Morphine didn't sound like a bad idea right now. Of course, it wasn't his tipple of choice, but... Anyway, wasn't he supposed to be getting clean? Wasn't that why he'd checked himself in in the first place? Although if he'd been kidnapped to a make-believe fairy castle who was to say what else he might as well do? Clearly common sense had gone right out of the window. And his leg was already beginning to twinge.
Rather than think about it, he turned his attention back to Sherlock. He was British - from London, apparently. He'd already known that from the conversation over the phone. Intelligent. Admitted to the use of drugs and random gunfire, suggesting reckless behaviour. Was that a personality change, or had he always been like that? If the sociopath diagnosis was correct, then probably the latter. What must that be like? But if it had developed it might indicate...
The question pulled House from his examination of the stranger. "Did you ever hear the term 'doctor-patient confidentiality?" he asked. "In this case I'm the Doctor. And the patient. And I'm afraid I took a hippocratic oath to protect my privacy." He tilted his head a little, flexing his fingers around the handle of the cane. "Why'd you come looking for me? What do you want?"