Harlequin

A/N: Watching House, MD so much has taken an inevitable toll.



Consciousness had been trickling away slowly when she saw a dark-clad figure in a mask walking towards her from the rooftop door, sloshing puddles hurriedly as it stooped to examine her briefly. Before she could explain what happened to her, he had gathered her up, rather clinically; her limbs jostled each other as he turned back quickly to the door and jogged back down the stairs.



The last thing she heard before losing consciousness utterly was the same voice, the sarcasm undistorted by the phone line: "I'm proud of you."



-------------



When she awoke, the arm was completely numb; she could feel a pillow under her head, and a vial tucked into her left hand. Meagan took one loud, shuddering breath, and without warning, a hand clamped over her eyes.



"Don't open your eyes. I stitched up the wound. The prescription bottle in your hand is a little Vicodin. It's old, but not expired. It should take care of the pain, but don't take them if you don't need them."



"O--okay. Can I open my eyes now?"



"No. I don't like talking through the mask, and I expect you have some questions."



"Oh, questions?"



"You always have questions." Anger seeped into his voice.



"Yes, a few. Why did you fix me? Why aren't you trying to kill me?"



"Because, I'm impressed with you. I wasn't expecting that at all. You really did kill him, you know, not just a wound. I am thoroughly impressed. So I figured I could stitch you up."



"So you're going to let me go."



"Yes."



"Okay." A wave of relief washed over her. The nightmare was almost over. "Second question. I can feel these stitches. They're neat. You know how to stitch up a wound."



"So what's your point, I took a first aid class once?"



"You've had medical training, is all I'm saying."



"I was a doctor, before the crash. But no one needs a specialist these days. Trauma surgeons, general practitioners, anyone who can prescribe a bottle of pills--that's what's being hired. Not diagnosticians."



"You're a diagnostician?"



"Board-certified."



"How did you get here?"



The bitterness in his voice drained, replaced by coldness. "I don't really want to talk about it any more. You lived, you killed, you're fixed, you can go. Go all the way downstairs and follow the corridor to its end. The door is unlocked. You can't miss it. Sit up, and don't open your eyes." Meagan obeyed as his hands eased her upwards, supporting her back and helping her off the gurney where he'd stitched her arm back together. She took slow, shuffling steps in the direction he pointed her, until the door closed behind her. She looked up at the worn lettering above the threshold; she had just left the actual infirmary. He had probably taken the time to sterilize his instruments.



Meagan walked down the stairs and out the door.



Harlequin sat down on the gurney and swallowed a Vicodin.



Since when do I not enjoy this?