A/N; Thanks so much for the wonderful comments. For the next few days I will be updating one chapter a day, as I have 10 chapters written already. After that it will be a little slower, but I will try to post regularly. Thanks again for your support.

Chapter 2

He just spent the worst twenty hours of his crappy life, sitting in a crappy flying tin can, dealing with equally crappy people asking insanely idiotic questions.

"Are you quite comfortable there Sir?"

"Would you like me to stow your cane in the overhead compartment?"

"I'm sorry sir, but the bar is closed."

Since when did a bar close on a bloody airplane, surely with the amount of time zones they were passing through, there would've been a bar open somewhere. And since when was a plane made to follow such guidelines, they were over 38,000 feet in the fucking air for gods sake; there should be no laws up there.

He thought it would be a good defence strategy for a lawyer to plea justifiable homicide. Christ! If the British could pack a bunch of their fellow citizens off in a leaky boat sending them half way around the world for stealing a loaf of bread then surely he would be able to get off for poor customer service at 38,000 feet.

This was the reason why he did not associate with his patients – they were too unpredictable, but to be sandwiched with 175 people in a sardine can for twenty hours; would make anyone think twice about procreation.

No sooner had a very rumpled, very tired, angry diagnostician entered the customs line containing equally tired and angry travellers; he was pulled aside and questioned regarding the contents of his luggage. Who would've guessed that the vicodin his bag contained was enough to supply half of the Brisbane drug lords for a week.

"What you think we don't have access to prescription drugs down here?" the customs officer stated.

So after producing numerous permits and a letter from Mummy, they finally let him past; at least the option of a full body cavity search was taken off the agenda; his body involuntarily shuddered at the thought, it was one thing giving a rectal exam but to be on the receiving end was an entirely different la Crosse game.

"The things I would go through for that woman," he grunted as he towed his luggage through the busy terminal.

He remembered the obscure email he received from Dr Stephen Bligh, Head of Immunology at Griffith University Hospital on the Gold Coast. His initial reaction was that this doctor needed an elusive consult with the renowned diagnostician – but he was wrong.

Dear Dr House,

I am writing to you regarding a young immunologist on my staff, I have reason to believe you may know her, but she has been a bit reclusive regarding her past.

I must declare that she is a bit of a mystery, an intriguing puzzle. Her name is Dr Allison Matthews, I have included a picture of her; it may just jog your memory.

I am hoping you may be able to impart some information regarding her, professionally she is top notch, but there is something she is holding back.

I will be in the States from the 20th Feb and I would be happy to meet you in Princeton if you wish, I can be contacted on………

The snark within nearly sent him a message indicating that he was not the lost and found department for reclusive doctors, but something inside his gut urged him to open the email attachment.

That one action proved to be the proverbial kick to the groin.

For the first time in fourteen months he was looking at the face which kept on invading his mind, hoping above all hope, he would have another chance to see her again.

He sat at his desk for over an hour staring at her picture; she had changed but remained the same all at once. Her warm brown hair was slightly shorter. It was obvious she had lost weight and through his doctor's eyes he suspected she was bordering on unhealthy, the usual sparkle found in her eyes was gone.

His differential diagnosis – Allison Cameron had been broken.

He also knew the source of the illness.

Himself.

He had caused this pain; he had taken a beautiful, vibrant, brilliant doctor and reduced her down to an empty shell.

He had to fix his mistake. If there was anything he had learnt from the absence of Cameron was that if the opportunity arose to fix his transgressions he would take it and fix it – permanently.

Unconsciously Gregory House began dialling the numbers left on the email. A groggy, heavily accented Australian accent greeted him.

"Dr Bligh speaking"

"Um…Dr Bligh it's um Greg House here. I'm ringing regarding your email about….." there were no many occasions where the man renowned for his quick wit and even quicker tongue was reduced to so few words.

"Dr House?" the man on the other end of the phone was obviously more alert than before.

"Yeah, sorry. I'm calling regarding Allison Cameron, sorry Matthews, Allison Matthews."

"Cameron?" at 2am Australia time, this would have to be the weirdest phone call Dr Bligh had ever received.

"Yes, Allison Matthews is my Allison Cameron who went missing over a year ago now," House was more aware himself now.

"Blimey."

Dr House and Dr Bligh met one week later at Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital to discuss Dr Allison Cameron/Matthews and the reasons behind her change. They both agreed that something needed to be done, but what treatment to prescribe was unknown.

So now two weeks later Dr House was now on the other side of the world, no closer to a plan, but only minutes away from seeing her again.