Disclaimer: I do not own House. M.D or Slumdog Millionaire.

Unfortunately I've never been to Asia at all, so the setting of this is narrowly based only on that of Slumdog Millionaire.

You do not need to have seen the film, although I highly recommend it - I think it's great and it provides a much better atmosphere than I am able to describe.

The two stories would actually be set 40-something years apart (Mumbai would have been Bombay), but just imagine they're not :)

Slumdog

"Doctor Wilson, does House feel he is able to confide in you? You are his "best-friend", is this correct?"

Wilson was sitting slightly awkwardly in a chair before the psychologist. She was House's new doctor at the asylum, and was doing her background research before talking more in-depth with House.

Wilson nodded eagerly, he felt truly hopeless with House right now and this woman gave a sense of control. She looked perceptive, but Wilson wasn't yet sure how she'd fair in a battle of wills against House.

"Yes. I'm his only friend really."

She didn't raise an eyebrow like Wilson expected, only ticked something in her notebook.

"Then I'm curious about one month of his history in particular," she said, looking over her spectacles at Wilson.

The infraction, thought Wilson, or maybe Stacy, or perhaps when his father died, or Amber, or Kutner…

The psychologist crossed her legs and balanced her notebook on one knee.

"I would like to know what he has told you about the month he was missing in Mumbai, India at the age of eleven."

Wilson laughed lightly.

"He never…that never happened, he never told me that happened."

The psychologist didn't look remotely surprised at this answer, and she scribbled a few notes down…withdrawn…possible repression.

"I see," was all she said.

Wilson leaned forward his eyes wide in shock.

"Why would he not tell me that? We tell each other everything…" he paused as he uttered the last word, knowing it to be false.

The psychologist thought for a moment, wondering how best to proceed.

"Perhaps I should fill you in," she said reaching for a large folder on her desk. This wasn't strictly professional, but she wasn't one to stick to the rules if she knew it might help a patient. Psychology wasn't an exact science sometimes, and she saw Doctor Wilson was perhaps the only one close enough to Doctor House to possibly help. Except Doctor Cuddy, she hadn't quite worked out their relationship yet.

She handed the file to Wilson and he opening it slowly.

House stared back at him, just a child but recognisable by sharp blue eyes. His picture was framed in black ink, Indian characters either side of the large "missing". Wilson looked back at the psychologist, clear shock reflected in his eyes.

"He remarked, when I asked him, only that 'It was hot. When I got home it was quiet' before diverting the conversation. Does this mean anything to you?"

Wilson shook his head and continued to flick through some more pictures, one of House shortly after being found, in a prison cell. Wilson could see how he'd changed, but his eyes were still clear as crystal. The boy looking back was older, only by a month but he appeared much older. His face was tanned and bruised down one side.

Wilson would have doubted it was House, but he knew those eyes anywhere.

House lay in bed, his blue eyes wide open in the dark, listening to his father shouting downstairs. He rubbed his hand across his forehead in frustration and gritted his teeth. It was hot in the room, the air was dry, his brow sweating; he wasn't yet used to the Indian summer.

"Greg!"

House didn't move. His father's voice bellowed through the thin walls of his room. It was a bare, square room. He lay on his camping bed without any sheets, his sweaty limbs stuck to the mattress. His suitcase lay open on the floor; clothes spilled out, jumpers and trousers too warm to wear here. He had spent the last six months living in England, moving with his father. It had been a cold winter in England. The air here stifled him when he'd stepped off the air-conditioned plane, the sky was unbelievably blue here and the sun startled his eyes. It was just him and his mother on the flight, his father had waited at Mumbai airport - having left in advance. House knew he would be standing in his military uniform, despite the heat and humidity, back straight, chin held high.

"GREG!"

House hesitated, then reluctantly moved out of bed.

"I'm coming!" he shouted, his deepening voice sounded awkward, but increasingly provided a new power to his frustration.

"That boy…" he heard his father sigh loudly.

House rummaged through his suitcase, found an old pair of army green shorts, cut to the knee, and pulled them on. The only summer clothing he could find was a large vest-top, he pulled it on and quickly shoved his feet into a pair of old trainers. He ruffled his hair and smoothed it down again while reached for the door. He paused and glanced at his reflection in the brass door knob, he looked feverish and scruffy. His dad would hate it. He smiled to himself and continued downstairs to breakfast.

Ten minutes later House had stormed out of the house, a burnt crumpet still gripped in his hand, his father's sharp words still ringing in his ears. Nobody came after him, his parents balanced each other out - his mother to comfort and his father to hurt. He existed alone.

After some time walking, he found himself to be completely lost on an entirely new continent. He'd long left the military enclosure, and was in a cramped part of the city with buildings towering either side of him. He'd walked through beautiful parts of the city, but he avoided them and dove deeper. It was still early morning, his father insisted on early starts, and so only a few early vendors were about and scattered homeless children straggled from sleep. They looked about his age, bordering on puberty. He went over to two boys who were sitting on the floor, they looked at him warily but he just held out the cold crumpet in his hand. The older child ignored him, but the younger reached out and gently took it from him and smiled his thanks. The elder glared at House, but as his friend began to eat the bread he had some when it was offered and smiled at House who sat down beside them.

House didn't know a word of their language, but slowly the three boys began to communicate, pointing at themselves and giving there names, like a game of charades. What House could glean of their story began to unfold, and House described a few details of his own in turn. He told them he was hiding. Some words recurred, the simple ones, and House began to pick them up. The boys laughed at first, his pronunciation was strange. They began to help, pointing at things and naming them in their own language. House absorbed the words quickly.

As day broke golden over the warm early morning the two boys stood and motioned for House to follow them. Salim, the elder of the two brothers, led the way with House and Jamal, the younger, following closely behind. He did so gladly, there was nowhere else for him to go but back to the shouting, which was sure to escalate into violence if he returned to his father, like it had so many times before. And besides, this was interesting.

They wound themselves further into the city, House would truly have no way of finding his own way home had he wanted to. So far he had stuck absently to big, straight roads, but now they wound through the city which grew beneath him, buzzing to life with shoppers and vendors, past neighbourhoods of well-to-do houses, temples, factories and eventually deep into the slums. Soon they came to a large market place, bigger than any that had been passed so far, thriving on the early morning business. Salim gripped House's arm and motioned for Jamal to follow as he pushed their way through the crowds. He moved speedily through the people, avoiding them gymnastically. House mimicked his movements, and soon was able to move with similar grace.

They came to a small clearing and Salim motioned for House to stand next to a wall that marked the end of the marketplace, with the stalls stretching out on either side. Salim pointed out a space behind it, and House understood the word he said to mean "run". Jamal walked back into the crowd, making sure he was still in view of the other two. Salim motioned to his eyes when House gave him a questioning look, he said a word House assumed to mean "watch" and he added it to his vocabulary.

As House watched, Jamal reached out with small fingers into the pocket of a man in front, distracted by the bartering and his own gesticulating hands. Jamal drew out a small wallet and swiftly placed it in his pocket. He turned to examine a man who was shouting over the crowds, one hand in the air waving and the other hanging at his side with a watch gleaming. Jamal leaned forward and within moments the watch was gone and tucked away out of sight, and the boy returned to the other two leaning against the wall.

Salim began describing how the pick pocketing should be done. They huddled as a three and the watch was placed on House's wrist, it was squeezed tight for a moment and was quickly released. Jamal pointed to the clasp and spoke something in fast words House didn't understand. But he knew what had to be done and nodded. Salim pointed at the hole in the wall and returning the watch to House, motioned that they should meet again in one hour. Jamal quickly warned him not to stay in one spot, using the words House had already picked up, "move", "hide" and "quick".

And the two boys ran back into the crowd, House followed behind at first but he was soon left entirely on his own in a cramped crowd of people. Anxiety suddenly filled him, he hadn't felt lost yet because he imagined himself to be hiding from his father, from what he knew, from what he feared and hated. You're not really lost when you're hiding. But this was alien to him. His bare arms were pale from a winter of English sun, and he would have stood out in the crowd had it not heaved so much and wound round itself so fast, in a blur of colours and smells and sounds, so many words House didn't understand.

Then it slowed down as he saw a perfect target. A middle-aged man whose money could clearly be seen loose in his jacket pocket, he kept his hand in it, protecting it. But as he made an exchange with the vendor he reached up with both hands to collect his bag of goods. The vendor was chatting with his co-worker, taking no notice of the man. House slid his hand into the pocket and took a handful of money, he stuck it into his pocket and ran back into the crowd.

His heart was pounding in his throat, his forehead was wet with sweat and his hair was already dampened by it. He felt the money heavy in his pocket, tucked away beneath his baggy vest-top nobody would notice it. He walked through the crowd, trying to remain inconspicuous, luckily he was a foot shorter than most of the adults, and his light skin, flushed face and nervous, excited eyes went unnoticed.

Some time later House checked the stolen watch stowed in his pocket and moved back to meet Salim and Jamal. Both were already waiting for him, and he grinned at them, feeling the weight of the collected coins in his pockets. It wasn't much, few in the market unwarily carried more than spare change, but it was enough. He needn't go back home at all.

Two days later House saw the first poster with his picture on it, bleating the word 'Missing' to an uninterested crowd.

That made things real. He ripped it off the wall and on to the floor. A worthless gesture; there were three more just out of reach staring back at him. Always out of reach.

He ran back to the others who were milling themselves through the crowd.

"House," grinned Jamal, "You look worried."

House enjoyed the sound of his name said in an Indian accent, it changed it while remaining the same, hiding just out of sync. House had understood what the boy had said and that pleased him.

"Nothing. I'm fine," he replied, grasping at the words and poorly constructing the sentence.

But Jamal smiled.

"Too bad it isn't true," he said in flawless American-English. His face had changed, it was older, smirking. The day darkened.

"What -?" House stuttered.

Jamal just looked back, his eyes soft. He hadn't said anything.

House awoke with a start in an empty room. The walls were a sterile white, the windows barred, the pain in his leg throbbing. The asylum drugs were giving him nightmares, showing him memories.

I'm fine.

"Too bad it isn't true," rang Kutner's voice, the last words House heard before the real world had slipped from under his feet.

He lay back down, his bright blue eyes staring into the dark.

And the crowds reformed.

To be continued…