(Author's note:

If you will forgive my self-indulgence, I'm going to depart a bit from standard procedure just this once. The first chapter of the new story will be posted on Thursday. This time around, in honor of the show's finale which airs tonight, I'd like to write about House MD and how it changed my life.

In 2005 I returned to Pennsylvania from a year spent in a cabin by a lake in the wilds of Kansas. Coming back to the East Coast was both difficult and joyous; I'd just been diagnosed with fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue syndrome, and felt there wasn't much hope in the future.

At the cabin we had no live tv, so contrary to what my often-faulty memory has told me, I didn't start out with House from the very beginning. But I did catch up after my housemate recommended the show. "It has Hugh Laurie in it," she said as an afterthought. That was enough incentive to get me to watch, as Hugh is not only a fine and talented actor, he's fairly easy on the eyes as well (I'm sure this isn't news to most of you).

On Demand is a wonderful thing. I started from the beginning, delighted to see Hugh; I'd loved his work in A Bit of Fry & Laurie, Blackadder and Jeeves & Wooster. How strange but intriguing to see him play a scruffy bad boy genius! And to hear that nearly flawless American accent come out of him so effortlessly! (Now we know it wasn't so easy, which makes his accomplishment even more amazing.) And Robert Sean Leonard, another favorite from movies such as Dead Poets Society, was a series regular as well. This was inspired casting.

The first episode had me hooked. Each new hour offered a glimpse of one of the most fascinating characters I'd ever seen. Brilliant, lonely outsider antiheroes were nothing new; I'd been involved with other fandoms where such characters thrived (Highlander in particular). But this outsider, Gregory House, was different. Here was someone who wasn't a crusty doctor with a heart of gold. House was crude, often deliberately cruel, abrasive, caustic . . . but there was a vulnerable humanity in those gorgeous vivid eyes, a wistfulness that caught at me. I enjoyed House's sense of humor, the childlike way he delighted in toys or games or pranks, his love of beauty and truth revealed in his music and in private moments. Through House's actions I saw that the pursuit of doing the right thing could be accomplished in ways both effective and unorthodox that were worthy of emulation.

House's friendship with Wilson was another reason to watch. Here was friendship in all its somewhat dubious glory, good, bad and indifferent. I loved the arguing, the misunderstandings, the casual cruelty, the laughter and jokes, all of it. It felt real without being trivial or dull. House and Wilson mirrored each other in the most amazing way, and I couldn't get enough.

And the writing! In that first season it sparkled. Subtle, layered, incredibly witty and insightful, and seldom if ever trite or obvious . . . You were never quite sure what would happen next, and it was wonderful.

In the third season I wrote a one-shot crossover fic involving House and another fandom. It was posted to a private list because I hadn't discovered FF or LJ at that point, but it was still momentous for me even though no one read it, because it was the story that broke a four-year writing drought. After that the floodgates opened.

In the seventh season I decided after Hugh's album Let Them Talk came out that it was time to get my music back. I was born to play; my mother often joked about how I came out of the womb looking for an instrument. I played violin, viola, folk harp and piano for many years before carpal tunnel and trashed shoulder joints kept me from playing. Now I'm learning mandolin and feel whole for the first time in a very long time.

House gave me back my writing and my music. Through his superb performances and willingness to grow, Hugh gave me back joy and creativity. I will be forever grateful.

I won't go into the show's peak and decline; the fandom will be debating and discussing those details for years to come. I'll just say this: even as the writing and storyline went downhill, it was impossible to let the show go. There was almost always at least one moment, one line that shone like a gem. And in eight years, Hugh's acting was almost never anything less than perfection. He made me want to watch even when the storyline had me holding my head and muttering under my breath.

Now we've come to the end of this incredible show. I want to say to those fans who feel everything's over—it's not. Fandom can continue and grow even after cancellation. Fic plays a large part in keeping a fandom alive. Please keep writing, reading and reviewing. Enjoy your enduring friendships and make new ones. After things settle out we'll have new fans coming in as the show goes into syndication. They'll be looking for good stories and discussions. Let's not disappoint them. Myself, I'm not planning to go anywhere. I love this show and Greg House with all my heart, and look forward to plenty of fic and friendship in the years to come. I've got stories in me yet, and I hope other writers do too.

Yeah, everybody dies. But Greg House will live forever. And that's a good, a very good thing. -B)

Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it's done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.

May 13th

Greg's not really sure what wakes him from a sound sleep—maybe the cat jumped on the bed. Slowly he surfaces, blinks in the soft beams of light that stream in through the window. It takes a moment, but he realizes Roz is absent. He levers himself up on his elbow, stares at the empty space next to him. As he does so, Hellboy comes over and gives him a questioning chirp, then rubs his cheek against Greg's hand. "Don't even," Greg says. "I know she fed you before she left." He considers going back to sleep, but now he's awake and anyway, curiosity has taken hold. With a sigh he gets up and heads to the bathroom, intent on a shower.

Half an hour later he's just poured a cup of coffee when the phone rings. "Test results are in," Chase says. He sounds a little deflated. "No tumor anywhere near the orbital cavity, and no sign of one anywhere else either. The patient still exhibits ptosis and opthalmoplegia."

"Did Singh's examination of the cranial nerves pan out?"

There's a rustling of pages. "Fourth nerve has a little damage. It's old, though."

Greg thinks about it. "Take another look at all of them."

"Okay." Chase pauses. "I'll be over after work to help out at the house."

"Ass kisser. You never miss an opportunity."

"Yeah, whatever. You'll regret mocking me. I'm not bad with a paintbrush." Chase's amusement is obvious. "Who's bringing the beer?"

"You are," Greg says, and hangs up.

An hour later he opens the kitchen door to what was once Gibbs's place and is now destined to become home sweet home. Music plays and someone sings along somewhere in the back, it sounds like Gene. There's a mix of smells in the air, cleaner and fresh paint, cinnamon rolls and coffee, newly-cut grass. Greg stands on the threshold, takes it all in. As he watches Jason comes in, snags two rolls, eats half of one in a single bite, gives Greg a quick glance, then disappears into the interior once more. Greg rolls his eyes and follows the kid, but not before he grabs a roll for himself.

Sarah is in the living room with tape measure in hand. She wears a shabby tee shirt, ragged cutoffs and has a bandana tied on her head in a vain attempt to contain her curls. When he enters she looks up and her face brightens. "Hey," she says. "Mornin', good-lookin'."

"Idle flattery," he says through a mouthful of roll. "Don't expect any in return. Nobody looks good at this insane hour. Where's my significant other?"

"Upstairs," Sarah says, and nods at the corner she's just measured. "What do you think? Okay for the piano?"

Greg looks it over as he polishes off the last of the roll. It's a good spot; interior walls, no heat vents or windows nearby, so no temperature fluctuations. "Sucks," he says, and is rewarded with Sarah's laugh, a music better even than the song on the player.

"Brat. Go upstairs and bug your woman, I'm busy."

He finds Roz in what will become their bedroom. It's a nice size, with a newly-cleaned woodstove insert in the fireplace, and two windows that overlook the back pasture. She paints the walls a pretty shade of soft, pale greeny-blue; it goes well with the maple wood trim, newly stripped free of old blackened varnish. The hardwood floors have also been redone, though at the moment they are hidden under sheets and tarps to protect them from splatters and scuff marks.

Greg stands in the doorway and watches Roz as she works. Her slender form is clad in a white tank top and boxer shorts (the shirt was his—past tense, he notes with exasperation), and she wears a baseball cap with the brim turned backwards. Her painting style is exactly what he'd expect—efficient, brisk, graceful. He admires the curve of her tight little butt, the way her breasts move under the tank top, how she bends to dip the roller in the tray.

"You here to work or you gonna stand there undressing me mentally?" she says in her cool, dark voice, and flashes him a grin. He is about to answer her when a series of images plays in his mind's eye. He sees the two of them here, together in their big bed where they hold each other close as snow falls past the window in the soft darkness; Roz in the kitchen, in conversation with him as she cooks dinner; seated side by side on the front porch in a long summer twilight; people at their table for some stupid holiday he knows she'll want to celebrate; curled up together on the couch as they watch tv.

He mumbles something and backs out of the room, bumps into the doorway in his haste to escape. Down the stairs, through the kitchen and out to the steps, where he halts in his headlong flight to grip the railing and draw in deep breaths of fresh air. Somehow he levers himself down to the step, rubs his thigh out of habit even though it doesn't hurt, and tries to come to terms with the fear as it rises up inside, to constrict his lungs and make his pulse race.

After a time someone sits next to him. He knows it's Roz; he waits for her to question his sanity. Instead she puts her hand on his back, lets it rest there. He wants to shake it off, but at the same time it feels good. "This is stupid," he says finally.

"You look scared," she says, but there's no condemnation. "What's up?"

"What the hell difference does it make?" he snaps. His hands shake. "You don't have to fluff me."

"I'm not. I just want to know what has you upset," she says, calm as you please. Greg ventures a glance. She watches him, her expression one of inquiry rather than anger or disgust.

"It doesn't matter . . ." He trails off; there's no reason to lie to her, but he can't admit to the cause.

"You're feeling overwhelmed," Roz says. "Me too, sometimes."

They sit in silence for a while. The anxiety fades a bit but hovers, waits for a chance to seize control again. When Roz takes his hand in hers, he gives it a squeeze and holds on tight. They watch the bright morning unfold, silly with sunshine and a soft wind. Much as he wants to fight it, it feels good to have her there next to him.

"It's an old place," Roz says at last. "Lots of good memories here from Gibbs and his family. We're gonna add some of our own for a few years, that's all."

"You're so sure they'll be good," he says, as he keeps his gaze aimed into the distance.

"They have been so far," she says. That makes him look at her. Her eyes are the green of the leaves above them, bright with equal parts love and amusement, damn her.

"Oh come on," he scoffs, but one corner of his mouth quirks up.

"It's about time you stopped freaking out," his wife says. She leans in and gives him a kiss, her lips soft against his. They stay that way for a while, content to be close. Then she lets go and gets to her feet. "When you come in, grab a brush and make yourself useful. This place won't paint itself."

He sits there, lets the sweet day work its magic on him. When Sarah takes Roz's spot he rolls his eyes. "I'm fine," he growls.

"That's good to hear," she says.

"What, no interrogation? You're falling down on the job."

Sarah gives him a faint smile. "You wanna talk, talk."

Greg stares at the bottom step. "Nothing to say."

"Liar," Sarah says cheerfully. "You panicked."

"If you know, why did you ask?"

"Now why would a nice old place like this inspire fear?" she continues, as if he hadn't spoken. "It's not haunted—"

"Christ on a crutch," he sighs. "Analysts are a pain in the fundament."

"—and everyone working here is nice enough. I'd say you got caught up in expectations." She tucks a curl behind her ear. "You want to make Roz happy and you're afraid you can't pull it off. You're scared you'll do the opposite, in fact." She chuckles softly. "I suspect every married couple has felt that fear at some point or another."

"So what are you saying—'join the club'?"

"I'm saying stop beating yourself up for feeling something it's normal for you to feel." Sarah lifts her hand, brings it to rest on his arm—that familiar butterfly touch he's come to know so well now. "Humans are good at imagining the worst. But we also have the capacity to imagine the best. Give that a try and see how it works."

"So where's the hazelnut ice cream?" he says after a brief silence. Sarah laughs and gives him a gentle caress.

"Everything's a process, son," she says. "You've come a long way since I first met you."

"You think I've changed," he accuses. Sarah tilts her head and considers the question.

"No," she says. "Not changed . . . but you are learning to get out of your own way."

"One hopeless case recognizes another."

Her smile glimmers in the dappled sunlight. "Well yeah," she says. The smile fades, replaced by that affection he always finds so baffling and yet so reassuring. "It's all we have in the end, you know—the memories of what we did in this life. You'll have plenty of good ones, and I'm glad." She leans in and kisses his cheek, then rises and goes into the house.

The day progresses much as expected. Greg watches the people around him as they flit in and out of his vision, intent on various tasks. He waits for the invisible barrier, the glass partition he's always lived behind, to show itself; but now that ancient remove is no longer in place. It feels strange, makes his chest tighten with apprehension even as some tiny part of him deep within sighs in quiet relief.

They have supper in the yard, seated around a couple of card tables about to collapse under the weight of the food piled on them. There is talk and laughter, and afterward cold beer and music under the trees, to play the stars into view as the sun sets. Roz sits next to him, wrapped in his jacket against the slight chill of evening, her arm draped around him, hand tucked in his pocket.

Imagine the best. Greg turns that thought over in his mind throughout proceedings. He doesn't know if that's possible; he usually sees all outcomes and chooses the worst as possibility, simply as a self-protective measure. He knows that's what will happen whether he likes it or not, anyway. But now . . . he glances at Roz, who talks to Gene, then moves his gaze to the back step of the house that will soon become his home. He has plenty of incentive to try something different.

"We learn by doing," Sarah says softly. She sits on the other side of him and sips a ginger beer. He glances at her. She returns his gaze. "Give it a shot. It's worth it."

Eventually the day ends, and everyone parts ways. He and Roz ride in silence back to the apartment, but it's a sweet quietness, filled up with tiredness and satisfaction.

They're in bed with the lights out when she says "It'll be okay, you know." Her fingers stroke his cheek with such tenderness.

"Maybe," he says, ever cautious.

"No," she says, and the certainty in her voice holds a song she'll never be able to sing in any other way. "It will be. You'll see."

"You can't know that," he objects.

"You can't know it won't be." She tucks her head against the join of his neck and shoulder. "So it's all right to say it'll be okay."

He has to object to this massive dose of illogic. "That makes no sense."

"It's better than waiting for the worst."

He thinks about it. "Maybe," he says again, unable to tell the lie needed to agree with her. He needn't have said anything, though; Roz is already asleep, her breathing deep and even. He drifts off with her, content to let the soothing darkness take him in.