Remy rubbed her eyes, squinting into the middle distance and trying to ignore the headache building behind her eyes.

How much had she been drinking the night before?

Had she even been drinking the night before?

Her memory was fuzzy, to say the least.

She shifted slightly, noticing that the pain in her head wasn't the only ache that her body was demanding she pay attention to. Her right leg sent a searing pain from mid-thigh to her hip as she went to move it.

Without conscious thought she grabbed the site the pain was originating from with both hands, pressing down and running her hands along both sides of her leg.

What the hell?

She looked down and her head seemed to spin- those weren't her hands. Was she hallucinating?

She lifted her right hand, turning it over and examining the calluses on the palm and the fact that it was a hell of a lot hairier than she remembered it being the night before.

These were not unidentified drinking injuries... these were long-term abuses of her body that hadn't been present the night before.

Definitely hallucinating... she had to stop taking ecstasy.

She examined her surroundings again and realised she was in an unfamiliar bedroom, and there was another person in the bed next to her, female from the shape- so nothing unusual there. The girl had long dark hair and Remy couldn't see her face, so she came to the conclusion that she was in the bed of a one-night-stand, and it would probably be best to get out of the girls' bedroom before she woke up and, heaven forbid, wanted to talk.

She tried again to get out of the bed, thinking that the best place to let the e-induced hallucinations wear off would be in her own bed, but as she stood up her right leg buckled beneath her, sending another jolt of white-hot pain from knee to hip and making her cry out.

Great, auditory as well as visual hallucinations, her voice was a hell of a lot hoarser than she'd ever heard it, even after the four-day Spring Break binge in Cancun.

Deciding that she must have hurt herself at some point while drinking the night before, Remy decided that obeying her bladder was paramount, even more important than escaping the mystery girls' bedroom. She glanced around from her position on the floor and spotted a shower through a door on the other side of the bed.

Pulling herself to her feet, Remy limped her way to the bathroom and pushed open the door, glancing up at her reflection above the sink.

Yep.

Definitely never taking ecstasy again.

She passed out on the tiles after spending a good fifteen seconds staring at the reflection of Gregory House that was gazing wide-eyed back at her.

********

House rolled over and stretched his arms above his head, arching his back and reaching down to rub the scar on his right thigh.

He paused, his hand halfway down his flank, and realised that there was no pain.

Not in his leg, anyway.

His head was killing him, which really wasn't that unfamiliar. He knew he'd been drinking the night before- since he had been off the Vicodin he'd tried to reduce his alcohol intake, but the night before he had decided that his good friend Mr Jameson needed some company.

His memories were fuzzy from about halfway down the label onwards, but he knew that no matter how much whiskey he imbibed, every single morning, without fail, his leg would hurt more than his head. Any his hangover would barely make him wince, because that pain was like nothing after an evening of leaving his cane behind for trips to the bathroom while numbed by alcohol.

So why the hell didn't it hurt right now.

He pressed his fingers into his thigh and realised that something was missing.

His scar was gone.

And he was wearing... what the hell?

He looked down, and his eyes almost fell out of his head.

That was not his leg.

Those were not his black lace panties.

And those C-cups were definitely not present the night before.

He whipped his head around and saw that he was in the loft, in his own room, but on the wrong side of his bed. Glancing down, he felt his head begin to spin again, and his vision blurred for a few seconds as he processed what he was witnessing.

There, sprawled on the floor in his bathroom, was... him.

His body, at least, in the same t-shirt he remembered pulling on the day before, the same blue chequered boxers that he had stolen from Wilson's laundry pile just after his shower.

He swung his legs out of bed, standing up and feeling a strange euphoria as he straightened his back and spread his weight evenly for the first time in years.

Bending down, he reached out a hand, noting with a strange detachment that the fingernails had recently been manicured.

His doctor instincts kicked in and he pressed the fingers to... his?... neck, feeling a pulse and flicking his other wrist into his field of vision and noting that he was wearing a silver watch with a purple face.

The body on the floor of the bathroom had a pulse, and it was steady.

He rocked back on his haunches and considered what was happening, staring at the face of the man who was collapsed in a heap in front of him.

If it really was, well, him, then something extremely screwy was going on.

He was staring at the face, his eyes unfocused, when the man's eyes fluttered open and caught his.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the other person beat him to it.

'Who the hell are you?' The man who had been passed out in the bathroom pulled himself back, scrambling against the tiles to get away from House and coming to a stop at the doorjamb.

'I could ask you the same-' House stopped mid-sentence at the sound of his own voice, stood up and turned slightly so that he could see the mirror.

The face staring back at him was young, smooth and wide-eyed. He bought a hand up to touch his cheek and breathed one word.

'Thirteen.'