A Quick Story

As I have mentioned before, I have written a few fan fiction stories. I even shared one here last year. Last night I was trying to figure out what to share here today (I've been full days again at my job, which is good in terms of money, but not so good in terms of writing time), and decided I would share a chapter from a fan fiction story wherein I hypothesized the real connection between the characters of the TV show Lost was an equally fictitious doctor from House, M.D..

I must apologize, however, as I a.) did not originally set up the character Kate well in terms of description, and b.) managed to sleep through my alarm this morning, so I did not have time to fix it. But to help you out a bit, this is Kate Austen and this is Greg House.

Now, for your reading pleasure, a look at a Lost Connections.

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House – Lost Connections

Disclaimer: Guess what? I still don't owe any of the characters, etc. related to House or Lost other than these story ideas and any characters of my own design. But I'm okay with that.


Insomnia, a malfunctioning air conditioner and a general boredom with his own surroundings drove Greg House out of his townhouse and to the bar two blocks east of his place late Friday night.

"Dude, been awhile," said the bartender by way of a greeting as he helped a particularly inebriated man into a cab. House said nothing, giving the burly younger man a curt nod as he yanked the door open and stepped inside. Looking around the room he found things hadn't changed much since he had last been here – from what he could remember, anyway. His gaze settled on the far corner of the room. Though they did get a new piano.

"Go ahead," the bartender – Mike – offered, resuming his position behind the bar. "Drinks are on the house if you promise not to sing." House smirked, asking for a large glass of water with extra ice then adding a beer to his order before hobbling over to the instrument. He warmed up with a few scales, not minding when no one looked his way as he segued into the opening bars of Fats Waller's Ain't Misbehavin'.

"What? No Piano Man?" asked the woman seated at one of the nearby tables, a grin pulling at the corners of her mouth as she peeled part of the label off her beer bottle.

"Too predictable," House said, turning his gaze back to the gleaming keys. It was a very new piano. He wondered what happened to the beat-up Yamaha.

"You play here often?" The woman was intent on having a conversation. House shook his head, switching over to a hybrid of I Got You, Babe and It Ain't Me, Babe. Maybe the brunette would get the hint.

"I, I like that."

Crap – she didn't.

Sighing, House abruptly stopped playing before pushing himself up from his seat, grabbing his beer, and hobbling over to the woman's table. "What do you want?" he asked once he had sat down. "You're obviously a newcomer or else you would know people like to come here in order to be left alone. Crazy, I know." He took a swig of his beer before setting the bottle down.

"Yeah, it is," the woman said. "My name's Kate," she added, only glancing up at House for a brief second before returning her attention to her beer bottle, now almost completely free of the label.

House found himself offering up his first name before he fully realized his mouth was moving. How many Vicodin had he taken before he left? Kate said it was nice to meet him and House asked her if she was from Canada.

"What?" she said, her eyes widening slightly.

"You're alarmingly polite," House explained. He squinted at her, looking for any other signs of unease. "A friend of mine went to McGill and has been a serial nice guy ever since."

Kate grinned. "Do you take requests?" she asked. The earlier discomfort in her greenish eyes had been replaced with a gaze at once playful, uncertain, and sad.

House shrugged his shoulders, twirling his now-empty beer bottle between two fingers. "Depends."

"On what?"

"If I think the song sucks or not."

"The End of the World."

"It is? Really?" House looked at his watch, shook his wrist, then held the timepiece up to his ear. Okay he had taken too many pills, even for him. He was flirting with a woman he had just met in a bar while relatively sober.

"No, the song – Skeeter Davis classic," Kate said, interrupting House's mental pill counting. "It is, was . . . could you play it?"

House pretended to contemplate her request for a few moments before nodding his head. Planting his left hand firmly on the edge of the table, he pushed himself up and made his way back over the piano bench. "If I get lost in the hokey-ness of the song," he said as he began to play, "call Wilson. He's number two on my speed dial."

Kate gave him a half-smile and by the time the song was over, she was gone.

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