And House? Well, House was doing what House did best. No, he was not curing some random tourist of the plague. Though he wouldn't be surprised if someone in this establishment were rushed to the hospital from a flea-ridden bacterium. Not exactly the cleanest of sleeping establishments. But House didn't plan to be around for that long so he didn't really care. Besides, he was a bachelor and used to living in his own ... was filth the right word? Just let it be left at the fact that House wasn't bothered by the fact that he might contract some virus festering in the ancient air conditioner.
He still thought this was an elaborate hallucination. Or a really good joke. And if it was real? Then it was a nice vacation. Easy. He was just taking it all one step at a time. He wouldn't start complaining until he ran out of Vicodin and got into a fist fight with a local CVS pharmacist who would (undoubtedly) refuse to pass out the pills on a prescription House wrote for himself.
Then he would miss Wilson. Because Wilson was always getting him free drugs.
But where was he? Oh yes! Doing what he did best. Or, one of the many things he did best, lying on the bed with the tacky red and brown colored comforter, watching some old Bogart flick. The one with the river boat and the leeches. T-shirt (retro-style "Golden Dragon Take-Out" print with fancy Chinese characters), blue jeans, and socks. His cane was propped up against the night stand. Not a man who tried to impress. He didn't need to. He already knew how cool he was.