He leaned over the patient, her breath heating his temple in little puffs as he slid the needle into the skin of her upper arm. He felt her muscles tense, and felt compelled, somewhere in the empty back room of this consciousness, to say something.

"I'm sorry, I should have told you that it's gonna hurt."

'I don't like it' she muttered as a small tear pooled in her eye and spilled, staining her cheek with black.

"All right, all done." He tossed the syringe in the trash and swabbed the needle's point of entrance with a sticky cotton ball.

She sniffed and wiped her eye, which spread the makeup even further.

"Which would you like, Batman, or Dora?"

He held out a box of band-aids, a slightly tired expression in his blue eyes.

'Neither, thanks, I think I might leave it open to the air.'

"Okay then. It shouldn't hurt at all afterwards. If you feel the need to start popping T-3's or Vicodin(he patted his pocket) come back in. But let's hope nothing happens."

'Because you don't want me back?'

"Well put." He flicked his focus back from the cold tap to the cupboard doorframe, not even observing her leave. As soon as the door clicked shut, he pulled the small canister out of his blazer pocket and yanked off the lid, popping three of the delicious pills into his mouth, and leaning against the wall for support. He could feel sympathies with the rabid racoons that chewed their limbs off because it let them sleep 8 hours at night. He would aim for 10 hours, but it would depend on the method of amputation.

He looked at his watch, and was moderately pleased to see that the long hand matched up at his favourite location, the top of the face. This meant that it was 3:00, and that his afternoon 'hanging out' with constipated teenagers and forty-somethings looking for counselling over their recent switch to veganism, was, guess what, finished! He'd held many face muscles straight over the recent young woman who cried over her Hep A vaccination, and now he could let them go as slack as possible during an evening of General Hospital and a nearly-full bottle of whisky. Pushing open the exam room door, his eyes met another's.

"Greetings, Dr. Cameron,"

She looked flustered, strands of hair stuck to her face.

' I-'

"I'm handsome? Aw shucks, but it won't work out. I'll bore you."

He patted her on the head in a fatherly way and began to limp down the hall.

'I'm sorry.'

His ears just caught the low, sweet tone of her voice, and he turned around, his brow furrowed.

"Sorry for what?"

Her mouth opened, then closed. 'There's a call for you in the staff room.'

"Sounds quite heart-wrenching already. Thanks for being there for me", he deadpanned.

His abdominal muscles, slightly buried but still existent, tightened slightly as he headed towards the pebbled glass of the staff room door. The phone was laying belly-up on the table, an orange light on the unit blinking.

"Hello?"

'Hello, Mr. House?'

He cleared his throat. "It is Dr. House, but yes, that's me."

'This is the South Carolina county coroner calling. Are you the son of Mrs. Blythe and Mr. John House?'

He nodded, then muttered yes.

'I'm sorry sir, they've been in an accident. I'm afraid that they are both dead. We will need you to come and identify them'. A pause.

'I'm sorry.'

"Stop", House mumbled.

'Pardon, sir?'

"Saying sorry, it's starting to sound bland."

And he needed to stop talking, beacuse a foreign feeling was spreading through his throat.

He saw her once more before he left, stacking files. She looked up as he passed, and it hurt his eyes, because hers were red-rimmed.

He lay, spread-eagled on the duvet, counting the uneven pieces of ceiling stucco. The burning liquor and the soft background violins on the television combined to lull him into a type of stupor, one where many of these new-fangled emotions waved at him as they left.

A few questions stayed behind. Why were his parents dead? Had God smite him for not replying to any of their Christmas letters? Should he go and 'identify them'? Or, using his favourite method, attempt to erase the memory completely? It made him numb and his eyes sting, which couldn't be a good thing.

And then there was her. How did she have any idea what had happened? Why was she concerned? And why did he give a crap about her being concerned? He blindly reached for his pill bottle on the nightstand. and when his fingers didn't reach the desired item, he sighed brokenly, his leg pounding like hell. Heaving himself off the bed, he limped towards the kitchen. He opened the closest cupboard to reveal a small army of orange pill bottles. He was just peeling the lid off of one when the phone rang shrilly, sending a torrent of small white pills raining onto the cold tile floor. Muttering various obscenities, he squinted at the caller ID, which he conveniently, had acquired free with this phone. In a way it let him select who he wished to talk to and who for it should simply ring.

Cameron. Why? He let it ring three more times and then picked up.

'Hello'.

"Oh, hi, House, it's Cameron.(he didn't see that one coming.")

She sounded calm, far removed from her scattered state that morning.

'What do you want?'

"I was, uh, just wondering how you were feeling."

As much as he hated to admit it, the sound of her voice stirred something long dormant in him, as much as he tortured her and snapped at her, every baby step she made to him opened a small rind of light, which he attempted to keep shut at all times.

'Positively jolly. My parents died. Did you hear?'

He could almost hear her cringe, and he instantly regretted his comment. There was a three-year silence.

"I know. I'm really sorry."

'Okay, yeah. I know you are.'

"Is there anything I can do?"

'No, not particularly, they've seen all they need to of life.'

"Oh."

He could sense the edge in her voice, the slight hesitation that met his indifference with something far more formidable. It left him wondering whether he could be more understanding, even though it was his problem, not hers.

He cleared his throat,