I was in another lifetime, one of toil and blood,

when blackness was a virtue, and the road was full of mud.

I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form;

"Come in," she said, "I'll give you

shelter from the storm."

November 11th

Greg sips his tepid coffee and looks out the window. It is a day typical of late autumn in this area. Most of the leaves have fallen, though a few trees have held out against the cold. They've done their best not to turn—the definition of 'losing battle' if there ever was one. The grass is still green too, in odd contrast with the bare vegetation. Weak, watery sunshine illuminates everything in an ugly light, and lends the surroundings a bleak shabbiness. Even the people who walk by his living room windows look chilled and pale, though they wear bright sweaters and hats under their thick coats. Most of the younger guys and some of the girls wear shorts, a style preference he won't begin to understand or care about; if they want to freeze their reproductive bits to look stylish, that's their prerogative.

He spends his time with guitar in hand as he picks a few aimless chords, and waits for Sarah to arrive. She surprised him with her agreement to meet at his place, despite the inconvenience to her; they could just as easily have talked on the phone. There was no objection, no argument; she'd simply said yes. Of course he wonders what her motive is in this behavior. She has every right to tell him to go to hell; after all, he's the one who got her fired from her position as therapist at Mayfield. Will she use this meeting to berate or guilt-trip him? Will she flip out, break down, carry on? He doesn't think so. She was too matter of fact on the phone, and that indicates to him she already has some sort of plan in mind. More than likely it's the one her hubby hurled at him during the ill-fated 'conference' last week. She's gonna try to bargain, he thinks even as a knock sounds at the door. He sets down the guitar and limps across the room to answer it. He takes his time; no point in a rush to disaster, it'll arrive on its own schedule.

Sarah stands in the hallway, bundled into a well-worn black parka. She looks cold and tired, with faint shadows under her eyes. He waits for her to say something, but she is silent.

"I already gave to the widows and orphans fund," he says. "Unless you're the hooker I paid for yesterday. If so, you're late." He pretends to wince. "Oops, bad choice of words."

She says nothing, just looks at the floor. After a moment he steps aside and opens the door wider, a tacit invitation to enter. A few minutes later they sit in the living room on opposite ends of the couch. He hasn't offered her coffee or even a glass of water, but she hasn't asked for anything either. "What do you want?" he asks, and watches her closely. She sits much as he found her last week, leaned forward with her arms on her thighs, hands folded. He can't read her expression.

"I'm not here to bitch you out about what happened," she says quietly. "What's done is done."

She really said that. Greg looks at her. "Yeeaaaah," he says, to indicate his total disbelief.

"I'm upset and-and hurt, but what would be the point in trying to get revenge, or in coming after you? You did what you thought you had to do to protect yourself, and to let me know you were angry about my mistake."

"Mistake," he prompts when she falls silent.

"I shouldn't have shown the journal to anyone else. I should have brought it back to you and admitted it was beyond my ability to figure out." She makes a little gesture with her hands. "It's—it's hard for me to admit I'm not smart enough to do certain things. I let my own ego get in the way and hid it by saying I was trying to help you. I'm truly sorry for that, Doctor House." She hesitates. "I didn't have anything to do with the ultimatum Gene and Will gave you."

"Uh huh," he says, and injects as much sarcasm into the words as possible. "Does your hubby know you're here?" He answers before she can reply. "Of course he does. I give you both credit, this is a good ploy. It would work with most patients. But not me." He sits back and raises his brows. "Show me your tits. I don't mean that metaphorically."

"It's not a ploy," she says. "I want to make my own offer."

"Oh, this will be good," he says, just to goad her. She ignores his comment.

"I would like to work with you, if you're agreeable. It's still my opinion that your best chance for a successful surgery and future pain management would be with continuing therapy. I can help you with that chance."

He can't believe it. Whatever he thought she'd say, this isn't it. "You can't be for real," he says. "Seriously, this is ridiculously over the top. I'm expected to believe you'd want to work with me after two failed attempts. I don't know why you'd want to after-" he pauses-"you know, everything."

"Because I want to. That's reason enough," Sarah says quietly.

"You are so full of shit," he says, incredulous. "I got you fired!"

"Nobody said there wouldn't be a few little bumps in the road." For the first time she lifts her gaze to his. The corners of her mouth turn up just a bit, and there's a faint amusement reflected in her eyes. Caught off guard, Greg can't help but give a choke of laughter. The next thing he knows they both lose it. It is totally insane, but in that same crazy way it feels good. Not that he feels guilty about what happened; she deserved to be smacked down. He just wishes there hadn't been unexpected consequences from that little prank he pulled.

"What about the pirate and the kid?" Greg asks after they wind down into occasional chuckles. "They'll want evidence of results."

"Therapy doesn't work that way. It isn't a matter of putting in x and getting y after thirty days, or sixty, or an entire year. It's an ongoing process." She looks at her hands. "I just want to help."

"Why?" Her persistence mystifies him. She no longer has to answer to anyone for his progress, so there's no reward in it for her. Most people would have walked away for good long before this; in fact quite a few people have, in the past.

"Because you deserve the chance," she says.

"No I don't," he says, surprised to find he's being honest. "You're delusional."

"I'm stubborn," she says, and smiles a little. "There's a difference, you know."

"Not by much." He cannot shake this feeling of release, of what feels like possibility—a dangerous state of mind. He has to be careful here, not let her do-gooder charisma influence him. He knows all too well where that leads. "I think you just like lost causes."

"You're not a lost cause, unless you choose to be." She stands and takes her coat from the back of the chair. "Let me know what you decide," she says. "Call me any time."

"Your hubby isn't gonna like this," he points out. "I got threatened with a beat-down if I make his little piece of ass all verklempt."

Sarah stops at the door. When she turns around, the impassive expression is gone. She looks fierce, wounded. The pain he caused radiates out of her, her beautiful eyes gone dark. "I'm no one's little piece of ass," she says. "You let me worry about what Gene might do." She turns away. "My door is always open." And with that she lets herself out of the apartment as quietly as she came in.

Greg stands there for a moment and stares at the dark green paint on the door. She hadn't slapped at him, but now he knows the depth of the hurt he caused. It's a sobering realization. After a time he stumps through the living room to the kitchen. He checks the coffee maker and finds the carafe is full of tar and ready to explode, since he'd left it nearly empty. On a growl of disgust he takes the pot and filter well to the sink, empties them out, sets them to soak. A quick survey of his cupboards reveals he's out of beans, ground or otherwise, not to mention anything in the way of food. There's no creamer or even milk in the fridge either, no eggs or bread, butter, basics of any kind—just leftover pizza and a couple of beers. He hasn't shopped since Wilson dumped him off here last week. In fact he hasn't really gone anywhere, except out in the hallway to get his mail a couple of days ago. He wouldn't have even done that if the postman hadn't left a note to warn him his box was crammed full and any further deliveries would have to be picked up at the office downtown.

He moves back into the living room, sits on the couch. With care he stretches out, pulls the cotton throw from the back and drapes it over him. It smells of Bounce and overheated fibers. He grabs the remote, turns on the tv and rolls over, to face away from the screen; it's just on for noise, some kind of company in the quiet apartment.

At the moment he's overwhelmed and not sure what to do, sensations he's all too familiar with and dislikes intensely. Part of him wants to dismiss Sarah as a self-serving hypocrite; part of him knows she's sincere, which is the equivalent of saying all UFO abductees are sincere because they really believe they've been taken into the mothership. Doesn't mean anything, he thinks as sleep pulls him down.

Greg wakes a couple of hours later to hear his belly give a long, low rumble. It's the work of a few moments to order some Indian takeout. The desire to pop some Vicodin is strong, but he pushes it away and massages his thigh. As a distraction he considers that morning's visit while he waits. If he sets aside Sarah's pointless optimism, what the hell is in this for her? Is she taking him on just because she has to win the contest? He doesn't get that vibe at all, but it's still a possibility. But what's far worse is the fact that he's actually got a thought to accept her offer. It's madness. And yet he really has no other choice. To continue as he is now will lead to a zero-sum result. The hallucinations have stopped, but he has no guarantee they won't start again if he goes back to work. Nothing has changed (aside from Chase and Cameron's marriage, a mistake if he ever saw one). If he goes back to work, plunges into the same routine with the same parameters, it's practically a guarantee he'll get the same result.

He thinks of the last year, the emotional turmoil and fear he's lived in since Amber's death—hell, before that even, since he cut Stacy loose again—and knows he will not survive another round. Even the remarkable strength of his one gift is not proof against endless loss and the resultant pain and chaos it causes. That means he has little choice but to accept Goldman's offer of help.

A knock at the door brings him out of his thoughts. The delivery guy knows him well; there's two six-packs of beer with the food. Greg pays him, adds a nice tip on top of the total—it's worth it to ensure he gets brew with his order—and takes the bags and bottles to the coffee table. He sets out his feast and pushes aside all thoughts of Goldman and her visit. He doesn't have to decide right now. Cuddy's left messages on his voicemail and in his inbox every day, several times a day, but she doesn't sound frantic, not yet. He's got some time.

Greg pops a pakora into his mouth, picks up the remote and opens the On Demand menu, as people pass by his window with heads bowed before the chill wind.