A/N: From Hughville and Myself: Buckle up...it's gonna be a bumpy ride!

Cuddy gathered up the clothes that were strewn around the bedroom. She sighed in annoyance. House refused to pick up after himself. Even after nine months together, he hadn't changed even one of his habits. As she bent down, she saw something sticking out from beneath the mattress. Tugging it loose, she saw that it was a medical journal; the medical journal. She looked down at it and closed her eyes. House told her he'd thrown it out. He'd lied.

"Where's my DSi?" House asked from the doorway, startling her.

"Well, it isn't under the mattress," she responded sharply, turning to face him and holding up the journal. "Most men hide their Playboys under the mattress. Only you would hide a medical journal."

"Have you seen my DSi or not?" House asked moving forward to take the journal from her.

"Why keep that one?" she asked. "You toss out all the others. Why that one? Is it because Cameron's article is in it?"

"I'm guessing you haven't seen my DSi," he sighed.

He turned to leave.

"She's never coming back," Cuddy called out to him. "Even if she did, she wouldn't come back to you. She hates you, remember? You destroyed her marriage."

He stopped in the doorway and she bit her lip. He continued out and she sank down on the bed.

Cuddy tucked the blankets in around Rachel and leaned down to kiss her. Her daughter shifted slightly in her sleep. Cuddy slowly rose and walked to the bedroom door. She made her way to her bedroom. House lay on his side in her bed. Nine months. They'd been together for nine months. In all that time, nothing had changed. They still fought. He still defied her at work. Now, he was obsessed with this article Cameron wrote.

"Do you love me?" she asked.

Silence greeted her question. "I know you aren't sleeping," she told him.

He rolled onto his back and turned on the bedside light. He regarded her silently. She shifted beneath his unwavering stare.

"This isn't working," he said finally.

"Because you aren't trying," she told him.

"You want me to be someone I'm not."

"Oh and Cameron wouldn't I suppose?"

House laughed and pushed back the covers. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he stood and grabbed his cane. "This isn't working."

Cuddy saw his jeans lying near her feet. She leaned down and picked them up. As she straightened up, House's phone fell out of one of the pockets. She bent down again to pick it up. Glancing down at the display screen, she saw Cameron's name and a phone number. House's fingers closed around the phone and he pulled it from her grasp.

"You called her?" she whispered.

"She won't talk to me. I just called to talk about the article."

Cuddy shook her head in disbelief. "You're right. This isn't working. I'll box up your things and have them sent to your apartment."

House pulled on his jeans and looked around for his shoes. Once he was dressed, he silently left her house.

It was times like these when House was glad he kept his apartment. Upon arrival, he tossed his keys and his helmet on the couch as he limped over to his couch and collapsed heavily on it. The good memories of Cuddy and his time spent together over the last nine months were already fading and being replaced with the bad times of their relationship. The fights, the disagreements, and her using Rachel as an excuse for things had taken their toll and he knew from the beginning that it would only be a matter of time before one of them screwed things up. At least for once he could say he wasn't the one to end it. Not directly, anyway. Cuddy threw him out, he didn't leave her.

It's true, he did miss Cameron, however he didn't realize how much until he read her brilliant article a few months ago and felt the need to call her and see how she was doing in Ol' Chicago. He wasn't surprised that she wouldn't talk to him, but he was hurt, even if he wouldn't admit it at the time. Looking back on it, she was cold and distant. So unlike the Cameron he knew and secretly adored.

"Whatever," he groaned to himself as he ran his hands over his face in frustration and went looking for his favorite bottle of Scotch.

He was running late. Not terribly by Greg House's standards, but late enough to warrant a call from Cuddy screeching at him to get out of bed and into work or else he'd find himself in the clinic swabbing crotches all day. He did miss her early morning wake-up calls however, and a smile crossed his face as he remembered upon them with amusement. He always did enjoy morning sex more than anything and apparently, so did she.

As he turned the water on in the tub, his thoughts drifted back to Cameron. He wondered if she was a morning sex kind of girl.

Then he shook his head at the very idea. She was probably the type to want to be "made love to" on a bed of roses by candlelight and soft music.

He slipped into the hot water of the bath and closed his eyes. The very idea of him not being opposed to something like that made him smile. He never would have entertained the notion of "making love" to anyone, least of all Cuddy, on a bed covered in rose petals, but for some reason, the idea of being with Cameron that way gave his nether region a tingly feeling he hadn't felt in weeks.

He opened his eyes, and after washing himself, he climbed out of the tub a little unsteady on his feet. He realized he forgot to put down the bathmat before getting in so the floor was a little slippery. He lost his balance and slipped, his head smacked the side of the porcelain tub and knocked himself unconscious.

HOUSE+CAMERON+HOUSE+CAMERON+HOUSE+CAMERON+HOUSE+CAMERON+HOUSE+CAMERON

Cuddy burst into the Diagnostics office like a woman on a mission and found House's team sitting around the conference table doing various things to waste time.

"Where's House?" she demanded.

"Not here yet," Foreman answered, not looking up from his paper.

"It's almost 11!"

"Maybe he's hiding," Chase smirked, making Taub chuckle.

Cuddy clearly didn't find that amusing and left in a huff, causing all three doctors to laugh.

She went to Wilson's office first, knowing that was usually where House went first thing but he wasn't there either.

"What's wrong?" Wilson asked as he looked up from his papers.

"Have you seen or heard from House?"

"No, not since Friday. Why?"

"He's not in yet. And I'm…a little worried."

"Why? Did something happen?"

"We sort of...had a fight yesterday. A big one. I kicked him out."

Wilson sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'll go to his place and check."

"Could you? And tell him to get his ass in here or he'll be in clinic for a year!"

Wilson let himself into House's apartment. He knew if House was hiding, he wouldn't answer the door no matter how long Wilson knocked.

He glanced down the hallway and ran toward the bathroom, pulling out his phone and dialing 911. He shouted instructions into his phone and then knelt beside House. He carefully examined his friend and then draped a towel over him. A small pool of blood had formed beneath House's head. Wilson heard the paramedics at the door and went to let them in. He stood back as they carefully placed a cervical collar on House and loaded him onto a backboard. Wilson went into House's bedroom and pulled a blanket off the bed. As the paramedics wheeled him out, Wilson covered him with the blanket.

"I'll go with you," Wilson told them.

House's eyes fluttered and he groaned. His head hurt and he couldn't move.

"What the fuck?" he muttered.

Wilson's blurry face swam into view and House tried to focus on him.

"House, we're on our way to the hospital. You hit your head and you've been unconscious."

"I don't need to go to the hospital. I bumped my head. All I need is a bad-aid and some scotch and I'll be fine."

Wilson stared at him in shock.

"What?" House grumbled.

"Your voice…"

"What's wrong with my voice?"

"You have an English accent."

"Did you hit your head? I don't have an English accent. Take this damn collar off me and let me up."

"You have an English accent," Wilson repeated.

"I'm not going to the hospital naked. Little Greg hates being on display."

"I want Foreman to examine you."

"And I want to get up off this damn backboard. Apparently you can't always get what you want."

House knocked Foreman's hand away, sending the small flashlight skidding across the floor.

"There is nothing wrong with me," House growled. "Except for the fact that I'm being held against my will." He glared at Cuddy and Wilson who stood at the foot of his bed.

"You fell and hit your head. You have a concussion and a completely different accent."

"I like it," Chase offered from his spot by the door.

Cuddy glared at him and he shrugged.

"It's called Foreign Accent Syndrome. It's rare but you like rare," Foreman told him. "You suffered a severe head trauma and it affected your ability to pronounce words."

"How long will it last?" Cuddy asked.

"It might be permanent," Foreman told her. "He's suffered more than one brain trauma."

"So, can I get up now?" House asked.

"No," Cuddy told him. "You're staying overnight for observation."

"I want my medical journal," House told her. "And my phone."

Cuddy rolled her eyes and left.