Must've been a really deep sleep, because when House awoke, it was midnight. And when he had gone to bed, it was two in the morning. He slept through an entire day.

Or did he?

"What the hell?" House rose from his bed and walked into his dark living room, illuminated only by the slits of moonlight that peered through the blinds.

He flipped on the television. Nothing really was ever on at this hour—just infomercials and crappy nighttime programming. He thought of the emergency supply of painkillers he kept under the loose floorboard in his bedroom.

"Nah," he said. "Not taking any chances after that nonsense last night…"

After watching an hour of a random movie that he was only interested in for the sex scenes, his eye turned to the digital clock on the cable box. It read 12:59. He stared.

1:00.

The blinds on the windows seemed to open by themselves and suddenly the room was flooded with moonlight. A cold and ghastly wind poured into the room and House shivered. He kept a fixed eye on the windows, but then the wind stopped and the blinds closed again.

Puzzled and still staring at the windows, he satisfied himself that he was just imagining things. And he turned his head back to the television.

But someone was blocking it.

"Hello, son," the spirit said in his normal voice.

"Get out of here, John," House grumbled.

"As much as I'd love to, I'm afraid I can't do that. Now wrap your big head around it."

"You're dead and useless."

"Actually, I'm the ghost of Christmas Past. I'm not here to force you into anything, although a shave would make you look less like a bum. I'm just here to show you something," his father said to him.

"Dream on," House replied. "I'm going back to bed."

He walked off and the spirit made no moves to follow him. Thinking he had rid himself of whatever ridiculous hallucinations he'd been having, he closed his bedroom door and climbed into his bed.

But as soon as his head hit the pillow, he began to float. Even as he struggled, his body moved back into the living room, where his father took his hand and they flew right through the closed window.

House seemed to be unconscious for whatever time they traveled. That or they arrived at their destination immediately. Either way, he had no idea how they had gotten there.

He recognized the place immediately. He never knew what the name of the town had actually been, but it was a Marines station in the Philippines where his father had been stationed. He had really loved this place—obviously it was no more a home than any of the other dozen places he'd lived throughout his childhood, but there was something about it that just felt so right.

They were standing in front of a tiny house, no, hut, that they had made their home in. Suddenly, an eight year old boy ran out of the house.

"Is it okay if I practice out here, Mom?" the boy yelled.

"As long as I get a break from hearing that guitar, you do whatever you want, sweetie," a voice rang from inside.

House poked his father's spirit in the ribs, which, much to House's dismay, he felt and turned to him.

"Won't the kid wonder who these two old guys standing in front of him are?" House asked.

"First of all, no. I'm a spirit, and by extension, so are you. Secondly, shut up about 'the kid' because you know who he is."

Obviously.

They listened as the young House strummed his guitar artfully. He had a pretty impressive talent for a kid his age. He began to strum We Wish You a Merry Christmas and House started to remember. This was December 24, 1967. He knew what happened on this day.

"Hey, we have to go," House said loudly.

"You don't control that."

Suddenly an older man entered the picture. He was dressed in uniform and walked proudly and upright.

"Hey, Dad! Listen to what I can do!" the young House jumped up seeing his father.

"You're in the way again. Go do something productive," the elder House replied coldly. "Blythe!"

Little Gregory frowned. He stepped out of the way and moved to go play on a rock about fifteen feet away from the hut.

The noise of screaming began to emanate from inside the door. House, the spirit, walked towards the hut to hear better.

"You're going to ruin the boy's Christmas! It's not fair to him, and hell it's not fair to me!" the woman's voice shouted.

"Who cares about fucking Christmas? This is my job and we're leaving tonight!" the man yelled back.

"I don't suppose you even picked up a gift for Gregory," she said softly and icily.

"The kid needs to learn that the world isn't about happiness and gifts and him. It's full of fighting, unfairness, and cruelty, and the only way for him to get anywhere is to learn that early on. Think of it as character building. It's what the kid needs," he growled. "Now start packing."

House sighed, and started walking back towards the spirit of his father. Before he got there, their eyes met and just like that, he was swept away again.

He finally found himself outside what appeared to be a dorm. It was a dorm he had visited a lot about 25 years ago. It was the dorm where Lisa Cuddy lived as an undergraduate pre-med student at the University of Michigan.

Slowly, he pushed the door open, unnoticed by two young adults inside, laughing with each other and playing a board game.

"Greg, you suck so much at this!" the girl laughed.

"How can I be bad at Chutes and Ladders? I must just have terrible luck, Lisa," he replied with a smile.

"You don't even believe in luck," Lisa shot back. "You tell me so every time I wish you luck on a practical."

"Then maybe I'm just letting you win," Greg replied.

"And why would you do that?" Lisa smirked.

"To get you in a good mood, of course."

"And why would you do THAT?"

"So you're all hyped up already when I do this," he said playfully and kissed her square on the lips.

Lisa looked shocked, but soon smiled. "NOW I'm in a good mood," she said, and kissed him.

"Wow," Greg said. "Merry Christmas, Lisa."

"Merry Christmas to you, Greg." She cuddled up against him and the smug look on his face was incredibly endearing.

House sighed again, remembering that night so well. He remembered the feeling of her lips, just as soft as he knew they would be…

"It's time to go, son," the elder House's spirit boomed.

"I'm not your son," House said in a low voice. "We've been through this."

"Either way, my time is up."

Without House even turning around from the scene, they were gone again.

He was back on the bed, his head against the pillow, the vision of his "father" nowhere to be found.

He fell into another very, very deep sleep.

Check back tomorrow for the Ghost of Christmas Present!