Cure- House, MD

chapter 17: sharpie

The first day back at the hospital feels like walking into a dream. A hazy, disjointed dream where everything looks the same but feels just a little... off.

My office is exactly as I left it, right down to the stack of untouched case files on my desk. The team, bless them, had apparently decided not to so much as glance at my workload in my absence. Typical. I should feel right at home diving back into it, but as I sit there, flipping through my first case of the day, I feel a knot of frustration tighten in my chest.

It's a tough one. A young woman in her 20s, presenting with recurring fevers, unexplained joint pain, and a rash that no one can make sense of. Pre-surgery Evelyn would've had this solved in five minutes flat. ANA levels, follow-up testing, done. I'd have handed the diagnosis to House on a platter with a smug smile, just to watch him pretend not to be impressed.

But now? Now I'm staring at this file like it's written in another language. My thoughts feel sluggish, like I'm wading through molasses, and every time I think I've landed on something, it slips away before I can grab hold of it.

I groan, dropping my head onto the desk with a dull thunk. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

The window to my right offers a view of the courtyard below, and I let my gaze drift there instead. People mill about, their coats flapping in the wind as they move between buildings. It's peaceful, serene even, but it feels like I'm watching it through a fog. My head's fuzzy, my body heavy, like I'm not quite grounded. I feel... high. Not the fun kind, either. The frustrating, detached kind where your brain feels like it's two steps behind your body.

I let out a long sigh, tilting my head against the desk so I can keep watching the window. The trees sway gently in the breeze, the sunlight filtering through the leaves in patches. It's calming, in a way, but it doesn't help the frustration bubbling under the surface.

How am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to be this, when I can't even get through a single case without feeling like my brain is betraying me?

I stare at the file in front of me, the words blurring together into an incomprehensible mess. No matter how hard I try to focus, my brain refuses to cooperate. It's like trying to wrestle with a cloud—impossible and infuriating.

With a groan, I shove the case aside and grab the nearest Sharpie, twisting the cap off with more force than necessary. My eyes drift to the corner of my desk, its surface worn and scratched from years of use. It's not like anyone's going to care about a little more damage, right?

The tip of the marker touches the wood, and before I realize what I'm doing, I'm drawing. Random swirls and patterns at first, then more deliberate shapes. A flower here, a spiral there. I lose myself in the motion, the rhythmic drag of the Sharpie oddly soothing. It feels... rebellious, in a small, harmless way. Pre-surgery Evelyn would never do this. She was too precise, too focused. But right now, with my head in the clouds and my patience hanging by a thread, this feels like the only thing I can do without screwing it up.

I'm halfway through sketching what might be a star—or possibly a lopsided snowflake—when the door opens behind me. I don't bother looking up, assuming it's Foreman again, back to lecture me about self-care or something equally condescending.

But then I hear it. The unmistakable tap-tap of a cane against the floor.

"Back in the saddle, huh?" House's voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and amused. "How's the genius brain holding up?"

I freeze, the Sharpie still poised over the desk. Slowly, I lift my head to meet his gaze. He's standing in the doorway, his cane in one hand and a coffee cup in the other, his expression as smug as ever. But then his eyes flick down to the desk, to the doodles spreading across the corner like graffiti.