Title: An Unlikely Diagnosis

Author: BatmansBeauty18

Rating: K+ (slight swearing)

Summary: A House gets sick fic (kinda). The reason he doesn't feel too hot is the last one you'd expect.

Archive: Ask first.

Disclaimer: If House was mine he would be dating my mom and Chase and Wilson would be painting my toenails. They are not. Obviously. Unfortunately. Therefore, they are not mine.

Another Day

House woke up feeling very shitty. There was no other way of putting it. His leg throbbed, his chest ached, and he felt a dull burn with every breath he inhaled. He eagerly reached over his bed to grab his bottle of Vicoden. After taking a few of the little pills dry, he leaned back into bed and tried to fall back asleep. Unfortunately, Dr. Lisa Cuddy had other ideas. The caller ID on his phone rang through the house, declaring that "Cuddy, Lisa" was indeed trying to reach him. He considered smothering himself with his pillow and just putting himself out of his misery, but refrained from doing so. It would spoil the whole fun of it because he would not even get to see the shocked expressions on Wilson, Cuddy, and his duckling's faces.

With a long, slow sigh he snatched the phone from his bedside. Hitting the talk button, he forced his voice to speak in a careful monotone.

"I'm sorry, but this number is not accepting calls at this time. Please try again later. Beep." House was about to hang up, satisfied that he had adverted a crisis when he heard Cuddy's unmistakable screech through the earpiece.

"I swear House, if you hang up on me I will personally ensure that your rights to the handicapped parking spot are revoked." Sighing in frustration, House brought the handheld phone back up to his ear.

"And what are you doing up so early Dr. Cuddy? I thought you would still be recovering from your romp with that Mexican prostitute. Don't think I didn't see what you were wearing."

"I told you, it was a tennis out-fit. It's lycra, not spandex!"

"I see, so your Mexican prostitute likes tennis. I wonder how many uses you two can find for a tennis racket."

House swore that he feel Cuddy's blush radiating through the telephone. He could certainly here her loud sigh of exasperation, and though for a moment he might have actually lucked out and she was going to hang up on him. Unfortunately, someone seemed determined to make this day as miserable as possible.

"You're not getting me off the phone that easily. I just called to remind you that the clinic is closing early today, so you need to come in earlier and get your hours in, otherwise its double for tomorrow."

House pressed the off button on the phone and leaned back against his headboard. He seriously considered just not going in and pulling double duty tomorrow, but refused to give Cuddy the satisfaction. With another long, drawn out sigh, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. For a moment the room spun crazily, and it took House a second to get the room to stop spinning. Once it did, he managed to choke down a cup of coffee, get dressed in something halfway decent, and limp out to his motorcycle. He hopped on and stuck the key in the ignition. Gunning the engine, he took of towards the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

House entered the tall building of the hospital, and strode towards the elevator. He stepped in and only then noticed that Wilson was standing next to him.

"What are you doing here so early? I didn't think that anything other then Cuddy stripping on the roof could bring you in this early." Wilson asked him in confusion.

"You don't think Cameron stripping would bring me in?"

"Its not that, I just don't think Cameron would ever strip."

"And you think Cuddy would?"

"Yes...I mean no...I mean more then...oh forget it."

Wilson stopped talking and carefully studied House. Now that he noticed it, House seemed much paler then normal, and his banter wasn't as cutting as it usually was. It was then that Wilson noticed a slight hitch to House's breathing, like it was painful to inhale. House also seemed to be carrying himself stiffer then usual, not only taking weight off his bad leg, but also standing slightly hunched over as if his chest bothered him. Only Wilson's closeness with House allowed him to notice these small things, to anyone else, even other doctors, it would have passed unnoticed. Even now, Wilson was not sure if House was sick, injured, hung over, or tired. With House it was always impossible to tell.

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