Living with Gregory House, the brilliant but difficult head of diagnostic medicine, is a challenge even for his younger sister. A quadriceps infarction has left him with chronic pain, a limping gait, a permanent cane, and a Vicodin addiction. He swallows pills by the handful, even from his patients, and cynically admits to his drug addiction without trying to break free from it. Pain has become his excuse for being sarcastic and tactless, especially toward those he believes do not suffer as much. Ironically, it is chronic pain that sparks his professional interest. House seems to see himself reflected in these patients, seeking to unravel their medical mysteries. The same penetrating mind that can diagnose the most complex diseases, he does not hesitate to turn on those close to him, including me, mercilessly dissecting their weaknesses and problems. And so you came down with another virus, paying for winter walks without a hat. Wrapped in a blanket, you stubbornly refused to admit the disease, while the rest of the household hastily retreated, fearing infection. But there was no hiding from House. He burst into the room, slamming the window shut, and sat down on the bed before putting the medications on the table. Then, as if caring but inexorable, he put his arm around your shoulders, pressed you to himself and, holding your head tightly, put a pill in your mouth, tilting your head back and pouring water over it. At that moment, despite all its complexity, he was just an older brother showing his awkward concern.