Tags: @the-shewxlf, @megant22, @sexywolfsfordays, @houseofrahl, @sterek-basically, @kittycatgirlmaddie, @misshinehou, @unbreakablevoices, @champagneblues, @dallysgreasergirl, @juliaspnlover, @cineyou, @lipstickstainsandwerewolfchains, @fallenangel-13x, @urwarriorangel, @bless-my-demons, @lunaskyhunter, @arkhamirwin, @fangirlnerd101, @m-a-t-91​, @meanwhilesmiley​, @edithambroreigns​, @totallovelesson@kxttykatmichael

Word count: 1697

Author’s note: So, here’s one of the promised works, woohooo! My pack told me they aren’t familiar with the series, so it makes me even more excited to be able to introduce you to the astonishing world of House MD. :3 (Those of you who have never heard of the series: you might want to take a look at this video. I spent quite a bit of time with picking out the best that more or less sums up this complex series, and in the end, I settled on this one.) As for the picture, I’m not even the tiniest bit sorry ;) (I have a thing for uniforms and suits, seriously… if this is a disease then I’m incurably infected.)

Betas: @i-am-a-misguided-misfit, @lipstickstainsandwerewolfchains, @mixed-up-fangirl, @kittycatgirlmaddie, @fallenangel-13x, @the-shewxlf, @b-chocolatelover, @from2016, @safiac, @random-fandom-fangirl2112

Again, thank you your work, sweets!! ❤️


Your name: submit What is this?

I don’t have to hurry now, because we don’t have a new patient at the moment. Our last one was sent out of Princeton-Plainsboro safe and sound two days ago, and since then, I haven’t seen my boss’s—Gregory House’s—face. My colleagues have been busy with minor jobs, so the privilege of being in charge instead of House landed on me in the end; I have to take care of his private hours to deal with people who come to see a doctor for an illness as simple as a flu or a running nose. Of course, it was inevitable that Cuddy grew suspicious after she found everything perfectly documented and done in connection with that genius man’s consultation hours—hence, after one of the controls, she entered the room, only to find me sitting with the notepad overlapping my thighs, papers in hand, faking House’s signature on each one of them.

Since then, I’ve been forbidden to take care of the people and do House’s job instead of him, which is why my current task is to try to reach him through his phone and pray him back into the hospital to do his work properly instead of having me do it for him—but I know the only way to coax him back is finding a new case, but it’s not as easy as one might think; finding something that genuinely piques House’s interest is like looking for a needle in a hayrick.

Right now, I’m standing at the nurses’ desk with a random person’s file in hand, roaming over the lines idly just to kill the much time on my hands with my phone plastered between my cheek and shoulder to keep it in place, waiting for the dialling tone to end and hear House speak on the other end of the line—which never seems to happen.

Exhaling an exasperated breath, I place the document back into the folder holder before deciding to head to the ER. I need to find something to do, even if just a quick job, otherwise I’ll most likely go nuts by the end of the day due to a fried brain. I adjust the white labcoat and my ID card clipped to it, before picking up a stethoscope to hang it in my neck. Upon entering the ER, I look around to see a few nurses dealing with all the patients. Thankfully, upon scanning the area, I notice Allison Cameron; without thinking, I approach her in hopes she could help me, albeit she’s busy on her own.

“Hey, Cameron,” I greet her. She doesn’t even look at me, being too preoccupied with removing broken splinters of glass from a man’s skin with a tweezer.

“Lockwood,” she replies, only with a quick glance cast at me with a small smile in the corner of her mouth, then her blue gaze is already gone, focused back on her patient, resuming her task at hand.

“Do you have something for me?” I ask with just a touch too much desperation in my tone. I find myself cracking my knuckles in anticipation in the pockets of my gown.

“House is not back yet, is he?” She forms that as a question, but I have a feeling she meant that to rather be a declaration. She knows House like she knows the back of her hand—all those years she’s spent working for the man, she’s gotten used to his erratic behaviour.

“Nope. And he won’t pick his phone up either.”

“And he won’t do that unless he has a good reason to,” she points out the obvious to me; that much I know, too.

“So do you have or don’t have?” I insist stubbornly. I can’t let everyone just shake me off because it would be too inconvenient for them to find a task for me. I’m an intern, that’s part of what they are supposed to do for me. After a couple moments of contemplation, Cameron offers, “A police officer was transited here not ten minutes ago. Gunshot wound.”

“Where do I find him?” I ask immediately. She points behind me with a mild jerk of her chin, and I turn to see my new patient, but instead of himself, I find myself looking at a pale turquoise curtain. I hastily pick up every tool I’ll need to take care of the officer; I arrange everything on a metal tray before taking off towards the cop. Tucking the curtain away, I finally see him—laying on the bed, palms covering his body where the bullet passed through his skin, wide eyes now trained on me after his attention was attracted at me by the loud swoosh.

To be honest, when I was told that a member of the force was shot, I expected anything but an arrest-worthily stunning man. I thought I would find myself face to face with a tad obese man who consumes too many doughnuts during the free periods in his shift, maybe in his late forties, too—but instead of that, my patient is an attractive man with firm tones and a sculpted body. When I glance down at his chart where a nurse has previously written his data, I quickly calculate in my mind that he’s twenty-six. Years before I joined health-care, such a scenario had already been on my bucket list, but I wouldn’t have dared to think it would come true once.

Looking back into his eyes, a shiver runs down my spine when I notice how much his gaze has changed—now it conveys anger and impatience, and I would like to believe it’s not because of me, but because he was shot and is now frustrated that he can’t do justice in town.

“It takes ten minutes to treat a cop on the ER?” His voice stings me to the core, but I choose not to let his bitter remark get to me—just because he has a bad day, doesn’t mean mine has to be ruined, too. Instead of biting back something in response, I jovially smile at him as I set the tray down beside the hospital bed he’s occupying, after closing the curtain back behind me. The loud smack of the rubber gloves sharply reverberate around us as I’m putting them on.

“I imagine you don’t get to handle everything all at once, either,” I can’t resist commenting, but there’s no actual heat behind it. That seems to have the desired effect on him, though, because his stiff posture softens, tension apparently seeping out of his frame. I reach for a small cloud of cotton that I drench in the disinfectant just moments later. I grab the piece with a tweezer, then move to treat the abused area of the man’s skin. He pops the buttons on his uniform without a word, opening the garment up and revealing his naked upper body to me. It sways me a little, but I gain my strength back quickly. “This may hurt a little,” I say gently, but I must sound like I’m trailing off—and I probably am, because I’m transforming into the detached doctor I’m supposed to be at the moment.

The tiniest hiss is what I get in return to my warning as soon as the puffy material touches the wound. After I’m ready, I launch into fishing out the bullet from his body—no operation is needed, because it’s not in too deep, thanks to the bulletproof vest he wore, but had taken off before I approached him—now it’s laying on the chair stood next to his bed, long forgotten. The officer’s torso is covered in blood, and the more ministrations I do, the messier it gets, so from time to time I need to swipe him clean.

The silence settled between us is just stretching and stretching, none of us seems to have any intentions of breaking it anytime soon. Thus, the sounds of the rest of the ER encompass us—the intermittently ringing phones, the general hustle and bustle of people, patients and nurses included, a voice calling Dr. Wright to head to the nurses’ desk through the speaker, and conversations that are muted to low buzzing in our ears.

For some reason, I feel tempted to ask him how he got shot, so after a short consideration, I do just that. His answer throws me for a loop, however.

“I don’t know.”

“How can you possibly not know that?” I ask before I could stop myself and think otherwise. My hand stopped over his wound without my consent, but the bullet is out of him, and I only need to stitch him up now, so it’s fine. He doesn’t take my question personally—more so, he seems embarrassed about it. I instantly say it’s never mind, and go to resume my work, getting ready the needle and the thread, when he abruptly speaks up again. For some reason, it gives me the sense that he feels like sharing right now; not just anything, but his darkest secret, and he thinks I’m the perfect recipient of his honesty.

“I have no clue what happened. Suddenly I blacked out, then the next thing I know is that I’m in an ambulance on my way to the hospital.”

My eyebrows knit together in confusion, but refrain from commenting anything this time. I do ask him, “Did you black out after being shot or before that?”

The officer purses his lips into a thin line, apparently deep in thought to give me a plausible response. He ends up answering, “I’m not sure.”

The words barely leave his mouth when I’m muttering in a flurry, “Wait a second, I need to make an important call,” pulling off the gloves from my hands clumsily, while I’m already trying to reach for my cell phone. I put distance between the man and me, phone already plastered to my cheek and my other hand covering my free ear, find an abandoned and remotely silent corner outside of the ER, then wait for the dialling tone to stop before starting to talk.

“House, I think I found us a new case.”

The one when Fergus almost got killed by a horse

“A loud whooping came from behind the corner of the stable, and Jamie stopped short, just in time to avoid Fergus, who shot out in front of us as though fired from a slingshot, hotly pursued by two stable-lads, both a good deal bigger. A dirty green streak of fresh manure down the side of the first boy’s face gave some clue as to the cause of the altercation.

With considerable presence of mind, Fergus doubled on his tracks, shot past his pursuers, and whizzed into the middle of the party, whence he took refuge behind the bulwark of Jamie’s kilted hips. Seeing their prey thus safely gone to earth, his pursuers glanced fearfully at the oncoming phalanx of courtiers and gowns, exchanged a look of decision, and, as one, turned and loped off.

Seeing them go, Fergus stuck his head out from behind my skirt and yelled something in gutter French that earned him a sharp cuff on the ear from Jamie.

“Off wi’ ye,” he said brusquely. “And for God’s sake, dinna be throwin’ horse apples at people bigger than you are. Now, go and keep out of trouble.” He followed up this advice with a healthy smack on the seat of the breeches that sent Fergus staggering off in the opposite direction to that taken by his erstwhile assailants.

I had been of two minds as to the wisdom of taking Fergus with us on this expedition, but Jamie had wanted to show the lad a bit of country, feeling that he’d earned a holiday. All well and good, except that Fergus, who had never been outside Paris in his life, had got the exhilaration of air, light, and beautiful huge animals right up his nose, and, demented with excitement, had been in constant trouble since our arrival.

“God knows what he’ll do next,” I said darkly, looking after Fergus’s retreating form. “Set one of the hayricks on fire, I expect.”
Jamie was unperturbed at the suggestion.
“He’ll be all right. All lads get into manure fights.”

A horse was coming toward us, up the narrow alley between the main stable and the long, open shed that held the forge. A Percheron colt, and a young one, no more than two or three, judging from the dappling of his hide. Even young Percherons are big, and the colt seemed huge, as he blundered to and fro at a slow trot, tail lashing from side to side. Plainly the colt was not yet broken to a saddle; the massive shoulders twitched in an effort to dislodge the small form that straddled his neck, both hands buried deep in the thick black mane.

“Bloody hell, it’s Fergus!” The ladies, disturbed by the shouting, had all gotten to their feet by now, and were peering interestedly at the sight.
I didn’t realize that the men had joined us until one woman said, “But how dangerous it seems! Surely the boy will be injured if he falls!”
Well, if he doesna hurt himself falling off, I’ll attend to it directly, once I’ve got my hands on the wee bugger,” said a grim voice behind me. I turned to see Jamie peering over my head at the rapidly approaching horse.

“Should you get him off?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, let the horse take care of it.”

“As for Fergus, his legs were stretched nearly at right angles across the Percheron’s broad back; clearly the only hold he had on the horse was his death-grip on the mane. At that, he might have managed to slide down or at least tumble off unscathed, had the victims of the manure fight not completed their plan to exact a measure of revenge.

The effect was much like a bomb going off. There was an explosion of hay where Fergus had been, and the colt gave a panicked whinny, got its hindquarters under it, and took off like a Derby winner, heading straight for the little knot of courtiers, who scattered to the four winds, screeching like geese.
Jamie had flung himself on me, pushing me out of the way and knocking me to the ground in the process. Now he rose off my supine form, cursing fluently in Gaelic. Without pausing to inquire after my welfare, he raced off in the direction taken by Fergus.

The horse was rearing and twisting, altogether spooked, churning forelegs keeping at bay a small gang of grooms and stable-lads, all of whom were rapidly losing their professional calm at the thought of one of the King’s valuable horses damaging itself before their eyes.

By some miracle of stubbornness or fear, Fergus was still in place, skinny legs flailing as he slithered and bounced on the heaving back. The grooms were all shouting at him to let go, but he ignored this advice, eyes squeezed tight shut as he clung to the two handfuls of horsehair like a lifeline. 

I caught a glimpse of red tartan among the greenery, and then there was a flash of red as Jamie launched himself from the shelter of a tree. His body struck the colt a glancing blow and he tumbled to the ground in a flurry of plaid and bare legs that would have revealed to a discerning observer that this particular Scotsman wasn’t wearing anything under his kilt at the moment.

The party of courtiers rushed up as one, concentrating on the fallen Lord Broch Tuarach, as the grooms pursued the disappearing horse on the other side of the trees.

Jamie lay flat on his back under the beech trees, his face a dead greenish-white, both eyes and mouth wide open. Both arms were locked tight around Fergus, who clung to his chest like a leech. Jamie blinked at me as I dashed up to him, and made a faint effort at a smile. The faint wheezings from his open mouth deepened into a shallow panting, and I relaxed in relief; he’d only had his wind knocked out.

Finally realizing that he was no longer moving, Fergus raised a cautious head. Then he sat bolt upright on his employer’s stomach and said enthusiastically, “That was fun, milord! Can we do it again?”

- Dragonfly in Amber

And thus it comes, as precious things do,

Involuntarily, quick as our quiet breathing

Or the steady pulsations of our unguarded

Hearts on soft summer nights when the

House is asleep and an aura of calm

Descends on our small corner, our cabin

In the wood by the cool reflecting pond.

Choice is taken from us then, no corner

Of sanctuary, no sheltered lea or

Beckoning hayrick to hide us;

Only the sweet density of travel

Holding out a well-worn valise and

Inviting us to follow, to find or reinvent

That place that is not place, distant

Yet contiguous, contained in the rafters

Of our unguarded hearts where birds brood

In the warmth of unheralded wonder.


James A. Carter, Destiny of Travel

submitted by: alanjamesposts- Thanks; it’s lovely!