This is post-season 7/post-season-eight-three-quarters-of-episode-one to be exact multi-chapter with many dramatic, angsty arcs planned. Check out my other FF. Sorry for updating ever so slooowly but I get OCD about details and details and details, so bear with me. Reviews on writing style or storyline will be greaaat.

Disclaimer: I sadly do not own House M.D. Any OC's are purely fictional.

Damien Rice – Rootless Tree

Freedom? Far from it. Gregory House thought as the bulky guard unlatched the iron gates that separated him from the real world that seemed to have left him behind. The warmth of the dawning sun hit his scrawny face, his signature stubble longer than usual, with his dishevelled greying hair falling over his tired and weary ice blue eyes. What now? He thought as he gripped his cane and limped into the unknown.

In the distance, a young woman watched as her old boss trudge through the gates. She stayed leaning against her car, grinning at the familiar sight of House. He was wearing worn jeans and his crinkled blue shirt underneath his slim blazer, as if he hasn't spent the last year in prison. But he was different, his limp was more pronounced, he looked thinner and leaner, and more lines creased around his face, his hair longer and greyer. But his deep blue eyes remained the same, tainted with pain. Eyes locked. He smirked, surprised to see Remy Hadley leaning on the back of her car with a scotch bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. He walked towards her, grinning at the ironic memory of so long ago when they were in reverse positions.

"House." She nodded.

"Lesbian." He quipped. He took a hold of a glass as she filled it with scotch, noting how careful mindful she was of her simple actions. He was always fond of his old employee – despite the logical choice that screamed at everyone who came into contact with House to never agree with anything he said, Thirteen saw through the misanthropic jerk persona and trusted House was doing the right thing. Or at least with the right intentions.

Thirteen smiled at House, missing the sadistic bastard. "How was prison?"

"It's like a spa in there, hot girls, 7-course dinners, luxury bedrooms, free cable..."

"That bad huh?"

House shrugged. He didn't expect any better, he didn't deserve better, he thought. He paid his dues but it was never enough for destroying her house, for destroying any chances with her, destroying all his chances at happiness. Subconsciously, his hand fell to his damaged thigh which began to throb at the guilty rush of memories. Wilson always said that his dammed leg was a mirror to his emotions, when House was emotionally pained, his physical state was not so different. Wilson, he sighed at the thought of his old friend. Pain would course through his leg calling for Vicodin. Yet when he was happy, when he was with her, it wasn't as bad – she was his drug, but he couldn't have her. Cuddy...Not anymore.

"Are you gonna drink that?" Thirteen asked House who completely zoned out.

"To freedom." House toasted and brought the scotch to his mouth, drinking it all in one go, not sure it was really freedom.

Lisa Cuddy sat in her office, one hand against her head, the other furiously scribbling. Paperwork, patient files, and more paperwork towered over her desk. She sighed. She didn't want to miss Rachel's school play, but this quarter was hell – contracts to be renewed and with the current economy, donor numbers were falling so departments had to make budget cuts. The past year had been difficult...but she shrugged it off, she didn't want to waste time wallowing in self-pity.

A knock disrupted her train of thought. James Wilson, her wonder-boy oncologist stepped in.

"Hey...erm sorry Lisa. I know you're busy..." he said. "You missed our weekly lunch, and I know you've barely eaten because of all the stress..." Wilson placed a tray of garden salad, a sandwich and cup of orange juice, on her desk. He continued, "It's not good for your health, you need all the streng-"

Icy grey eyes pried from the computer screen and stabbed at Wilson's mothering. Wilson pulled his hands up in surrender. Sighing, she shook her head, looking down. "I'm sorry, it just all stressful. I didn't mean to... Everything's just..."

He put a hand on her forearm, saying "Just take a break, eat something, okay?"

She looked up at his kind, brown eyes – seeing the concern behind them. Wilson observed the Dean of Medicine. She was dressed in a deep pink sweater with a grey high waist skirt, finished with a pair of 3-inch Prada heels. She wore an air of authority, hiding any weaknesses underneath all that power of her position, but at that moment she breathed deeply, tired of the burdens of her job. She played with the green leaves of her salad with a fork, her weary face staring into space.

"What's up?" Wilson asked.

"Nothing." She replied too quickly. She ate some of her salad, ignoring Wilson's concerned look. It was a feeble attempt to

"Cuddy..." A knock stopped him. Foreman came in with a patient file.

"Dr Cuddy, I need to get your signature on a pro-" He stopped when he saw Wilson and Cuddy look up at him. Cuddy reached out to take the file. Foreman continued, "We need to do a brain biopsy on the patient. We think there is a mass compressing the pituitary gland causing secretion of hormones into the body and all the symptoms fit."

"Are you sure there's a mass?" Wilson asked looking at the results, after Cuddy didn't reply.

"All the symptoms fit. If it's cancer, we can start on chemo. We'll transfer him to Oncology."

The Head of Diagnostics looked at Cuddy. The patient was four years old – same age as Rachel. She couldn't understand why someone so young could end up in hospital, possibly going through months of chemotherapy. She sighed. Cuddy nodded, giving him the go for the procedure. Foreman left as briskly as he walked in. She felt Wilson's eyes on her.

"I am fine, James," she assured him. "I'm just caught up in a lot of work." She gave him a weak smile.

Wilson nodded. There was something else he needed to say. But seeing how stressed Cuddy was...Wilson walked out of her office. House was going to be released from prison today. He didn't know what to do; it had been over a year since he said a word to House and that was when he was convicted in court. Even then, he barely made eye-contact with his old...friend. Wilson was too angry, too hurt by House's actions then – for hurting Cuddy, for breaking his hand, for being an arrogant, selfish idiot, and for destroying the only thing that completed House's life. But he knew it wasn't House's fault – not completely. Cuddy was as stubborn as House – both too proud, too afraid to admit that they made each other better – complete. Even after all that, he missed the old bastard.

Thirteen had been driving for over an hour, House tried to find a decent radio station, finally settling on one that was playing 'Living On A Prayer'. She brushed a hand through her brunette hair. It was a searing hot day in June, the sun at its highest beating down on her old Mustang.

"There's a diner on the left, " House pointed, his stomach growling at the thought of burgers and fries, luxuries he had missed over the past year. "Don't worry, it's your treat." He smirked as Thirteen rolled her emerald eyes at him in feigned annoyance.

She pulled over the quiet diner that sat in the outskirts of town. It wasn't bustling with business, but it looked homely, especially with the aroma of food tainting the air – taunting the stomachs of the two. He limped towards the glass door, putting more weight on the dark cherry brown cane more than usual. House hoped Thirteen didn't notice – he hadn't had any Vicodin in the past six hours and the pain was already creeping up on him, faster than usual. Cold air hit his dishevelled face as the air conditioning was on full blast. Thirteen trailed after her old mentor, shivering but not sure whether it was the cold. They both made their way to a white, polished table at the end, sitting on opposite sides on red fake leather seats.

"So...what now?" Thirteen looked at him with curiosity. He responded with silence, not prying his eyes from the ketchup-stained menu. Thirteen furrowed her eyebrows, trying to read House's poker face.

"I would like a cheeseburger with curly fries, nachos, a hotdog and a beer," House stated, still avoiding Thirteen's stare.

"Okey-dokey," a nasal voice squeaked from the bored blonde waitress, who seemed to appear from nowhere, surprising Thirteen slightly. "But we don't do alcohol...we have soda-"

House interrupted, "Coke's fine. What do you want?" He asked Thirteen.

"Oh. That's all for you? God, have they starved you or something?," she joked trying to lighten the mood. "Just a soda, please." The waitress vanished behind the counter as quickly as she came. The pair sat in silence, waiting for the food to come. House looked through the glass, at the empty road that disappeared into the horizon, not knowing what was at the end of it. "House?"

"I'll figure something out, probably get a job at one of the universities – I always thought of researching into the physics of dark matter. Work the whole sexy professor look. Fulfil some girl's teacher fantasy." He calculated the pros and the cons already – it wouldn't be exciting sitting in some crowded office, typing the rest of his life away on a computer or diving into books that was far from stimulating as his cases, but a puzzle unsolved is still a puzzle. That was enough. That was all he could ask for, something to do with his time.

And as if House could read her mind, "And no. I am not going to go back to medicine. My license has been revoked. No-one will hire me. No-one would even hire me before," he said before Thirteen could argue back.

"Except Cuddy." He winced at the mention her name.

"Who I have a restriction order against. It would be hard to work in the same building. I'd rather not violate my parole." He replied in hushed anger.

"You can't just quit. You save people's lives,"

"No. I solve puzzles." He said simply. "Why did you come? Why? I mean I know you have the hots for me and I'm flattered but..."

"You did it for me."

He regarded her for a moment, piercing blue eyes analysing her. "No. You still want to keep my promise. It's getting worse, isn't it? That's why you came here. You need my help to end it all. But you don't wanna go just like that. And that's why you want me to go back to medicine. So I can save others, when you can't. You've quit too. You haven't tried any treatment... You're a hypocrite. You can't be saved so it'll be your last gift to humanity." He snorted at her idea of philanthropy.

Colour drained from her cheeks. "That's rather far-fetched" her demeanour cooling. "I am trying to be your friend here. Probably the only one you have left." As always, House was spot on. It was true. Her Huntington was progressively getting worse – she often found herself unable to do basic task with her hands. But she wasn't going to show him that, not if she could help it. She felt weak, not because of the disease, but because she had given up fighting it. She didn't bother with trials. She spiralled downwards, reverting to her old miserable life. She was living, but not really alive either.

"Everybody lies. Everybody dies. You're not afraid of dying as long as I'm here to help you end the pain quickly. But you are still afraid of not having done something significant in this life." He read her like a book, prying open emotions she barely confronted. His blue eyes took her in. Anger was replaced with sorrow. But Thirteen knew he didn't pity her, no, he simply empathised with her. Pain, it had haunted House, he knew it his whole life – physically and emotionally. "I will still keep my promise." He whispered finally. Thirteen didn't expect less, House rarely made promises unless he meant them, but it still caught her off guard.

"Thank you."