A/N: I didn't really intend on writing a second chapter, so the ending might be a bit rough. Oh well. Note: To anyone reading Nightmare or Sanity's Edge…sorry about the wait, I really am. Working on it.

Disclaimer: No.

Cameron sunk into the leather couch of the staff lounge. God, she was tired. The past night had been particularly trying, with drug addicts trying to get more of their favorite candy, crying gunshot victims, and drunkies with blood spurting every which way…which wouldn't have been so bad if they hadn't been to high to respond to any of her questions. Or at least they could've stopped flailing their limbs.

Her job really was her life. No boyfriend, no hobbies. Her co-workers told her how crazy she was. "Why stay for the night-shift when you already work days? Get out there!" Actually, one nurse's phrasing on Cameron's boyfriend-status had been, "Men'll be drooling all over you! What are you afraid of?" What if she didn't want to be drooled over? What if she'd had her fair share of drooling, herself? The next day (or, she guessed, today because it was so late already) was Valentine's Day. Not a day to look forward too.

She glanced at the clock. 2:13 am. She should go to bed. Well…I don't have to stay here…I can go home. Cameron picked up her sleepy self and walked out the door, heading for the locker rooms.


She shuffled her feet walking through the halls. Her starched blouse was not comfortable, and she couldn't wait to change into something else at home.

Cameron turned down the Diagnostics Hallway, more out of habit than actual need. Passing House's office, she skidded to a stop. It was so bare, so empty. So House. As she looked on, a plan started to formulate in her mind. And a smile crept slowly across her tired features. Sleep could wait.


The next day, House limped grumpily out of the slow elevator. He was not in a good mood. It was Valentine's Day—and what a pathetic excuse for a holiday it was. "But House," Cameron had protested during the first year of fellowship. "Valentine's Day is all about showing people that you care." Care, my ass, House thought. Cupid's Hell-day was even worse than Christmas—not even a baby Jesus to justify the relentless passing of meaningless garbage, usually consisting of wilted roses and chocolate that had gone stale ages ago. Snarling at feeble nurses as he passed, House pushed open the door to his office, walking in sullenly. Suddenly, a cascade of rose petals were let loose and flew merrily from the ceiling to cover House's office floor. He drew back from the poison in horror, like a frightened puppy avoiding a kick. House let lose whimper, and then shut his eyes tight and leaned against the hallway walls.

He had hoped that, on account of some bizarre nightmare, he had imagined the sickly serenade. He hadn't. In reality, it was much worse than he could ever had imagined.

House surveyed his office, fully expecting complete normalcy. Wrong. What he saw…was terrifying. Garlands of untastefully colored hearts drooped cheerfully from the ceiling. Red roses, at least a hundred (it seemed that way to House) lay scattered across his desk. Several metallic balloons bobbed at the windowsill. And the smell of thick perfume overpowered the oxygen in the air. House gasped, and kicked his way through the conference room doors, anxious to repeal the unimportant tasks assigned to his team and replace them with the new cleaning job. "Hey! Get all that—" But House couldn't finish his sentence. Because there was no one in the room to listen.

Damn! House took a deep breath, shaking his head in disgust as he did so. The air was flowery and romantic. Oh, no! The curse of Valentine's Day was spreading!

House looked around. He needed air. Needed fresh air. The balcony! And, as fast as the words could form in his mind, House had run out to his familiar outdoor hideaway.

He gulped so much oxygen in those three seconds House thought he might collapse. But, of course, he didn't. After gaining composure over his anxiously beating heart, House peered cautiously over the balcony into Wilson's office. Wait a minute…something wasn't right. That look—that look didn't belong on Wilson's face. It was wrong.

House watched quietly as his younger friend slumped down into his office couch, his brow furrowed and his eyes shut tight. House dropped his cane and leaned unhappily against the railing. It would be a terrible day, indeed.


Several minutes later, the shades of Wilson's office were abruptly shut. A flash of worry shook House before he kicked it away. Wilson was fine. No, that wasn't true…but he would be fine, when House was done with him.

Deviously, House shook his pager out of his pocket (He mentally slapped himself—he could've had the team clean up his office if he'd remembered to page them!) and sent a rude, infuriating, and usually (but not today) truthful message. Then he hurried downstairs. He didn't want to miss the fireworks show. Or the beer afterwards.