Everyone lies.

TO: House FROM: Newt

[1] Sweet! [2] Something to write home to mom about I guess.  [3] Ok so. . . Goiters a symptom. . . TSH and T4 are wonky. . . [4] Dangit I know this one I do- 

To: Newt From: House

To: Scientist From: House

                                           Into the fire.

     He could feel its heat lick at a paling complexion with that savage hunger that whispered for burning. It was a war against the flames each day, and each day it would end unresolved. Stalemates did little to ease his overflowing vigilance, as did the repetition governing his thoughts. Cogs failing to align on a mental roller-coaster as it climbed the steepest slop denting its track. He was nearing the dive, the inevitable plunge into whatever state of mind fate had in store. This constant creaking exhausted Will, leaving him in a perpetual state of fear and uncertainty: will I keel over the edge today, be swallowed by my dementia and second-hand emotion?

        A b r o k e n record; skipping-- nothing but white noise.

     The twist of a handle and Will had passed the point of no return, breaching the frame and stepping inside the office, as directed by the friendly face greeting his prior entrance. He was met with a sullen string of words presumably meant as a greeting. Fortunately, as a social deficit, he had fashioned an immunity from his misgivings to the rude and impolite. Though he couldn’t shake the desire to swivel on a heel and high-tail it off the premises.

     "I probably shouldn't even be in here! I guess that's my cue to leave?" He struggles up, using his cane for balance as his bad leg tries to give beneath his weight. He limps toward the door and opens it, only to find himself face-to-face with the evil practice manager.

     After a brief conversation—a majorly one-sided conversation with sprinkles of sarcastic remarks and replies—House turns back around and addresses his patient. "Alright, Mr..." he glances down at the paperwork in his hands, "Graham. I guess we can try it your strange, alien way. You tell me what your concerns are, and I'll—what was that word? Diagnose? How foreign a concept. Weird, you think I would've learned this in college."

To: Hitagi From: House

1-40 completely random messages.

❧ - Love/Confession letter/text

♠ - Break up letter/text

♒ - Drunk letter/text

✧ - Sleepy letter/text

۵ - Angry letter/text

text: ..Forgive me. It would seem I'm still adjusting to using this phone. In any case, if you find yourself lacking the inspiration to take on such a job, you are just as welcome to come as a guest.

To: Hannibal From: House

                                  The mind was a ｍａｚｅ.

     Infallible in its design; a web of connections that allowed little to slip beyond its walls. For some it was a fort of level-headed decisions and monumental discoveries. For others, it crumbled, laid to waste by a series of ill intentions and imagined savagery. Some were lost to the train of thought that carried them somewhere dark, and forboding— others watched it sail by, the momentum of its departure lapping at their faces.

     For Will Graham, it was a room, swollen with oxygen. Blank, lackluster, colourless; no particular feature that grabbed the eye or amazed. And the slightest spark would ignite the air, and bring it all down. All of it situated atop a layer of thinning ice. Pieces of its structure would come away and what rationality Will had retained crudely pieced it back together again. It was a daily chore, maintaining his head and reassembling it should it collapse— like a game of Jenga. Although, as with every game, it had become tedious, and tired him to a point he could scarcely function in amongst society and all its expectations. A fractured mess of a human being, he would have to endure, and maybe time would patch up the devastation and squalor his heightened method of thinking dwelled in.

     When a visit to the doctor was illegitimately, though sensibly, prescribed by a colleague, he wrinkled his nose at the idea. Professional help instilled a sort of discomfort within him, one that steered him from pokes and prods toward an eventual diagnosis. Though fear was a backseat driver, and it piloted its vessel toward the looming structure from which both good and bad news bled. His anxiety came to a crescendo, strumming nerves with coarse fingers in an attempt to wheel him around; save him the agony.

     The former is enthralling. Speculating on the identity of the image before completion and feeling that rush of excitement when you're certain you're right. The twists and turns of a wrong diagnosis, or a newly presenting symptom that throws the entire puzzle out the window. The latter is identifying that an elephant is an elephant. And so often, House's clinic hours are filled with elephants. Head colds, sore throats, aching joints, and mild cuts stampede the emergency room, disrupting his peace and just outright annoying him.

     House finishes yet another patient with a severe case of fatal sniffles, and he wants nothing more than a break. His video game system is calling for him, and yet he knows—he's positive—that he won't receive a single second of rest. And his theory is proven by the sound of a turning doorknob, predictably followed by someone who looks positively healthy. Yet another elephant trumpeting its way into the clinic. How lovely.

     "Good afternoon." His voice is deadpan, and his tone is dripping with annoyance. "My name is Dr. Gregory House. Forgive me for not getting up. Or don't. I honestly couldn't care less."

To: Scientist From: House

To: Hitagi From: House

to: — from: Hannibal Lecter

To: Hannibal From: House

TO: House FROM: Newt

To: Newt From: House