House had never been willing to talk to patients.

Everybody lies, after all. He always used that excuse when another case file picked his interest, although, occasionally, he would use it against Foreman's counter words about him not seeing patients when he actually did visit one.

The thing was, House didn't like patients because they were puzzles: Equally amusing as irritating. To be fair, the only ones he actually visited were those who were mental—the abstract thinkers, the one's who never got to be boring at all.

And, luckily, he had one right on his list.

Fatigue, edema, easy bruising, and loss of appetite, jaundice and abdominal pain. That was all the symptoms for now, and although the answer was between three different things, House could already see where this was coming towards.

Although, to be fair, he was only tagging along because he found it interesting, a passing fixation. That's why, against his better judgement, he still went to see the mentally ill patient. See what's knocking in their mind, despite the pain of their mere existence.

After walking through the halls, he stopped by the patient room 220. He stood there for a moment, before sliding the door open with his cane, limping inside with the help of his cane.