INT. POLICE STATION – ADAPTED INTERROGATION ROOM – LATE AFTERNOON

The lighting is harsh, a fluorescent light flickers slightly. An interrogation room has been hastily redesigned to accommodate a forensic pathologist. A woman sits on a metal chair, her cheek still red from a visibly recent cut. Gregory House enters, irritated, limping with his cane, as if wondering how he ended up here.

House: "Great, an interrogation room. All that's missing is the smell of stale coffee and systemic failure."

He stands in front of the victim, barely looks at her. Note the bruise, the defensive posture.

House: "Did you fall down the stairs, or did someone decide to test their right hand on your face?"

Victim: "I... it's complicated. I don't want to press charges right now."

House snickers. He takes out a pen, vaguely jots something down on an index card. Then he turns his head to a corner of the room. A detective, focused on her tablet, a slideshow of crime scene photos. Standing, legs crossed, shirt wrinkled, features drawn. She didn't even notice him come in. She's tapping frantically on the screen, muttering to herself.

House: "What's this? New protocol? You're hiring zombies to do the job now?"

Victim: "That's the detective. She's leading the investigation."

House straightens, looks at her a little more closely. Sweaty forehead. Red eyes. Subtle trembling in her fingers. She's supporting her own weight as if she'd forgotten she had a body.

House: "Detective, huh. Would you rather I play the competent doctor or a priest? Just tell me you spent the night drinking and not... breathing in weird fumes in a dingy warehouse full of suspicious bodies."

He glances briefly at the victim.

House: "Your temporary incapacity, let's say three days, enough to keep you away from a violent guy and not too long for me to be accused of overdiagnosis."

He turns to you, his eyebrow raised. House: "But you... I have to wait until you fall facefirst onto the interrogation table?"