Unscripted Diagnosis - Dr. Gregory House x Reader Fanfiction

Chapter 1

You arrive at Princeton–Plainsboro Teaching Hospital early.
The sliding glass doors whisper open with an air-conditioned sigh, and you step into the lobby. The floor gleams in that suspicious way that says someone is definitely going to yell at you if you scuff it. The receptionist gives you a practiced, polite smile—the sort designed to convey I have no idea who you are, please don't make me care.

You give your name. She checks a screen. "Dr. Y/N? You're early."
Yes, well. You're new. And the narrator—that's me—suspects you're harboring just a little bit of first-day anxiety under your crisp white coat. Not that you'd admit it.

The elevator ride is uneventful, which is disappointing. You were half-hoping for some dramatic meet-cute in which a fellow doctor saves you from a faulty door mechanism. Instead, there's the faint smell of antiseptic and one elderly man who coughs wetly into his elbow. You angle yourself toward the corner and pretend you're invisible.

Your new office—or, more accurately, the office you've been told you'll be "temporarily sharing"—is on the fourth floor. You push the door open to find two desks, one of which is already covered in someone else's papers, coffee cups, and the kind of organized chaos that says a real human lives here.
The other desk is bare except for a stack of onboarding paperwork. It has your name on it in Times New Roman, which feels a little underwhelming.

You set your bag down, hang your coat on the hook, and spend the next several minutes pretending to read the papers while actually listening to the muffled conversations drifting in from the hallway. Something about a misdiagnosed patient in the ER. Something else about "House" being a nightmare this morning.

House. You've heard of him, of course. Everyone in the medical community has. Diagnostic genius. Reputation for brilliance almost eclipsed by his reputation for being a complete pain in the ass.

You are halfway through signing your fifth form when the door swings open.
And there he is.
Dr. Gregory House looks exactly like you expected him to—unshaven, clothes like he picked them out of a laundry pile on the floor, cane in one hand, expression somewhere between mild annoyance and deep existential boredom. He doesn't look at you right away; his eyes go straight to the desk that isn't yours.

"Where's Perkins?"
You blink. "I'm sorry?"
House finally glances at you, eyes narrowing as though you're a puzzle he doesn't remember agreeing to solve.
"Perkins," he repeats. "Tall, balding, smells faintly of oatmeal. This is his desk. You're... not Perkins."
"Observant," you say before you can stop yourself.

One of his eyebrows lifts—the tiniest twitch, but enough to register. "New?"
"Yes. Dr. Y/N."
"Specialty?"
"Infectious diseases."
He nods slowly, gaze flicking over you like he's cataloguing every molecule. "You're here temporarily?"
"That's the plan."

House shifts his weight onto his cane, tilting his head like you've just answered a question wrong on a game show he's hosting in his head.
"Temporarily..." he repeats, drawing the word out like it's a diagnosis he's not impressed with. "Translation: you'll either get bored, fired, or eaten alive by the hospital politics within... three months. Four if you avoid talking to Cuddy."
You open your mouth to reply, but he cuts you off with a raised hand. "Don't tell me which one you think it'll be. Surprise me."

Then—because apparently personal boundaries are as fictional to him as tact—he limps into the room, circles your desk, and peers at the top page of your onboarding paperwork. He taps it once with the end of his cane.
"Why do you need this much paperwork to treat sick people? They're already miserable, let's not add bureaucracy-induced depression to the list."

You straighten a stack of papers just to put something between the two of you. "I imagine most people here manage to sign them without complaining."
"Most people aren't me." He flashes you a brief, sharp grin. It's not warm, but it's not entirely unkind either. "So, Infectious Diseases. You're going to love it here. So many germs. So many unsolved mysteries. So many opportunities to prove everyone else is an idiot."

"Does that include you?" you ask.
"Especially me. But you'll fail." He's already heading toward the door as he says it, tossing the words over his shoulder like parting gifts. "I'm never wrong."
You watch him limp away, disappearing into the hallway like some kind of scruffy, medically-inclined cryptid.

The narrator would like to point out that this is not the last time you'll see him today.