Dr. Gregory House (houlmes) wrote in plainsboro,
Dr. Gregory House

Date/Time: Tuesday, afternoon.
Location: Wilson's office.
Open To: Wilson.
Currently Involving: House and Wilson.
Warnings: Nope.

The Oncology lounge may have been off-limits, but the Head of Oncology's office was fair game. After polishing off the Reuben supplied at lunch without another mention of the all-important topic, he'd stalled for time a few minutes after Wilson left. He'd made a pretty convincing picture, leaned back in his office chair with his feet up, waiting for the proper amount of time to pass to put his plan into action. Of course, patience was never a virtue for House, especially a bored House. And the whole point of this mission was to find a cure for boredom's reoccurring symptoms. So, after a few moments, when he could delay no longer, he pulled himself out of the chair, first peering around the corner of his office door. No Wilson. Within minutes he was out on the balcony, squinting to look for a figure bent over the desk. Still no Wilson. With a sense of accomplishment he swung his bum leg over the wall separating the two offices, the good one soon to follow, and steadied himself with help of the cane.

With secret agent-like stealth he noisily yanked the balcony door open, louder than he'd intended, apparently not expecting it to give way so easily. But then, Wilson's office was rarely House-proof. Upon entering the office, his original plan was temporarily lost thanks to a bad case of nosiness; in an instant his eyes were on the calendar on Wilson's desk, scanning for anything that might be of interest. Satisfied to see nothing other than the usual meetings, he moved on, hands finding the latest knick-knack rewarded to the oncologist by some patient's grieving daughter. It took him roughly thirty seconds to scoff and grow bored with this, and the reason for coming here was again remembered. He looked up toward the closed door, just out of habit, a sure sign of guiltiness, before yanking on the first drawer. Locked. Probably important files, he assumed, and not something as trivial as a lounge key. The drawer on the other side was tried next, this one giving way. House shuffled through more paperwork until he became satisfied that nothing was hidden between them and frowned. Not to be discouraged, he shut it with a bang and moved to the smaller drawer in the middle that was usually reserved for pens, paper clips, post-it notes, and all other things that Wilson probably delighted in. It had to be here. However, whether a set of keys was in the drawer or not was immediately lost on House, because upon opening the drawer something else caught his eye, something much more interesting. A bottle of anti-depressants. Picking it up, he turned to read the label and the doctor that had perscribed it. Not exactly what he'd expected.

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