New Jersey.
Princeton Teaching Hospital.
Wilson's Oncology Clinic.
A middle-aged guy with a scruffy beard lounged in a exam chair, munching on a lollipop while flipping through a magazine.
"No patients? Not a single one?"
Standing in front of him was Dr. James Wilson, a middle-aged white doc in a lab coat, staring in disbelief. "House, you handpicked a team of elite doctors just to let them sit around doing nothing?"
"Cameron's replying to my emails," the bearded guy—none other than the legendary Dr. Gregory House—said seriously, pulling the lollipop from his mouth.
"Oh, wow, really making the most of her time," Wilson shot back with a sarcastic smirk. 😏 "What about Chase and Foreman?"
"Hmm…" House pondered, then shrugged. "Research, maybe?"
"…"
Even as House's best bud, Wilson was still left speechless by his antics.
Ring ring!
Right then, House's phone went off.
"Gotta be Cuddy. Can't that woman give me a second to breathe?"
House assumed it was the hotshot dean tracking him down, flashing Wilson a helpless look before spouting some flirty nonsense and picking up.
"Busy," he said, short and sweet.
"Dr. Gregory House? This is Dr. Adam Duncan from New York Medical Center," came the voice on the other end, followed by a chuckle.
"You finally came around!" House leaned back in his chair. "I was wondering why I hadn't seen your application letter yet. Bit late now—I've already hired three ducklings. But if you join, I'd fire them all in a heartbeat. Chase is good with critical care and surgery, but you're better. Foreman's got neurology down, but I hear you're already doing neurosurgery solo. First-year resident? Impressive. Honestly, I only hired Foreman 'cause he's got those sneaky tricks most docs don't. But with you here? His tricks are child's play. With your looks, women would open doors for you for free. With your money, men would too. You could waltz into anyone's house without picking locks or worrying about getting caught like Foreman does—always dragging a white buddy along so he doesn't get shot. Come on! It's not the 17th century anymore. The odds of a Black guy getting gunned down for no reason are way lower now. Stop being so paranoid, jeez. And Cameron? Hmm, we could keep her—she's easy on the eyes, after all. 😍 But if you're not into that, we can ditch her too. With your face, you'd outshine her in drag…"
"Uh, sorry, I'm not calling to apply for a job…"
Even with some mental prep, Adam was still thrown off by House's razor-sharp tongue. A chaotic burst of energy shot through him, but he stayed polite, trying to steer things to the point.
Not so fast—House cut him off, relentless as ever.
"Don't say no yet!" House grinned. "Duncan, you've read Sherlock Holmes, right? You've got that HD photographic memory, killer comprehension, insane hands-on skills, and you can throw a punch. Join me, and we'd be the Sherlock and Watson of medicine! Think about it—all those medical mysteries waiting for us to crack. How awesome would that be?"
"Dr. House, you're giving me too much credit. I'm hardly the Sherlock of medicine," Adam said with a modest smile.
"Shameless enough for my taste—I like it," House said, his eyes lighting up.
"Thanks," Adam replied, then pivoted back to business. "Dr. House, I'm working on a clinical research project—using viruses to shrink tumors. I'd love for you to join us tomorrow night and toss some inspiration my way."
"Virus vs. tumors? Cool idea," House said, popping the lollipop back in his mouth with a smirk. "Can I run the show?"
"Sorry, it's my project," Adam declined gently.
"Then it's a snooze-fest," House shot back without missing a beat. "When you change your mind, swing by Princeton Teaching Hospital. We'll unravel mysteries together."
"That's a shame," Adam sighed, hearing House turn him down.
And with that, the gloves were off.
No need to hold back that chaotic energy anymore—why bother if there's nothing to gain? Let it rip!
"Dr. House, you know what? You don't even need me," Adam said with a laugh. "Your personality and soul? Pure Sherlock—drug-loving, puzzle-obsessed. But your body and gig? Total Watson—doctor, limp and all. Even your name, House, is a riff on Holmes. You're basically their lovechild. Maybe we should call you Watson-Holmes."
"Interesting take," House said, unfazed, licking his lollipop with a grin. "Go on."
He could tell Adam was hitting back, and he was into it.
"More?" Adam smirked. "Well, too bad you only borrowed Watson's doctor vibe—you're still more Sherlock. If you'd taken Watson's body too, we could've hit the boxing ring together."
Sherlock's Watson had a psychosomatic limp—cured by a jolt from Holmes, and off he ran. House? Real deal cripple.
"No boxing, but we could do horse racing—or, well, car racing now," House quipped, pursing his lips. "One bum leg doesn't stop me from driving."
Watson loved boxing and horse racing, after all.
"Could happen someday," Adam said with a grin. "And don't worry—if something goes wrong again, I'd save that good leg for you. No going against your wishes."
"Ouch, savage!"
House froze mid-lollipop twirl, sitting up straight, genuinely shocked. "I thought I was the king of venom, but you? You're next-level—and you came prepared!"
His divorce from his beloved ex-wife? All because of that leg fiasco. He'd begged her not to let them operate while he was out cold. She did it anyway, leaving him crippled and hooked on painkillers. The physical agony, plus the betrayal from the woman he loved most—she'd ignored his medical judgment, letting some hack ruin him—was the deepest wound of his life.
"Nah, not planned," Adam said, sincerity in his tone. "You're a legend, Dr. House. Us younger docs can't help but dig into everything about you. Still, one piece of advice? Maybe don't blame your ex too much. You drool over hot women and guys in drag—pretty equal-opportunity perv. 😏 She probably stewed over that for ages. That leg thing? Just her chance to get even. She didn't mean to hurt you—she loved you too much. You were too wild, flying too fast for her to keep up. Cut her some slack."
House: "…"
(End of Chapter)