A/N: I know a lot of you don't like House being referred to as 'Greg'…truth be told, neither do I, but it's Stacy's dream, and she would.

Warning: Character death. But don't worry, he's fine in the end.

Disclaimer: I doubly disown this...the characters aren't mine, and neither is the plot! Well...a little bit's my work...

Stacy climbed into bed wearily. She had had a tough day. Mark was already asleep, lying on his side, his back to her.

She leaned over him, and gave him a gentle kiss. He stirred slightly, but didn't wake.

Stacy lay down, closed her eyes, and was asleep within seconds.

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"And how's Mark?"

Stacy was sitting at a table, with Dr Cameron taking things out of cupboards, in what seemed to be a small country cottage. She looked out the window, but couldn't see past the thick mass of tree trunks.

"Better," she answered, turning away from the window, "considering."

"Considering what?" Cameron asked, bringing a plate of cookies to the table and sitting down opposite Stacy.

"Well, Greg hates him," Stacy sighed, taking a cookie and chewing it carefully. Cameron nodded sympathetically.

"Well, I always thought that you shouldn't have gotten involved with him," Cameron murmured.

"With Mark?" Stacy said.

"No, Greg."

"What's wrong with Greg?" Stacy asked, then immediately wished she hadn't.

"Well," Cameron began, clearly picking her words carefully. "He's not-"

But Stacy never found out what Greg wasn't, as Cameron was interrupted by a shrill ring.

"It's mine," Cameron said, reaching for her cell phone. "Hello?"

There was short pause while Cameron listened to the speaker.

"Of course. She'll be right over."

Cameron hung up without saying goodbye, a trait she had no doubt learnt at the hospital.

"That was Mark," Cameron informed Stacy gravely. "He's feeling ill."

Stacy didn't find it strange that Mark had contacted Cameron instead of herself.

"What's the matter?" she asked worriedly.

"He thinks it's a cold." Stacy stopped worrying. Cameron motioned for Stacy to follow her, which she did.

"A cold?" Stacy echoed. Cameron narrowed her eyes at Stacy's tone.

"Yes, a cold," she said stiffly. "I'm sure you know how horrible it feels. I told him you'd take a basket of antibiotics."

"No you didn't. You didn't tell him on the phone."

"You were listening to my conversation?" Cameron said, coming across inappropriately shocked.

"You were right in front of me," Stacy laughed incredulously. Cameron looked absolutely horrified.

"The antibiotics?" Stacy asked slowly, trying to disrupt the tension.

With a haughty glance at Stacy, Cameron opened a drawer, which was filled with syringes. Stacy stared.

"You keep a drawer full of antibiotics?"

Cameron didn't reply, just took out a basket.

"That's ok, I'll use a carrier bag."

Cameron looked like she was going to argue, but she didn't. Instead, she opened the drawer beneath in, took out one of the many tied up plastic bags that occupied it, and threw in a few doses of antibiotics. Stacy had a burning desire to open the third and last drawer to find out what Cameron kept in there, but as she reached out her hand, Cameron slapped it back, and handed her the bag.

"Don't be nosy," she said reproachfully.

Reluctantly, Stacy left the drawer and it's unknown contents.

"Take the riding hood," Cameron instructed. "It's cold out."

Stacy didn't think so. It looked at least 100º.

"No, it's ok, Ill be-"

"Take the hood," Cameron repeated, glaring at Stacy, reminding Stacy scarily of her own mother. She nodded dumbly. Cameron's face relaxed into a smile.

"Good. And stay on the path, I've heard there are wild animals in the woods."

"Yes, mother," Stacy responded, though it didn't seem to have as much effect as she hoped it would. "I'll be fine."

She walked out to the front, and took the red riding hood from the coat stand by the door.

"Got the antibiotics, got the cloak, I'll stay on the path…can I go now?"

Cameron seemed to check Stacy over, and was apparently satisfied, as she nodded, smiling kindly, as if she'd just given permission to a three-year-old wanting to go outside and play.

"Be careful," Cameron warned, before shutting the door loudly, giving Stacy the unnerving impression that she'd just been kicked out of her home.

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Stacy was right; it was warm out, so she didn't bother putting on the hood. She placed it in the carrier bag, atop the antibiotics.

Stacy walked along slowly, feeling the sun hit her face, and wishing she'd thought to bring sunscreen.

About 5 minutes later, Stacy reached the halfway mark, and had a sudden urge to step off the paved walkway, and into the dense woods.

Completely disregarding the feeble voice of Cameron in her mind, she did so. Stacy pushed through the trees for about 10 metres, until she came across a clearing with a small stream, and beside it, an apple tree. And beside that, and apple stall.

Stacy walked up to the stall, and was greeted by Chase.

"Hi, there, Little Red Riding Hood. Why aren't you wearing your beautiful riding hood today?"

Wondering what to make of the question, Stacy ignored it.

"How much are these apples?"

"73 dollars a kilo," Chase replied shortly. Stacy started.

"You think you'll sell any at that price?"

"Well, they're the best apples around. Hand picked," he added proudly. "From that there tree."

"Oh, so what would those apples cost?" Stacy asked, half-jokingly, pointing to the tree. Chase glanced curiously at Stacy.

"Well, they're free, of course."

Stacy's eyes flicked between Chase and the tree.

"So…why are you selling apples…right next to the tree from which I can pick them myself?" Stacy was talking slowly, trying to make sense of the prospect.

"They're the best apples around," he repeated. "Hand picked."

"…right. Well, I think I'll go with the second best apples around…cheaper, you know." Stacy reached up and plucked an apple from a low hanging branch.

"No problem. If you do decide taste the best apples around, I'll be right hear." Chase smiled. "Wanna know my secret?"

Stacy stopped eating to listen.

"Sure. Go on."

"They're hand picked," Chase said softly, looking around, as if checking to make sure no one heard him.

"Thanks for…sharing that with me," Stacy said, edging away. "I gotta go."

"See ya."

With a fleeting glance in Chase's direction, Stacy left, still chewing the apple.

As she neared the path again, something leapt out at her, and she let out a shriek, throwing the apple core at it.

"Ow!"

"Greg?"

"Well, they call me the Big Bad- ok, Greg sounds good."

Stacy shook her head.

"Cameron was right, there are wild animals out here."

"Where are you off to, Little Red - you are Little Red Riding Hood, aren't you? You're not wearing the hood."

Stacy didn't think she was, but everyone kept referring to her as Little Red Riding Hood, so perhaps she had missed something, and she was.

"Yeah," she surprised herself by saying. "That's me. But I also go by Stacy, which is a little shorter."

"Ok, Little Red Stacy, where are you going?"

This situation felt weirdly familiar, but Stacy couldn't quite place it.

"Mark," she replied. "He's sick."

"And where might Mark's house be?"

"Just 5 minutes down the path," Stacy told him, pointing, and wondering why she was telling him. Something was advising her she shouldn't have, but she seemed to have lost all inhibitions. "I'm bringing him antibiotics."

"I can do it, if you like," House offered. Stacy went back over her thoughts, and decided that she hadn't lost all inhibitions.

"No," she declined, not so politely. "I let you anywhere near Mark, you'll turn into Dr Death."

House looked slightly put out.

"Sure? I went to medical school, you know. I was top of my class before I dropped out."

"You dropped out of medical school?" Stacy gaped.

"Yeah, before I became a professional Big Bad - Greg. My name is Greg."

Stacy tried desperately to process all the new information; it didn't make any sense.

"Um…no. I'll be fine."

House breathed out, disappointed. Stacy almost felt sorry for him. But she didn't want Greg, Mark and injections all in the same room. Of course, the last time that happened, House saved Mark's life.

"I'd…better go," Stacy said, and began walking towards the path, and taking a left.

For the next 5 minutes, she just focussed on moving as quickly as possible to Mark's. She was beginning to get a feeling a tense apprehension compressing her chest.

Soon enough, she found herself at the door of another country cottage. She knocked gently. Nobody answered. She waited a little longer, then knocked harder.

"Is that Stacy?"

Mark's voice sounded rather high pitched and breathless.

"Yeah, it's me. Can I come in?"

"One moment!" the voice yelled urgently.

Again, Stacy didn't find this odd situation – she couldn't go into her husband's house without announcing her presence – odd.

Stacy waited a moment, then opened the door quietly.

"Hey," she called. "I've brought some antibiotics."

"Oh, uh…thanks." Stacy couldn't see Mark. She followed his voice into a bedroom.

"Hey," she said, going into the room. Mark had his back to her. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm just-" He cleared his throat, and his voice changed noticeably. "I'm holding up."

"Mark?" Stacy was growing suspicious. His voice was the tip-off, but now she thought about it, he was lying quite straight and stiff on his left, facing the wall, whereas Mark normally lay on his right, and he liked to curl his legs up to keep warm, he said.

But this man's stance was not unfamiliar.

"Greg?" she said disbelievingly.

There was a very pregnant pause for a few seconds, before-

"How could you say that?" he spat. "How could you mistake me for you old boyfriend?"

Before Stacy hastily apologised, she held her tongue for a moment, and considered it strange that that he hadn't turned to face her, so changed her mind, and went with her original assumption.

"Greg, stop playing games with me. Where's Mark?"

"I know you still love him, don't try and hide that." He sounded hurt now. "But you could at least try to tell us apart."

Stacy slowed down the temp; she was beginning to have doubts. She approached the bed cautiously, afraid he – whether Greg or Mark – was going to lash out at her.

She stood over the figure, trying to decide whether she dared touch him. Stacy thought perhaps she did dare, and stretched out her hand, to please it on the man's back.

But before she could, she spotted the handle of a cane poking slightly out from under the bed.

"Greg, where's Mark?" Stacy demanded, a little more than somewhat angry.

"I told you not to-"

"Get up. Tell me where Mark is."

Greg obviously recognised the severity of her tone, as he turned slowly, and looked up at Stacy, clearly frightened. She was glaring at him steadily, her fists clenched in fury.

"Oh, relax. I put him in the closet."

Stacy narrowed her eyes, not sure whether to trust him or not. He jerked his head towards the closet doors.

"He really is in there."

Stacy stepped around the bed, keeping one eye on Greg. She opened the doors tentatively. Mark was lying, completely still, under the mass of heavy coats, hanging stiffly.

"Mark?" Stacy bent down quickly, shaking her husband vigorously.

"Mark!"

She turned around, shooting daggers at Greg.

"What did you do to him?" she asked, sharply spitting the words.

"Relax, he's fine. I just injected him with a powerful histamine. He's only…slightly dead."

"Dead?" Stacy screeched. "Dead! Fix him!"

"I…can't," Greg said, breathing out warily through his nose. "I don't have the anti-histamine on me."

"You-" Stacy didn't finish what she was going to say, not knowing what she would have said, had she the chance. She was panicking; she didn't know what to do. Should she kill Greg now, then get help for Mark, or get help first, and then kill Greg? Hard decision. There was one option left while she made up her mind: stall.

"What the hell were you thinking?" she yelled at Greg, while her mind ticked over in overdrive. "What drove you to complete insanity?"

"You were incapable of making a choice between us."

Greg sat up, and got painfully out of bed. Not bothering with his cane, he limped over to Stacy.

"I've just made that easier."

He went to put his arms around Stacy, but she sidestepped him.

"By hell, you've made it easier. I can't love a murderer."

She realised that her face was wet, and her vision blurred, and she wiped furiously at her eyes. She had to help Mark.

Knowing that Greg wouldn't attempt to follow her or, even if he did, she could easily outrun him (which made her stop for a moment and wonder how Greg got to Mark's house before she did) she ran from the room.

"Help!" she sobbed. "Somebody help!"

From out of nowhere, somebody came to help.

She hated that she was breaking down – right in front of someone else, no less - but her husband had just been murdered, so she rather felt she deserved to be able to.

"What's up?"

"Foreman!" Stacy cried. "Mark's dead. I need you to revive him."

"Stacy," Foreman said gently, "if he's been dead for a while, there's no reviving him."

She ignored him, and tugged him inside.

"Anti-histamine," she gasped. "Give him some."

"He had an allergic reaction? To what?" Foreman asked seriously. "Where is he?"

Stacy pulled him into the bedroom.

"House?" Foreman stopped moving. "What's are you-"

"Mark!" Stacy interrupted impatiently, and Foreman stopped quizzing Greg to inspecting Mark.

"Not breathing," he observing. He put his forefingers on Mark's neck. "No pulse."

"Do something!" Stacy cried hysterically. "Give him the anti-histamine!"

"Are you sure he needs-"

"YES!"

Foreman quickly pulled out a syringe, and jabbed it into Mark's arm. Stacy held her breath. Nothing happened.

"Is he going to die?" she whispered.

"Technically, he's already dead."

"You shut up."

Foreman listened in the background, kneeling by Mark.

"I got a pulse," he announced after a moment. "O2 stats dropping, BP declining."

"How can you tell?" Stacy asked curiously. "He's not hooked to a machine."

"I don't know, it's what doctors say."

Stacy thought about this, then decided it wasn't worth thinking about.

"Is he breathing?"

"Nope," Foreman stated simply. Stacy had had enough of Foreman. She pushed him roughly aside, and fell down beside Mark.

Stacy didn't pay too much attention when she learnt EAR in grade 8, but she tried to recall a few tips.

"Breathe," she muttered to herself. "Once every 4…4 what's? What is heart beats or seconds? Damn it, I can't remember! I give up. Foreman, get down here."

"He's dead. There's no point-"

"Greg! Please?"

It looked like he took a moment to decide whether or not to revive the guy he just killed.

"Help me now, and I won't kill you," Stacy offered, in her way of a truce.

House probably realised what an excellent deal this was, as he crouched down stiffly.

Stacy watched him fearfully, clutching Foreman's arm tightly. Foreman was shaking his head sceptically. The next minute felt like an hour. After a while, Stacy noticed Mark give a slight shudder, and immediately dropped down next to him.

"Can you hear me?" House asked, over-pronouncing his words. "Open your eyes."

At that, Mark's eyelids fluttered, but didn't open.

"What's your name?" Mark didn't reply, but Stacy didn't expect him to. Greg took Mark's hand.

"Squeeze my hand." His hand stayed unsqueezed.

"Come on, Mark," Stacy willed him, resting her head on his shoulder. And, just like in all those clichés, Mark responded to that. His hand wobbled as he raised it, placing it gently on the back of Stacy's head.

Stacy started. She laughed in relief, and tried to get rid of the tears that had appeared uninvited as she hugged her husband.

After she made sure that he was definitely alright, Stacy left Mark's arms and, although still considering murdering him, she hugged Greg.

Foreman was ignored.

"Thanks, Greg," Stacy mumbled, feeling uncomfortably comfortable with him.

"Stacy," Mark said sharply from the floor, and she unwillingly left Greg to kneel by Mark again.

"You ok?" she asked, stroking his face.

"I suppose," Mark said sulkily. "Considering."

"Considering what?" Stacy queried, though hardly listening to him.

"Consider a crazed maniac just killed me, then revived me on the orders of his old girlfriend!"

Mark was yelling now.

"Shh," Stacy soothed. "He only – how did you know it was on my orders?"

Mark looked confused.

"I mean, you were unconscious."

"Actually, he was dead," Greg piped up, and Stacy glared at him, which shut him up.

"I…don't know," mark said. "I guess I just assumed."

"Too bad, you assumed right."

"Greg, shut up," Stacy said through gritted teeth, not looking at him. Mark sat up, holding his head.

"Maybe you shouldn't-" Stacy began.

"I'm fine," he sniffed. "But I've still got my cold.

"Oh, I…brought you antibiotics." Stacy went to pick up the bag, and brought it over for Mark.

"Here, this might help." Stacy took out a syringe. She took Mark's arm, and jabbed it in.

"Ow!"

"Sorry."

"You did it wrong."

"Ok, Greg, you do it," Stacy said irritably.

"No, no, no, I DON'T think so!"

"Come on, Mark, just a little jab."

"He just KILLED me, and you're going to trust him with me?"

Good point, Stacy thought, but she wasn't about to say that.

"He also saved your life."

"Which wouldn't have needed saving if he hadn't killed me first!"

Very true.

"Do you want to get rid of the cold?"

Mark nodded.

"Then trust him."

"A little hard to do when-"

"Greg, just do it."

Greg did it.

"Ow!"

"Whoops, wrong spot."

"Hey!"

"Sorry."

Jab.

"Ow!"

"You should thank me."

"Why should I thank you?"

"I saved you-"

"Greg!" Stacy had had enough of their bickering. "Let's-"

"Call the police?" Mark inserted, his cold mysteriously gone. "Excellent idea."

"I wasn't going to-" Stacy tried.

"We should," put in Foreman, who was getting sick of being ignored.

"Thankyou," Mark said, taking the comment, using it to his benefit, then going back to ignoring him again.

"I don't' think we need to go that far," Stacy spoke out. "It's really-"

But Mark was having none of it. He pulled out a cell phone and dialled 911 before Stacy could stop him.

"Police, please," Mark said into the phone.

"I have a murder in my house."

"I'm not a murder," Greg protested. "You're not dead."

"I was. And if Stacy hadn't come, I still would be."

He seemed to have forgotten he was on the phone.

"No, no, I didn't say I was a murderer. I was talking to him."

The person on the other end must have asked who 'him' was, as Mark replied,

"My murderer."

There was a pause. Everyone in the room was listening to Mark.

"Yes, I know I'm not dead," he said touchily. "But I was. No, I'm not hysterical.

"Yes, that's right.

"My wife went for help.

"Yes, a doctor.

"I don't know what he did, I was dead.

"I have no idea!"

Mark put his hand over the mouthpiece, and addressed House.

"Why aren't you running?"

Greg shrugged.

"No point. I'm not a murderer."

Nobody bothered to correct him.

"And he can't," Stacy added, eyeing his leg.

"He says he's not a murderer," Mark related into the phone. "I…don't know."

He turned to the group again.

"What's the address of this place?"

"Little house in the woods," Greg said.

"Little house in the woods," Stacy echoed, turning to Greg suspiciously.

"Little house in the woods," Mark repeated. "Oh, good. Yeah, I'll keep him here. He won't go far."

Mark hung up, also before bidding goodbye. So maybe the hospital wasn't the only place that taught that habit.

"They're coming," he informed them. And come they did. They took Greg away, but no without a fight…argument.

"I'm not a murderer."

"Could you come with us, sir?"

"He's alive."

"We can discuss this at the station."

"I saved his life."

"This will be easier if you co-operate, sir."

Greg finally realised that they'd probably listen to him more when they weren't trying to drag him away.

So Stacy and Mark stopped ignoring Foreman and sat down at the table with him and Chase, who had appeared at Mark's front door after hearing about Greg's arrest ("Wow, news travels fast around here." "I get a lot of customers. I've got-" "The best apples around, I know." "Want to know-" "No.") and a large mug of coffee each.

"Well," Stacy said. "That was exciting."

"Exciting wouldn't be the word I'd use," Mark said, taking a mouthful of his drink.

"What exactly happened?" Chase asked curiously.

"You don't want to know," Mark assured him, sounding slightly stoned.

"What are you drinking?" Stacy asked suspiciously.

"Coffee," Mark said defensively, clutching his mug to his chest protectively. Stacy raised an eyebrow, telling him she didn't believe him, but she didn't bother trying to take it away.

The poor guy was killed and revived in the last half an hour, she reasoned, let him have his fun.

Stacy, personally, couldn't see what was fun in getting drunk, but each to their own.

Draining her mug, Stacy stood up, and stretched.

"I'd better get going."

She felt a tap on her back, and spun around. Upon finding nobody, Stacy frowned. She felt another tap, this time on her left shoulder. Again, she saw no one when she turned, at least, no one that could have touched her. She was receiving very strange looks from her three companions.

"Someone…" Stacy squinted in their direction, feeling rather vulnerable.

She shook her head, and shut her eyes.

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When she opened them again, she wasn't with Chase and Foreman in a little log cabin, but in her bed, with Mark standing over her, prodding her gently.

"It's almost 8," he said.

"Oh, shoot." She pushed the bed sheets off her legs hurriedly.

"What were you dreaming about?" Mark asked. "You were moving around a bit."

"I don't remember," Stacy said truthfully, making her way quickly towards the bathroom. "Something in a wood, I think. And apples. There were lots of apples."

A/N: None of these medical references are true. I don't think. Specifically, I don't think you can kill someone with a histamine. And you most certainly can't revive them with an anti-histamine. So. You know. Stacy wouldn't know that, and it's her dream. Unfortunately, over the next few chapters I might have to make it more realistic. Hmm.

How was that? Next chapter is Cameron, starring in 'The Frog Prince'. That should be fun. :)