A/N: Another Huddy story for you! Please excuse the continuity, or lack thereof, in the timeline from the last story and House getting shot. Anyways, here's the first of many chapters. Bon Appetit.

There were many sleepless nights where Cuddy stared at the ceiling, rerunning the entire scenario through her busy mind, hoping for a happy ending. A psycho waltzed into her hospital and shot one of her doctors in broad daylight in front of three witnesses. There was no doubt in her mind that the mystery gunman meant to kill House. By sheer dumb luck or bad aim, or both, House was still very much alive. So was the gunman. A complete stranger. House's underlings swore they had never seen him before. He was still on the loose and still nameless. Foreman, Cameron and Chase were able to give detailed descriptions to the police, but so far all their efforts were fruitless. The guy just dropped off the planet. I hope he never gets back on, Cuddy thought morosely. I hope he gets run over by a truck. I hope the son-of-a-bitch is dead and buried.

What if House had died? Cuddy made great efforts to not examine that scenario at any great depth. It always made her cry.

Even with all the extravagant care he received, and even though he wasn't ready to walk around yet, House demanded to go home. The more she tried to talk him out of it, the louder his demands became. The boredom, the needles, the tubes, the spectactularly uncomfortable hospital bed, and the inability to escape from the prying eyes of any moron who happened to walk by his room were slowly nudging his patience and sanity to the edge of a black bottomless nirvana. She made him wait another week, and was forced to check him out herself after he threw his GameBoy at gawking anesthesiologist.

Still, she didn't want to leave him home alone, not at first. Though the ketamine appeared to be helping with the pain, he had still been shot, twice, and even Dr. Gregory House needed some help getting around after that. House, more annoyed at the thought of needing a babysitter than his wounds, all but threw her out the door and insisted he could survive a few hours on his own. Cuddy finally left, only after he promised to keep his cellphone nearby and answer her calls. He promised, but only if she didn't call during General Hospital. She watched him walk back to the sofa without using his cane, then left.

He was doing well, which held a few surprises in its own right. Cuddy had been afraid of another recurring nightmare, given the trauma he had been through that would have been completely justified. Instead, House slept calmly and quietly, averaging a good six or seven hours a night. The bottle of Vicodin sat on the nightstand, its familiar rattle now rarely heard.

At the hospital, Cuddy checked the TV listings to see when his soaps were on. She called ten minutes after they were over. He answered on the second ring. "I'm still alive, boss." She couldn't help but smile.

"I'm not worried," the diagnostician said, looking up with tired eyes as Cuddy sat at the edge of the sofa.

"You should be," Cuddy told him curtly. "He still hasn't been caught. Next time he'll make sure that he finishes the job."

"Is there going to be a next time, Lisa?"

"Greg, I'm just saying–"

"Is he going to get that chance? Is he going to walk into the hospital and up to my office again without a second look from anyone? Is that what you're trying to tell me? I hope not, Lisa, for your sake and mine."

Her eyes turned dark and angry. "Over my dead body," she said stonily. "But you said he seemed to know you. He asked for you by name."

"Yes."

"If he knows your name, he could very easily find out where you live."

"Yes, Lisa, he could. In fact, I'll bet he already knows. He could be standing outside the door right now, listening to our conversation," House remarked nonchalantly. "He could be on the roof next door with a sniper scope. He could cut the brake line on my motorcycle. He would wait for me to cross the street and run me down."

"Greg, please–"

"The doors and windows are locked," House broke in when he saw that she was getting upset, biting her lower lip. "He's not getting in without a battering ram. If he has a lick of common sense left, he'll be on the other coast now. Maybe that idiot thinks I'm dead. I don't know and I don't care. But if he knows I'm alive and wants me to look over my shoulder at every little shadow and thump for the rest of eternity, it's not going to happen."

"I'm not asking you to look over your shoulder," she said solemnly. "I'm just asking you to be careful."

"I'm not going out there with a target on my back, Lisa."

"He might come back, Greg."

"Maybe he will, maybe he won't."

"What if he does?"

"Then he does. I'm not going to live my life any differently."

"All right. Just promise me you'll lock the doors and windows every night. Can you do that for me?" Cuddy asked, concern tinging every word.

"They're locked, just like always."

"Always?"

"Always. See, nothing different. The bad guy isn't going to win this time."