(Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it's done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.)

The mellow Moon,

the changing leaves,

The earlier setting Sun,

Proclaim at last, my merry boys,

The harvesttime begun. –'Song in Autumn', Charles G. Eastman

September 23rd

"Boooooored."

Sandesh looked over at House, who had just tied a knot in the base of a latex glove. The glove looked like it was about to explode, with digits the size of sausages. House finished the knot and tossed the glove onto the exam table to join the dozen already flocked together there. "Did I mention I was bored?" He extracted another glove from the box. "Nurses changed their locker coms again, and I think someone found out I've been using the chick flick DVDs as trivets for my Hot Pockets. No one has a sense of humor around here."

"I've noticed that myself," Sandesh said.

"You're one to talk." House blew up the glove, tied a knot in the base, and batted it at Sandesh. "You've rearranged things in my office twice now, and then to add insult to injury you took my balls hostage."

Sandesh blinked and caught the glove as it drifted to the floor. "I have a perfectly good set of balls already. You can ask my wife, she's got them locked up in our bedroom safe. And I haven't been in your office."

"Yeah, that's what you tell Wirth when you steal coffee out of her personal stash."

"Nah, I just leave her ten bucks a week. It's a nice arrangement and our spouses need never know." Sandesh took a felt-tipped pen out of his pocket and began to draw a monster face on the glove. "Too bad we don't have a Peds ward. Kids love these things because they have no taste."

"Ouch." House put a hand over his chest. "I'm so wounded." He grabbed his Coke and slugged down several large swallows, belched and glanced at his watch. "I know you've been messing around in my office."

"Why, because it's something you would do?" Sandesh shook his head. "Feel free to rummage around in mine any time you like. While you're at it, see if you can unearth that case file from a month ago. Wirth's been bugging me for it but damn if I can find the stupid thing."

"First sabotage and now clerical duties. You're gonna peek up my skirt next. Workplace harassment, nice lawsuit material." House tossed the Coke can into the exam-table cover paper waste basket. "Perfect two-pointer, hah!"

Sandesh snorted. "Count yourself lucky, you wanker. I've been far more bored than this. Work a weeknight here during a snowstorm and you'll find out what true hell is. Even knowing that, it still wouldn't drive me to mess with your stuff."

"You're just noble that way," House sneered. "Come on, tell me your real reason. It'll be our little secret." He gave an exaggerated wink. Sandesh gave him a sly look.

"Nothing worth pawning."

House snickered as the radio crackled to life. "Tango-five to base."

Sandesh got up and walked over to answer. "Base here. Go ahead, Jack."

"Industrial accident involving a thirty-five year old female." The EMT sounded utterly unlike his usual jovial self. "She sustained moderate electrical burns on and in her right forearm, with partial amputation of the fifth finger, left hand. She coded after we got her in the rig but she's back with us. Pulse is fast but strong, respiration's shallow but we're giving her oxygen and she's doing better. Got her on IV."

"Is she conscious?" Sandesh asked.

"Yeah, coherent and in a lot of pain. We're about two minutes out." There was a pause. "If Doctor House is there, tell him it's Roz. He should know so we don't spring it on him."

"You just told him yourself." Sandesh glanced at House. He'd gone pale, and his eyes lost focus as shock took hold. He sat down hard on the exam table. Glove balloons scattered everywhere and slowly settled to the floor.

[H]

Of course Greg isn't allowed to work on her; he watches as Singh and the nurses get Roz set up in the trauma bay with a speed and efficiency any big-hospital ER would be proud of. When one of the nurses starts to pull the curtain closed Singh intervenes. "Not all the way," he says. Before he turns back to his work he gives Greg a glance, a swift assessment that holds reassurance and confidence. That's good, because Roz looks bad. Her color is shocky-grey and it's more than obvious that she's in agony, though she doesn't scream or cry or even moan. Greg would feel better if she did. Instead she just lies there as they cut her clothes off and check her over before they put her in a gown and get to work on the arm. From his perspective he can see the wound where the electricity probably exited, just by her elbow. It likely traveled the length of her forearm, and that could mean all sort of bad things.

"How did it happen?" Greg manages to ask. To his surprise Roz is the one who answers.

"I was working on a dye . . . safety was off . . ." She makes a little sound that comes out somewhere between pain and self-disgust. "Dumbass . . . there was a short and when I . . . when . . . I . . ." Her voice fades as her eyes flutter shut.

"Stay with us, girl of my dreams," Singh says as he examines her. "What happened next? Come on, Roz. Stay awake."

"I pushed the wire into place somehow . . . the dye hit the end of my . . . my damn finger . . . and fried my arm. God it hurts!" She pauses. "Can someone . . . call Poppi?" Another pause. "Greg? Is he . . ."

He wants to answer her but he can't, the words are stuck in his throat and he can feel some horrible emotion rise inside him as it expands with every heartbeat.

"He's here," Singh assures her. "He's just outside the bay."

"I'm sorry." Her words are barely more than a sigh. Greg can't believe what he just heard. It's too much. He wants to yell at her for being an idiot, cradle her in his arms and care for her himself, and he can't do any of those things. Very quietly he moves back, away from the ring of people around the gurney, and leaves the trauma area.

[H]

Sarah had just taken the roasted chicken out of the oven when she heard the phone ring. She set the baking dish on an extra pot holder and went to answer the call. As she glanced out the mudroom door window she saw Gene still at work in the garden, his back to the house.

The caller ID display read 'Singh, Dr. S'. She picked up with a slight frown. "Sandesh? What's up?"

"Sarah, House needs you. We're at the center. He's locked himself in his office and won't come out." Sandesh's voice was very quiet. Sarah swallowed on a suddenly dry throat.

"I'm on my way," she said, and ended the call. She ran to the kitchen, struggled out of her apron, and then to the back door. She pushed it wide open. "Gene! I need you!"

He drove her to the center in record time. "Did Sandesh say what happened?"

"Only that Greg's holed up in his office," she said. "It's probably a panic attack—but after you worked with him on his meds he's been doing so well . . ." Her voice trailed off when she saw the ambulance parked in front of the entrance.

"I'll drop you off and meet you inside," Gene said. He pulled Minnie to the curb and Sarah hopped out. She needed to reach Greg as quickly as possible.

She saw Roz as she passed by the trauma bay. One look at the young woman's white face and bandaged arm and hand and Sarah's heart sank. "Oh god," she said under her breath. No wonder Greg had panicked.

"Sarah." Sandesh appeared in the doorway. He looked tense, worried. "Roz is fine for now, she's sedated. Come with me and I'll tell you what's happened."

It was a short walk to the offices at the back of the building, but by the time they reached Greg's door Sandesh had given Sarah a good overview of the situation. "Have you tried talking to him?" she asked.

"He's not answering. When he heard the news over the radio, he went into shock. I should have taken care of him then, but they'd just brought Roz in and I had to prioritize." Sandesh sounded guilty. Sarah offered him a slight smile.

"You did the right thing, Greg would tell you that himself if he could." With that she gave the door a couple of firm, quiet knocks. "Greg," she said, and raised her voice a little. "It's Sarah. I'm here."

A few minutes later the deadbolt snicked as it turned to the open position, but the door remained shut. Sarah glanced at Sandesh. "Keep an eye on Roz," she said softly, and went into the office.

[H]

He has to admit, he debated on whether or not to let Sarah in. Nightmare memories of Dad's stern lectures, of Wilson's endless diatribes run through his mind for some reason, and he knows he won't be able to handle anything like that. But this is Sarah. She won't barge in and bitch him out over a show of weakness or irresponsible behavior. She'll sit down and wait for him to tell her what's going on.

And that is exactly what she does, at first. She settles into the hard, uncomfortable visitor's chair and places her hands in her lap, says nothing. He pours another shot of the Booker's he keeps in his bottom drawer and downs it. It's the fifth one he's had in the last fifteen minutes. "Brute Squad's been called in, I see," he says. Sarah smiles a little.

"Sandesh is worried," she says in her quiet way. "What happened?"

"Don't be disingenuous," he says. He stumbles over the word just a bit. "He already told you."

"He gave me the basics of the situation. I'd like to hear it from your point of view."

"Why?" he hurls at her. "What difference does it make? We can sit here and talk all night and it won't change the fact that she's—" He stops, unable to say it.

"That Roz is injured and you couldn't help her," Sarah says. Greg glares at her. It's a wasted effort though; she probably can't see it too well, he hasn't turned on any lights.

"Thank you so much for pointing that out," he snarls.

"No, I don't mean it that way." Sarah leans back in the chair. "Your objectivity is compromised." He won't answer her, because he doesn't know what to say. "You were and still are in shock, Greg. Even if you weren't, you know from your own training that it would have been extremely difficult for you to assess the situation and take care of Roz. You did the right thing by backing off and letting Sandesh and the nurses deal with her."

He can't help but laugh, a harsh, humorless sound. "So I managed to do one thing right." He dumps another shot into the glass and looks at it.

"What am I missing?" Sarah sounds so calm, so direct. He wants to shake her up, push her away, make her see her effort is a waste of time.

"You're as bad as Cuddy," he says, and it's meant as a dismissal. But she won't take the hint because she doesn't really know what he means by that. Predictably, she asks for clarification.

"How so?"

He lifts the glass and downs the shot, welcomes the sweet, smoky fire and the numbness it spreads within him. Numb is good. "Doesn't matter."

"If you push the pain away it'll come back," Sarah says.

"Not if I move across the country. It'll never find me then, unless this is one of those Disney movies about dogs and cats trading wisecracks as they search for their worthless idiot human owners."

"Nothing's impossible. But what do you do when the pain's so big it can't be pushed away? Go back to Vicodin? Get a bigger bottle? Hide in here for the rest of your life?" Sarah is still quiet, but there's steel in her words now. Greg pours another shot.

"Why not? It sort of worked before."

"It didn't work at all. You were miserable and lonely." She leans forward. "There's more going on than pain, isn't there? You're afraid." He says nothing, just dumps the bourbon inside him. "You opened yourself up to Roz, and today you almost lost her—"

"Did lose her. She coded. They brought her back." It's harder to talk now, his tongue feels thick, sluggish. The alcohol does its good work.

"—and now you're scared to death that you let yourself be so vulnerable." Sarah sits back. "Welcome to the club, son."

He peers at her, can't see her. Annoyed, he turns on his desk lamp. The mellow light should be soothing but it hurts his eyes. He closes them for a moment. "You and Gene . . ."

"Yeah, me and Gene. I worried about him every day he was gone, scared out of my mind half the time that he would get killed or die of some infectious disease or just disappear." To his complete astonishment she leans in, takes the glass out of his hands, snags the bottle and pours a shot, which she then consumes in one quick swallow. With a cough she wipes a hand across her mouth and puts the glass back. "Man, I hate bourbon."

"Don't trash my stash," he says, fascinated. "Why did you do that?"

"Because I needed to remember how much I hate bourbon," she says. "There's more to this. Not just shock and fear."

He knows what she's about to say, and it makes the panic inside grow. Without even the minimal inhibition barrier a non-alcohol-soaked mind can lend, everything starts to spiral out of control. He gets up, grimaces as his leg gives him a warning spasm, and walks to the window. He dialed down the TENS settings earlier because he needed a distraction from the bigger pain in his heart, and now he's got what he wanted. His thigh hurts like hell. "Don't bother," he says.

"Have to, that's my job. So what else might be going on?"

"Grab another shot," he says to the window. "Maybe it'll shut you up."

"What else?"

"Nothing." He knows she won't leave it alone. "Okay, some . . . something. I need someone to drive me home."

"What. Else." Sarah sounds inexorable. Greg rests his forehead against the windowpane.

"Go harass your husband and leave me the hell alone."

"Because I'm trying to rile you up," she says. "You already are, right? Just don't want to admit it, I'm thinking. Because when you love someone, you can never get mad at them for doing stupid stuff and scaring the hell out of you."

He closes his eyes. "Don't."

"I mean, what a completely idiotic move, leaving that safety off. She had to know it was dangerous. What a moron. Now she's gonna have a long stint with rehab, a big gnarly scar and a messed-up hand—"

"DON'T." He turns to face her and almost loses his balance but manages to keep his feet under him. Sarah watches him. In the reflected light her face is intent, her eyes shadowed.

"You can drink yourself to death while you stay locked away in here, you can deny your feelings all you like, but that won't change the fact that you care enough about someone to be half out of your mind with worry and anger. You've got the added burden of reminders of what you went through years ago with your leg." She tilts her head a little. "And what other people who cared about you went through too." She pauses. "Greg."

He focuses on her, though it takes some effort. "Yeah."

"I'd be more worried if you weren't pissed off and having flashbacks to a terrible experience." She gets to her feet. "Come on. Let's see Roz before we go home."

The next thing he knows, they stand by Roz's bed. She's been moved to what amounts to the ICU section, fairly close to the nurses station so they can keep an eye on her. Her grandfather sits next to the bed. Gene stands next to him, his hand on the older man's shoulder. Greg looks at this tableau, sees the pain and worry in Lou's features, the quiet reassurance in Gene's, and hates them both for being able to handle this. He's on his way to drunk and they're not—what does that make him?

Loser, John House's voice whispers. Always have been, always will be.

"She's holding her own," Gene says. "She's young and healthy and those are the best advantages for helping repair the damage quickly."

"Doctor Singh said the same thing. What aren't you telling me?" Lou says quietly. He doesn't look at any of them, he just watches Roz sleep.

"Possible permanent nerve damage," Greg says. He hears the words come out of his mouth, just a little slurred; he can't stop them, even though he knows he should. "Loss of range of motion, stimulation . . ." He trails off, comes back. "Stimulation of abnormal cell growth."

"Cancer, you mean," Lou says. He looks down, but Greg sees the sadness in his features. "Then we'll have to pray that doesn't happen."

"Yeah, for all the good that'll do," Greg sneers. He turns away, disgusted with himself and everyone else in this ridiculous scene. "Let's go."

The ride home is silent. Gene drives, with Sarah squeezed in between him and Greg. The tension level is up there, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters at this point except to get home, close the door to his room, shut everything and everyone out for as long as he can manage it—preferably until after the hangover's come and gone sometime tomorrow.

Once they are home however he can't bring himself to run for his bolthole, not right away. He limps into the kitchen to get a beer (if he can sneak it past Sarah) and smells the church-supper fragrance of baked chicken and cobbler. His empty belly rumbles. Somehow it seems wrong to be hungry when Roz is in intensive care, but he accepts a plateful of food and even manages a few bites in the hope they'll soak up what's left of the alcohol. He's slowly come down from his buzz, tired and in pain and desperately unsure of what's going to happen next. He's afraid of what the long haul of recovery will mean, mostly for him, but also for Roz. He's not sure—no, he knows he can't handle it. He's already screwed things up; why bother to even try when he knows it'll get just worse?

"Greg." Sarah says his name softly. "There is no perfect or right way to do this kind of thing. You'll make mistakes. Just remember, Roz knows you, and you know her," she gives him a quick smile, bright with humor and understanding. "Take things as they come. I can guarantee she will."

He keeps that thought with him through the long evening and into the night as he lies awake in his bed. He thinks of IV drips, monitors and a young woman asleep through the first hours of her newly changed life, unaware of what is to come . . . just as he had been, once.