𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄

eleven; a man with a cane steps on a motorcycle

{☀️🌩️}

"ACHOOO!!"

The sound of a loud sneeze cut through Vickie's music. She had her headphones on again, the dulcet tones of AC/DC screaming in her ears as she lazily combed through House' planner and emails.

Life at PPTH had been calm after Stacy and Mark's case. After the team had discovered his diagnosis and how to treat him, the couple voiced their gratitude before tailing ass to a hospital closer to home for recovery. Vickie couldn't blame them.

Ever since then, not much has happened. A case or two, but none so interesting it really stayed with Vickie.

"ACHOOO!"

A second —well, maybe sixth— sneeze had Vickie finally lowering her headphones to hang around her neck as she got out from behind her desk. She rounded the glass table to walk through the door into her boss' private office. She found the man sitting in his desk chair, legs strewn out long before him and head tilted back.

He looked bad. A light sheen of sweat covering his face and the skin underneath his nose looked red from where he had been rubbing a tissue every three seconds.

"You look awful." Said Vickie as she hurried over to him. She raised a hand to lay the back of it against his forehead, which had the man grunting in protested but he didn't move away. "Just what every man wants to hear."

Vickie rolled her eyes, "You're sick, House. Go home."

It was kind of strange, really. Normally, House would take any chance —a patient sneezing near him, for example— as an excuse to go home. But now he was actually sick and refusing to go home.

The diagnostician let out a deep sigh through his nose, then gripped the edge of the table and his cane as he stood up with a loud groan. "Get me my b—"

Before he could finish speaking, Vickie already hefted his small, blue backpack onto her shoulder. She then held a box of tissue in one hand while offered him the other —the nails painted a bright and glittery pink. He grumbled something beneath his breath as he accepted her hand and they shuffled out the office doors.

"A thank you would have been appreciated." Vickie said absentmindedly, no real hurt behind her words, as they waited for the elevator to go down. House shot her an amused grin, squeezing her hand three times. He quickly pulled away, though, as a familiar feeling washed over him. He snatched a tissue from the box his assistant was still holding and shoved it under his nose as he sneezed loudly. Vickie scrunched up her nose in mild disgust, just as the elevator door opened.

The two shuffled out and into the lobby, House discarding the used tissue in the trash can that they passed. They were on their way to the doors —like, literally ten feet away— when a familiar voice called out to them, "Vick, House! Need you."

"Uh uh, forget it," House replied, his voice sounding stuffy as he snatched another tissue from Vickie to use. "I'm going home."

"Hay fever?" Wilson guessed, which had the diagnostician replying, "Boy, you must be a doctor and everything!"

Vickie snorted, walking on House' other side so he was in the middle of his best friends. Wilson shot a look at her, "Two minutes." He promised.

"Doubt it," Vickie said. "The purple label on the file means it's an oncology case."