A Better Place to Be

"All right guys keep your eye on the ball and get ready to go!"

Eight-year-old Jacob Reeve stood on second base, the words of his coach ringing in his ears as he kept his eyes peeled on the batter. The Princeton Indians were playing the Trenton Tigers for the championship and Jacob was the winning run. At the ring of the rawhide against the metal bat he took off, legs kicking up clouds of dirt as he rounded third, his coach waving him on. The boy slid head first Into home plate as the umpire signaled safe and Jacob soon found himself swept up in a mass of kids, parents and coaches as his team celebrated the win. Jacob's coach swept up his star shortstop and held him aloft. Suddenly, Jacob was back on the ground as his coach looked at him quizzically

"Are you okay Jake?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Your eyes…they're bleeding."

Jacob reached up and felt under his left eye. Pulling his hand back he saw to his horror it was covered in blood.

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"FUCK!"

Foreman slammed the file down on the table and drew a hand wearily across his face, the exhaustion and frustration etched into his dark features. Across the table were his colleagues, Doctors Chase and Cameron, widened their eyes at the outburst by their normally unflappable co-worker. Their faces were a mask of exhaustion as well, the last 72 straight hours having taken its toll on everyone.

"We've run all the tests we can. It's not a bleeding problem, it's not cancer, it's not lupus and if we don't figure it out Jacob is going to be dead within the day."

"Look eight year olds don't just start bleeding in the middle of a baseball game. It's there; we are just not seeing it," Chase protested, trying to calm his co-worker down.

"Well, Sherlock unless you've got x-ray vision or some new idea that we haven't thought of we're fresh out of options."

"I bet House would know what was wrong," Cameron said the words softly, as if she were ashamed to put into words what the others were also thinking.

"Well, House isn't here, and unless you Lo-Jacked him, there's no way we could find him anyway. Besides, after everything that happened, you really think he'd help us?" Foreman practically growled the last part. The three fellows sat quietly, remembering the sad turn of events that had brought them to this place.

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"You might want to lay down your king now. I have mate in two moves and," House glanced quickly at the clock on the table, "you're running out of time."

His opponent, a tall black man the regulars knew as Mack, scanned the board, his hand resting just above the pieces. Resigned, he let out a breath and tipped his king over, signaling the victory was House's. He stood and extended his hand to House. "Good game, Stickman."

House took the offered hand. "Umm, you still owe me 50 bucks."

Laughing, Mack released House's hand, stuck it into his side pocket and removed the two twenties and one ten from inside and placed them into House's outstretched hand. House folded the bills and slid them into his pocket. Standing, he took up his cane and regarded the other man. "Same time Wednesday?"

With a nod and a small wave Mack confirmed the date before disappearing into the rapidly darkening evening.

Washington Square Park was as far from Princeton as one could get and still be on the East Coast, but then House's life in the year since Detective Michael Tritter walked into Exam Room One had changed just as much. It was true, the deal Wilson and Tritter worked out had spared House any jail time. It was true, the deal House and Tritter had worked out had spared him any sanctions from the medical board. What neither man had forseen was the reaction of the board at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. House finished his two months of rehab and found a summons to the disciplinary board awaiting him upon his return to work. He was being called to task for lying to the parents of an infant, a child who was having trouble keeping food down. House had suspected a blockage in the intestines and wanted to get a scan of the child's digestive tract, but after days of no answers the skeptical parents refused to allow the test. House ordered Cameron and Chase to get the parents to sign for a blood test as a distraction, while he conducted the scan. The scan proved there was indeed a blockage. The parents, though, were less than happy that House had lied to them and complained to the hospital administration.

This latest infraction would get most other doctors a slap on the wrist, but the board of directors jumped it as the excuse they needed to get rid of House. Despite impassioned pleas from Cuddy and Wilson, House was fired. Many on the board remembered the Vogler fiasco, the $100 million House had cost Princeton-Plainsboro, and this latest incident, coming right on the heels of the Tritter incident, proved only that Dr. Gregory House was a cancer feeding on the hospital. Like any other cancer the reasoning went, it needed to be removed permanently.

Cuddy had gotten House six months of severance pay and insurance. She had also written him a recommendation, but the damage was done. When she'd told House he was a good doctor who couldn't get himself hired at a blood bank, she had no idea how prophetic those words would be. Despite the resumes and calls, House's reputation preceded him and no hospital wanted to take the chance on such a loose cannon, no matter how brilliant he supposedly was.

When House started showing up around the boards in the park the regulars paid him little mind. They were used to whiling their days away playing games of chess and Scrabble, often for money. When some of the park's best got together to play it wasn't unusual for a crowd to be drawn to the action. The tall guy with the cane and the faded blue jeans was just another in a long line of gawkers come to look at the show playing every afternoon in the park.

Until the day he sat down at a table.

Speed chess is a game of bluff and bluster as much as skill. Players try to out-psych their opponents, drawing them into traps to control the pace of the game. Big money can be made from players who can deal with the pressure-cooker stress. One of the park's best players was a tall black man named Mack. House had watched Mack as he dispatched his opponent, ruthlessly manipulating the board and the clock, all the while holding up a stream of trash talk that would make a drunken sailor blush. Mack was good, but House, after watching for several days, realized he only had four openings and two defenses, and figured he would be an easy win.

"Winner plays white."

This was fine by House. Playing black was a harder win, as black was a defensive position, the moves determined by the opening play of the opponent's pieces. House knew all he had to do was watch what opening Mack would use and counter his moves.

And so he did. As the two men swapped pieces, House could see the lines of sweat and concentration imprint themselves on Mack's face. The veteran player's body language belied his feelings … this old dude, this cripple was beating him in his park, in his place. He grew nervous and quiet as the chatter around the table fell silent. Down both knights and a rook, Mack tried a bluff move he hoped would pull House into a trap, but the older man sidestepped the trap easily. He captured the last rook, leaving the king exposed.

"Checkmate."

Nodding, Mack looked across the board. House's face was solemn, but a slight grin hovered at the corners of his lips. Mack stood up, his full frame blocking out the sun around the table making House appreciate the reasons behind the man's nickname. Suddenly Mack broke into a wide smile and a deep laugh escaped from his chest. "You're good, Stickman."

"The name's House."

The guy shook his head. "Nah," he said as he pointed his finger at House. "You - stick man."

House looked down at the bane of his life. "Yeah," he sighed. "I da man with da big stick. Now give me my fucking money or I'll bash your head in with it."

Chuckling softly at the crazy white guy in front of him, Mack reached into his pants pocket and removed what would become one of many twenty-dollar bills that would pass between the two men.

House's reputation as a park player quickly grew. Washington Square was host to an odd assortment of misfits, the kind of place where a scruffy guy in jeans with a cane could fit in and no one asked any questions. Most days House stayed over by the chessboards hustling the regulars or tourists for games at 20 to 50 dollars a match.

When the action was thin he passed his time over at the Scrabble boards playing word games for a dollar a point. His first match cemented his legend when, playing through a floating l, he bingoed with fellatio for triple word score and 76 points. It was a ballsy first move and one the park regulars still talked about months later.

House wasn't in need of the money. The sale of his apartment in Princeton had been conducted quickly and in secret, and those funds paid for a small apartment in Queens. His winnings at the games kept him in food and pills. He had told no one his plans, leaving no forwarding address or phone number. Here he was just another anonymous face, Stickman to the regulars. Here there was no politics, no bullshit, you weren't judged by how you looked or acted, merely by what skill you brought to the table. It was exactly the kind of place House has been looking for his entire life.

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Chase broke the silence. "I'm going home." He stood up and collected his jacket. "Maybe a few hours of sleep will help me think of something we're missing. I'll call you if anything comes up."

As he pulled out onto the interstate, Chase had no idea what kind of reception awaited him. It wasn't like he had followed House or even had meant to find him. Even Wilson had given up looking after several months, figuring when House had licked his wounds enough he would come out of seclusion.

Chase thought back several months prior. He had been in New York for a conference. The afternoon's session had let out early and, eager to take advantage of the beautiful fall afternoon, Chase had wandered down to the park. He saw the group and listened to the catcalls as they floated on the wind. As he neared the people watching the board games, he saw the familiar figure of his former boss. Chase stood stunned, distracted and unsure if what he was seeing was correct, but there was the brown hair, graying at the temples, the broad shoulders hunched over the thin wooden cane … Chase had found House. He stood on the edge of the crowd, transfixed, watching as his boss dispatched opponent after opponent at games of speed chess. When it appeared no more opponents were forthcoming Chase ducked back into the crowd, slipping away before he could be spotted. He had told no one of his discovery.

Chase pulled his car into a parking spot and fed the meter. He made his way to the chess tables, hoping he would find House there again. He was in luck. He slid into the seat. House was studying the board and didn't look up.

"It's fifty dollars a game. Winner plays white."

"Fine."

The familiar voice and Australian accent caught House off guard. A look of panic crossed his features as his head jerked up to see his former fellow sitting across from him. House swiftly regained his composure, grabbed his cane, and scrambled to his feet. He quickly gimped off, forcing Chase to run to catch up.

Chase reached out to grasp House's arm, almost throwing the older man off his feet.

House spun on Chase angrily. "What do you want!"

"I need your help."

"I guess you're out of luck then, aren't you?"

"House, the patient is a young boy, eight years old." From his back pocket Chase removed a crumpled photo of Jacob in his baseball uniform and shoved it in House's face, "Three weeks ago he was playing ball, slid into home plate and started coughing up blood…no trauma, no cancer, no reason. He's going to die unless we can figure out what's wrong with him. Look, I know I'm probably the last person you want to see now, but I wouldn't have come up here unless it was urgent. Please, help me."

Chase tried to will House to meet his eyes and acknowledge his desperation, but his former boss said nothing, looking away down the park commons. House squinted against the sun, unconsciously tapping his cane against the pebbled walk, then abruptly turned to stroll back toward the chess tables. "It's fifty a game."

He turned and went back to his table. Uncertain of what to expect, Chase followed, watching House sit and begin setting up the pieces.

As they played Chase relayed the tests the team had done. House gave no indication he even heard; his eyes never left the chessboard. It was a close match but House pulled it out in the end. Chase reached into his pocket, withdrew the money and handed it across. House made no attempt to take the bills offered. Chase picked up the king and placed the money underneath. Standing, he began to head back toward his car.

"Chase."

Chase turned back. House continued to sit at the table, his eyes cast down on the board, "Do another MRI of his brain and this time really look at it. The answer is there."

"Thank you."

"Chase" House stood up and regarded his former fellow; his blue eyes, like slivers of ice, cut through Chase's very soul, "Don't come back here again. Ever. You're not welcome here. Any of you."