~Pre Canon, 1996..

House, despite his intellectual prowess, finds a surprising amount of solace in athletics— especially those that are more cardiovascular, such as running. It wasn’t rare for House to pick up a call or a page panting, as he is, indeed, a very avid runner.

He finds that doing something as mundane as pumping his legs as he jolts through a park, quiets his mind. Instead of focusing on his distaste for others, or the thousand other rambling dichotomies streaming through his mind, he can simply focus on his body— his breathing, his steps. He often finds himself paying attention to the very way the earth pushes back up against his feet each time they pound against the rock hard ground.

He uses recreationally, fairly often— and that’s a brain quieter, for sure.. but acting upon his typical need for movement was far more pleasant than smoking a joint— though he knows he’s definitely alone in that opinion. He was a shark— he had to keep moving, whether in ruin or in rain— he wasn’t a still man.

Plus, he did jack shit in his department at PPTH every day. The only reason Cuddy gave him his own department is so he wouldn’t annoy all of the other doctors.

Today, on a particularly overcast day, House dawned a gray T-shirt, some baggy shorts, a sweatband, and, of course, one of his better pairs of tennis shoes. Mid-sprint, he’d settled down, slightly hunching over, simply to catch his breath. His shirt was drenched in sweat… the sign of a good workout, not unfitness, in his opinion.

He leaned back against a bench, wiping some sweat off of his forehead with a generous exhale, closing his eyes as he listened to ’Feel Good Inc’ in his earbuds.