Little Boy Blue

by Topaz Eyes

Author's Notes: One section of this story was previously posted as a stand-alone fic, "Measure of a Tie," for the hw_fest, prompt # 99: House or Wilson deals with the death of a parent. Any medical mistakes are mine. Lines from "Cat's In The Cradle" by Sandy and Harry Chapin, copyright 1974 (Sandy and Harry Chapin). A huge thank you to jazzypom for reading through all this!

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon, Little boy blue and the man in the moon...

~~~~~

The Tuesday before the Memorial Day weekend dawned bright and sunny, the first of a string of breezy but perfect days in Princeton, New Jersey. The wind carried a clean scent of dewy leaves with a sour note of car exhaust into House's open bedroom window, stirring House from a restless sleep.

House hated these perfect-weather days with a passion; indeed he had come to suspect them for their deceptive kindness. Lying on his back, he groaned and rolled over as the morning rays from the open window illuminated his face, trying to avoid the rising light and grimacing as his leg protested. What was that hideous song about springtime in New England?

No, that's Weekend in New England, a voice in his thoughts (remarkably like his mother's) corrected him as he squeezed his eyes shut against the insistent streaming sunshine. Who the hell forgot to pull the blinds shut yesterday? He might have to find a new cleaning lady by the time he was through with her, for making him suffer this morning. Pulling the covers up over his face he was almost instantly ready to drop off again--

Only to be startled awake by the jarring ring of his phone in the living room.

Dammit, who the hell would be calling him this early on his day off?

Barry Manilow.

No, he wouldn't call, God forbid (and may He kill me if he did).

The song, dear. Barry Manilow sings Weekend in New England.

Oh God, save me from the schlock, he thought with a shudder. And what the hell time was it? He groaned again when he saw the angry red six-forty-five on the display. This did not bode well for the rest of the day.

Thankfully at that moment, the phone stopped ringing and cut to the answering machine. The greeting was curt, typically House. "You have two seconds to make your point. Go."

He had to grin when the voice in his head took form on the other end of the phone. Well, speak of the devil.

"Hello, dear, it's Mom."

Hi Mom, his mind responded dutifully.

"I know it's very early for you, but I was hoping to catch you before you went to work."

Off-guard, he thought as he stiffened, trying to swing his near-useless right leg over the edge of the bed. Good one. His mother was as devious as they came, not that she'd ever admit it.

"I'm calling to ask if you'll be free this weekend to come to Woodbridge. It's the long weekend and we haven't seen you for a while."

House was amazed at the perfect even tone in her voice. Perfect in instilling his filial sense of guilt that is, especially since he'd missed Mother's Day. Nice. He tamped that down quickly. If anything he respected how his mother manipulated with the best of them.

"Anyway, call back and let me know when you can. I'll be making peach-and-strawberry cobbler for dessert on Sunday."

His grin grew into a genuine smile. Like Wilson she was tempting him with food. And while Wilson was a fabulous cook, she was still the best bar none. He could almost taste the tart sweetness of the fruit, feel the smoothness of the cream and the crumbled texture of the pudding in his mouth. So sometimes plying him that way almost worked.

If it weren't for the fact he'd be sharing the table with his father and his Memorial day lectures on the weekend too. Of how good soldiers, his friends and colleagues, gave their lives over and over again so that Dr. Gregory House could sit smug and condescending on his ass in his glass office.

That thought always soured the anticipation. No thanks, I'll take the rain check, he thought.

"Have a good day, Greg, love you."

The voice finished just before the machine cut off. House shook his head on hearing the beep. By now he, and his leg, were fully awake, and his leg was demanding his attention in its usual manner. Damn, he needed a top-up. He grabbed the omnipresent bottle of Vicodin and hobbled unwillingly to the bathroom to start his day.

~~~~~

After calling Greg, Blythe House went outside and spent her morning pulling weeds in the front garden of their tidy two-story detached home in Woodbridge, Virginia. Early in the day was best, when the air was cool and soil was still damp with dew, which made plucking the errant plants that much easier. She preferred this time of day anyway, when one could catch the faintest traces of the ocean on the wind even here before the commuter traffic out of the city picked up.

Everywhere they'd traveled, (and they had indeed been everywhere it seemed) Blythe had had some sort of garden, even if it was only a window box of herbs in Cairo. It was something she just could not go without. When John had finally, reluctantly retired from the Marines and they moved to Woodbridge (only a few miles' drive from the Quantico base, where he still occasionally consulted in his capacity as a pilot) he had dug the front and back gardens for her. She had always needed the feel of green living things between her fingers, the balance of growing life in her hands.

It was something she hoped she had passed on to her only son in some capacity. Well, he'd become a doctor, a world-famous one at that, so she supposed it was successful, albeit only partially. She knew he tried his best to avoid that growing balance of life in his hands, preferring minimal contact with patients, practising medicine by distance.

After a few hours of weeding, her knees, back and chest were aching by the time she squatted back on her heels to survey her handiwork; and she felt a little breathless. Her hand holding the trowel shook slightly and she let it drop on the grass beside her. She wiped the sweat from her brow, leaving a smear of dirt on her skin.

It was nigh time to go in now, the sun was fully risen and already burning the front yard. Today was going to be hot. She rose, forgetting her trowel, and walked around to the mud room at the back of the house to hang up her sun hat and gloves.

When she passed into the kitchen, John was ensconced in his daily newspaper.

"Did you call Greg?" he greeted her from behind the front section.

"Yes dear, I left a message on his machine," she replied, heading towards the sink.

"A message. Again."

"Oh really, John, I don't mind," Blythe admonished as she washed her hands at the sink under the cool running water. "Greg is very busy--"

"He's always too busy whenever you ask him to be there for you. No matter what time of day."

Blythe pursed her lips shut. Sometimes she could sympathize with Greg at his father's unyielding bluntness. Not that she took sides, of course. She could never take sides.

At the same time she felt another twinge behind her breastbone. Her hand flew to her chest, rubbing it lightly. This was an odd time for heartburn to start, she thought in bemusement, this many hours after breakfast.

"Are you all right, Blythe?" John saw the flutter-like movement and he lowered his newspaper, brows furrowing with concern.

"Of course, dear, it's just indigestion," she replied absently, rummaging through the cupboard for antacid.

A wave of dizziness and nausea washed over her and she stilled, gripping the counter to steady herself until it passed. "I'll be fine after a couple of Tums and some rest," she added when she found her voice again.

John frowned. "You've been having heartburn and indigestion a lot lately," he commented. "Maybe you should make an appointment with Dr. Marsden?"

"Yes I will, dear, tomorrow after the ladies' auxiliary meeting." She shook out two Tums and chewed them, rolling the chalky tablets in her mouth; then she suddenly felt weak all over. She needed to rest a bit. She knew she had pushed herself this morning pulling weeds in the garden earlier. It was so hot under the brilliant sun even this early in the morning; she wasn't getting any younger, or perhaps there was something to global warming after all. Either way, the back garden could wait until the cooler breeze of the evening. "I'm going to lie down for a bit, John. I'll be up in a while." She stopped on her way out of the kitchen to kiss his forehead.

John smiled with the brush of her lips across his skin. After forty-eight years she knew her soft touch was still the best thing he'd ever felt, even if he would never admit it out loud. "Do you want me to come wake you when I leave?"

"No, that's all right," she said over her shoulder as she made her way to their bedroom. "You go to Quantico, I know you have meetings and training today."

"I won't be back until after dinner. I'll see you tonight."

"Have a good day, dear."

In the cool half-darkness of their room she slipped off her shoes and lay barefoot on top of the covers, folding her hands on her stomach and closing her eyes. The twinge behind her breastbone seemed to fade, leaving only a gently swirling light-headedness in its wake. It was not unpleasant--indeed it felt rather like floating. With a sigh, she felt the mattress rise up to embrace her. The breeze from the open window carried the rich smell of freshly turned soil and lilacs; she quickly drifted off, thinking of the feel of moist clumping earth under her fingers, and of the scents of lilies and roses that would bloom underneath their bedroom windows in June.

~~~~~

House's mood had not improved one iota since his mother's phone call the day before, despite his day off. He'd made sure to disconnect the phone after he got up but he'd still felt a vague niggling unease all day that still lingered this morning, despite the warm sun and mild temperature. Not even the drive to the hospital on his bike, speeding at ninety on the freeway, with the wind in his face and the feeling of hurtling through space, soothed him. If anything he'd become surlier the closer he got to Princeton-Plainsboro, and to top it all he had clinic duty this morning.

(And it was not that he hadn't tried to worm himself out of it, but Cuddy had threatened suspension of test ordering privileges for his fellows until he'd made up some of his backlog. To add insult to injury, she'd confiscated his pocket TV. His iPod and Gameboy had also somehow grown legs and walked out of his office. He was sure she was holding them hostage. One of his minions had to be in on it, he was certain. Probably Foreman. Revenge of course was to be forthcoming.)

As he lumbered past the nurses' kiosk in the clinic, bag and motorcycle jacket slung over his shoulder, Brenda thrust out a clipboard towards him without a word.

"Ja wohl, mein Furhrer." House snapped to attention and saluted but Brenda didn't even look up from her computer screen. Mutual animosity had its benefits.

House dropped his bag and jacket onto Brenda's stack of charts sitting at the front desk with a cheerful wave. Cheerfully ignoring Brenda's glower of doom, he headed towards the clinic exam rooms. House glanced briefly at the chart as he opened the door to Exam Room Two, then steeled himself for the inevitable.

With a sigh he swung the door open, speaking as he entered. "So, Mr.--ah, Davis, what seems to be the problem today--?"

Then he looked up to see his patient.

Davis appeared to be in his mid-fifties, of average height, about thirty pounds overweight with short graying brown hair. He was dressed in the usual attire of a middle manager: white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, charcoal slacks, brown shoes, muted and loosened green striped tie.

And his skin was completely blue.

Well, perhaps more of a slate blue-gray.

House stopped short, face slack in utter astonishment for one split second before schooling it to his usual mask of amused indifference. The patient's dusky color was rather fetching really, even clashing as it did with his attire; House appreciated how it lent the man's face an unusual shade of purple when he blushed, as he did when he eyed House's cane. (House didn't even want to know what that meant.)

Well, at least this was going to be entertaining. "You're blue," he stated, not bothering to hide his smirk.

Davis swung his legs and blinked. "Ex--excuse me?" he asked stupidly.

House couldn't help rolling his eyes, automatically cataloging his never-ending list of reasons to despise clinic duty. "Mr. Davis. You are blue," House repeated, slower this time and enunciating every word, as if talking to a recalcitrant child.

Davis blinked. "Well, I suppose I've been feeling a little down lately, it's been stressful at work the last few weeks--"

House raised his eyebrows and briefly glanced up, shaking his head. "No. You. Are. Blue." To prove his point, House rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a small hand mirror. He came to stand beside him, holding it out so Davis could see both their reflections. "Your skin."

Davis stared at his reflection, then House's, back and forth in growing incredulity. His mouth gaped, and, stunned speechless, he raised a shaking hand up to touch his cheek.

"Don't tell me you've never noticed it before," House said in disbelief.

Davis shook his head mutely.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Davis only shook his head again.

House fastened his stethoscope to his ears. "OK then. Are you having any problems breathing?"

"No, not usually--" Davis stammered, finally recovering his voice.

"History of heart disease in you or close family relatives?" He tapped and listened to Davis' chest, frowning in concentration.

"None that I know of."

"Been drinking well water lately? Any blue Fugates in your family line?"

"Only bottled Aquafina. And what's a blue Fugate?"

House's mouth twitched as he reached over to grab a tongue depressor. "Never mind. Open your mouth," he ordered.

Davis opened dutifully to allow House to examine his oral cavity. Up close and personal, the cloying scent of infected mucus on Davis' breath assaulted House's nose and he turned away almost gagging. This was only reason number two hundred and six why he despised clinic duty. "You have a rampant sinus infection," he began, "so I will give you a prescription for an antibiotic."

Then House did a double-take and peered closer at his gums. A definite grayish line ran below his teeth on his lower gum. "Your gums are discolored, Mr. Davis. What medications are you taking?"

"Vitamins mostly."

House raised a skeptical eyebrow. "They won't cause this type of discoloration. What else?"

They stared at each other; Davis sniffed, hemmed, hawed, then shrugged after about a minute, breaking eye contact first. "Drops," he said, looking a little guilty.

"Drops?"

"Drops."

"What kind of drops?" House's exasperation grew louder. Recalcitrant patients were reasons number three hundred and forty-two through four hundred and five.

"Nose drops," Davis answered diffidently. "My nose gets extremely dry and then I get stuffed up a lot from allergies. These drops help."

Skeptical, House raised his eyebrows. "Do you have the bottle with you?"

Davis nodded slowly, reached over to his brown tweed jacket and withdrew a small bottle from the pocket. House snatched the bottle from his hand, studying it.

How long have you been taking this?" he asked, peering at the label. His eyes widened, then narrowed as he read.

"A few years."

House felt the hysterical laughter bubble up and just as quickly tamped it down. "Years? Oh good God."

"My sister, she recommended them for my stuffiness and post-nasal drip--"

"And your sister is a physician?" House did not even bother to try to hide his disbelief.

"Well no, she's a school librarian. She found this Internet site--"

House snorted. Internet diagnoses were reasons two hundred and thirteen through two hundred and fifty. "Your sister is an idiot."

Davis stared at him with an expression remarkably like that of a stunned cow.

"You need to stop taking these," House added tersely, his mouth twitching again. "Now. These are why you're blue."

"What--?"

"These drops contain silver."

"But--but that's a metal!" Davis blinked. "I don't eat metal for God's sake--"

"I hope not, I hear it's hard on the stomach." That earned House a blank stare. "Silver is also found in solutions like silver nitrate. That form of silver is absorbed into your body over a period of time. When you take it long enough your skin turns slate blue or gray. It's called argyria."

"Ar--arg--argyria?" Davis' tongue tripped over the unfamiliar word.

House nodded, amused.

"Is'"is--is it dangerous?" Davis stammered, stunned. "Will--will the blue fade?"

"N--n--nope. It's not dangerous. But the skin discoloration is permanent." House hitched up against the side counter and scribbled out the antibiotic prescription. "Take these, see your own doctor in one week, and don't tarnish my doorstep again."

Davis stared at House, stricken. "I'm--I'm always going to be like this?" He stared at his hands. "I'm always going to be blue?"

"Afraid so." House didn't look up.

"What--what can I do about it? I don't want to be blue like this the rest of my life--"

"Aside from stopping the drops?" House thrust the scrip at Davis and smirked. "Damned if I know. But if you're any good at percussion you can start up your own Blue Man Group." He grabbed his cane and left the room, Davis staring in confusion at his retreating back.

Outside, House shook his head and chuckled under his breath. Stupid patients. Reasons number one through two hundred to hate clinic duty. And if this was how clinic duty was going to start, he dreaded what was going to come next.

Wilson looked up from the nursing station where he was filling out a chart. He set the chart down and moved to join House.

"Good morning, House."

"Wilson."

Both stood at the nursing station observing Davis, who had left the exam room and was staring at his metallic reflection in the front window. "Your patient was quite a remarkable shade of blue. I hope that it wasn't serious?" Wilson inquired solicitously.

"Hardly." House could no longer hold back a snort. "Tin Man there has argyria. Self-medicating with silver drops. Librarian sister pretended to be a doctor and prescribed them to relieve nasal congestion. Probably spent all of two minutes researching it on the Internet."

He started walking off down the hall, maneuvering around various patients and staff, Wilson falling into perfect step beside him.

Wilson shrugged. "I don't think it would be only two minutes. There is a lot of information out there to sift through. It can be difficult--"

"And ninety percent of it is crap."

"Ah, well, that's Sturgeon's Law."

House did a double-take. "I'm impressed. Didn't take you to be a science-fiction nerd, Jimmy."

"Well, the Internet is the great liberator of information for the masses. It is our generation's equivalent of the printing press."

"Too bad the masses are too stupid to understand half the claptrap on there."

"Ninety percent of half."

"While the other half of the claptrap is porn."

"Ah, but everyone can understand porn."

"So the Internet is of use then."

"Only for the porn."

Wilson nodded sagely. "Because only five percent of the information on the Internet is truthful."

"Sounds about right."

By this time they had reached the elevators. When the door opened, Foreman stood in the centre brandishing a file folder.

"We have a case," Foreman stated, thrusting the purple folder towards him. "Admitted earlier this morning from the ER. I think you might be interested."

At the same time, House's pager beeped. House snapped the pager off his belt and gave it a cursory glance. Only Cuddy. She probably wanted to "discuss" the extra charges for coffee supplies in his budget. He planned to punt her over to Cameron for that anyway. The page could wait. At least this would get him out of clinic duty for the rest of the morning.

"Tell me," House ordered as they stepped into the elevator and the door closed again.

~~~~~

Cameron and Chase were already sitting at the conference room table, files and notes spread open in front of them when House charged into the office, Foreman almost running to keep up.

Wilson didn't enter, just stopped at the threshold. "I'll catch you later," he called through the door. House waved him off and bee-lined to the whiteboard as Foreman slid into the third empty chair.

"Six-day old male infant with drowsiness and feeding difficulties," he announced, writing the symptoms on the board in his large block script. "Charming. How I love these Disney cases." He could almost hear the tandem rolls of three pairs of eyes. "However, while Bippity here assures me that this is not boring, I don't believe him." He smirked at Foreman, who narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "So, Boppity and Boo, tell me why I should be wasting my time on this case."

"Patient was born full-term--" Chase began.

House scowled at him and nodded toward Cameron. "She's Boppity," he interrupted. "Wait your turn, Boo-boo."

Chase glared and fumed down at his copy of the file while Cameron spoke up. "The patient, Ethan Andrew Myers, was born at thirty-eight weeks' gestation. The mother, Tara Marie--"

"Wow, first name basis already. You going to move in and become their on-call nanny now?"

Cameron ignored him. "--is twenty-seven years old, gravida two para one. Pregnancy was unremarkable, mother attended all prenatal care visits, triple screen normal, no GD, eighteen-week ultrasound showed no gross malformations of the fetus. Weight gain of the mother was thirty-seven pounds--"

"Yes yes, mom's going to have problems fitting into her bikini for Memorial Day," House snapped. "Not important. Boo-boo, take over."

It was Cameron's turn to glare daggers at House while Chase picked up, having followed through the file with his index finger. "Born vaginally after forty-two hours' labor, mom required episiotomy for vacuum-assisted delivery due to mild shoulder dystocia and exhaustion. Baby weighed thirty-eight hundred grams, had Apgars of seven and eight at one and five minutes, and initial breastfeeding was successful. Mum and baby were discharged after forty-eight hours, everything looked fine."

"Textbook pregnancy and relatively few interventions at delivery," Foreman summarized. "Whatever it is, has to do with baby and not with mom."

House sidled over to the coffeepot to pour a mug of brew. "OK. Differential diagnosis, people. Did the patient present with jaundice?"

"Hyperbilirubinemia was ruled out in the ER," Cameron replied. "As was methemoglobinemia."

"Yeah, and we know how those morons operate down there. Re-test."

"Heart and lung function normal?" asked Foreman.

"Heart checked out," Chase confirmed, "but resps were depressed to twenty a minute. Otherwise normal breath sounds."

"If it's congenital heart disease it should've been picked up at the eighteen-week ultrasound," Cameron stated.

"Not if it's a subtle defect," House said over his shoulder. "Echo, EKG and chest MRI to rule out lung pathology."

"An in-born error of metabolism?" Chase asked.

"How long does it take for the heel-sticks to come back?"

"I dunno, probably within a week I think--"

"Get his expedited but it still may not catch all the culprits. Chase, go interview the parents and get a detailed family history, as far back as you can go. Cameron, what the patient's current weight?"

Cameron slid her glasses on and scanned the chart. "Ummm... thirty-six hundred grams."

"It's normal for babies to lose weight the first few days of life--" Foreman said.

"They should start putting it back on by the end of the first week," Chase countered. "This baby's not gaining."

"Probably due to the drowsiness."

"So let's find out what it takes to wake the baby back up again." He glared at all three of his minions then dismissed them with a wave of his hand. "Now. Go forth and spread the magic."

They trooped out, and he headed straight to the bookshelf in his inner office to pull out a reference book. His pager beeped again and he plucked it off his belt. Cuddy again. Annoyed, he threw it in the general direction of the sink where Cameron had some mugs soaking. It landed with a satisfying splash in the suds, and a clunking thud at the bottom.

There. Perfect peace now.

He sat down at his desk, propped his legs up and began to read.

~~~~~

A couple of hours later, House and his minions were tossing the giant red-and-gray tennis ball back and forth across the conference table as they debated the findings of the tests.

"O2 sats are stable for now but they're still sinking," Chase said, puzzled. "How fast?" "Not very, but it's steady. If I had to hazard a guess I'd say that baby's suffering from narcotic overdose."

"But there's no reason why," Cameron objected, catching the ball deftly in her turn. "The mother was clean at birth, no history of drug use, and no signs of neonatal withdrawal, so he's not getting any--"

They all looked up at the click of heels at the door, then fell silent as Cuddy entered the room, looking stricken, and accompanied by a sombre-looking Wilson one step behind. "House, I need to talk to you right now," she announced, fingers trembling around the folder she clutched.

House didn't miss a beat. "Geez, Cuddy, we were having so much fun. Thanks for killing the party with that long face. What happened, your mom died?" He raised his eyebrows.

An odd look of anger, resignation and pity crossed her face. "Now, House. Privately."

"House, I really think you should--" Wilson began.

House stood his ground. "Whatever you two have to say to me you can say in front of my peeps. No secrets held back here." He smirked at Chase, Cameron and Foreman in turn. They all stared back in various degrees of bemusement.

Cuddy sighed, just barely able to keep her cool, and inhaled deeply. "House, your father called. He's been trying to reach you since yesterday but somehow your phone's disconnected?"

House shrugged. "Didn't pay the bill this month. Forgot. It happens."

Cuddy rolled her eyes, taking another deep breath. "And I've been trying to page you all morning since you skipped out of the clinic but you weren't answering."

House glanced towards the suds in the sink. "Misplaced it. Or maybe I stole the battery for my iPod. Either one works."

Cuddy glared at House, waves of anger visibly coursing over her; she was trembling with the effort to control it. "House--"

House smirked at her and turned back towards the board. "I have a patient, Cuddy, whatever you're going to say--"

Wilson rubbed his neck, muttering an almost inaudible "Here it comes," and tensing for the inevitable.

"Dammit, House!" she shouted, tossing the file on the table. The minions jumped at once. "Don't you have an ounce of curiosity as to why your father would even try to reach me? God, for a brilliant man you are so unbelievably dense! Your mother passed away yesterday! Your mother's dead! She's dead, House, and your father needs you to go home."

Silence dropped over the room like the proverbial lead weight, the only noise coming from the sparrows twittering outside on the balcony through the open screen. Chase, Cameron and Foreman exchanged shocked glances with each other, then stared at House, waiting for a reaction.

The man himself stood frozen in place, a statue except for the fine tremor in his hand that clutched the cane. He stared at Cuddy in open shock, mouth gaping for a full thirty seconds before recovering. "No, I don't believe you," he said flatly, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Wilson stepped around Cuddy to stand in front of House, reaching out for his shoulder. "It's true, House," he said sadly. "Yesterday morning, in her sleep. It was her heart. I'm sorry."

House turned his head to stare at Wilson, his eyes wide and confused, his mind working rapidly. It's not true, he thought, panic gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. They're pulling some sort of sick and twisted retribution for whatever he'd done last to piss them off. He so desperately wanted to cling to that explanation--But Wilson was at his side, his warm and steady hand now squeezing his shoulder, and House recognized Wilson's somber, empathetic, break-the-worst-news expression on his boyish features.

No joke, then.

No joke.

House had never forgotten how the world had drained of color, of depth, of warmth, when he'd woken up from his drug-induced coma and first learned of the loss of use of his leg, and then of Stacy's betrayal that caused it. The world had remained dull, monochrome and joyless in its monotony for a long, long time afterwards; it was only recently, and oh so slowly, that the color had begun to return.

He heard it all drain again with a whoosh--oddly fitting, that it should feel like it was all flushing down a toilet--except the world wasn't gray again, it was dark, and the sound seeped out too, leaving nothing but a numb vacuum where his heart should have been.

Yet he still knew how to function despite that; he'd become a professional at denial after all, able to fiddle even as Rome burned around him. He threw Wilson's hand off with a violent shrug. "Yeah," he heard himself say. "Thanks." His voice sounded hollow though, even to him; even as the analytical, detached part of him snickered that he would now probably owe Wilson another ten bucks for someone thanking him for bad news. Maybe there was a joke in there somewhere after all.

"Your father asked me to tell you, your mom's funeral will be at two tomorrow afternoon in Woodbridge," Cuddy announced, her voice a tear-clogged whisper.

House nodded, hearing but not caring. He was going to miss it anyway, that much was certain. Even though Blythe (funny how it was "Blythe" now, no longer "Mom") was dead, he had no desire to attend if John was going to be there. At least that was one headache out of the way.

At some point, Cameron had risen from her spot at the table, and she now approached House and Wilson awkwardly. "House, I am so very sorry," she began, her voice trembling and her eyes shimmering with tears. She spread her hands apart, reaching out towards him. "If there's anything I can do--"

House felt a part of himself snap in anger. He lashed out, taking a menacing step towards her; she backed off, empathy transmuting to fear on her fine pale face.

"No Cameron, you don't get to hold me while I cry on your shoulder,' House snarled, "or make sweet sweet love to me until I forget my misery and tumble into blessed oblivion. That's Wilson's job." He then turned away abruptly from the team to stare out the window.

Both Chase's and Foreman's mouths dropped in identical, ludicrous gapes as Cuddy blinked and Wilson snapped his shut. Cameron's face reddened and her eyes narrowed; she opened her mouth to form a reply but Wilson shook his head, staying whatever words she was about to utter.

"You'd all better go," he said quietly. "Go on, it's all right. I've got him."

Chase and Foreman rose as one with no argument; Foreman reached out and took Cameron's arm. The three filed out of House's office silently with identical looks of puzzlement, shock and relief on their faces, each stealing glances at House's rigid back.

Cuddy picked up the file she'd flung at House and stood uncertainly by the conference table across from Wilson.

"Do you need any help, Wilson?" she asked softly. House, by the window, didn't even seem to know they were there discussing him. "With House?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I--I can stay if--"

Wilson nodded and sighed heavily. "Yeah, I'm sure. Go back to work, Lisa."

Cuddy sighed and slumped a bit and her blue eyes shimmered with tears. House was a miserable bastard at the best of times, but she knew just how few people truly mattered in his life and he'd lost perhaps the most important of them all. Even House deserved sympathy right now. "Take all the time you'll need, House," she said quietly. "I'm--I'm so sorry." Not knowing what else to say, she fled the office too, leaving House to Wilson.

Wilson followed Cuddy to the door, where he closed and locked the door behind her, and then shut the blinds on the windows overlooking the hallway, trying to provide a measure of privacy in what he often thought of as a fishbowl of an office. He looked at the floor for a moment, rubbing his neck and trying to decide what to say.

"You know, I'm actually OK with the crying bit but I hope the sex part is optional--" he finally began in a purposely light tone as he turned around.

His voice died when he saw House.

In the interim House had moved from the window and over to one of the sleek conference room chairs, sliding down to sit with his chin on the handle of his cane. He stared at the far wall, blinking rapidly, face stricken; backlit from the midday sun, he looked every inch a lost little boy. As he most definitely was, Wilson thought with a pang. Not many people had a role in Gregory House's life, but Blythe had been a major player and he knew her death would leave a deep, if not bottomless, hole. Even if House would never openly admit it.

Wilson crossed the floor to squat in front of him and laid one hand on his good knee. "Oh God, Greg--" he implored, not caring that he was breaking one of the many cardinal rules of their friendship. No first names. "Greg--"

House rose his chin off his cane to look up at him, in what might have been a defiant gesture, but his eyes were impossibly bleak.

"Go away, Jimmy. Just--go. Go hold the hand of one of your cancer kids."

Wilson's own heart clenched at the curt dismissal as House lowered his chin back down to rest on the curved handle and squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing, retreating inwardly. One hand rubbed up and down his bad thigh.

But Wilson did not move. He stayed, kneeling in front of House, hand on his knee and his own head bowed, reciting a silent Kaddish that he remembered from his childhood, for Blythe and for House; only his lips moved. House seemed to pay him no attention though; so when he finished, Wilson simply sighed again wearily, squeezed House's knee and rose, leaving him finally alone in the remains of the glass office.

~~~~~

Chase, Cameron and Foreman avoided the Diagnostics offices for most of the afternoon, not knowing what to do about their boss. They spent their time periodically checking in on the Myers baby, who thankfully seemed to be holding his own at the moment, and keeping busy with House's tests.

Still stunned, they kept an odd silence, until the three of them stood at the baby's bedside in the NICU. Cameron looked up at the steady beeps of the monitor. "His O2 sat is down to ninety-three on room air," she said softly, shaking her head. The baby lying in the isolette appeared pale, but not yet cyanotic; his eyes were open, and he blinked at her. She smiled down and he closed his eyes again.

"Do you think we'll have to start hyperbaric oxygen?"

"I hope not, that's pretty tough on a baby," Chase said.

"But we will have to consider it if his sats don't improve," Foreman corrected.

The mother came in, small and pale herself, clad in the yellow issue sterile gown; she carried a small bottle of milk and a breast pump. Cameron nodded at her, noting how worn and worried she looked.

"Ms. Myers, how are you doing?" she asked kindly.

Her shadowed eyes grew over-bright, but her voice was steady. "I'm--I'm OK. Worried. How is Ethan?"

"He's stable for now," Foreman said in a soothing voice. "He's awake, if you'd like to pick him up and hold him--"

Ms. Myers sank into the rocking chair. "I can? But he seems so frail lying there."

"Of course you can." Chase took the pump and milk from her. "I'll give this to the nurse."

As he headed to the nurses' station, Cameron picked the baby up from the bed and handed him to Ms. Myers. The baby protested, but only weakly; the nasal cannula tubing trailed from the gas port and over Ms. Myers' shoulder as she cradled him. She rocked slowly back and forth, crooning a lullaby Cameron didn't recognize.

The three fellows backed off a respectable distance to allow them some privacy, each keeping their eyes glued to the monitor.

After rounds of glancing furtively at each other over the isolette, Cameron was first to break. "Wow. House's mom had a heart attack." She blinked in shock.

"She wasn't that old, was she?" Foreman asked. "I mean--she was only in her sixties, right?"

"The leading cause of death in women over sixty-five is cardiovascular disease," Chase said dully, not looking away from the IV pump control panel. "More women die from heart attacks than all cancers combined."

"In her sleep," Cameron continued, as if she never heard Chase. "Just--never woke up."

"She had to have known something was wrong," Foreman said.

"Heart attacks in women are not as dramatic as in men," Cameron mused. "They don't present with the classic symptoms of crushing chest pain radiating down the left arm. They're more likely to present with non-specific symptoms like fatigue, weakness or indigestion. If they present at all."

Chase stared at the rocking chair, where Ms. Myers sat, her head bent, gently touching the baby's cheek. "D'you think he'll attend his mum's funeral?" he asked suddenly, to no one in particular.

Cameron followed his gaze. "Probably not. He never seemed happy to see her," she said.

"Why? I thought he just hated his dad."

"He probably wishes it were his dad," Foreman snorted with wry amusement. "But if she played go-between for both of them for so long I'm surprised she didn't have a heart attack sooner." Cameron glared at him. "What?" he protested, shrugging. "Anyone under that much stress for that long would have had one a long time ago. You try mediating between two equally stubborn jackasses like them. I bet hostage negotiators could have learned from her."

"That's not right," Chase said quietly, shaking his head. "Even if he hates his dad he should go. It'll be the last chance he'll ever see her." Both Cameron and Foreman turned to stare at him in curiosity but Chase continued to gaze at the baby, snuggled safe in his mother's arms.

"I don't think he wants to face his father right now," Cameron said.

"Do we really want to face House right now?" Foreman replied.

"Good point," Cameron conceded.

Chase turned on his heel and strode toward the NICU exit. "This is ridiculous. I'm going to talk to him."

"Hey, it's your funeral, man," Foreman warned as Chase reached to push on the plate of the door, but Chase shrugged and stalked out of the NICU.

Wilson had long left, and House was bouncing his cane off the floor, half-obscured by the shadow, when Chase entered House's private office. He stood glowering in front of House's desk but House did not look up to acknowledge him. He glared at the carpet in front of him and frowned.

"House--"

"What are you doing here?" House snapped. "Shouldn't you be monitoring the Myers baby?"

"The Myers baby is holding his own for now," Chase replied. He stood looking down at House silently, hands on his hips, until House did look up at him with indifference.

"You look like Wilson when you do that," he said. "Believe me, one holier-than-thou Wilson's more than enough without you trying to emulate--"

"You should go to Woodbridge, House."

House blinked at him, face registering just a tiny bit of surprise. "Oh really? What makes you think--?"

"Because I know you. You have no intention of going at all." At that a brief expression of guilt flitted across House's face and he glanced away. Chase nodded slightly in affirmation and continued, "You never did. You'd rather stay around here and brood and make our lives just as miserable as yours."

"The Myers baby--"

"It doesn't work. Avoiding it, denying it won't work. Your mum's dead and you have to say goodbye to her. At her funeral. It's your last chance."

House fixed Chase with an even stare. "Because you know all about it."

"Yes. Yes I do. At least I got to say goodbye to my mum when she died. I never got a chance to say goodbye to my dad." It was Chase's turn to look away towards the hallway, visibly struggling to control himself as he ran his hand through his hair. "You'll never know how much I regret that, as much as I hated him. And you loved your mum, isn't that enough for you?"

"She'd understand," House said shortly. "I can't go--"

"She might understand, but you won't be able to forgive yourself. You might think you will, but trust me, it doesn't work that way."

Their eyes met and held; House was first to break the gaze, his eyes darting everywhere around the room.

"Even if you hate your dad, even if you can't stand to see him, you owe it to your mum to see her one last time, don't you think?"

House still avoided Chase's steady gaze, tapping his cane on the carpet with a firm staccato rhythm and unwilling to admit to the insufferable wombat why he refused to go. That wasn't any of Chase's business and damn him for thinking it was.

Chase stood for a while, nibbling his lower lip thoughtfully, then spread his hands in resignation. "Well. I see," he said finally, and not a little bitterly. "Sorry to have bothered you then." With that he turned on his heel and strode back out, House following his retreating shadow on the carpet. He then turned his watering gaze to the balcony, watching the leaves shimmer and sway in the breeze as the sun dropped below the horizon.

~~~~~

At seven in the morning on the day of the funeral, Wilson arrived at the doorstep of 221 Baker Street. It was a pleasant May morning outside: the dew drying on the nascent leaves, it was already sixty degrees and partly sunny, which meant it would be unbearably hot later in the day. Which was rather fitting, he supposed. Entering the hallway, he hesitated at the closed door to 221B, his finger hovering an inch away from the ringer. The funeral wasn't until two that afternoon but they still had a five-hour drive ahead of them.

And if Wilson wasn't looking forward to this, he couldn't imagine how House was feeling right now.

With a deep breath, he pressed the buzzer and waited but House didn't answer the doorbell. That wasn't unusual in itself, given the obscenely early hour (obscene for House anyway) but they would have to be on the road no later than eight if they hoped to be on time for the viewing.

After several minutes of ever-more-impatient buzzing and waiting with no response, Wilson finally let himself in with his key, wondering if he'd have to haul House out of bed and dress him himself. The unspoken or worse hovered in the back of his head, but the pounding sound of the shower massager in the bathroom was reassuring enough to settle the thought.

Nevertheless, Wilson stood uncertainly in the middle of the living room, hands in his pockets and rocking on the balls of his feet, steeling himself for whatever was going to happen today. House had had no intention of going at all; the Myers case was proving to be much more of a puzzle than even House had expected, and Wilson knew House was more than willing (indeed, even planning) to hide behind that excuse, the competency of his minions to handle it notwithstanding. Anything to avoid...

But he knew Chase had spoken to House; he'd seen Chase enter House's office out of the corner of his eye. And whatever Chase had said to House last night, it had worked; after brooding (Wilson assumed) for a long while afterwards, until the sun descended below the hospital buildings and the shadows blended with the dropping night, House had thrown pebbles at his balcony door until Wilson came out onto the patio. House had then asked Wilson, in his unique gruff way, if he would go with him to the funeral.

"Funeral's tomorrow in Woodbridge at two. Pick me up at seven." All the while avoiding Wilson's questioning gaze and staring across the common courtyard.

Wilson had nodded his agreement, effortlessly picking up on all the between-the-lines conversation, and wondered if he should kiss Chase or throttle him for forcing House's hand in the matter.

House stayed in the shower so long Wilson thought he'd have to drag him out. Glancing at his watch, it was approaching seven-thirty already; but finally the water stopped and House emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, steam billowing behind him. He was still damp but at least partially dressed in boxers and socks.

"Hey," Wilson said softly.

House looked up and met his eyes briefly; Wilson watched his face shutter closed. "Hey," he replied, glancing away again.

House quickly shrugged into the dress slacks, T-shirt and button-down dress shirt draped over the sofa. Aside from avoiding Wilson's concerned gaze he seemed to behave normally--what passed for normal with House anyway this early in the morning.

Feeling somewhat calmer, Wilson slipped into the kitchen to see if House had made any coffee. Surprise surprise--the pot was full. Would wonders ever cease? Wilson poured two mugs then came back out into the living room, sipping from one.

In the meantime, House had picked up the brand-new tie off the sofa and stood in front of the mirror to tie it. But House's hands shook as he tried to knot his tie; he kept fumbling the last loop before finishing the four-in-hand knot. Wilson watched House's hands clench and wrinkle the fabric in growing frustration, as if trying to crush it out of existence. After the third unsuccessful try Wilson couldn't bear to watch any longer, so he wordlessly set down his mug and stepped up beside him, turning House around to tie the knot for him.

House's eyes widened and he tensed at the touch of Wilson's hand on his shoulder. He knew Wilson was waiting for him (didn't he always?), he knew they had to be on the road soon, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do this. But he simply allowed Wilson take over with a repressed sigh, letting his hands drop to his sides and balancing himself on his good leg.

He squeezed his eyes shut as Wilson's fingers flew expertly around the unyielding silk. Dammit, he was growing soft. It was just a stupid tie. Though his mother adored the look of her men in ties. At home as a teenager, Blythe tied her son's ties, because he stubbornly refused to learn and John refused to buy him clip-ons. The measure of a man is how sincere he is. Clip-ons are not sincere, son.

He inwardly winced at the echo of his father's voice. This was utterly ridiculous; thirty years removed and John's comment still made House feel like an ungrateful heel. Remembering it, his eyes stung as he realized he'd never willingly worn a proper tie for her before today. He'd always fought it, resented the conformity it represented; he only gave in when he was shamed into it by John, or when he knew it would suit his own nefarious purposes.

Until now; the first time he'd ever been willing, the first time he had ever wanted to wear that stupid cloth noose around his neck for her.

And she would never see him in it.

Fuck.

(We don't use that word in our house, Greg.)

House smiled despite himself , feeling instantly contrite. Yes, ma'am.

"You OK, House?" Wilson's breath puffed lightly into his face with each word.

House started, coming back into himself, then nodded reluctantly. He opened his eyes, but Wilson had already stepped back and to his side to allow House to turn and face the mirror. House looked even more haggard than usual; the effects of a long, restless, pain-filled night left his skin pale and his eyes red and a little sunken. The dove gray shirt and charcoal dress slacks hung a little loosely off his frame; but he could almost see Blythe standing beside him, smiling and nodding in approval at the tasteful blue-and-silver striped tie now knotted neatly below his collar. He could almost feel her hand ghost over his shoulder.

"I look like a rain cloud," House said wryly, reaching up to stroke one finger down the silk.

(The tie brings out the color of your eyes, honey.)

House's mouth twitched, not quite a smile.

"You do like raining on other people's parades," Wilson agreed. "Would you rather be wearing black?"

"Black's for weddings and funerals."

"You are attending a funeral," Wilson reminded him gently.

"Well then at least it'll put a little 'fun' into the word by not wearing black," House retorted. "This should be fluorescent orange though. Better effect. Or at least hideous paisley and plaid stripes."

(Blythe shook her head fondly. Oh, Greg, she admonished. Stop torturing him so.)

House smirked at Wilson. "Hey, do you think I could borrow one of yours?"

Wilson ignored the jab. "It's almost eight. We have to leave now or we're going to be late for the viewing. Come on." He laid his hand on House's shoulder.

House did not move; rooted in place, he bowed his head, looking down at some odd dust mote that shimmered on the hardwood floor. An effect of the sun, he told himself. Just the sun. "I don't want to, Jimmy," he admitted at length, his voice barely a whisper. He licked his dry lips, his throat tight. "If I don't go I won't have to believe she's gone."

Wilson only nodded and swallowed, his face twisting in sympathy. He tightened his grip on House's shoulder, looking away for a very long moment. When he turned back his face was composed again, his eyes clear and voice steady. "If you don't go you'll always regret it," he said softly.

House met Wilson's eyes, and his lips curled in a parody of a smile. "Regret is something I've never had a problem with." But nevertheless he allowed Wilson to press his cane into his hand and turn him towards the door.

~~~~~

The five-hour drive to Woodbridge, Virginia was uneventful; no major accidents, surprisingly no road construction, and only the expected traffic jams on the interstates to slow them down. Wilson drove; they had remained largely silent throughout the trip, stopping only twice so House could stretch his legs, so all in all they made good time.

During the trip, Wilson stoically prepared himself for whatever fireworks would likely erupt between father and son. He knew House would never have come down by himself alone. With Blythe gone, Wilson realized with a sinking feeling that he would assume her role from now on as chief mediator between John and House. If her death wasn't the final impetus for House to sever his tenuous connection with his father completely, he amended.

If on the off chance it wasn't, Wilson found himself reluctant to take over; he knew where his allegiances lay, and to be honest he wasn't entirely sure he was up to negotiating the minefield of House's relationship with his father. Blythe had had an uniquely soothing presence on both of them, like a cooling balm. In another life, with different choices Wilson knew she would have made a splendid diplomat.

House stared blankly at the passing countryside, completely unaware of Wilson, his mind desperately trying to focus on the Baby Myers puzzle. According to Chase's last phone update a couple of hours ago, the child had actually started to recover a bit in the NICU overnight, only to drop further in oxygen sats that morning, even while on one hundred percent oxygen by nasal cannula. There seemed to be a pattern of slight improvement followed by further depression--not quite cyclical but it was there nonetheless. That in itself had to be a clue, perhaps the key, if they only had time to monitor it for a while...

Though if the respiratory distress kept up they would have no choice but to intubate and place the baby on a vent, and soon. Chase already noted the dusky skin around the child's lips and fingernails. For now their best diagnosis was congenital heart disease even though the echocardiograms, angiograms, ultrasounds and MRIs were clean. It was too early yet to completely rule out pulmonary hypertension. An inborn error of metabolism was also possible, though it would be another several days for the routine heelstick genetic tests to come back; even while expediting them. He just hoped it wasn't a mitochondrial disease. That was treatable only by a heart transplant, and he did not want to have to consider open-heart surgery on an eight-day-old baby just yet...

Dammit. He watched in his mind, oddly detached, as his train of thought derailed with a spectacular explosion; as the details shimmered and re-formed, and Blythe's face replaced the baby's. Focus, he ordered himself, trying to wrench himself back to the Myers puzzle. Concentrate on the living. You can't do anything for Blythe now...

She died of a broken heart, son.

He winced at the intrusion of John's voice into his thoughts, as soft as butter and cutting as glass. There was no mistaking the bitter accusation underneath.

Yes of course his father would be there. It was only for a few hours, just for the funeral, and he would be gone again, back to Princeton, forever, and with luck would never see the bastard again.

But he also knew what John meant. The world-esteemed Dr. Gregory House could not even save his own mother. He certainly didn't need to be told that. The old mantra Not good enough not good enough always hovered unspoken just under the surface of their relationship.

He grimaced at the sudden stab of pain in his leg and Wilson glanced over at him. "Do you need to stop for a while?"

"How much further?"

"Another half-hour."

House shook his head. "Drive straight through." The sooner they got there, the sooner this would be over. He flinched again at another wave and clamped his hands tight around the missing band of quadriceps muscle in his thigh, bearing down to massage the over-flexed bundles of tissue around the edge of the scar. He was definitely going to need Vicodin for the breakthrough pain. Wilson only nodded tightly and returned his attention to the winding highway in front of him.

~~~~~

They arrived in Woodbridge about an hour before the service was due to start. The spasm in House's thigh had slowly dissipated with his massage, only to be replaced by a sudden knot in his stomach as they pulled up to the front entrance of the funeral home. It was deceptively graceful, a solid two-story brick house set back from the street; faintly colonial in style with a wide veranda and a tasteful hedge of lilacs in full bloom. The home emanated peaceful rest.

At the same time it reminded him of everything he'd worked so hard against.

The unspoken corollary to "Everybody lies" was "everybody dies," usually because of the lies everybody told himself; a place like this was usually the second last place one ended up. This place, and all like it, was his unacknowledged enemy, stolid and implacable despite the swell of emotions within.

He hated what he was about to give up to it.

Wilson let House out and pulled round to the parking lot out back, leaving House to maneuver his way up the walk alone. His leg complained loudly from the long time spent cramped in the passenger seat; he wondered if he should take three Vicodin to placate it (and his nerves, though he'd rather not think of that). There was something appealing in being too stoned to care. Wilson would have a fit though so he dry-swallowed only two, with a promise of a whiskey chaser (or six) later, afterwards, alone.

He waited at the front step for Wilson to join him, exchanging only a brief glance before entering the funeral home. The grace notes of furniture polish and flowers, sliding over the subtle but pervading theme of embalming fluid and decay hit them full on as they stepped across the threshold. Nice. The faint clunking of a failing AC unit told him all he needed to know why that was.

The funeral director, unctuous and tall with a leonine mane of gray hair, came up to them, extending his hand.

"Dr. House, hello. I am so sorry for your loss. Your mother was an exceptional woman."

House pulled himself to his full height, but the director was even taller; House only managed to glower at him and refused to shake his hand. "If you don't fix your AC soon it's gonna smell a lot worse than just rotting meat and daisies," House sniped instead.

Mr. Unctuous nodded but his pleasant pasted expression never wavered. Wilson however did shake Mr. Unctuous' proffered hand, exchanging mindless pleasantries. A part of House's mind found it rather distressing that Wilson seemed way too comfortable in this setting. Had he been in a better mood he would have needled Wilson about it. Now he was too busy trying not to think of what lay just a few rooms away.

"The viewing is this way please." Mr. Unctuous didn't even bat an eye at House's surliness. Instead he led the way to a medium-sized room just off the main hall.

House froze, gripping his cane so hard his knuckles turned white. He barely noticed Wilson's hand at his other elbow, steadying him yet propelling him along; and in seconds they were at the door looking inside. The viewing room was empty except for the casket. House's eyes narrowed and he set his jaw. Wilson's unseen hand tightened in response.

The oak casket, glossy and burnished to a warm golden-brown, occupied one side of the room on a small dais, in front of burgundy velvet curtains. Tables of white lilies and roses, forget-me-nots and chrysanthemums, flanked the casket head and foot. House's mind homed in on the ridiculously childish arrangement of blue-tinged white carnations and yellow and blue daisies with the baby-blue "from your loving son" sash situated prominently at the head.

Definitely not what he would have ordered, even when stoned out of his tree. Tacky didn't even begin to cover the description of that particular arrangement.

From that moment on he cultivated unending resentment for all carnations and daisies, no matter what color or breed.

Everything screamed fake, but no more so than the body lying within the casket itself. The top half of the lid was open, Blythe's body in repose, arranged as if she were only resting; dressed in a deep mauve suit jacket and white silk blouse, cameo pinned at her neck. Mauve had always been her color. Suddenly uncertain, House hesitated just inside the door, Wilson at his side. Behind them, Mr. Unctuous slid the door closed and they were alone.

Wilson hung back by the door, head bowed for a respectful moment before turning to fill out the white and gold-embossed guest book lying discreetly open on a small wooden end table.

House glared at him. Damn it if Wilson wasn't forcing him to do this alone...

House's head spun, his mouth went dry and his leg screamed despite the Vicodin he'd used to bribe it. But somehow he pulled himself over to stand at the side of the casket. Still he found himself staring everywhere in the room except at the casket below him. This was it, this was what everything led to--

Oh God.

He looked up towards the ceiling in silent appeal to the God he knew never answered him. Eight years ago once he'd prayed he'd end up here himself, peaceful and pain-free. He had somehow never imagined he'd be the one still living in pain, looking down into the lifeless face he had loved so much. What had Cameron said once to Foreman?

It's easier to die than to watch someone die.

Add to that it wasn't so easy to watch someone after he was dead either.

Unwillingly his gaze swept over Blythe's body. On the surface, with a fresh dust of makeup and hair powder, her hands folded neatly over her stomach, she did look sweetly asleep. House's mouth quirked fondly. How about that. He could almost, almost, reach out and shake her shoulder; and she would wake up and smile, sit up and reach out her arms to envelop him, chastising him that it had to take the rumor of her death to bring him--

Then as his gaze rested on her face he noticed the cracked veneer of the illusion. Her hair was styled just slightly wrong--she had never parted it in the middle like that as long as he remembered, and no one had bothered to touch up the gray roots; her skin tone beneath the peach foundation and rouge was ashen, not flesh. He only barely remembered her wearing makeup anyway; even though Blythe religiously colored her hair the minute she'd found the first gray strands wisping through, she had otherwise been an outdoors woman who preferred the sun on her face.

And she smelled, well, wrong--the mortuary tech had added perfume, roses and moss with a note of vanilla spice--but Blythe had never worn perfume in life that he could remember; she had preferred natural Ivory soap and the smells of damp earth and bread. He blinked several times, vision blurring. No, his mind protested wildly, though he didn't make a sound. No, no, no. This is not her. This is not my mom.

(Yes I'm afraid it is, sweetheart. I'm so sorry.)

House fought the peal of hysteria rising in his throat.

This was absurd, the whole thought was absurd, but he couldn't help it--he started to shake with laughter. Gripping his cane handle with both hands did not quell the shivers wracking his body. To his horror, he heard a low chuckle escape anyway. He felt himself grow faint, and reached out blindly to grasp a handhold, cursing under his breath.

Wilson looked up just in time from signing the guest book, and set a new world record in the fifteen-foot dash, pulling House upright again before he knocked the casket off the dais.

House leaned heavily against Wilson, grimacing in pain as he looked up at the white high-vaulted ceiling and shook his head. "Fuck," he whispered, and then he couldn't stop; a string of expletives spewed unchecked from his lips between wretched spasms of giggling. "Fuck fuck fuck. Goddamn it to fucking hell--"

(Greg, that's enough of your language.)

The sharpness of the imagined rebuke from Blythe startled him back into awareness and he straightened as if slapped. The urge to laugh immediately died and was just as quickly replaced by another, more insistent (and embarrassing) urge to weep. But he would not give in, not here, not now--refusing even as his mind began to take the first baby steps towards acceptance of the ugly truth. He scrubbed his face, forcibly attempting to compose himself; but he averted his head from Wilson's gaze when he realized the hand he pulled away was wet.

Wilson watched the emotions flicker like lightning across House's deeply-lined face, each emotion cutting deeper than the one before it; and he did not miss the wetness on House's cheek before he swiped at it and turned away. House out of control was an almost everyday event, but this spiral was nothing like he'd seen since--well, since after Stacy had left the first time. House didn't have much left to turn to now; his sparse emotional world had shrunk even more with Blythe's death, and he doubted John would be part of it for much longer either. He supported House's weight, feeling helpless in the wake of House's dawning acknowledgment of the ugly truth.

"Come on," Wilson murmured. "Let's go sit down." He propelled House around and away towards the side of the room to the waiting stuffed chairs lined up against the wall--

Only to meet a pair of identical, grief-filled eyes staring at them from the door.

~~~~~

All three froze in their tracks. Neither House nor Wilson had heard the door slide open and John House did not notice they were inside. Stunned shock registered on both father's and son's faces for an instant. House's face hardened, his jaw twitching, while John's face appeared rueful. Wilson watched both of them carefully, tensing to intervene if necessary.

"Son--" John began, soft supplication in his voice.

The silence in the space between grew suffocating in its intensity. The detached, constantly analytical part of House noted that John looked terrible; as if he'd aged fifty years in the past couple of days.

Serves him right.

(Greg, that's not fair and you know that.)

John stood rigid, his sense of military bearing ingrained so deep it was now instinct; but he no longer stood tall and confident, but folded in on himself, as if missing a crucial support. John wore his dress uniform, as House had expected, that was always a safe bet with his father; the dozens of service awards gleamed almost painfully on John's jacket. Resentful anger flared in House's chest at the sight and his nostrils flared.

John took two steps forward, almost shuffling. "Son--" His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

"I have nothing to say," House said, his voice as hard as stone.

"I know what you're thinking--"

House glared.

"I'm sorry."

House did a double-take. "You're sorry?" he demanded, voice rising. "She died when prompt medical care would have saved her and you're sorry?"

"House," Wilson warned under his breath, and his hand squeezed tightly around House's bicep. House ignored it.

"We didn't know she was so sick," John continued, sounding as pained as House felt. "If I'd known, I'd--you know I would have taken her--" He spread his hands, as if begging for forgiveness.

"But you didn't." House didn't even bother to mask the simmering vitriol. "You didn't, and she died."

John House visibly flinched. A part of House took almost savage glee at the sight of his father, this man he'd idolized and despised most of his life, finally rendered broken at his hand; looking the way House was too bitterly accustomed to feeling in his presence.

"We thought it was just indigestion," John whispered, and Wilson closed his eyes at the naked pain of his underlying plea for understanding. "You don't die from indigestion--"

Each word was soft but measured, honed, calculated to hit home.

"You do die from a heart attack."

John's face slowly crumpled under the onslaught of cutting words from his son; and at the end he slowly turned and left the room, deflated.

But any vindication House felt on seeing John so broken dissipated instantly, leaving House aching and empty. His moment of triumph, and it didn't help--Even as he berated his father, finally getting back at him, a part of him realized this wasn't right. That part of him was shocked to see John House brought to his knees. As much as he wanted to best his father, this wasn't the way to do it, not when he was already down and out--he knew he'd been raised better than that. He bowed his head in shame.

Wilson let go of his arm and rounded on House in utter disgust. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he spat, his dark eyes flashing. "I don't care how much you hurt, that was completely uncalled for--"

House's cell phone rang and he answered it deliberately, ignoring Wilson's fuming. "Yeah," he barked into the receiver. He limped into the hallway quickly, his voice fading, leaving Wilson glaring at his retreating back.

Wilson stood alone in the middle of the room, rubbing his neck and shaking his head ruefully. Really, everything was going about as expected, he knew that, but he still wished it otherwise.

Wilson heard someone clear his throat. Turning towards the sound, he saw John House standing at the entrance, pale but resolute. Both men stared at each other, Wilson at a loss for what to say, John looking--oddly stubborn in his defeat. Then John's expression took on a note of infinite weariness, one with which Wilson sympathized deeply.

"I've lost both of them, Dr. Wilson," John said softly.

Wilson gaped at him, at the raw honesty in his quiet voice. "Please, it's James--" Wilson began helplessly. "And you haven't really--"

But John House didn't hear him--he continued in the same barely audible vein. "When I lost Blythe I lost Greg at that same moment. I knew it the minute I realized she was no longer breathing. I'm--I'm too old to start over with Greg again, James. Even if I did--you saw, he won't let me. I--I can handle losing one or the other of them... but not both of them at once." His voice trembled and trailed off and he pursed his lips shut.

Wilson covered the distance to the door and reached out to touch his shoulder.

"What do I do, James? How do I reach out to Greg without Blythe anymore?" John's watery blue eyes pierced Wilson with an eerily familiar, hopeless gaze.

Wilson didn't know what to say.

~~~~~

House was deeply grateful for the cell phone's intrusion, allowing him to escape Wilson's wrath. Much of it he knew was deserved. He knew he was an ass, but even he hoped he had his limits, as much as he despised his father. Perhaps not though. He put that thought away (far away) for mulling later as he answered in the hallway beyond the viewing room.

It was Chase. "We had to put Baby Myers on a vent."

Chase's voice was controlled but House could still hear the worry and frustration. Oh thank God, medical crises and terrified minions were things he could deal with. "What are the O2 sats now?"

"They were dipping below ninety when we tubed him. They're up to ninety-five now but his level of consciousness is slipping too, no idea--"

House slowly made his way out to the veranda, concentrating on Chase's words. He heard a voice in the background saying something unintelligible.

"Is that Cameron? Put me on speaker," House ordered.

"House, we got the heel-stick results back." Cameron sounded breathless, as if she'd ran from the records department. "No inborn errors of metabolism were detected."

Dammit. "At least none that New Jersey tests for," House corrected. "Which deficiencies and disorders aren't included in the New Jersey newborn screening?"

"2-M-3-HBA, CPT-1-A, DE-RED, MCKAT, GAL-E and GAL-K," Foreman recited. "Galactosemia, CPT deficiency and lipid metabolic disorders."

"Order all of them." He looked idly out towards the front lawn, impressed by the lack of dandelions and other weeds in the meticulously groomed grass compared to the surrounding yards. Obviously the funeral home believed in the religious use of herbicides-- "And get a tox screen. Call back as soon as you find anything."

He heard a brief catch in Cameron's voice. "House, it's almost two o'clock already. We don't want to interrupt the funeral service for your mom--"

"I don't care if you'll be interrupting an orgy right now. Just call."

He snapped the phone shut and sat down in one of the wicker chairs, legs shaking. Baby Myers was slipping into the death spiral and they didn't have much time left to solve his illness. He doubted that it was an inborn error of metabolism. Even the most severe organic acid disorders usually took weeks to months to cause this level of symptoms. It had only been a matter of days--he pinned his hopes on the tox screen showing something, anything that might lead to the answer.

He heard Wilson's footsteps creak over the boards of the porch, striding towards him. Though he didn't have to look: Wilson would do a double take at finding House sitting on a rattan chair on the front porch of the home, chin on cane handle, eyes closed against the warm afternoon sun almost as if he were basking. He knew Wilson would be standing appalled, hands on hips and glaring down at him. So House let him stew a few moments for good measure, before opening his eyes and returning Wilson's gaze with a steely look of his own.

"What the hell was that, House?" Wilson shouted, not bothering to lower his voice. Two elderly ladies approaching the funeral home entrance, who had to be friends of Blythe's, flinched and scurried into the home but Wilson didn't notice. "Did it feel good to destroy your own father like that? What, you couldn't wait to get back at him for your lifetime of misery? Was it fun to rip him a new one when he's already down and grieving? Nice one, what are you going to do next, take bottles from babies and replace them with battery acid?"

"Do I look like I'm feeling good about it?" House snapped. He looked away, a spasm of pain tensing in his jaw.

Wilson opened his mouth to answer, then fell silent at the look of genuine guilt on House's face. Wilson reached up to rub his neck, looking beyond the porch towards the lilacs, trying to think of what to say.

"House, he's all you have for family now," he finally murmured, trying to sound placating; but his voice threatened to break at the end. "You have to make peace with him."

"For the sake of my mom, right?" House retorted, voice dripping with bitter sarcasm, and Wilson's gaze shot back to his friend's withering scowl. "So she can rest knowing that what she couldn't do in life she was finally able to accomplish in death? Reuniting an estranged father and son. How touching. Do we hug and cry in each other's arms in front of everyone and beg for each other's forgiveness?"

Wilson did not back down. "Yes--yes. For your sake and his, YES. Hug, cry, hell a simple handshake-- anything! Because you're all he has and he's all you have. Your grief for her at least is something you and he share." House tensed but Wilson continued on in quiet insistence. "Use this chance, House. Give one last gift to your mother. Because if you don't extend the olive branch now, before you leave here today, he will die alone and broken-hearted and you will regret it the rest of your life."

House slammed his cane on the floor with enough force to dent the plank, and Wilson jumped as the thud of rubber-tipped metal on maple wood reverberated through the veranda. "Stop telling me what I should and should not regret!" House's voice rose until he was shouting. "Dammit! You, Chase--Have any of you ever considered it's what he deserves for what he's done?"

A few people who stood on the lawn and by the sidewalk, turned towards the sound of his outburst. Even the surrounding air seemed to stop, suspended and waiting. House blinked, apparently shocked at his own admission. He frowned and looked away but not before Wilson caught the flush of red on his cheeks and a fleeting look of utter frustration cross his face. His brow furrowed as if deep in thought and he pursed his lips together.

Wilson gaped at him, stunned speechless for several heartbeats before recovering. He opened his mouth to argue--then noticed the fine trembling in the set of House's mouth and took a gentler tack. "I don't believe you meant that," he murmured softly. "As angry as you are with him, even you know better than that."

"I can't forgive him, Jimmy." Wilson inhaled sharply at the hoarseness in House's tone. House heaved himself up to stand, and Wilson noticed how badly his hand shook on the cane handle as he pivoted. "Too much has happened for that," he added, sounding flat.

Wilson licked his lips and sighed, watching him carefully. "If--if you can't make peace, at least try to make neutral. He's terrified of losing you. He's convinced he's lost you already."

"We lost each other a long time ago." House suddenly looked as weary as he sounded, hunching over his cane, and Wilson wondered if that slim strip of wood and metal would be enough to support him.

"That may be," Wilson conceded. "But it's not too late to find each other again. Here, now. If you try."

Their gazes locked, and Wilson thought he saw a quick glimmer of hope pass through--only to ache as he watched House forcibly squash it back down. House's eyes narrowed, his face assembled its customary stubborn-until-it-kills-you-me-and-everyone-else look, and it was Wilson's turn to slump his shoulders in defeat. Wilson checked his watch.

"It's almost two, House," he said, his voice carefully even. "Time to go sit down."

"Yeah." House still did not move.

"I'm not going to cajole you," Wilson said, trying to suppress his growing frustration.

"Yes, mom," House snapped automatically, then stopped. His face paled, remembering her still face, folded lifeless hands and frozen smile. House stared past the porch, past the front lawn and the neat manicured house across the street. He prided himself in his relentless search for the truth. Well then, this was his; this raw and jagged Blythe-shaped hole in his life, sharp and cold with no warmth or comfort left. What had made Blythe his mother was long gone now, her physical shell the only talisman of her existence, and soon that would be only a memory too.

"She's really dead, Jimmy," he said, so softly Wilson could barely hear him. "She's really gone."

"I know," Wilson replied, in the same hushed voice; words the only solace he knew House would allow. "I know."

House nodded slowly, turned on his heel and made his way past Wilson towards the chapel.

~~~~~

The funeral chapel was already almost full by the time House and Wilson entered. Despite himself, House was impressed by the turnout. He did not recognize any of the people there, not that he would choose to know them anyway; but he felt almost proud that Blythe had been so well-regarded.

However though he did not know anyone in the chapel, they all seemed to recognize him, much to his displeasure; all eyes seemed to turn towards his figure as House shuffled down the aisle. House shot withering stares at each onlooker in return, so that anyone who followed his progress winced and turned their heads away, embarrassed. Slowly he made his way towards the front pews, roped off with velvet ribbon and marked "Reserved for Immediate Family." Those weren't so full; indeed only one person sat in the very first pew: John House.

Wilson stood close by until House sat down heavily beside John, easing his leg out into the space; once House was settled he went to sit down in a pew further behind. House glared at Wilson's retreating back, irritated that Wilson obviously wanted to abandon him. He refused to look towards his father. His father seemed to pay him the same respect, staring straight ahead without any acknowledgment.

The casket had been moved up to the front of the chapel, a photograph of Blythe in her garden sitting amidst the bouquets of roses and lilies covering the lid. House blinked, then stared at the picture; that was how he remembered her best, familiar no matter where they had lived in the world: kneeling in front of a moist patch of earth and looking up from pulling weeds, pushing a tendril of hair off her smudged face with a wide open smile. It was obviously a very recent photo but he did not recognize the house; the picture had been taken in the front garden in her home in Woodbridge, a place House had never visited. He bowed his head at that, feeling chastised. He hadn't wanted to avoid her, he never had, it had always been his father--

The chaplain, small, round and balding, stepped out from the small anteroom into the main chapel, walking to the pulpit to one side of the casket. House glanced up, then bowed his head, staring at his feet. His feet were beginning to hurt, not used to wearing dress shoes, even though they were orthotic.

House sat through the first part of the service, hands on cane and staring at his shoes the whole time. The first time he tried to stand with the rest of the congregation, he felt his bad leg shake and he couldn't put any weight on it without it collapsing; he heard John hiss in his ear, "Get up, get up for your mother's sake, Greg," but he couldn't. The congregation had sat down again by the time he'd been able to half-rise out of the pew. For the remainder of the standing portions he remained sitting, imagining John's disgusted scowl and pissed off at himself for being unable to stand for Blythe.

That was minor though, compared to what happened when his cell phone rang, in the middle of the chaplain's sermon on children honoring their parents in life and in death.

House withdrew the phone from his jacket pocket, ignoring the collective gasp of the congregation.

John leapt to his feet. "Like HELL you're answering that!" he shouted.

John yanked the phone out of House's hand and flung it to the floor.

The phone bounced and skidded along the hardwood, smashing at the pulpit, still ringing. "How--how DARE you disrespect the dignity of this service? What the HELL is wrong with you?" John was livid, looming over House still sitting in the pew; and shaking with the effort to control himself.

All eyes turned again towards them. A hush fell over the congregation except for the insistent shrill tone of the phone; no one even dared breathe. Behind, Wilson sat stock-still, frozen in shock.

House did rise to his feet then, slowly and deliberately; staring at John full-on, two pairs of ice-blue gazes locking. "Give me back my phone," he said, deceptively calm.

"No, I will NOT. I know you don't care about anyone else but yourself, but I thought today, today of all days you'd show some sort of allegiance to your mother, some sort of--of honor and respect towards the dead--"

"I respect my mother," House said, glancing away briefly towards the casket. "But I owe my allegiance to the living. Now give me back my phone."

"NO. I will not let you make any more of a travesty of this solemn--"

"There is a patient who will die on the other end of that line if I don't answer that call," House said, menacing in the tight control of his voice. "If Mom were here she would understand that."

Around him the whole congregation seemed to flinch at House's venom. Wilson tensed, ready to leap up and intervene.

John did not back down. "You always were an arrogant, ungrateful, uncaring--"

"Yeah, I get that I was never the son you wanted." His gaze narrowed. "But that patient is dying as we speak. And this is what I do. So unless you want a baby's innocent blood on your hands, I need. To take. That call."

John stared at House for several heartbeats, visibly fuming; but something relented, and he finally broke their locked gaze and turned away.

The minister darted out from behind his pulpit to bend down and fetch the phone. It stopped ringing as he deposited it in House's hand. "Dammit!" he said, and punched in the number. Waiting the few seconds for the call to connect and ring through, he banged his cane on the floor.

"House? Is that you? You didn't answer--" Cameron said, her voice thin with distortion over the line.

"Yeah yeah, so sue me, I was interrupted," House snapped, glaring at John. "What do you have?" House didn't care now that the whole congregation was listening in.

"We got the tox screen back. House, it showed morphine and you won't believe how much--"

"How much?"

"Almost twice the lethal dose."

House blinked, stunned. "That much morphine's gonna throw him into withdrawal. Put him in an induced coma and start naloxone, point four mg IV push. Repeat the naloxone every five minutes until his sats are in the ninety-eight per cent range."

"Chase and Foreman are inducing the coma now. But we never gave baby Myers any opioid drugs at all in the NICU. How did he get so much in his system--?"

"That's the sixty-four-million dollar question. Test everything that baby's been given. Drugs, formulas, whatever was put into him. Pull the records, harass the pharmacists. Talk to the mother again and check her and the baby over for track marks. Search the mother's home for any drug paraphernalia. We gotta find the source of the overdose." House rubbed his temple, feeling sick himself.

"House, the mother swears up and down she's no junkie--"

"If she wants her baby to live you'd better get her to 'fess up. No one gives that much morphine to a baby unintentionally."

"Got it." Cameron hung up.

House felt his leg begin to collapse beneath him, and he sank heavily into the pew. Whatever it was that was poisoning the baby, they had to find it and fast. Who in their right mind would poison a healthy baby by morphine, let alone how--?

He heard John clearing his throat beside him. John glared at him, openly angry. "Are you done ruining your mother's funeral?" he snapped.

"For now," he replied, not bothering to hide his own resentment.

The chaplain resumed the service, picking up the sermon almost where he left off. Neither man even looked at the other through the remainder of the homily, the eulogy or the closing hymns and prayers. House focused his thoughts on the baby Myers crisis, his mind working frantically. He doubted that the mother was deliberately poisoning the baby, and he doubted the checks of the pharmacy records would reveal any mix-ups, especially since the baby did not receive any opioids. How would one deliver so much morphine without being detected? He wished he had something to do with his hands to help him concentrate; he had to settle for beating a light tattoo on his cane handle. All the while John studied him with growing rejection. House knew John was angry at him; he just didn't care.

Lost in the puzzle, House did not rise again until it was time for the funeral procession, when John forcefully tapped him on the shoulder to get up. John was still livid, a pulse point in his temple throbbing beneath his skin. House rose, his eyes tracking the casket's final journey out of the chapel, to the hearse and then on to the cemetery. He stepped out first into the aisle, followed by John, to begin the procession; and though they stood shoulder to shoulder, the distance between them was more than an ocean.

~~~~~

House and John sat in the limousine on the way to the cemetery, an icy silence hanging between them. Each avoided looking at the other, staring out their respective windows at the passing stately homes and overarching maples along the avenues. House told himself it didn't matter. Another hour, two at the most, and he'd be done with it all, ending this chapter of his life and heading back home.

He'd never been John's son anyway. He'd always, always been Blythe's.

Why did that thought not make him feel free?

The knoll where Blythe would be buried, was rather steep and had no pathway, nor hand-holds on the way up; so when the limo stopped and the driver let John and House out, House hung back to wait for Wilson. John simply shook his head in disgust and headed up towards the green.

House gave a small, tight smirk when Wilson finally arrived; he'd been one of the final cars of the procession. Wilson raised his eyebrow but said nothing. They fell in step together, Wilson reaching out to steady House's elbow over the uneven slope. The grade was steeper than they thought, and House felt his back dampen with sweat; he removed his suit jacket and gave it to Wilson to carry.

About halfway up the slope House's phone rang again.

Wilson shook his head. "That phone will be the death of you," he commented.

House shrugged. "Life on the line," he quipped, and answered. "Yeah."

"It was the breast milk," Foreman said without preamble.

House stopped in his tracks. "Are you serious?"

"Positive. We checked it twice. The mom's breast milk had ten times the maximum infant dosage of morphine."

House whistled. "Talk about mother's milk being soporific."

"That's not funny, House," Foreman retorted. "But it fits with Chase's observation the last day or two. The baby perked up before his next feeding time, but when he was fed through the tube his sats depressed again."

House nodded in agreement. "OK then. Start leaning on mom for the truth."

"House, with that much morphine in the baby's system we need to call the police in to investigate," Foreman reminded him.

"Even better. Siccing the cops on her might get her to squeal." With that House hung up. Wilson studied him intently.

"So the mystery's been solved?"

"No," House said. "We know what the baby's been poisoned with, and how he got it. We don't know who or why yet." He looked up to the small collection of people at the graveside. The chaplain was already there presiding, and giving the sign of the Cross. "Damn, they've already started the internment."

Wilson followed his gaze. "At least this phone call didn't interrupt it."

"Shut up, Wilson." He stood for a minute, then began to plod ahead again.

They reached the periphery of the congregation just as the chaplain ended with "May the Lord welcome His servant Blythe into the Kingdom of Heaven. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit."

"Amen," House murmured, staring down at the grass.

The small crowd moved off, most pointedly avoiding House and Wilson. Many of the older servicemen glared at him outright with various looks of displeasure and disgust, though some of their wives sent sympathetic glances. House ignored them all, focusing on the oak casket now glinting in the late afternoon sunshine.

He covered the remaining steps over the green carpet covering the grave site, Wilson hanging back to give him some space. As he did he belatedly realized he had nothing symbolic to give, nothing to leave with the casket. No single-stemmed rose, no pristine white lily, not even one of those hideous childish blue daisies; no note of thanks or love, or small token to place on top. He wished he could leave his cane, but that wasn't going to happen. He'd been so concentrated on the baby Myers case, on his own anger with John; the only thing he had left, he realized, was his words.

He blinked and frowned down at the casket, trying to think what to say. There were too many words he'd left unsaid and now that he had to say them, the words failed him altogether. Things he realized now he should have told Blythe, small things, large things, the things a son should say to his mother. Everything he assumed that she already knew.

Except maybe one thing. The truth. He could try to give her that, whatever it was.

He laid one long hand against the sun-warmed oak. "Mom, I--"

I could never be what you wanted. I could never give you what you deserved.

He blinked rapidly. "I--I saved a baby's life today," he started, his voice faltering slightly. His mouth worked silently for a minute, then he recovered. "I ruined your funeral service to do it. And--I'm sorry I did that. But--but you taught--you taught me that life mattered. Matters. Above all else and--I--I hope you'll understand--"

He inhaled one large shaky breath. "Thank you, Mom," he said. "Thank you for being--for being. And for loving the son you had, not the one you might have wanted."

He searched his mind but couldn't think of anything else. Feeling drained and empty, he leaned over and touched his forehead to the wood. Closing his eyes, for a minute he imagined he could feel her warmth radiating from inside, touching him one last time.

He straightened, and turned away resolutely to head back towards Wilson.

John stood a few paces behind him, looking uncomfortable.

"Greg."

House stopped, startled.

"I'm sorry for eavesdropping. I--I just heard you say your goodbye."

House blinked, waiting.

"But I--I realize I may have misjudged you today. And I want to apologize. For what it's worth."

House bowed his head. "Yeah," he whispered. "Thanks."

"I--I know that with your mother gone, we--we never got along the way we should have, the way your mother would have liked, but I just want to say--you're still my son, and if you ever need or want anything from me--"

House stared at him, stunned.

Wilson came up beside them both, hands in pockets, his gaze flickering back and forth between House and John. The motion seemed to break the awkward silence. "Are you coming to the reception?" John asked.

House shook his head slowly. "I--I gotta get back to Princeton to check up on my patient. It's a--it's a long drive." It was lame he knew, and he steeled himself for the rebuke.

John simply nodded. "Sure, I understand." House openly gaped at the amnesty. "Goodbye, Greg," John said, and held out his hand.

House stared down at his father's outstretched palm for a hard minute, his mouth working. He slowly, hesitantly came forward as if to grasp it; but in the end he could not bring himself to touch it. House withdrew his hand back and let it drop to his side.

John shifted his stance a bit, reaching out with his other hand, perhaps to touch his arm--but House stepped back quickly, out of reach.

John nodded, reluctantly acquiescing. "Take care then, son," he said huskily.

"Yeah, you too," he replied just as gruffly.

John House nodded, pivoted on his heel and made his way back to the waiting limousine down the knoll.

House and Wilson followed, a slow and painful descent, heading to Wilson's BMW. Wilson watched House open the passenger door, retrieve his Vicodin from his pocket, shake out two pills and dry-swallow them with obvious effort. He stood a moment, leaning heavily against the car roof, then eased himself into the seat, gingerly lifting his bad leg into the car.

Once Wilson was sure House was settled, he climbed in himself, fastened the seat belt and started the engine. Careful to avoid looking at House, he pulled out and crawled to the cemetery entrance. Out of the corner of his eye he saw House twist in his seat to look back at the casket, glossy and golden in the sun, above the raw scar of earth in the lawn, its maw covered by green carpet and adorned with flowers. When House turned back around, Wilson turned right to exit the cemetery and headed back to the highway towards Princeton.

They drove in heavy silence until, about a half hour out of Woodbridge, House clutched his right thigh, rocking back and forth with a silent grimace. As the spasm receded he leaned his head against the window and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Do you want me to pull over?" Wilson asked, alarmed.

House shook his head. "Keep driving," he whispered through clenched teeth.

Wilson was careful to keep his eyes directed straight ahead at the highway, the grey asphalt ribbon winding through the green rolling landscape, glinting in the late May sunlight. Settling on a blues-jazz station on the radio, Wilson turned up the volume on the car stereo to provide a wall of privacy. Willfully concentrating on Diana Krall and the long road home, he took special care not to notice the tears finally, soundlessly trailing down House's craggy cheeks.

~~~~~

Instead of going back to House's apartment, they ended up driving back to Princeton-Plainsboro. The sun was just starting to set, orange, pink and violet-blue on the horizon behind the brick buildings on campus.

Chase and Foreman met him as he made his way to his office.

"We found the source of the morphine in the breast milk," Foreman announced without preamble.

House did not look at him; instead he stared at the whiteboard, that had not changed since the day before last. "Go on," he said dully.

"The mother was taking acetaminophen with codeine without her knowledge," Chase said.

House tilted his head in surprise. "How do you take Tylenol Number Threes without knowing it?"

"Her boyfriend was giving them to her and telling her they were regular Tylenol."

"She told you that and you believed her," House said, incredulous.

"Cameron saw him giving her some pills. We confiscated them and had them tested. He's been arrested."

"The pills were generic acetaminophen with codeine. No marks stamped on them either so she wouldn't have known the difference."

House blinked. "So he knew she had an ultra-rapid CYP 2D6 variant," House murmured thoughtfully. He studied the backs of his hands for a moment. "Nice."

Chase and Foreman blinked in unison. "Care to elaborate?" Chase asked.

House stared at the board, eyes sweeping over the symptoms. "The patient's mother is in the one per cent of the general Caucasian population that metabolizes codeine to morphine extremely efficiently, thanks to a variant in the cytochrome P450 2D6 gene," he said matter-of-factly. "Her boyfriend figures that out somehow. The boyfriend doesn't want the baby. The reason doesn't matter, just that he wants to get rid of it."

Chase and Foreman watched House, mouths agape.

House didn't appear to notice. "So the boyfriend decides to strike back. The mother suffers from post-natal pain, he oh-so-solicitously offers her pain pills that she assumes are plain old acetaminophen, which is perfectly safe for breastfeeding babies. Except the pills are actually acetaminophen with codeine. Which is also generally considered safe for breastfeeding babies, except, as it turns out, for those whose moms fall in that one per cent of the population. Any side effects like constipation or drowsiness on mom's part could be blamed on the childbirth. No one would be the wiser. Meanwhile the baby gets drowsier and drowsier from morphine overdose from mommy's milk, eventually stops eating, and fades away relatively quickly, even painlessly. Quite literally the baby is loved to death."

"But the tox screen at autopsy would have shown the massive overdose--"

"Which would have made it perfect. The mom ends up getting all the blame for the baby's death, probably even arrested for drugs. Meanwhile the boyfriend gets off scot-free and no one ever suspects him."

The looks on Foreman's and Chase's faces mirrored the one on Wilson's later, as House related the story to him, standing at the window of the NICU.

"That was a--rather ingenious way to try to kill his own son," Wilson said slowly when House finished, with equal parts shock and disgust.

"Almost the perfect crime," House agreed. "And it almost worked."

House turned from Wilson to study the patient and his mother. Baby Myers still remained in the induced coma of rapid detox, but really it looked as if he were just sleeping peacefully in his isolette, amongst the wires and tubes attached to his body. His mother slept fitfully in a rocking chair beside the crib.

Wilson frowned at the picture. "God. The mother's boyfriend," he murmured. "I hope he rots for the rest of his life in a jail cell."

House nodded, but said nothing. Wilson yawned and sighed. "It's been a long day. If you don't mind, I'm going home."

House shrugged, but otherwise did not acknowledge him.

Wilson cocked his head. "Are you OK, House?"

House stared straight ahead at the sleeping mother and baby, mouth set in a thin line.

Wilson waited, but when he realized no answer would be forthcoming, he sighed. "Well, good night. I'll call you tomorrow." With that he plodded off down the hall.

"Wilson."

Wilson stopped mid-stride at House's quiet voice, and turned around. "House?"

"Thanks." Their gazes met and held. "For everything."

Wilson's mouth twitched into a half-grin, his boyish face lightening a little. "Sure."

When Wilson rounded the corner towards the elevators, House slipped inside the NICU to stand at the side of the isolette to read the boy's monitor. He was reassured by the steady beeps. The boy was still on a vent; he would remain in an induced coma until the worst of the narcotic withdrawal passed. Then he'd be in NICU for a few days, but the baby would likely recover with no lasting problems.

Baby Myers was lucky. His mother was lucky. Idly he wondered if there had been any other cases of infants surviving supra-lethal morphine toxicity like this. Under other circumstances House would be insufferable with his gloating, having solved the puzzle once again and defeating Death in the process. Normally he'd be rubbing it in Cuddy's face for at least the next several weeks. Now he simply felt empty. He suspected he'd feel that way for a long time.

(You saved his life, honey. You allowed his mother a second chance with him. That counts for something.)

His mouth twitched as he wondered if he would ever feel that comfort in certainty again.

The young woman stirred in her chair, yawned and rubbed her eyes, then jumped on seeing House standing beside the isolette. "Who--who are you?" she stammered. "Where are our other doctors?"

"I'm Dr. House," House said. "I'm the attending physician on your son's case."

Ms. Myers' face furrowed in puzzlement. "Dr. House? Why haven't I seen you before now?"

House looked away. "I had--I had other matters to attend to," he admitted. He looked down at the sleeping child and found himself fighting an urge to reach out and touch him. "How's he doing?"

Ms. Myers smiled shakily. "Much better, so they tell me. Ethan should be out of his coma and breathing on his own soon."

A heavy silence fell between them as she looked away and bit her lip. Her eyes glistened in the muted light. "How--how could I have done this to him? I--I almost killed him."

"You didn't," House said curtly. "You didn't know."

"B-but...I could have refused, I could have stopped taking the Tylenol Scott gave me--"

"It wasn't your fault." He turned his gaze from baby to mother; she shrank back under the intensity of his stare, but to her credit she did not look away. "Not your fault."

"But how can I ever make it up to Ethan?" she whispered.

"Move past your guilt," he said, barely above a whisper himself. "Be his mother. And don't ever take codeine again as long as you breastfeed."

The young woman nodded, her eyes wide. House broke his gaze, looking down and away to a spot on the tile, frowning; then he slowly turned and limped from the room without another word.

It was late in the evening, so he could hear his footsteps echo through the quiet darkened halls without the jostle of patients and staff surrounding his every step. He slowly, painfully made his way back to his office, head bowed and deep in thought. God, he was tired and aching all the way through. Passing through the glass door, he hobbled to his desk, where he sat heavily on his chair, leaning against the handle of his cane with a sigh of relief.

He eyed the silent phone on his desk, remembering Blythe's last phone call. And God it hurt, to know he would not hear that voice again except in memory; and he knew that memory would slowly fade, as neuronal dendrites did over time, until her voice was only a whisper in a far corner of his mind.

He reminded himself to remove the tape from the answering machine when he got home, so he wouldn't accidentally erase that last message.

The office was now completely dark, except for the light from the parking lot lamps burning below his window. House brooded in silence for a long time; only the sounds of the hospital sighed around him. Once or twice his hand reached out towards the phone as if to pick up the receiver; each time he stilled his hand and withdrew it back to his cane. Finally he sighed, looking at his watch. It was past midnight now. Baby Myers was doing all right, and he probably should head home--

Wilson's words suddenly echoed through his thoughts. If you can't make peace, at least make neutral.

House tapped his cane against the carpet. Damn you to hell, Wilson.

But maybe--? It was late, but not overly so. Perhaps--

Before he could talk himself out of it, he plucked the receiver off the cradle and leaned in to dial the number. It took a couple of tries to remember the proper sequence, he had never committed it to short-term memory because he had never called it, but eventually he managed. He held the receiver to his ear, clinging to it unconsciously, blinking as he listened to the far-away ringing tone. Four rings, five, six--no answer.

Well, at least he'd tried.

On the eighth ring, disappointed but not surprised, he went to hang up; until he heard the phone pick up on the other end, a barely audible sigh, and one heavy, grief-weary word.

"Hello?"
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.

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