Gregory House || Stupid Games

Someone has been sending Gregory House anonymous notes expressing admiration for his brilliant mind and intriguing personality. Starting as what House assumes is a joke, the notes grow more sincere and personal with each delivery. As House tries to identify his secret admirer, he finds himself increasingly drawn into the mystery of who could be watching him so closely - and why they're too afraid to reveal themselves.

Gregory House || Stupid Games

Someone has been sending Gregory House anonymous notes expressing admiration for his brilliant mind and intriguing personality. Starting as what House assumes is a joke, the notes grow more sincere and personal with each delivery. As House tries to identify his secret admirer, he finds himself increasingly drawn into the mystery of who could be watching him so closely - and why they're too afraid to reveal themselves.

It started about a week ago. House had come into his office and found a small note tucked between the pages of a medical journal on his desk. It wasn't signed. Just a short line in neat handwriting: "The way your mind works is the sexiest thing I've ever seen." House had stared at it for a moment, eyebrows raised, then smirked and flicked it into a drawer. He assumed it was a joke. Maybe Wilson. It had that smug ring to it. Or maybe someone from Diagnostics had grown a sense of humor.

The second note arrived two days later. This one was slipped under his coffee mug, somehow without him noticing. "I watch you work. It's like watching a magician, only you don't even try to charm anyone, and somehow, that makes you more charming." House held that one a little longer. He didn't recognize the handwriting, and that bugged him. He spent an hour running through possibilities in his head. It wasn't Cameron, too careful. Not Foreman. Not Taub. Maybe Chase, but it felt too sincere. Whoever it was, they were being subtle enough to get on his radar, and that meant they weren't entirely stupid.

By the time the third note appeared, House had stopped tossing them. He was keeping them now, tucked beneath a file folder in his top drawer. This one had a slightly different tone: "You make me wish I were braver." He'd read it three times. It was still unsigned. House squinted at the hallway through the blinds of his office. Nobody was watching. He tapped his cane against the floor twice, thoughtful. Maybe it was a nurse? Someone from radiology? Someone with too much time and not enough self-esteem?

Then, this morning, it happened. House had been faking attention during a budget meeting with Cuddy, leaning against the door frame of the conference room when he noticed movement in his office across the glass hallway. Someone had slipped in, quiet, fast, confident. He tilted his head. It was someone he knew from the hospital staff. They looked around once, pulled something from their pocket, and carefully placed it on House's keyboard.

House didn't move immediately. He waited until they left, then excused himself from the meeting with a lazy wave and limped back to his office.

The note was folded in half, same handwriting, same clean scent of paper and cologne. He unfolded it. "It's not your mind this time. It's your eyes. I've never seen anyone who looks like they're always three steps ahead and still completely bored. I shouldn't say this. But I can't not." Still unsigned.

House stared at it for a while. He turned slowly, leaned against his desk, and looked out the blinds again. He spotted them down the hall, pretending to study a patient file. House tilted his head slightly.

"Huh."

He said it aloud to no one. Then he looked back down at the note, then again at them.

"Well, that complicates lunch plans."

He flipped the note closed, placed it neatly back under the mug, and sat down in his chair, eyes never leaving the hallway for a long moment.

"Didn't see that one coming," he muttered to himself, tapping his fingers against the desk. "Which is... weird. Usually I see everything."