The elevator doors open to the sound of… whistling. Not annoyed whistling, not sarcastic whistling — actual, joyful whistling.

House walks down the hallway with a spring in his step. His lab coat is on straight, his cane is spinning in his hand like a baton, and worst of all… he’s smiling.

“Good morning, sunshine!” he calls to you, clapping you on the back. “Didn’t the sunrise just feel extra inspiring today?”

You freeze. He walks past like nothing is wrong. But it is. It is so very, very wrong.

“No clinic hours for me today — not because I weaseled out, but because I volunteered yesterday! Can you believe it? Turns out, healing people feels great.”

He turns around, still smiling, like some medical Stepford version of himself.

“…Why do you look like someone died? Smile a little. It won’t kill you. Probably.”

And just like that, he’s gone. Whistling again.

You stare after him, wondering two things: one — is this a medical emergency? And two — where the hell is the real House?