Set right after House sticks the knife into the wall in "97 Seconds." (Title might've already told you that, of course.)

Disclaimer: don't own House, etc, etc, etc.

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He feels a brief surge, and then nothing.

Everything's a mess at first. Pain. A lot of pain. He wants to scream, but he can't. Just when he thinks he can't take it any more, the pain disappears and he's numb. Colors swirling around. Sounds mixing with smells. Nothing's right.

And then it is. He's standing in a room he instantly recognizes, a room he instantly detests. He once made a declaration (to himself) that he'd only come back here for Christmas, and even then because Mom would have a heart attack if he didn't.

And then he's sitting there with his paper. Just great.

"Took you long enough," he grunts.

"I didn't know I was expected."

He folds the page over with almost machine-like deliberateness, double-checking to make sure the paper isn't crinkled in any spots. Always the perfectionist. "Be a little more polite, Greg. We've got company."

Greg glances over to the sofa and scowls even though he somehow knows what's coming. "You."

"Me," agrees Tritter. "We've been expecting you, although I can't say that your tardiness is surprising. But I must say that the apple fell very far from the tree. Your father's a wonderful man."

"And we all know that you're such a great judge of character," Greg says. He frowns. "I'm in hell, aren't I?"

He doesn't look up from his paper. "You know I don't like that language in my house."

"Oh well," he drawls in the same voice he'd use to talk to an especially stupid patient (or an especially hormonal Cuddy). "I was just about to leave, actually. I don't think any of us really need me to be here."

"Actually, I need you to move the box out back," says the man with his usual matter-of-fact tone. "I'm too old, and it would be rude to have our guest do it."

"Well, as much as I wish I could," Greg shoots back sharply, "I kind of have an issue here. Cripple, remember?"

His old man actually looks incredulous. "I have no clue what you're talking about."

And Greg looks down. For the first time he realizes he's not holding a cane. No pain. Maybe he's not in hell after all.

When he looks up the scene has changed. He's in his office now. The white board's empty. The room's empty. Except for her.

"House," she says, and just like that he's no longer Greg. "You're here."

"No shit," House replies. "Apparently you know a lot more about this than I do."

"I don't think so," Cameron says. She moves closer to him, and he notices just how great her hair looks. She still looks like a hooker, but a classy hooker. He knows enough about hookers to separate them into different classes. She's a high-class hooker for sure. "I need to know what you know. I need to know, House. What do you want?"

And now he's seated and she's straddling his lap, her arms around his neck. He can smell her perfume, and it's way too expensive for a hooker. He really needs time to figure out exactly where she fits in this whole thing, but it's hard to think about that when he's thinking about just how her lip gloss would taste right now and how hard he'd have to bite her neck to leave a bruise.

"Not what you lust after," she states, and she almost sounds disappointed. He's standing now and she's a comfortable distance away from him, and all of a sudden he finds that he's the one who's disappointed. "What do you want, House?"

And now they're no longer in his office. He's on the sofa in his apartment wearing his Zeppelin shirt and his favorite pair of sweats. She's sitting next to him in his old Flyers jersey, and there's a Sunday afternoon football game on TV, although he struggles to pay attention to it when he notices just how far up on her thigh the hem of the jersey rests. He makes a mental note to just give her this jersey, because clearly he cannot do it justice. In fact, he's got plenty of jerseys in the closet that he never wears. Might as well just give her all of them.

"This is it, huh?" she asks. House notices for the first time that his arm is around her shoulder, and it doesn't feel awkward at all. "Nothing special. Just a normal Sunday morning. Just a bit of company."

As much as he wants to argue with her, he's already thinking about how he should call Wilson and see if he wants to come over later with Chinese (which House has no intentions of paying for). The cane leans against the side of the sofa. It's not mocking him or teasing him. It's just there. He's watching TV with a beautiful, impressionable young woman pressed up against him and the cane's just sitting there. He's not even angry at it. He kind of pities it.

He turns back to the game and he's now standing in the staff room near the foosball table. The same game's on TV, but he's in his work attire now, just like every other day. He never feels ashamed when he goes up to the hospital on his off days – really, he has nothing else to do, and it gives Cuddy one less thing to bitch about – but now he actually feels irritated. He does have better things to do, young women to take advantage of. He doesn't need to be at work right now.

"Too good to last, huh? The story of your life." Wilson drops the ball onto the table, and the two begin their crazed routine of spinning and whacking. "You know what the funny thing is? You could have it. It could last. But –"

"I enjoy being miserable," House finishes as he scores. "I know the drill."

Wilson reaches for the ball and puts it back into play. "I can't help it that you do."

"And I can't help it that you're an idiot who wastes his time overanalyzing his friend's psyche rather than spending it pursuing his fourth divorce." He shoots, but Wilson blocks it with a spinning goalie. "You're running out of time, you know. If you keep slacking off, you might die before you even make it to ten!"

"As usual, divert the attention from yourself." Wilson's midfielders pass it past one of House's men to a forward. "You could go back, you know."

Wilson scores. House bends down to get the ball. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do," Wilson retorts. "You know you can. You could go back if you wanted to. It would never end."

House twists his arms violently but he only manages to hit the top of the ball, which rolls pathetically to one of Wilson's players.

"But, of course, there is no afterlife," Wilson continues. "Just images your brain is seeing as it prepares to shut down. In a few minutes this will all be over anyway."

"But it won't," House points out, switching his left hand to the stick controlling his goalie. "I paged the girl, the real cut-throat backstabbing one. If she has any clue what she's doing I'll be just fine."

"You'll be alive, you mean." Wilson scores again. "Fine is a whole different issue."

And the room begins to swirl. Wilson fades, but House doesn't care. He has his answer. The patient's an idiot. If there was an afterlife, his father sure wouldn't be a part of it, and neither would Tritter. His brain was just sending out its last signals, confusing messages involving a skimpily-clad Cameron and an even more annoying Wilson. All of it meant nothing. All of it was just his brain going haywire.

Everything's dark and light at the same time. He's tired, and he's no longer numb. There's pain. Pain and light. Light pressing at his eyelids. Weird dream. All it was. Nice dream.

He feels a brief surge, and then everything.

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