Your response to this story has been amazing. I'm glad you all are so excited with the idea and want it to be explored. I have taken your requests and comments to heart and have decided to take this a little farther than originally planned. It still won't be very long, but I think I agree that it deserves to go a little deeper than a two-shot would allow. So, under the advisement of the readers, I present chapter two. (Oh, and V – it's still to your credit.)

Disclaimer: I'm not connected with you know who or you know what.

Chapter Two

House restlessly sat in the waiting room, silently diagnosing the various patients seated around him. At least his intellect wasn't affected by his cognitive disturbances, he just had emotional and expressive incontinence, and intermittent impulse control issues, and an increasing lack in judgment.

What's new?

Most people would say he'd always had those issues. Only he knew the extent of his symptoms. No one else knew the difficulties he was having, except for Cuddy.

Cuddy.

He hadn't seen her since he'd come to her house three weeks ago. They'd spent hours that night talking about his symptoms, Wilson, their road trip and his last days, prison, anything she wanted to talk about. He just wanted to spend time with her, to breathe in the feeling of being with her again.

She asked a lot of questions. He knew she wasn't just evaluating him, but discovering what he'd been doing, understanding where his mind and heart had been, and ascertaining where he was at that moment. She was being a doctor as much as a friend. And he held on to a thin hope that she was with him because she still felt something for him.

She'd refused to talk about her life, only providing the basic information and avoiding details. She completely shut down any personal or intimate topics. In spite of her efforts, he'd figured out she hadn't been with anyone since him. Not even the guy he'd seen through her window that fateful day. She'd remained alone.

He couldn't put his finger on how he felt about that. He didn't want her to be with anyone else. He wanted to be the love of her life. He wanted to be "it" for her, the standard that no one could ever meet. He'd probably become that, but in a very negative way. His impact on her life had left her unwilling to open her heart, to trust, to believe in any man again. He feared he'd destroyed her.

Someone sat down heavily in the chair next to him and tossed a purse on the floor between them. House looked up, annoyed, but faltered when he saw her grey-blue eyes looking at him.

"You're taking us to lunch when we get out of here," she sighed. "I didn't have my coffee this morning, I had to sit in economy on the flight here, next to the poster boy for annoying traveling salesman I should add, and traffic just sucks."

House smiled.

He'd left her to go to rehab, and although they hadn't talked for a week while he was going through the worst part of detox, he had received notes and messages. She'd made some phone calls, worked the system and called in some favors to get him appointments with the "best of the best" to discuss treatments, trials, drug therapies and cognitive rehabilitation. By the time he'd left the rehab center, he had a calendar of appointments and a file full of pertinent reading material. She was always the administrator, always his savior.

"Stop smiling like that," she mumbled. "You look like a pervert."

His smile grew bigger. They'd talked on the phone several times over the past two weeks. He'd moved back into his apartment – having nowhere else to go – but was struggling to rebuild his life. Not that he could even try. He couldn't go back to PPTH, not that he even wanted to without Cuddy and Wilson, and the apartment didn't really feel like home anymore. He was restless, and bored, and rudderless. He couldn't really make any decisions on his life as long as his brain was in the balance. But he had too much time on his hands to obsess over his problems, to fall into depression and patterns of self-destruction.

But then she'd called. They'd talked about rehab and all of the information she'd given him, she'd confirmed his various appointments and made him promise not to back out of them. He'd told her about a new neighbor who he had diagnosed as schizophrenic by the way he talked as he sorted through the mail. She'd told him about a new exercise class she was trying. They'd talked for two hours. He'd felt happy.

Two days later, he'd called her to talk about some research on mGluRs she'd forwarded. They'd talked for another two hours. Then she'd called him a couple of days later, and a pattern was set in place.

"I am a pervert," he said.

Her grin leaned more toward a smirk. "True."

House stared at her. He couldn't believe she was here. It was more than he would expect, and more than he dared to hope.

"You couldn't stay away," he feigned an arrogance he wasn't feeling. "You find me irresistible."

"Maybe witnessing the disintegration of a great mind is too much to resist," she said dryly.

He smirked. Her irreverence equaled his. Not many people got the chance to see that side of her.

"Gregory House." The nurse called from clinic doors.

Cuddy followed behind him as the nurse guided House to the back of the office, stopping to weigh him before leaving them in a consultation room to await the doctor.

"You're too thin," Cuddy said. She'd noted the reading on the scale and was concerned at the number.

"Haven't you heard?" He quipped. "Size doesn't matter."

"I'm serious."

He could see that. She was staring at him with the aloofness he was beginning to recognize as a mask to a deeper emotional reaction.

"You've lost too much weight," she said. "We need to find out if it's the stress from all that's happened and maybe your rehab, or is it a symptom."

"Don't play doctor," he softly demanded, and then waggled his brows. "Unless you're really playing doctor."

She rolled her eyes, but was interrupted from any comeback when Doctor Salman entered the room from behind where they were seated.

Introductions were quickly made before he quickly directed the conversation to the matter at hand.

Doctor Salman was very thorough as he went over the scans, tests, and reports from the doctors of the varying specialties on the case. He discussed with them details and how they resulted in the symptoms House was experiencing. He also began to build a focused medical history, asking House a number of questions specifically designed for cognitive behavioral assertion. House made notes in his mind of the conclusions being drawn from his answers and filed them away for later examination.

Brain injury is unpredictable in its consequences. They both understood there was no such thing as a standard approach or treatment. There was no one prescription or one therapy to address the symptoms. The effects of brain trauma were complex and varied from person to person, and since no two injuries were exactly the same, no two treatments would be the same. They would be creating an individualized plan of treatment and rehabilitation involving a multidisciplinary approach.

By the time they left the doctor's office, they had developed a plan of attack for treating the various symptoms through pharmacological, cognitive rehabilitation and neuropsychology treatments. An impressive panel of doctors was assigned to the case and House would have regular appointments with each of them throughout the program. It was a thorough and intensive approach to addressing the disease and the symptoms. Cuddy was cautiously optimistic, perhaps even encouraged, but she knew House was apprehensive and afraid to hope.

"Let's have Sushi," she said as they stepped out of the building and into the parking deck.

"You think now's the best time for me to eat raw food and face parasites and disease?"

She came to a stop beside him, turning to check his expression for a sign of teasing. "You're kidding, right?"

House smirked and took her hand. "Come on! There's a new place around the corner we can check out."

[H] [H] [H] [H] [H]

"It could be Lyme disease and not an effect of some phantom brain injury," House said as he used his chopsticks to grab a rainbow roll from her plate and pop it in his mouth.

Cuddy frowned at him; House exaggerated his chewing to annoy her. He didn't need to know it wasn't eating her food that annoyed her, but the closeness it implied. She'd let it slide when he'd held her hand as they walked to the restaurant. It seemed to be an automatic response, not an intentional move to test the waters. She suspected he was feeling a little anxious after meeting with the doctor and it was a reflex to take her hand. At least that's how she'd justified it to herself as she allowed it to continue. Now, she was aggravated to find how easy it was for them to fall back into patterns of intimacy.

"That's a lot of cognitive disturbance for Lyme," she said.

"I have a pretty extensive pre-existing injury," he shrugged. "Besides, all of the symptoms have been seen in chronic Lyme disease so it's not far-fetched."

"Except there's a pretty compelling argument that chronic Lyme disease is actually an autoimmune disease," she played the devil's advocate.

"What came first the Lyme chicken or the immune egg?"

Cuddy grinned. God, she didn't want to enjoy being with him so much.

"Think about it," he said to her. "The way the symptoms wax and wane, the malaise, cyclical symptoms, pain, temperature fluctuations, all of the cognitive disturbances, sudden onset of dental issues, gastro esophageal reflux, and various digestive malfunctions…It's all there. In fact, if I were to write all of the symptoms – perceived or real – on a white board during a DDX, your first thought would be Lyme."

"And it would be tossed aside since there's nothing in the file indicative to the transmission of Borrelia Burgdorferi," she said.

"There's nothing to prove a secondary brain injury FIVE years after the initial trauma either!" House passionately argued. "It's actually more likely I contracted a tic instead of crabs during a rendezvous with…"

His eyes grew wide as his voice trailed off.

Cuddy held her expression, refusing to reveal his offhanded comment affected her. It was bad enough she felt the disgust on such a visceral level without him knowing it. She resented that he still had that power over her.

"Too bad the shift in the biochemistry of your frontal lobe can't be used as an excuse," she dryly responded. "You've always been a disgusting ass."

Cuddy took a swallow of her hot tea, now even more frustrated. It didn't matter if she controlled her expressions and responses if her words gave her away.

"Not always," he muttered. "I was a better man with you."

"Just a worse doctor," she spit back.

Dammit! Maybe she was the one with the impulse control issues. Maybe he had a virus and it was spreading! She couldn't seem to filter her comments with him.

"I wasn't a worse doctor," he said softly. "I just felt more."

Cuddy flipped a hand in a gesture of disinterest. "It doesn't matter," she said, and began eating again.

"It does matter." House leaned forward and propped his arms on the table. "We should talk about it."

"There's no reason to," she said without looking at him. "It's in the past."

"But we need to talk about it if we're going to have a future."

"We don't have a future, House," she spoke evenly, her throat tight. "We don't have anything."

It was a blow. He felt as if the wind had been completely knocked out of him, and he winced at the impact of her words.

"So you're just here as a doctor?" He clarified. "We're not friends?"

Cuddy very slowly placed chopsticks on the table beside her plate and removed her napkin from her lap to place with it. She finally looked at him, her eyes locking with his.

"'Friends' is the last thing you want to be," she reminded him of the words he'd once spoken to her.

He closed his eyes and swallowed, steeling himself against the hurt he was feeling.

"Excuse me," she whispered.

He watched as she stood and weaved her way through the restaurant toward the restroom.

He was such an idiot. They'd fallen so easy into their phone conversations, and then she'd shown up here to support him. He'd unconsciously allowed himself to hope. As if hope made a difference at all!

There was no way she'd ever really forgive him and let him back into her life. He'd known that from the moment the reality of what he'd done finally kicked in as he sat on that beach watching the sunset. He'd destroyed any hope of happiness. After Wilson died, he thought he'd die too. But the human survival instinct defies logic. He was here fighting for a miserable existence.

He'd been compelled to find her, needing the assurance that she was alive and well, that she'd moved on in spite of how much he'd resented the thought of her doing just that. He'd needed to close the door on that part of his life, to apologize and let it go as Nolan had once explained was necessary to healing. He'd never expected her to actually help him, to support him. He should have known better. Her guilt and pity knew no bounds. It was his shame that he was hoping her response would be a springboard to more.

House shook his head. He was a fool. He really was brain damaged.

By the time Cuddy returned to her seat, she'd pulled herself together. She was angry at herself for breaking down. As she'd washed the tears from her face and freshened up her make-up, she'd silently gone through a reality check with herself.

She was furious that she could so easily feel at ease with the man who'd destroyed her life. Disappointed she held such anger for a sick man, and yet seemed to have an equal amount of sympathy for him. She was guilty that she'd somehow given him hope, and frustrated that he would actually embrace it. And she was absolutely disgusted at that part of her that still found him so damn irresistible. It was ridiculous! It was so codependent it was almost insane. She was pathetic.

As she ran her fingers through her hair, she'd determined she was going to set some boundaries for herself and place some distance between them. She'd made a mistake in coming to be with him for this doctor's appointment. That wouldn't happen again. Tomorrow she would go home and any future contact with House would be limited. The past was in the past. It needed to stay there.

House watched as Cuddy sat down, demurely placed the napkin on her lap and began to eat again as if nothing had ever happened. Her wall of aloofness had returned, even though he could see the signs that she'd been crying. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to make things right. But the way to make things right would be just to let it go, let her go. His life was about survival; she had a chance to really live. He needed to give her what he'd given Wilson, the chance to do just that.

He placed a bite of horseradish on his roll and bit into it, deciding a little heat was needed to break the sudden chill invading him.

He didn't miss the irony as they began to talk about the weather.

[H] [H] [H] [H] [H]

He'd dropped her off at her hotel on his way home. She was going to visit with some old friends, stop by PPTH and do the networking thing. She'd done what she'd come to do: ensured he'd made his appointment and had a solid treatment plan. She'd leave in the morning and he wouldn't see her again. He'd never hear from her again.

House poured some whiskey into a glass and quickly drank it before pouring another. God he missed Wilson. He missed his friend. For once, he really wanted to talk, needed to talk and there was no one to listen. How ironic! The only two people who really knew him, who he really trusted, were gone. Wilson was dead. Cuddy…

He was lucky she even let him in the door that day, much less done everything else she had the past three weeks. She was amazing. She was the most amazing woman he'd ever known and he'd blown it. He'd ruined it. And then he'd made sure she'd never look back, never give him another chance. He'd made very certain she'd hate him so much it would be easy for both of them to move on.

But he hadn't move-on. He went through the motions, tried to pay penance, tried to be better. He didn't want to be that man that hurt her, that disappointed her. He needed to change, even though he knew that was impossible. People don't change. They leave. They die. Wilson died.

House filled his glass again.

She hadn't moved-on either. Oh, she'd moved. She'd bought a new house, in a new state; she had a new job. She'd taken on a life completely different from the one she'd built, the one that made her proud, the one that had made her happy. He could see right through her act. He'd always been able to see her. She was frozen. She was going through the motions, but she was paralyzed. He'd done that to her.

There was something fundamentally wrong with him. He couldn't blame it on brain damage. He'd always been screwed up. He'd always been miserable. He'd always hurt the people he loved.

House threw the glass across the room and watched it shatter against the wall near the fireplace.

He'd warned her. He'd told her he'd hurt her, that he'd do terrible things to her. She'd told him he was the most remarkable man she'd ever known.

Remarkable.

She'd believed in him. Even now she believed in him. That's why she'd helped him. That's why she hadn't turned her back on him.

She believed in him. She just couldn't be with him.

He couldn't blame her.

His head was pounding. He didn't know what hurt more, his head, his leg or his heart.

He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be alive. He should have been the one to die, not Wilson.

The pounding was getting louder. He just wanted it to stop. He wanted to pain to stop. He wanted it to end.

The pounding was…House jerked around.

He knew it was her knocking on the door even before he swung open the door.

"You've been drinking," she said when she caught a glimpse of him.

"Yeah."

Why deny it? There was no reason to pretend. He had to gain, nothing to lose.

He turned away and walked back into the apartment, leaving the door open for her.

"Have you taken anything?" He heard her close the door as he sat down on the sofa.

"You mean have I fallen off the wagon already and chased too many vicodin with too much alcohol?" He asked, but didn't see her nod as he stared blankly into space.

"House?"

She stood at the edge of the sofa and stared down at him. It wasn't the fact he was drunk that had her concerned. It wasn't even the unshed tears that swelled his eyes, or the paleness in his skin that worried her. It was his eyes.

She'd seen him broken and hopeless; she'd seen him afraid and even numb. But she'd never seen him so empty. His eyes were dead.

"You should go," he said.

"We need to talk," she told him, and sat on the opposite end of the couch from him.

He didn't look at her. He didn't answer.

"I was thinking about your theory on the Lyme disease," she said, biding her time as she desperately searched for a way to help him, a way to help herself. "Maybe it's not a crazy thought. Maybe we should be approaching this like you would any of your cases. After all, it's your head. You deserve a proper DDX."

He was quiet for so long she started to think he hadn't heard her when he finally said: "I don't deserve anything."

"House," she sighed.

He looked at her then with those empty, desolate pools of sadness. "It's okay, Cuddy," he said. "It's okay."

"What's okay?"

"You walking away," he answered simply. "You should walk away. You should have never let me in."

He turned away from her again.

What could she say? What was there to say? Everything was so screwed up.

He shouldn't be alone. She shouldn't be worried about him. He should be with Wilson, not her. She brought out the worst in him. She destroyed him. He should be with his friend.

Wilson was dead. House was alone. And he was scared.

She shouldn't care so much. She shouldn't be here. She couldn't stay away.

"You should go, Cuddy."

She felt the tears pooling in her eyes. It didn't matter what she'd done wrong, or what he'd done wrong. It didn't matter how much they seemed to hurt each other, or how totally dysfunctional they were, they couldn't resist the gravitational pull that always brought them back into a shared orbit. It was inevitable. She knew that. As much as she fought it, she knew he would always be a part of her life.

"It's okay," he said again. "You deserve to find some peace. You deserve to be happy."

A tear ran down her cheek at his words.

"Just go," he said.

She bowed her head in defeat.

"I can't."