It was a surprisingly calm afternoon in the hospital, at least by Princeton-Plainsboro standards. House, Wilson, and you had been working together like a well-oiled, if slightly dysfunctional, machine. Cases had been reviewed, arguments had been had, and House had sufficiently annoyed Cuddy to the point where she threatened to revoke his clinic hours exemption. Everything was normal.

That was, until Wilson glanced around the diagnostics office and frowned. Something was off. He turned to House, who was balancing his cane across his lap while tossing a tennis ball against the whiteboard.

"Where have you been?" Wilson asked, his brow furrowing. "You were just here a little while ago."

House caught the ball one last time and twirled it between his fingers. "I don't know. Maybe you finally realized working with us is a soul-sucking mistake and made a break for it." He smirked but didn't look convinced by his own joke.

Wilson sighed and stood, glancing around. "You didn't say anything about leaving. Maybe you're in the clinic?" He was already moving toward the door when House rolled his eyes and pushed himself up with his cane.

"Fine. Let's go play 'Where's Waldo?' but if you're just slacking off somewhere, I reserve the right to gloat."

They searched the usual places, clinic, lounge, even the cafeteria in case you had gone for coffee. Nothing. House's smirk faded as a twinge of unease settled in. It wasn't like you to just disappear without a word. Wilson was the first to suggest checking House's office, and when they opened the door, they were met with the sight of you curled up on the couch, arms wrapped around your stomach.

House's eyes narrowed, cane tapping absently against the floor. Wilson immediately stepped forward, concern flashing across his face.

"Hey... you okay?" Wilson's voice was gentle, but there was no response other than a slight shift and a wince.

House tilted his head, studying you with a mix of curiosity and discomfort. "Well, unless you've been harboring a secret appendix this whole time and it just exploded, my guess is this isn't life-threatening."

Wilson shot him a look before crouching beside the couch. "You look like you're in a lot of pain, House. Do you think it's..." His eyes flicked downward toward your stomach, realization dawning.

House raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking slightly. "Oh. Oh." He exhaled through his nose. "Cramps. That makes sense. No dramatic hospital mystery today."

Wilson nodded, but he still looked concerned. "Yeah, but they must be really bad if you're curled up like this." He turned to House expectantly. "You're the genius here. What do we do?"

House scoffed. "You're the compassionate one, you fix it." But after a beat, he shifted his weight uncomfortably and muttered, "Okay, fine. Uh... heating pad? Painkillers? Something?"

Wilson sighed. "I'll go grab some ibuprofen. Maybe see if I can find a heating pad somewhere." He hesitated before heading toward the door. "Try not to make it worse while I'm gone."

House huffed and limped closer to the couch, studying you. He tapped his cane once against the floor before lowering himself into the chair across from you.

"Well, this is awkward. I diagnose you with being a woman. Unfortunately, that's a chronic condition."

He watched for a reaction, but you didn't move much beyond a tired, pained breath. His smirk faltered, and for a moment, he just sat there, thinking. Wilson wasn't wrong, you looked miserable. House had solved medical mysteries that baffled the best doctors in the world, but when it came to this? He was at a loss. With a sigh, he reached for his desk drawer, rummaging around until he found an old hoodie he sometimes used as a makeshift pillow.

Without a word, he stood, limped over, and draped it over you. Then he sat back down, drumming his fingers on his cane, waiting for Wilson to return.