"What are you doing here?"

Figures, the first person he'd see would be Cameron. She had an uncanny ability to sense House wherever he was. He sometimes liked that about her. But normally, like in this moment, it was just annoying. Of course, he had come in through the ER to avoid Cuddy at the entrance, so he kinda asked for it.

"Well, I thought I worked here. You know, saving patients no one else can save and all."

"That true… but I thought Cuddy gave you leave to recover from your head injury."

"Yeah, but she only gave me two months."

"It's only been two week."

"Oh," House said, overdramatically covering his mouth and talking with an obviously mocking accent, "Did I get those confused again? I'm so bad about doing that."

Cameron gave house one of her gentle, pitying looks. God, House hated those looks. It was like she was looking into his soul, but only seeing the parts that fit her idea of him. The parts that played into her idea of him being a victim and needing saving from himself. The parts that made her always think that she could be the one to save him. When would she learn that no one could save him?

"House," she said sweetly, "Go home. We don't need you here."

"Your patients would beg to differ."

"Name one patient in here that isn't in capable hands."

House glanced around for the first chart he could find and grabbed it quickly.

"This one."

Cameron grabbed it from him and looked at it, smirking as she read, "Jeremiah Young – gunshot wound to the right shoulder." She looked up sharply, "Yeah, big medical mystery there. I wonder what could have caused that wound. Oh yea, a bullet!"

House rolled his eyes

"Okay, so he's gonna be fine, but there's gonna be someone who's gonna need my help in the next two months, so I might as well be here."

Cameron sighed, "Look, I can't force you to go back home, but you can't practice any medicine while you're recovering. We don't' know your current mental state right now."

"Oh, yes we do! I'm fine! See, two plus two equals five… oh wait."

"House, stop joking around! You're avoiding Cuddy and you know you can't practice medicine which means you only came here for one reason. Go talk to him."

"If by him, you mean the stripper I ordered."

That got him a smack on the arm.

"He doesn't want to talk to me," he finally said.

Oh look, another one of Cameron's looks.

"You don't know that."

"I think I do." House looked down and rubbed his leg absentmindedly with his free hand. "He's been ignoring my phone calls."

"… Look, maybe if you just –"

Cameron was cut off by the sudden sound of screaming. Both her and House looked sharply in the direction of the scream and saw a woman pointing towards the ER doors. An extremely dirty, black man had run in, brandishing a knife, pointing it in all directions. His eyes darting rapidly from side to side, as if searching for someone. He locked eyes with House for a split second, and the next, he was there, holding the knife to House's throat. House dropped his cane in surprise.

"You a doctor?" He asked in a guttural, raspy voice.

"Depends who's asking."

The knife tightened, and Cameron let out a pained gasp. House felt the blade touching his skin and wouldn't be surprised if he had drawn a little bit of blood.

"I know I've seen you before, so don't lie to me! Are you a doctor!?"

"Okay, yes, my name is Dr. Gregory House. I'm the head of diagnostics here."

"Perfect… then come with me."

Still behind him with the knife to this neck, the man guided House outside the ER. House cursed inwardly because it was all he could do not to fall over. Without his cane, his leg was protesting every step. But if he fell, he'd certainly be injured by the knife. So, House limped along.

Once they were outside, the man released House and shoved him forward. House tumbled to the ground, leg and head throbbing, before being wrenched back up. Now, the man held tightly to his arm with the knife was against his back.

"This way," Said the filthy man.

And just around the corner, he saw him. Another black man, but older than the one with the knife. He was hunched over against the wall of a nearby building. It was extremely apparent that he was wheezing. Bad.

"This is my Pops." The man said, tightening his grip on House, "He's sick and I need you to fix him."

House turned around best he could to look back at the man. If it wasn't apparent by the weapon he held, it was clear in his eyes that he was deadly serious. And if House didn't do what he said, he would probably end up fileted.