Disclaimer: I definitely don't own any of the characters of House, MD. If I did ... I'd SO play with them more often.
House had known when he woke up in the morning that today would be one hell of a day. Once he'd managed to get out of bed, his leg had made him want to die a little, and the morphine stash he always kept had mysteriously disappeared. Probably Wilson, he thought angrily, and he limped his way into the bathroom.
Once there, he popped a few Vicodin and leaned heavily against the sink. The bed was calling to him. It was! It was saying, "Greg … come lay back down… The hospital can wait." Of course, it stopped saying that as soon as his damned cell phone rang.
With a sigh, he opened it. "Yeah." The stereotypical response just never got old for him.
"Sorry to wake you," the ever-merry voice of Wilson came through. "Your ducklings are looking for you. They have a case."
"Then why didn't they call my phone?" he groused.
"I think they're afraid you're a dragon in the morning. Chase claims you breathe fire."
House smirked and limped his way back into the bedroom, grabbing his cane and going to the kitchen. "Chase wouldn't know what I breathe in the morning. But tell him that you do. See what kind of reaction that gets you. Should be interesting."
"You love me. Hopefully more than your multitude of wives, since we haven't broken up yet." His smirk widened when he heard the angry, flustered sigh come from Wilson.
"Just get to the hospital."
House cringed at the dial tone he got and hung up his own phone. He'd get dressed, brush his teeth, and get to the hospital, he supposed. Just after some sort of breakfast…
He turned to the sink and frowned. There was a cockroach … in the sink… Carefully, he lifted up a dirty pan. Underneath was a nice little pod of the devils.