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House really had no excuse for having been away as long as he did. If most people asked, he'd give them some long-winded story about a medical case that had evolved into an epidemic and then had evolved yet further into an entirely new disease that he had discovered and promptly cured. It would, of course, be a huge lie, but people tended to believe his lies.

Then again, House had left a note on Wilson's door saying: Gone to get cigarettes. H. After nearly a month, that excuse probably wouldn't be so useful anymore. But hey, Wilson might still believe him if House made up a story about traffic troubles. Maybe.

Alright, Wilson wasn't stupid, and wouldn't believe that. But for some reason, House was feeling almost guilty about the fact that he'd been away for so long - though he'd never admit that his behaviour might resemble something called 'fretting'. That was too pathetic for his liking.

Although it was 3am when House parked his motorcycle outside and made the long journey inside, and a plan was already hatching in his mind. Which is how he ended up, at 3:15 am, wheeling his television silently into Wilson's room.

It would a good thing the wheels didn't squeak. Shutting the door behind himself, House figured that Wilson looked like he was still asleep, but he could be a bit of a lying bastard (well, a lot of one), so House didn't trust appearances. Still. He had a job to do. And this was probably the closest to saying 'Sorry for the extended vacation' that House would ever come to. And he would say it by being extremely annoying.

Having rolled the television to the end of Wilson's bed, House eased himself down to sit with his back against the headboard, stretching his legs out with a silent groan, careful not to disturb Wilson. He really should learn not to ride his motorcycle for hours on end, it tended to end up hurting.

Smirking silently to himself, House pointed the remote and turned the television on loudly, waiting eagerly for the freakout.