AM

Dr. Gregory House limped his way out of the elevator and across the lobby towards Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital's free clinic. He hated clinic duty - no he despised it. Crying children, runny noses, swabbing crotches. It was a never ending circus, minus the kookie calliope music.

As he approached reception to sign in, Nurse Brenda sneered at him. "You're late."

Greg checked his watch. "You're clock is fast."

"At this clinic we go by ECT." She handed him three files.

"East coast time? Don't you mean EST?"

"Exact Cuddy Time," she glared from under her lowered brow. "Room Two."

"I'm only a pretend East Coaster. I'm on GHT: Greg House Time. I'm like Newfoundland: in my own time zone." House perused the files. "Great a three for one sale."

He hobbled into Exam Room Two expecting to find the usual plethora of cold symptoms that often plagued entire families. What he wasn't prepared for were the two sets of pleading eyes that latched onto his.

"My mom is sick, and you need to fix her," the little boy bravely stepped forward.

"I'm not a mechanic, kid. I don't fix people." House glared down at him until the urchin meekly stepped aside.

"You're a doctor, you're supposed to fix people." It was the little girl's turn to step up.

"Jesus and Madonna, behave yourselves," the mother admonished with a sign.

Greg was ready to blurt out a quick witticism, but censored himself. "So, says here you're tired, feverish and achy." He scooted the stool over to the exam table. "I wake up every day feeling like that.

Jesus stepped up next to House. "Whatcha gonna do about it?"

House looked eye-to-eye with the hoodlum in training. The kid's eyes were glassy, shadows evident in the inner corners of his lids. Greg reached out and felt his forehead. "You could fry and egg up there." He pulled his hand away as if it had touched a flame.

"Cinderella, come here."

"Madonna," the little urchin corrected innocently.

"Whatever." He noted her same sallow look and placed a palm on her forehead as well.

"What are you doing," she asked.

"Faith healing. Seems you got what he's got."

"Frying pan head?"

Greg was initially thrown by the remark.

"You said you could fry and egg…" the mother shrugged.

"I get it," House smirked.

He opened their charts and checked what the nurse had recorded. "Drinking lots of fluids?" He forgot he was talking in general to a pair of five-year-olds. When he got no answer, he rephrased. "Kool-aid, 7-up, Gatorade…god forbid: water?" When no answer came, he looked up at the mom. "What about you?"

"Not really."

House sighed derisively. "You guys need to drink lots of water. All three of you are dehydrated." House pulled out his prescription pad and wrote: Turn on spigot, put cup under. Fill. Turn off spigot. Drink. Repeat 8-12 times per day. He handed it to the mother.

"You felt it necessary to write: turn off the water?"

"They're kids. If you don't give them complete directions, they tend to miss a few steps."

He moved on to examining the mother. "You chart says you've been feeling 'icky' for about two weeks."

"I thought it was nothing. A cold. My resistance is low. I haven't been eating or sleeping much."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Let's start with why you waited so long to come in."

"We haven't lived in the area very long. I didn't know about this place."

House nodded in understanding. Some people were just to proud to admit they needed a little help in this crappy economy.

"Day care tell you to come?"

"I've kept them home since-" She hung her head in what House assumed was shame.

Free clinic. No money for daycare.

"Don't cry, Mommy," Madonna grabbed her mother's hand.

"Been crying a lot?" House had her number, although it made him extremely uncomfortable to talk to her about it in front of the kids.

"Mommy cries all the time since Daddy died," Jesus informed the doctor. "You gotta make her better. She's all we got." His lower lip betrayed him by quivering.

Greg didn't think he could stand it if all three of them were crying. He pulled a box of tissues off the counter and passed it around. "I'll be back in a minute."

Brenda watched him approach the desk. "Something wrong?"

"It's a little wet in there for my tastes."

"What did you say to make all three of them cry?"

"Nothing," House protested his innocence. He pulled a red lollipop out of the candy jar and distracted himself with it. Brenda glared at him and he just stared back cooly.

"You can't treat them from out here," she insisted. "I'm calling Cuddy."

"What! I'm giving them some privacy."

The door to Room Two opened and Jesus stepped out. He spied the doctor at the desk and headed in his direction.

"Everything okay in there," House inquired casually.

"You coming back in?"

"Eventually."

Jesus just stared up at the doctor expecting him to do or say something else.

House looked over to Brenda, who had a similar look on her face. "What?"

She inclined her head toward the child.

"Oh, all right," he utter with fake exasperation. "Walk with me, talk with me, kid."

The little boy followed the doctor out of the clinic into the lobby. He watched as the older man hobbled, leaning heavily on his cane.

House took a seat on a bench and patted the area next to him for the boy to sit down.

Jesus sat, staring up at the doctor expectantly. When House didn't say anything, he spoke. "Did you get hurt in the war?"

Normally Greg would make up an inane excuse for his bum leg, but this kid's reasoning was different. "Was your father a soldier?"

"Yessir. He died a few weeks ago in eye rock."

House nodded in understanding as he pounded his cane between his legs. A lot of thoughts surfaced that he immediately tried to push back. "So that makes you the man of the house."

"Yessir. And it ain't easy. I take out the garbage, pick up after my sister and even sometimes make dinner."

House smiled. "What do you make?"

"Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It ain't easy when you're only allowed to use a spoon."

"You're a good son."

"That's what my mommy tells me, but I don't know."

House was intrigued by his last remark. "Why's that?"

"Mommy got sick, and I can't make things better."

For a moment, some of Greg's repressed thoughts pushed forward. How many times had his father told him he was the man of the house while he was away on military business? Greg had always tried to keep things in order, lest his father return to label him a disappointment.

"Being the man of the house is a big job. Sometimes you need to call in back-up to make things better when you can't do it alone." House stretched out his leg and rubbed his thigh before standing.

Jesus watched him again. "So?"

"Were you a soldier?"

"Nope. But my dad was." House held out his arm, expecting the young boy to stand and follow him.

The boy stepped up under his wing. "But my dad died, too."

"How old were you?" Jesus looked up expectantly.

"By then I was a grown up. But I can imagine how hard it must be for your mom…and you."

Shit, Greg thought. I can't imagine how hard it would have been for my mom if my dad had died early. It's inconceivable how different my life could be now.

"House, are you listening?" Cuddy had steeped into the clinic at Brenda's request.

"Not to you," House teased as he walked past her with the boy. They headed back to Room Two.

"There you are," the mother held out her arms as Greg and Jesus walked in.

Her son obediently stepped under his mother's protective arm. "I was talking with Dr. House, Mommy. I want you to get better."

"It's going to take a while for that to happen, baby. Time heals all wounds." She stroked her children's hair, placing a kiss on Jesus' crown.

"I'm not sure how you do it, but you don't have go through this alone," House said heading back out the door. "I'll be right back."

"Now what's you're excuse," Cuddy glared at him. "Why can't you just treat them and get to the next case?"

House stepped past her and over to the rack of pamphlets on the far wall of the clinic waiting room. He pulled a few sheets down and a packet with the letters N.A.M.I. on the front.

"She doesn't need me; she needs a social worker."

Cuddy was stunned by his sympathetic tone of voice. That and the fact that he knew what he was looking for with the pamphlets.

He returned to the room finding the mother and children in the same embrace. "There's nothing I can prescribe for the three of you. You need plenty of rest, fluids and a healthy diet. A little sunshine wouldn't hurt either." He watched the mother's reaction and received only flat affect. "There's help out there." He gave her the leaflets. "Alone sucks," he mumbled as he eased himself off the stool.

For the first time in a long while he felt compelled to talk to his mother. He experienced a sense of grief for a family who had lost the man who provided for them. He hadn't had that strong of a reaction when his own father died, but that didn't make Greg heartless, just incapable of feeling a sense of emptiness from the death of a man from whom he gave nor received compassion.

But that didn't mean his mother didn't grieve for the man. Greg's lack of grief was only another wedge in the rift between his mother and himself. Even if he couldn't empathize with her, he could sympathize. The urge to talk with her, to tell her he was sorry for being so obstinate, that he was trying to change for the better, seemed like it couldn't wait. That if he didn't confess what was on his mind right now, he would lose the chance to do so for whatever reason could present itself.

He was barely seated at his desk when he reached for the phone and dialed.

"Hi, Mom."

PM

Wilson rode the elevator down to the lobby with his friend. House was sullen without known explanation. James couldn't put his finger on it, but something was different about House. It wasn't Greg's usually moodiness.

"Do you want to go out for burgers?" He tried to break through House's distracted thoughts.

"Not hungry."

"My treat. We'll have a few beers…unwind."

"Maybe some other time."

House stepped ahead of his friend, absently heading for the doors.

"Well, goodnight, then," Wilson watched curiously as his friend exited the building on autopilot.

Greg straddled his motorcycle, balancing precariously as he slid the helmet over his head. He stared forward not looking at anything in particular but thinking about his conversation with his mother. She was shocked that he called and ecstatic to hear from him. He was glad he had contacted her.

None of his friends or colleagues could identify with what he was feeling - well, maybe Chase could, but he was in no way willing to confide his fears as an inadequate son with an underling. And it didn't matter what anybody could tell him, good or bad. Only two people endured him as a son, and one was dead. Validation from mommy wasn't required, but it could placate his ego.

He started the bike, easing his way out of the parking lot and heading nowhere in particular. Going home was the furthest thought from his mind. Riding a long and open road seemed to fit the direction his brain was going. It didn't matter that darkness would fall soon, or that he could end up somewhere in Upstate New York. He just needed to feel the road roll under his wheels letting the vibration of the engine and the rubber on pavement soothe what he would call but never admit to as his weary soul.

When his thoughts drifted away from his mother, they shifted to Jesus and family. The mom knew she was depressed to some extent. She was more or less overwhelmed by new found single parenthood and the loss of her lover.

"Time heals all wounds," she had told her children.

He hadn't broken her spirit, although he easily could have. In that moment of her seemingly words of wisdom, he would gladly have proven that it was highly unlikely, showing her the caved in remains of his right thigh. But it wasn't playing fair. He had suffered years of pain and waiting for the healing that never came. She was just at the beginning of that learning curve. It was hers to experience in her own way. His sour grapes would only push her to the edge. Those kids needed her.

Blythe House knew her son was capable of compassion although he rarely showed or expressed it. She knew he was having a tough time working through the emotions ands self-doubt it had sparked over his rocky childhood. She had told him that in her times of trouble she prayed a rosary.

He had emphatically told her he didn't have a faith; couldn't believe in a deity or higher power. That led to a further discussion on where she and John had gone wrong in raising him.

Their final exchange was still fresh in his ears.

"If you feel you have to help this family out-"

"I just don't know what to do; let alone how to do it."

"You'll know it in your soul."

He harrumphed.

"Follow your heart."

"Ma," he threatened plaintively.

"If your conscience is telling you to do something, act on it."

Greg headed the bike back to Princeton. He felt as helpless as Jesus confessed to feeling. And then it hit him. The good son needed reinforcements.

An hour later he was standing at the door of their apartment loaded down with groceries and wondering how he was going to knock on the door. With no other choice, he kicked lightly. A few seconds later he heard what sounded like a chair being dragged across the floor and then back.

The door opened slowly revealing Jesus peering from behind. "What are you doing here?"

"Us sons of military heroes gotta stick together."