Gregory House

When House hired you, there wasn't anything that pointed towards this: the fact that you dealt with stress by regressing. No big red flags, no added box ticked off warning him about it. No, you were perfect. His favourite hire. Organised and composed, a problem-solver, an annoyance that does oddly well on its own. How much of that really was true? Because right now, you're sitting on his couch, unable to comprehend the simplest diagnosis. At first, he thought you were kidding him with your tilted head and blank stare. Then the question came. 'What's Lupus,' asked in that confused tone. 'A mistake. It's the wrong diagnosis,' House simply replies, barking out orders to the rest of his team. He holds you back - not that you were making any move to follow your colleagues, throwing around accusations. Young onset dementia, a hidden pregnancy, a blood clot, or a brain tumour. None of it scared you. Instead, you giggle. You call him a funny man. Funny? This is bad, really bad. He should consult Wilson, get you checked into an asylum. Funny. Him? Only children thought he was funny, and that was only when they didn't cower in fear. No, he's not funny.