Obscene House Calls

Bardvahalla (2005)

(House receives mysterious erotic messages on his cell phone, but who is responsible?)

The pain came in three stages; the first being intolerable, the second phase - unpleasantly intolerable, and the third – extreme and agonizing. The pain built up in the central thigh first, where the muscle used to be and now unsightly scar tissue only barely covered his upper leg bone.

He usually took two Vicodin at the beginnings of stage one, after building up a mouthful of spit. Like Pavlov's dog, his mouth watered in anticipation of taking the drug, but also from practical experience that once Phase One hit, even the smallest amount of time it might take to find water would be an extremely painful inconvenience.

House swallowed the bitter tablets, glanced at his watch and tried to determine what to do next. In about seven minutes the drug's first wave would curl over and drag the pain out to sea in a blessed chemical undertow. Vicodin always worked best when taken with distraction. Bored, his brain focused on the pain. Soap operas, music, porn, medical mysteries, or best of all, monster trucks, caught his imagination and diverted his mind from his leg.

The pain in his leg was such an attention whore.

With little else to divert his imagination House was reduced to prowling the Clinic for something of interest, but faced only the disappointment of chronic hemorrhoids and fledgling dyspeptic ulcers. A uniquely fragrant case of Athletics foot punctuated the end of a disappointing day.

Home.

Dinner consisted of a fillet of salmon, garlic rice, fresh cut green beans, white wine and an almond chocolate bar. Since it was a bad night for good TV, an ever-ready stack of books awaited his attention. House waffled between Timothy Findlay's 'Pilgrim' and the thick compilation of Alan Moore's 'From Hell'.

On a sturdy oak table, a crystal glass of wine stood next to the plastic bottle of Vicodin. His leg throbbed, but as he became lost in the rhythm of Findlay's prose the pain was shunted over to the side of his consciousness and nearly forgotten.

His cell rang.

House gritted his teeth and ignored it. He'd just gotten comfortable. Probably Cuddy bitching about his latest expense forms. He could just hear her:

"Penthouse magazines are NOT a legitimate claim, House."

"If wasn't for me." He would dutifully protest. "It's for a clinic patient. To determine if secretly-taking-Viagra-but-overdosed-and-can't-admit-it guy really has erectile dyfunction."

Cuddy would not buy his explanation. "Really? So why claim a three year subscription? One issue ought to see if secretly-taking-Viagra guy can defy gravity."

"Merely a precaution in case we have an epidemic on our hands."

The cell kept ringing. He picked it up and glanced at the screen. The number being unfamiliar, he did not pick up. If important, he told himself, whoever it was would leave a message.

He continued reading. After three chapters, he yawned, took another Vicodin with a sip of wine and checked the phone again.

1 message waiting.

He scowled and keyed in his pass code to retrieve the message. This better be important.

A woman's voice. Breathing deeply, moaning softly as if aroused. He set down the wine glass and strained to make out her voice. Her eager gasps came faster until finally she moaned a single name - "Greg" - drawing out the vowel with passionate need.

The line disconnected.

House immediately dialed her number. It rang repeatedly but she did not pick up. He replayed the message. He did not think he recognized her voice. Who was she? Cameron being cute? Cuddy messing with his mind? Stacy -? No. Not her style. Who else had his cell number?

He tried calling her again. No answer.

Wrong number?

No. She'd known his name. "Gre–e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-g…"

"You little tease." House settled into his chair again, sipped wine and wondered. The mind games between Carl Jung and Pilgrim no longer enthralled him. Who was this mystery woman calling late at night and gasping erotically at him?

She did not call again that night.

Her voice was low, husky, like Kathleen Turner's in Body heat. God, he loved that movie.

"Gre–e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-g…"

He replayed the message several times, telling himself he only wanted to determine the if he knew her voice.

The next day Cuddy summoned him to her office. The accountants had drawn her attention to his Penthouse expenses. They argued until finally he withdrew the claim under protest.

To Wilson he commented, "What sort of friend would I be if I didn't let her win one once in a while?"

Back in his office he secretly smiled to himself. The accountants, distracted by the Penthouse claim, had completely overlooked the other anomaly in his expenses. A receipt for a new pair of expensive sneakers he'd claimed as 'orthopedic aids'.

Two nights later, his mystery girl, now nicknamed "Mona Sleeza" called again.

He recognized the number and picked up.

"Hello?"

She said nothing articulate, but breathed into the receiver, gasping softly in the throes of heightened pleasure.

Greg smiled. "Okay, who is this?"

There were other sounds besides her moans of gratification. A distant rustling, like flesh against sheets. Music in the background… Mozart?

Oh my. Oh – oh – oh my.

House sipped his beer, "Cameron? Is that you? Don't. Stop. You naughty girl- Don't. Stop. Don't…stop. Don't stop -don't stop- "

The doorbell rang.

Dammit. Greg gritted his teeth. "Hang on. Don't go away. Be right back." He set the phone down and limped to the door.

Chase and Cameron clustered in his doorway. House looked at Cameron, annoyed. "Let me guess, you kids are selling Girl Guide cookies?"

Cameron shook her head. "House- " she began and faltered.

"Encyclopedias?" House turned his piercing blue eyes on Chase, who also seemed at a loss for words.

"Avon!" House snapped his fingers at Cameron. "I love that Skin-So-Soft stuff. Put me down for three dozen- "

Chase finally found his tongue. "It's Foreman."

"Explain to me how some guy from psych ward gets away from a nurse and nearly kills Foreman."

"Foreman is going to be fine." Cuddy rubbed her temples. "The patient's been transferred to a maximum security facility."

"We're understaffed obviously."

"It's not easy finding nurses willing to work Psyche Ward for standard pay," Cuddy's bristled. "And I shall remind you once again that one hundred million bucks would have financed a lot of danger pay."

"Oh money money money! What about ME!" House shook his cane at her. "Eric'll be off work for at least three weeks."

He could hear her teeth grinding from across the room. "Fine! You can forgo Clinic duty until he comes back," she reached into her deck for some painkillers - the extra strength kind. Likely they were the free samples of products that came in the mail every day.

"And…?" He prompted.

Cuddy sighed and stuffed a gel cap in her mouth. "And what? He's the one who's off injured, not you! Why would I give you more perks?"

"That poor man suffering at home all alone with a terrible concussion and all you can think about is money?" House sniffed dejectedly.

"What then?" New wrinkles were forming around her mouth. It was a terrible thing, House mused, how being in upper management caused all this stress.

"I'm just saying a little gift to help him pass the time would be thoughtful, that's all."

"What sort of gift?"

"A three year subscription to Pen–"

"NO!

House paused at the door. "It's a gift that keeps on giving."

"OUT!"

Mona Sleeza called every night at the same time. She never said much. Just 'yes' or 'OH YES!' or 'Gre-e-e-e-e-eg!' or 'Ho-o-o-o-o-o-ouse!' or that purring sound that made him crazy imaging what she was doing to herself. Always classical music in the background. Mozart. Vivaldi. Chopin.

As the days passed he ruled out Cuddy and Stacy. Definitely was not Cameron. Then who? It drove him crazy. Did he know her? Was she pretty? Was it a joke or some crazy bitch stalking him?

He stopped picking up his cell, but she always left a message.

Wilson listened to the last recorded message. His eyes widened as the husky, feminine voice moaned House's name passionately.

"Wow. That is so - so -"

"Creepy?" supplied House.

Wilson licked his lips and gestured with the cell phone. "I was going to say 'hot'"

"She's been calling for almost two weeks. At first it was hot. Now it's creepy." House frowned as Wilson clutched the phone hard to his ear. "Would you two like to be alone?"

Wilson closed the flip phone. "Her voice IS familiar."

"I hope it's not one of your ex-wives." House shuddered. "That would be very disturbing."

"Who do we know that would make obscene calls to you?" Wilson's fingers unconsciously fondled the cell phone.

House sniffed in distaste. "Unhand my phone, you perv."

Wilson relinquished the cell and resumed pondering the identity of Mona Sleeza.

House wiped it with his sleeve, then admonished the phone, "You slut, he's already married."

"A student? One of the nurses?" Wilson mused aloud, then clapped his hands. "Prada girl!" His smile of triumph fled. "No, Mona's voice is too sultry."

"I would have recognized her grating voice."

"Who was that old bat with syphilis who wrote you dirty poems?"

"What? Her?" House twitched in revulsion.

"Except that wasn't her voice either."

"You are sure you know her voice?" House pressed.

"Yes. I just can't put a name to it."

House thumped his cane against the floor. "Well, I have no clue. Get back to me if you do."

'Pilgrim' waited patiently, but in vain. House read 'From Hell' instead. Saucy Jack the Ripper. Who had he been? Savagely killing whores in White Chapel until the attacks stopped as suddenly as they'd started.

There was a rumor that at the end of the investigation Scotland Yard consulted Dr. Joseph Bell, the mentor of a young Arthur Conan Doyle. This same doctor, an expert in deductive reasoning, inspired Doyle to write the Sherlock Holmes stories. The police called Dr. Bell, who gave his professional opinion, and the attacks stopped.

Yet no man was ever held accountable for the White Chapel murders.

House logged into his computer. He typed in Mona Sleeza's number to a reverse directory. No such number. He googled it. Nothing.

That night he called his phone service and blocked her calls. The more he thought about it, the more uncomfortable he felt.

Days passed and Wilson came up dry.

"I'm wracking my brain. Even going through the hospital directory, and my own black book."

"Nothing?" House picked a brown bit of lettuce from his sandwich. He thought it amazing that the cafeteria ladies didn't kill half the hospital staff with salmonella. He felt ought to run a test on the soup here at least once a week, but Cuddy would bitch about the cost.

"Nothing."

"You blocked the calls?"

"Yeah."

Wilson eyed the wilted lettuce with thinly disguised revulsion. "Probably for the best. If she was a looker she would have pinged you by now."

"Pinged?"

Wilson smiled. "You know. Come over to you and asked you for the time or something. To see if you recognized her voice."

House thought back. "No. Nothing like that lately."

Then the package came.

Plain brown paper. Sent to his office. Inside was a woman's very expensive, red leather shoe. Left foot. High heeled. Size 7 ½ .

It was tied with a bow. The bow was a sheer black nylon stocking. It held the scent of perfume. He couldn't place the scent. He hid the package away.

Cameron came into his office and noticed the lingering scent. "Elizabeth Arden. Red Door." Her mouth twitched. "Funny. I always took you for an Old Spice kinda guy."

"Hey!" House protested. "Axe all the way, baby."

House immediately regretted showing the contents of the package to Wilson, who then looked as though he was about to ejaculate in his lab coat.

"Ooooookay." Wilson enthused. "THIS is hot. Really hot."

"What's her damn name?" House shouted.

"I can't remember!" Wilson clutched the shoe. "7 ½. She's petite. This stocking is silk. Oh man! This is great!"

"She likes Mozart too." House turned the plain wrapping over in his hands. No return address. No postage stamps. Hand delivered. Plain white label with his name – Mr. Gregory House. Strange.

"She must not work here. An employee or colleague would call me Dr. House."

"Her number can't be traced?"

"No."

"Do you really want to know who she is?" Wilson asked.

House ran the silk stocking through his fingers. What if she was ugly? Or worse, what if she was beautiful. He didn't want a relationship. Not even a casual one. Why start something he couldn't finish?

"No," he finally admitted. "I don't want to know." House took the leather shoe, the perfumed stocking, the plain wrapping and stuffed them into a medical waste container.

Wilson stared at him in shock. "Why not? This is such a mystery. Who knows where it could lead. Don't you enjoy a bit of romance?"

"No." House palmed a Vicodin, turned and headed home alone.