "What was that pill I took?" he wondered. "I feel like I should be sitting in an ashram somewhere talking about the Great All."

"It won't hurt you," House said in a muffled voice. "You were saying?"

The patient paused again to relocate his train of thought. He continued, dreamily, "I was told fidelity was non-negotiable. And I was told love was one area of live where I shouldn't compromise. You know what I finally figured out? Love is nothing if not compromise. You give up this to get that—it's simple. If you really value what the other person has to offer, you do what you can to keep them around. Compromise isn't a moral failing, it's a gift you give yourself.

"My wife is a gift I gave to myself. I wasn't an idiot. I was 35 years older than her when we fell in love, and I was already in my fifties then. I knew I was going to slow down sexually as time went on. Maybe a sensible person would have stopped it right there. Why let yourself in for pain? But I loved my wife. And she loved me. What we had was worth taking a chance for. Now she's 35, a young woman at her sexual peak. I'm 70, and even if I could do it every other night, I wouldn't really want to. It's just not that important to me anymore. When she told me she was attracted to Rico, I knew I was supposed to be heartsick, but I wasn't. I was happy for her. All I asked is that we made sure we didn't pass anything around. So much for the scientific approach.

"We're still happy. We may not stay happy, but nothing lasts forever, and in the meantime we've got a good life together. Everyone says 'What about commitment? What about trust? What about your marriage vows?' Fuck everyone. Let 'em screw up their own lives with that kind of thinking, but don't let 'em use it to screw up yours."

House sat so still, his chin propped on his hands, that the patient turned to him in amusement. "Did you pass out over there?"

"No," said House, shaking himself a little. "I'm listening."

"So tell me," the patient said, "this LVG; is it treatable?"

"Easily," said House, and outlined the tests that would be run and the course of antibiotics that everyone would have to take. With any luck and some modifications in dosage, it would also treat the patient's meningitis. From there, the challenge would be to restore his bladder to normal functioning.

"There's surgery as a last resort, but I'm hoping the nerve damage has been minimal enough to avoid it," he said. "You might get away with simple bladder training, where you learn to control the muscles yourself. If you still need some help, there's a class of drugs called anticholinergics, and an antidepressant called Trofranil, that relax the muscles and prevent spasms. Of course, like any drug they come with possible side effects: fatigue, dry mouth, dizziness, blurred vision, nausea..."

At long last, the patient laughed. "Sounds like a typical afternoon to me," he said.

-0-

Dr. Whitbred almost managed to hide the shock he felt when he entered the patient's room later that morning to find House sacked out in a recliner, snoring lightly, his hat pulled over his eyes. The patient was finishing his breakfast and chatting amiably with his wife, who sat serenely by his bed, holding his hand. A moment later Krishna appeared, looking rumpled and apprehensive, dark circles under his eyes.

"Good morning, Doctor," the patient saluted Whitbred with half a bagel and a glass of milk. "Dr. House! Dr. Whitbred is here. Tell him what we decided."

House roused himself and offered a groggy, unsparing account of the circumstances that led to the patient's illness and the treatments needed to remedy it. Whitbred quickly acceded; less, Krishna felt, out of respect for Dr. House's expertise and more out of a sincere desire to see him leave for Princeton on the earliest train possible. By afternoon, thanks to the hospital's advanced testing capabilities ("You guys could almost do something with all this," was House's awed appraisal after a tour and demonstration), the diagnosis of LGV was confirmed for all three parties and treatment begun.

Heartened by the prospect of being home in time for dinner, House decided to celebrate Krishna's contribution to the diagnosis by blowing his per diem on a lavish lunch at an uptown restaurant. They shuffled in—underslept, whiskery, a little hung over—and to Krishna's surprise, were actually seated, albeit in a dark corner in the back. Drinks were brought. ("It'll cure you or kill you," toasted House, as Krishna sipped nervously at his first Long Island iced tea.) Their waiter, a Broadway aspirant if there ever was one, sallied forth with menus and a long list of bewildering specials, delivered with a hair too much theatricality. House cut him short.

"We're here for the gnocchi with rabbit sausage," he growled, swinging his face around so the waiter got the full effect of his bruised face. "And don't take all day." The waiter stowed his acting chops and skedaddled.

They talked about the patient's prognosis. "His options are exercises, drugs, or surgery?" asked Krishna.

"There's another route," said House, "but it involves stimulating the nerves with an electrical wire up his tailpipe. I'll let Dr. Ruth tell him about it, if it comes to that."

"Dr. Ruth may not have heard of this method," Krishna said doubtfully. The iced tea was starting to loosen his tongue. Fearing he had been indiscreet, he added quickly, "but she has been seeing a great deal of the new neurologist lately, so perhaps he will tell her about it."

"Pillow talk?" asked House, with unseemly interest. "Do they disappear into the utility room from time to time and come out with each other's lab coats on?"

"I worry about the anti-depressants," deflected Krishna. "It would be wonderful if they helped him with his physical problem. But what if they 'cure' him of the very mental qualities that make him such an insightful commentator on the human condition?"

"What do you mean?" asked House. Any member of his team would have registered a note of danger in his tone, but Krishna was floating on a warm tide of midday alcohol and didn't notice.

"Well, like Van Gogh, you see," he explained happily. "Suppose he had been 'cured' of his mental illness. Would we have his sunflowers? His night skies? The hallucinogenic colors, the dream-like settings? If we 'cure' our patient's depression—for surely he suffers from depression—will he ever make another movie as great as his last one?"

"Is misery a necessary component of genius?" House slashed back. "Have you ever dropped acid, Krish? Got any idea what it feels like to come unhinged, to hear angels ordering you to bash your brains out? Don't glamorize mental illness, boy. Van Gogh took a razor and cut off his own ear. Think about the kind of cerebral overload that leads to self-butchery. No one should have to suffer like that just so the rest of us can look at an edgy painting and feel good about how discerning we are." He stabbed and ate a gnocchi with ferocious energy. "Van Gogh produced those paintings in spite of schizophrenia and bipolarism," he added. "If he'd been treated, he might have produced even greater works of art—why doesn't anyone ever mention that?"

Chagrined, Krishna finished his meal in silence.

House was waiting for his receipt when he brought up the topic Krishna had really wanted to hear about; the possibility of a fellowship at Princeton Plainsboro.

"I'm gonna fill a couple of openings in the next six months," he said casually. "What're your plans?"

"I am very interested in immunology," Krishna said, his heart pounding.

"No fooling? Well, give me a call if you're in the neighborhood." House flipped him a somewhat battered business card. "I gotta go if I'm gonna catch my train. Take care of the tip, will ya?" And he was gone, leaving Krishna to settle with the vexed thespian waiter.

-0-

In his room at New York-Presbytarian, the patient asked his wife for a legal pad. She obliged, and he started to write: "Dr. Geoffrey Haus. Tall, stooped, walks with cane/limp. Acerbic, obnoxious, insightful, knows medicine, clueless about people. Called upon to consult in case of patient with mystery infection, much-younger wife." The words came effortlessly, almost as if the character was inventing himself.

-0-

Being late for work was a House specialty, and he outdid himself the next morning, lolling in bed an additional hour just to add an extra wrinkle to Cuddy's forehead. When he finally made an appearance, he went straight to Pediatrics, a crumpled brown paper bag in hand.

Angie was curled up in bed with Nate, watching A Fish Called Wanda. House remembered a time when he could intertwine his limbs with those of another person and not lose circulation to his extremities, and concluded that teenaged bones start out soft and pliable and harden with age. He and Carolyn used to share a twin bed and sleep all night without bruising each other—how else can you explain that?

He offered Angie the bag. She peeked inside and squealed with joy. "Sweet!" It was a Rastafarian hat knit of red, green, and yellow wool, with long black wool dreadlocks sewn two-thirds of the way around the rim, purchased from a street vendor in the Village. Angie put it on at once and skanked to Nate's admiring cries.

Carolyn appeared in the doorway and took in her daughter's new look. "You should wear that to Grandma Barton's at Christmas," she said. "Tell her it's a dreadlock holiday."

Still smiling, Carolyn turned to House. "What have you been doing with yourself all week?" she asked. "You just disappeared. Dr. Wilson said you were in New York on a top-secret mission, so naturally we've been speculating wildly."

"Can't talk about it," House told her, as they moved into the hallway. "It's a secret. How did your week go?" Did you sleep with Scott? he wanted to ask, but he suddenly remembered Krishna--"Why do you always lead with your mouth?"—and made a momentous decision: he would let one go by. It was an uncomfortable, unfamiliar sensation to have a pressing question and not ask it, but he managed.

Carolyn was staring at his face. "No one guessed that you were fighting crime or boxing," she said. "Maybe we should have been more imaginative."

"You know New York," said House. "It's a nice place to visit, but you gotta watch out for the crosscut. Where's Scott?"

Carolyn checked her watch. "As of this moment, he is leaving New Jersey airspace." She did a little shuffling dance. "He got called back to Seattle. And not a moment too soon."

"He got on your nerves?"

"He got on everyone's nerves. My nerves, Angie's nerves, Dr. Wilson's nerves, the nurses' nerves, the orderlies' nerves. Angie finally ordered him to go—she promised he could come back when she was too sick to fight with him. Poor Scott; he has this nervous habit of pissing people off."

House reached into his pocket. "I have something for you, too." He handed her a menu from New York-Presbytarian Hospital.

She took it, puzzled, until she noticed writing on the back. "To Carolyn, who must have nerves of steel and the patience of a saint." It was signed by the patient.

Carolyn stared at House, wide-eyed, open-mouthed.

"No way," she breathed.

"Way."

"I don't believe it!" She reread the message, took a closer look at House. "You did cure him, right?" He nodded, and she flung her arms around his neck, almost knocking him off his feet. "Greg! You lunatic! I can't believe you actually took care of—and asked for his autograph! For me!" She disengaged herself and hurried into Angie's room, calling, "Angie! You won't believe this!"

House heard Angie's shout of disbelief; heard Nate add his congratulations; heard Carolyn reiterate her history of devotion to the master and all his works. He stood staring down at the tip of his cane, a pleased half-smile on his sore and lumpy face.

He wasn't sure what he wanted to do next. He trusted it would become clearer with time.

THE END