This was inspired by a discussion regarding the Escheresque nature of House's house.
He didn't mind it all that much, except on the odd occasion when he'd come home to find the whole thing had moved and then he would have to track it down.
As far as he was concerned it made life interesting, even if it meant tripping over the odd surprise when he went to pee in the middle of the night.
Being one of those people to observe everything about him he was amazed no one had ever cottoned on. Or maybe they had just been too polite to mention it. He suspected the mailman might be suspicious. One day he had come home to find him staring at the street number and the letters in his hand with a wild sort of look in his eyes.
He wondered if things would get tricky now that Wilson was actually living with him. He had been sure the closet was going to give it away, but the piano and the fireplace seemed to have settled down and it seemed to be working fine; although the place seemed a little smaller, but that just could be there were two of them living there now.
So he supposed he had gotten away with it, but he still kept a close eye on the couch. Wilson would be bound to notice that one.
But his luck was too good to last. House was contentedly watching TV, while Wilson played mother and cooked dinner.
He heard a squawk from the kitchen and looked up to see Wilson with tomato sauce all over his lovely ironed dress shirt. He sniggered happily. "I told you to wear an apron."
Wilson dripped sauce and glared at him. "You don't own an apron," he said caustically.
"You gonna clean that up," asked House as he gestured to the sauce spreading on the floor.
Wilson grabbed a tea towel. "No, I am going to change," he said forcefully. "You are going to clean this mess up," he paused cruelly for dramatic effect. "That is unless you don't want to eat tonight."
Low blow, thought House. Wilson knew House was a sucker for his cooking. Jewish mommas sure taught their boys well. Sighing and huffing he heaved himself to his feet and took the cloth from Wilson as he went past.
He lowered himself gingerly and began to mop up the sauce. Contemplating on how he could get back on Wilson for being unfair to the cripple, when he heard Wilson call his name.
His spider senses started tingling. It was the 'uh oh' way Wilson said his name. It was the one that started low at the H and turned into a question by the E. He leaved himself to his feet and grabbed his cane.
He limped into the corridor to find Wilson standing in front of a door. Damn, he thought. Busted.
"Hey House where's this door lead," said Wilson in a very puzzled way. He creased his forehead in confusion. "I don't remember…" he said trailing off.
House smiled, shrugged and said nothing. That was how it seemed to work.
Wilson opened it, took one look, a very deep breath and then turned around in annoyance, with his hands on his hips. "You have a second bedroom?"
House looked stoically at him.
Wilson ran his hands through his hair. "All this time you have been making me sleep on the couch and you have a second bedroom?" he said as he went into the newly discovered room.
House stood in the hallway, flinching slightly as Wilson's anguished cry of "And it's got an en suite," came floating out.
"Thanks a lot," he muttered under his breath as he looked to the ceiling. He knew full well that yesterday there had been no door there. "You could have produced it a few weeks ago, but no - you just had to get me into trouble."