It was only natural that, after suffering weeks of hallucinations, checking himself into Mayfield Psychiatric hospital, and then waking up in a castle that could only be described as something off the front of a shortbread tin, that House assumed he'd just taken that final step into stark-raving crazy.
But then he'd spoke to that blonde girl, and noticed that his usual hallucinations were a lot smarter than she was. And that man - Sherlock, the morphine addict, who he supposed might be a creation of his own drug-soaked subconscious, but for some reason... It just didn't seem to fit. And House knew his gut was usually right. Which meant that it was likely none of this was a product of narcotics, and he had been kidnapped to the shortbread castle in a land that was probably named by a drunk child.
Either way, he'd never work anything out in his room. And one prison was as good as another as far as he was concerned. At least here he got free stuff. Half an hour or so after his arrival found House out in the corridor, leaning back against a wall to rest for a moment, his cane propped beside him.
Someone addressed him. Why did people keep on addressing him?
House looked up sharply, noticing a tall, pale man watching him. "Nope," he replied after a second's consideration, turning back to his free phone. His right hand reached for the cane, picking it up and brandishing it vaguely down the corridor, gesturing in the opposite direction. "He went that way. Yelling something about a pot of gold." He glanced up at the man, a heavily sarcastic expression firmly in place. "If you run you might catch him!"