The days went by in a blur of activity, but the nights were long and lonely exercises in frustration. It was Friday and House still had had no luck tracking down his mystery lady or remembering where he had seen her before. The internet had given him no clues, although a final desperate query for "sexy red head" had provided some interesting, although unrelated, hits. He just couldn't shake the obsession he seemed to have developed for this woman. He tried to occupy himself with something else - reading, watching TV, learning Swedish - but still she snuck into his thoughts. Even when he played his music, she haunted the corners of his mind. He shook his head. "Oh, man," he thought, "'I've got it bad, and that ain't good.'" He put a Billie Holliday CD on and reached for his Vicodin. A single pill rattled out of the bottle and into his hand. Damn. He'd have to make a trip to the pharmacy. If he left right now, he'd have just enough time to pick up his 'scrip and grab a sandwich before heading out for tonight's gig. He shrugged into his jacket, snagging keys and helmet on the way out the door.

He got his order and took a seat. Aljon's was his favorite place to get a sub and conveniently located near a pharmacy. His 'scrip should be filled by the time he was done eating. He bit into his roast beef sandwich and the horseradish nearly annihilated his sinuses. Ah, just the way he liked it. While he worked his way through the sandwich he wondered if he could make I Got It Bad into a suitable arrangement for the band. Billie Holiday did his favorite rendition of this Ellington tune. He spent the rest of his meal mentally arranging the parts. He finished his sandwich and picked up his pills from the pharmacy. He sat on his cycle for a moment, lost in his arranging. He was nearly done with the song when the red head walked through his mind, scattering notes everywhere. It took him a second to realize he had actually seen her. She had walked out of the Carvel store, licking a small ice cream cone. House envied that ice cream cone. He watched as she tilted her head back and nipped off the bottom of the cone to get to the melted ice cream that collected there. She looked like a Greek goddess standing there like that. All she needed was a toga in place of those fine-fitting jeans and a bunch of grapes to stand in for the ice cream cone. In the few seconds House spent contemplating this picture in his mind, the real girl discarded the rest of her ice cream cone and started to walk across the parking lot. House dismounted and fumbled his cane out of the retaining clips, but before he could get more than a few steps from his bike, she had popped into a blue MINI Cooper and sped off.

Damn. "Ok, Greg, regroup," he told himself. After second to collect himself, he headed into the Carvel store. Behind the counter was a teen age boy, complete with a brow ring and Chinese writing tattooed on his neck. "Hey, um, Steve," said House, reading the clerk's name tag. "Did you notice that red-head that was just in here?"

"Of course I noticed her," Steve responded. "I'd have to be dead or blind not to notice something like that."

House bobbed his head in acknowledgement. "Yeah, but do you know anything about her?" he asked. "A name, an address, anything like that?"

"No, dude, I don't know any of that, but she does come in here almost every Friday afternoon. She orders the smallest serving we have and usually only finishes half of it."

"You," said House, "are the man." Feeling uncharacteristically buoyant and generous, he dropped a twenty into the tip jar on the counter and turned to go.

"Wow, thanks, dude," called the teen.

There was a knock on his office door. "Come in," Wilson called. Thirteen came in, closed the door and stood with her back against it. Wilson felt a sense of déjà vu. "I've had dreams that start like this," he thought.

"Dr. Wilson, I need your help," she said.

"With what?"

"There's something wrong with Dr. House," she said worriedly.

Wilson looked at her expectantly. After a moment he said, "I don't know what kind of reaction you were expecting from me, but if it was surprise, you're going to be disappointed."

"No, I meant something new," Remy said, exasperated. "It started last week, but he's worse this week, although he does seem in better spirits. But he's unfocused, he's inattentive, he's absent-minded, he's…"

"He's already consulted me about his condition," Wilson cut her off. He knew House was hoping to find the girl in just a few days. "We had a follow up on Monday, as a matter of fact. I don't believe it is anything to worry about in the long term. I believe it will either run its course or resolve itself one way or another. Perhaps even by next week. More than that I am not at liberty to say."

Remy just looked at Wilson. She turned on him the full power of her best quit-yanking-me stare. Wilson looked away. He fidgeted. He glanced back and fidgeted some more, but he didn't break. "Okay," she said, resigned to the fact Wilson would share no information. Not today, at least. She paused on the way out the door, "But you'll let me know if I can do anything, won't you?"

"Yes, I will," said Wilson.

House had spent the entire week in anticipation of this day. He sat in the ice cream shop waiting for the mystery woman to show. The staff paper spread out on the table before him had been blank when he began his vigil at noon. Now it held the notes of his arrangement of I Got It Bad, plus another song he had composed while waiting. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly 5 pm. The band was playing tonight at a club called The Swamp Rat. If he was going to grab a bite to eat and make it up to Dayton in time to warm up, he would have to leave soon. Reluctantly, he gathered up his papers and walked over to Aljon's to get a sandwich. As if his day wasn't bad enough, he ended up in line behind a man on his cell phone. This guy didn't know what he wanted and his friend on the other end of the conversation apparently didn't either. House was fantasizing about introducing his cane to the moron's skull, when he caught a flash of red from the parking lot. It was her. He had missed her arrival, but luckily not her departure. He hobbled quickly, but she was already in her car by the time he made the parking lot. He went straight for his bike. With a little wild riding, he was able to catch up and tail her to her destination. Fifteen years ago, this area housed several small industries. They were gone now and the trendy urban renewal hadn't quite made it here yet. It wasn't really a bad neighborhood -- "unused" was the word that came to House's mind. At the moment, there was no other traffic and not another person in sight. The Cooper pulled over and parked on the street. House did likewise. The red-head got out of the car and hurried down an alley. House struggled to keep up with her. He reached the mouth of the alley just in time to see her disappearing into a doorway.

The building into which she had disappeared was a large brick edifice. The windows were boarded and the only identifying marks on the building were some lettering on the front and a small sign next to the side door the girl had used. The lettering was time-worn and faded, and House could just barely make out the words "Clarke Shoe Factory". The plaque by the door was obviously a much more recent addition. It held no words, just two symbols, one above the other. The top was a cross and the bottom symbol was a shamrock. No, not a shamrock, he realized, it was a club. House contemplated this a moment, but it told him little. He tried the door and it opened to reveal a pleasant little club. At one end of the room there was an eye-catching mahogany bar carved in the Art Nouveau style. The mirror behind the bar boasted stained glass inlay in the same motif. At the other end of the room was a stage set for a three piece combo - baby grand, drum set and a stool for the bass player. House let his eyes wander over the rest of the club. The décor was a minimalist's approach to Art Deco - very low key and tasteful -- with a few Art Nouveau elements thrown in to add panache. It was a pleasing effect and yet it didn't quite seem appropriate for a club. House wondered what kind of establishment he had walked into. He approached the bar. The bartender had his back to House, and when the man turned around, House nearly flinched. It was the drunk he had hit in the knee!

"What can I getcha?" the barkeep asked.

House relaxed. The girl was right. The guy didn't seem to remember him. "I'm looking for a woman - a red-head - who just came in…"

The barkeep smiled ruefully, "Yeah, she'll be out in a minute. Can I get you something while you wait?"

House ordered a Scotch rocks and sat down at an empty table near the stage. He looked around, noting that there was a decent crowd for this early in the evening. He wondered again what was in store. The band filed onto stage and played a fanfare. The piano player leaned into his mike. His voice was like silk. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "please welcome Miss Meaghan MacKenzie." Out sashayed the red-head.

"Good evening. I'd like to start out with one of my favorite Gershwin tunes," she said. "I hope you enjoy it." When not under stress, her accent was minimal. Her stage voice held only a whisper of peat and heather.

House stared at the stage in awe. The singer was wearing a stunning red dress that hugged her curves like a Porsche on a mountain road. Long red gloves and red heels finished the outfit, but the most spectacular thing about her was her hair. Her red mane cascaded down in a glorious Veronica Lake peek-a-boo. Beautiful eyes and a pouty red mouth peeked out from behind that curtain of hair. House's feeling that he knew this woman intensified. When she started to croon the words to Summertime, her voice was low and throaty - a mixture of whiskey and sex that left him wanting both. Luckily, he had in his hand the fulfillment of one of those desires (and an alternative to the other, if it came to that.) He raised his glass and took a sip of the fiery amber fluid therein. Suddenly his head came up. "Aw, hell," he muttered disgustedly. It had occurred to him that maybe he knew why he felt he had met this woman. She reminded him of Jessica Rabbit, a character from a film he wasn't sure he wanted to admit to watching, let alone liking. There in the dim light, with nobody to see, Greg House blushed. Could that be why she seemed so familiar? House looked at the girl again and decided it didn't matter. He still wanted her.

The song was ending when he glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. He wanted her, but it would have to wait. He was supposed to be at the Swamp Rat five minutes ago. His eyes were still lingering on the lovely Miss MacKenzie as he reached for his cane. His fingertips brushed it, sending it clattering to the floor. It was very loud in the pause between songs. House was retrieving his cane and did not see Meaghan's look of recognition. As he stood up to go, she whispered to the band. There was a shuffling of music and she said, "Here's a little something special, just for you." The band played an old tune, but gave it an up-tempo cha-cha rhythm. The way Meaghan swayed her hips to the beat made it an instant crowd favorite. House was nearly to the door when she began to sing:

Return to me
Oh my dear I'm so lonely
Hurry back, hurry back
Oh my love hurry back
I am yours

He turned and looked at her. He didn't know if she could see him in the dim light, but she appeared to be looking right at him. He wasn't certain, but he thought he saw her wink.

Read the next part of Joan's Fan Fic by clicking onto the link below:
Always and Forever, Part Three