Disclaimer: I do not own anything. At all.

A/N: Yes, another story. This one is going to be quite interesting in its narrative style; it might be confusing at first, but you will catch on soon. Just bear with me in the beginning. A million thanks to Melissa for helping me find my muse again last night, taking this story to the next level, and of course, beta reading this first chapter (and now that I think about it, I think you've beta'd the second one already too). Shout out to Pandorama, who added me to her author alert list just minutes before I uploaded this chapter, and will now receive an email announcing its publication.

Her eyes snapped open to an unfamiliar scene. She could have sworn she had known where she was, but she didn't recognize anything. She was in a car, but the car's interior was unfamiliar. She realized she was not the one driving, as her hands were folded in her lap. Her next realization was that she had no idea who was driving. She turned her head left to see.

She frowned. How had she gotten here? Why was she in a car with House? Was this his car? Did he even own a car? It had to be Wilson's, probably taken without permission. She twisted her hands nervously in her lap and then looked down. Her fingers were wrapped around something glossy.

She was holding a stack of photographs. She lifted them slowly to her face. The first one was of a man who was clearly dead; the background showed the familiar bluish tint of the morgue lights, and he was covered only by a thin, white sheet. He had bruises on his face and his brown hair was caked with blood. She recognized her handwriting on the white part of the Polaroid.

Wilson.

She frowned and flipped the photograph over, hoping for more clues. She found a line of text that had been scratched out, and then another line in her handwriting beneath it:

Someone wanted him dead.

Wilson was dead? And someone had wanted him to be that way – someone had murdered him? She shuddered. When had he died? Why didn't she remember his death? Surely she would have gone to his funeral.

Biting her lip, she flipped to the next paragraph in the stack. Her eyes met the picture of a gruff-looking man with very blue eyes. He stared up at her from the Polaroid as though he could see through the glossy exterior into her very soul. It was a picture of House. She had written his name beneath the picture. She flipped it over. There was another crossed out line, and then one line of her own writing.

He will help you because he wants answers.

She wondered what kind of answers he wanted. "House?" she asked.

He looked over at her as he pulled the car to a stop in front of a red light. "Remembered me, have you?"

"I didn't forget you," she told him. "I knew your name without the photograph." He just smirked and continued driving. "Where are we going?" she asked uncertainly.

"To the morgue," he said simply. "There is someone that we have to see."

She bit her lip. "Are we going to see Wilson?" Maybe the funeral hadn't happened yet.

House shook his head. "No."

She waited for him to continue, but he didn't, so she turned back to the stack of photographs in her hand. She moved House's photograph to the bottom of the pile and looked at the next one. This one wasn't a Polaroid picture, but a scrap of paper with a crude stick figure drawing. The name below the figure was Vincent Carpenter, but it hadn't been written in her handwriting. She recognized the practically illegible scrawl of House. She turned the piece of paper over. This time there were three lines of text in her handwriting, but only one hadn't been crossed out.

Dead.

She looked back at House and showed him the photograph. "Is this the guy we're going to see?"

"Wrong again, but thanks for playing." He turned into the parking lot.

She sat back in her seat as he parked the car. "Are you going to tell me anything?"

"Are you going to remember anything I tell you?"

She glared at him. "You know, it's not like I chose to live this way."

He looked back at her. "How would you know, seeing as you can't remember how it happened?" She heard the bite of annoyance in his voice and wondered if they'd had this conversation several times before. "Out of the car, let's go."

She threw him a look before swinging her legs out of the car. She found it rather annoying that he refused to explain to her what they were doing, even though she knew he must feel equally as annoyed that he'd probably explained it to her and she had forgotten. Her condition was the most annoying part of all.

He led the way into the building and down the stairs to the morgue. She tried to ask him again what they were looking for, but he silenced her with his hand. As they approached the doors, a lab tech with his nose in a file walked out; House seized the opportunity and pulled her inside before the doors could shut. He rushed over to the drawers and began reading the labels. At each one, he shook his head and went on to the next. She looked around in embarrassment; she doubted anyone in the building even knew who House was. The last thing she wanted was to get caught going through bodies with him in a place they weren't authorized to be.

"House, we should leave. We shouldn't be here--"

"Shut up and help me," was his only response. "The name is Terrence Doyle. Start looking."

The name didn't sound familiar, but she did as she was told. She walked over to the drawers and began scanning the labels. With both of them working, they were able to cover more ground, and it was only a minute after she had begun searching that House found the right one. He gestured to her and she approached slowly. He grasped the handle and pulled it open.

Terrence Doyle had dark hair and looked utterly unfamiliar to her. She wondered if she was supposed to have recognized him. House didn't show any signs of grief at seeing the body. Instead, he gestured to the side of Doyle's head at the obvious bullet hole.

He stared at the dead man for another moment before declaring, "Suicide." He shook his head and muttered, "Coward."

She bit her lip. "Don't say that," she admonished softly. "You don't know what he went through…he might have been depressed, or terminally ill, or psychotic. For all you know--"

"I know plenty," he snapped at her. "Suicide is more than he deserved."

She stared at him indignantly. "House, you don't know--"

"No, Cameron, I know," he said sharply. He sighed and turned back to her. "You're the one who doesn't remember."

A/N: Please review; I would love to know what YOU (yes, YOU!) are thinking. I believe the second chapter is written and beta'd, so you can expect to see it posted soon.