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  Key of C 
 by Basingstoke  

 

House held his cane in the classic air guitar pose. He shook the neck
delicately as the feedback bent through the note.

Foreman's body said "Not Amused" in capital letters, with a footnote of
"Also, Frustrated" in the set of his shoulders.

House dropped his arm and set his cane on the floor. "What?" 

"Headaches. Crushing headaches, she said."

Well, yes. She had the flu. "Expected," House said, dismissing it with his
hand. 

"I agree," Foreman said. "But you said tell you everything. What the hell
is this, anyway?"

House gave him the double-barrel eyebrow of dumbfoundedness. "It's Iggy
and the Stooges, you cultureless infant."

Foreman retaliated with the steely stare of the proud black man. "It's
off-key."

"It's on purpose." They squared off. Mexican staring contest.

Wilson pushed open the door then, which was good, because House really
needed to blink. "And suddenly I'm in college," Wilson said. He rubbed his
ears theatrically.

"Did he just sing 'I want to be your dog'?" Foreman asked.

"Yes. To David Bowie, if you believe the rumors," House replied.

"No, that came later," Wilson said. "This is early Stooges, before the
homosexuality and glitter."

House scowled at Wilson, spoiling quips with his dates and facts. "What do
you know? You listened to Devo."

Wilson shrugged. "Are we not men?" 

"Okay," Foreman said, "the patient has headaches, she says they're bad, I
didn't give her shit because she'd puke it up anyway, and that's all I've
got."

"Uncaring brute." 

"You can go slip her some Vicodin if you want. Oh, but then you'd have to
meet her, sorry," Foreman said, holding his hands in mock apology. 

House dismissed him with a roll of his eyes. Foreman went back to the
charts like a good doctor. 

"She presented with the shakes last night, right?" Wilson said.

"Muscle convulsions, not normally a symptom of the flu." He was bored. She
was slightly puzzling. He'd nabbed her folder.

"Yeah, but--shakes last night, headache today--did you ever overdose on
caffeine in college?"

And of course they overlooked the *obvious.* House whirled and limped to
the office door. "Cameron! Find out if she's had her morning brew."

Cameron looked up. "What?"

"Coffee. Addiction. You know, the hard stuff," he said.

Cameron opened her mouth, then shut it again and got up. The boys looked
at each other. "Well, that would certainly account for the headache,"
Chase said.

"And the shakes. Modern European History midterm, sophomore year," Wilson
said. He leaned in the doorway, legs crossed casually. "I thought it would
be all Nazis and Margaret Thatcher. I learned how wrong I was somewhere
during the lecture on the political structure of the Ottoman Empire and
its relationship to pre-revolutionary Russia, but by then, it was too late
to drop without taking a hit to my grades. So, the middle of October,
midnight before test day, I'm trying to memorize the divisions of Poland
and I misjudge the delicate balance of No-Doz and coffee."

"Should have gone with the Polish sausage. It keeps *me* up nights," House
said.

"I thought I was having a stroke," Wilson said, ignoring House in a
flagrant and obnoxious manner. "Pulse through the roof. I couldn't fully
control the movements of my arms. I grabbed the seat of my desk chair with
both hands to stop my hands from shaking, and a few minutes later realized
I was standing on my own feet holding the chair off the floor. My vision
was blurred because I couldn't keep my eyes steady."

"How did you do on the final?" House asked.

"B." 

"For shame."

"That... would account for a lot," Chase said. "In fact--"

"But--" Foreman said.

"In fact, everything that made it interesting. She's a garden-variety case
of influenza who tried to combat fatigue with coffee, with unfortunate but
temporary results," House said.

"Yeah, but I never--" Foreman tried again.

House ignored him and turned to Wilson. "You spoiled my fun. Want some
lunch?"

"I could go for a latte," Wilson said.

"Oh, Dr. Wilson, will you never learn?" House sighed. Wilson smiled with
his eyes. They strolled out through the office. 

"Your *stereo*," Foreman protested, but House was already out the door. 

Cameron was in the elevator as the doors opened. "Yes, she had too much
coffee last night," she said.

House breezed by, Wilson in his wake. "Old news!" He waved as the doors
closed on her.

"Whole milk with a sprinkle of cinnamon," Wilson said, sounding like he
was describing a centerfold.

"We are Devo," House replied.

The End.  
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the
ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House
(and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property
of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I
am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive
no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement
nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the
show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.