Nothing Like Sense (In Progress, Closed)
Who: Greg House, Bradley Crawford, Schuldig, Farfarello, Naoe Nagi + one spy...
What: A business proposition…of sorts.
Where: House's place.
When: Day 28; mid-day.
The state of House's kitchen walls was dire. That was the problem with not having a dry erase board. He could write on the cleanly papered slate of his walls, make notes all over them, list symptoms, draw charts…. He just couldn't wipe the damn thing clean when his thoughts got too jumbled. All he could do was to move to a new section of wall.
What he had right now was too many symptoms for too many "patients" and not enough to connect them all together. And so the walls were a mess. He drank a lot of coffee, popped a lot of Vicodin, and stared a lot at the scrawl across the pale yellow of the wallpaper, hoping that sooner or later some fragment of a note would snap into place in his mind and set all the dominos falling after it in order. But not having anyone to talk to, someone to bounce ideas off of….
He might as well have been trying to tip stone monoliths with a flick of his pen.
He leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs with his feet up on the kitchen table, and spun his cane absently in one hand, staring at the words that marked the latest fragment of this giant diagnostic mystery: "Paralysis. Hematemesis. 'Body Swap' (?)"
Like everything else in this place, the idea had never even been in the same room as logical, rational sense, let alone met it on a first name basis. Insane.
What: A business proposition…of sorts.
Where: House's place.
When: Day 28; mid-day.
The state of House's kitchen walls was dire. That was the problem with not having a dry erase board. He could write on the cleanly papered slate of his walls, make notes all over them, list symptoms, draw charts…. He just couldn't wipe the damn thing clean when his thoughts got too jumbled. All he could do was to move to a new section of wall.
What he had right now was too many symptoms for too many "patients" and not enough to connect them all together. And so the walls were a mess. He drank a lot of coffee, popped a lot of Vicodin, and stared a lot at the scrawl across the pale yellow of the wallpaper, hoping that sooner or later some fragment of a note would snap into place in his mind and set all the dominos falling after it in order. But not having anyone to talk to, someone to bounce ideas off of….
He might as well have been trying to tip stone monoliths with a flick of his pen.
He leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs with his feet up on the kitchen table, and spun his cane absently in one hand, staring at the words that marked the latest fragment of this giant diagnostic mystery: "Paralysis. Hematemesis. 'Body Swap' (?)"
Like everything else in this place, the idea had never even been in the same room as logical, rational sense, let alone met it on a first name basis. Insane.