Many thanks to my fanfic betas, n0mdeplum (for the romance stuff) and khaldane (for the medical facts).

Over – The week that was

Dr. Gregory House could not believe it—yet the proof was presently staring in his face (literally) and gumming on a plastic donut, with round, blue, blue eyes—his eyes, Blythe House's eyes. Judging from his size, lack of teeth, and the possible timing, Christopher (Christopher?) would be—what?—about four months old, give or take a couple of weeks.

Oh boy…

He didn't remember the days following his awakening from the coma. The most House remembered was a feeling of disorientation, a bit of numbness and recurring pain from the gunshot wounds—and no pain in his bad leg.

Granted, he still needed his cane to support himself—big chunk of thigh muscle missing from his leg, duh—but other than the irritating pain in his abdomen and not being able to turn his head as usual without ripping his stitches out, he felt super.

Unfortunately, he went from super to rotten within days of waking from his coma when he developed pneumonia. What should've been a three-week hospital stay turned into two months as he recuperated from pneumonia and had his physio at the hospital.

And always, he sensed she was nearby…

He felt like shit.

Less than 12 hours after Wilson dropped him off, House felt like shit—and if he wasn't feeling so crappy, he'd have hurled his cane at his one and only friend for taking away the keys to his bike and his Corvette. What the hell kind of friend is that James Wilson, anyway?

He managed to convince his mother, however, that it was ok to leave him alone. She fussed at that, and wished that they could've scheduled a later flight back to Ohio. Unfortunately, some lousy streak of luck seemed to have hit her side of the family—first he, Gregory House, got shot, then yesterday, they got news that her brother, George (the funny uncle Greg once mentioned to Foreman) had a nasty accident with the lawnmower.

"Mom, I'm gonna be fine," Greg assured his mother as she fussed at his bedside for the 45th time since Wilson and John House "assisted" him to his room. "I'm a doctor, and I know the number to 9-1-1, just in case."

Blythe snorted, then sniffed—she was torn between staying with her son until he fully recuperated and flying out with her husband to see her only brother. She lightly tweaked his nose instead at the little crack and sighed before making her decision.

"Very well—but I'm calling that nice doctor who works for you. I'll ask her to keep an eye on you—good thing she's worked with you long enough to handle you!"

Cameron came over to his place the following day. He let her in because he still felt like crap, she'd tell on his mother if he slammed the door on her face, Wilson gave her the key to his place (including the ones for his bike and his 'vette), and she brought food. After sampling the spaghetti and meatballs she cooked up, he decided that having this particular duckling at his beck and call wouldn't hurt after all.

The thunderstorm on the seventh day of Cameron's visit—that's when it happened.

She couldn't start her car—something was wrong with the battery. After carefully hobbling over to check it out (thankfully, it was parked on the curb nearest to the door of his flat), he successfully diagnosed the problem.

"Your battery's dead," he said.

"What!" she cried.

As though the clouds were waiting for just that word, the downpour began.

"Dammit!" Cameron yelled, almost inaudible in the sudden deluge as she yanked at her hair in frustration. "I'm gonna be late and I can't drive this thing and now I'm wet!"

"Get inside, or you'll be even more wet!" House yelled back as he hobbled back to the flat before he got the bandages to his abdomen wet—he now needed to change the one on his neck. He didn't wait to see if Cameron followed him back inside, just left the door wide open as he used the tip of his cane to drag a rug to the other side of the doorway. He immediately heard Cameron's sloshy footsteps behind him, muttering to herself out of cold, misery, and possibly guilt at the fact that she's going to miss work today. Silly Cameron—if he was in her shoes, he'd be glad for an excuse to miss work! Of course, he's on sick leave for the shooting and all that.

"Come on—there's some spare clothes in my room," he said. "I'm going to change the bandage on my neck—thanks for the shower."

He sauntered off, not waiting for Cameron to follow him. It was only when he took off his shirt, without thinking, on the way to his closet—and the gasp that followed—did the words and actions finally sink in.

He just invited Cameron into his bedroom—and he took off his shirt in front of her like a Chippendale stripper.

House turned around and looked at her. She was wet, her brown hair limp and damp around her shoulders, her clothes clinging to her lithe frame, leaving little to his overactive imagination, her feet bare and pale (she had probably removed her shoes at the door before coming in). He took all this in one long, searching gaze before snapping his eyes onto her face—a bit slack-jawed from what looked like awe.

Great—Dr. Gregory House, momentarily half-dressed and feeling 100 undressed in front of his beautiful underling.

He looked down on himself, grimacing slightly as the injury on his neck made itself known to him again and seeing the large white patch on his abdomen that covered his wound. He must've made a sound of discomfort; something snapped Cameron out of her shock as she remembered…

"House, your neck…" she murmured, rushing forward to him. In her haste to get to him, a wet foot made her slip forward and trip into his general direction. House reached his arms out to her, and in reflex, he held her close, one side of her face plastered on the center of his bare chest. In reflex, Cameron wrapped her arms around his torso, completing the embrace.

Time stood still—the only sounds they heard was the thunderstorm outside, the ticking of a vintage alarm clock somewhere, and their breathing and—in Cameron's position—his racing heartbeat.

House wanted to attribute it to a long-term effect of the ketamine coma. Other than that, what the hell--?

Somehow, they disentangled themselves from the other; Cameron covered up the awkward Kodak moment by checking his bandage and re-applying the dressing on his neck wound. She fussed a bit over him; she'd been afraid the trip into his arms had also compromised the dressing on his abdominal wound. Thankfully, it was dry and held his "guts into place; be glad you don't have to clean that up," he said cheekily.

He wasn't so cheeky during her personal—doctorly, he reminded himself then—quickie check-up on his person.

During her ministrations, House became aware of her—her touch, those long, slender white hands probing his neck and his side, her breath on his skin when she got close enough—her.

Once she was done, the awkwardness returned—for one, both of them were still wearing wet clothing; Cameron was still fully clothed and partially drenched from the sudden shower, and House's pants were shrinking a bit around the family jewels. Not good.

"Well—uh—clothes!" he said suddenly, standing up carefully from the bed and making his way to his closet. "Don't want to know how much I'd get in trouble from either Cuddy or my mother for making you stand around, drying wet clothes while you're still wearing them!"

Cameron grinned at that. "Yeah—can't have that. I'll make a call later to get my car towed to a garage and then make a call to the hospital—gonna ask Chase for a lift."

What actually happened later was, Cameron stayed in.

House wouldn't let her take his Corvette to work when it was found that there wasn't any available tow truck for at least eight hours. Then she found out that Chase and Foreman were working to save the life of their latest patient and had to be monitored closely—she and House gave their side of the differential via phone to Chase and Foreman back in PPTH—

"…and Wilson's in the cancer ward with four cancer patients, one of them critical." Cameron muttered, placing the cordless phone back on its cradle and twisting the Rolling Stones vintage shirt House lent her, unconsciously giving him some sneak previews of her thighs.

Cinch a belt on Cameron's tiny waist, the t-shirt would've passed as a weird-looking dress, almost reaching her knees—from the eighties—but damn, he liked the view! House even liked knowing that she doesn't have any underthings as well.

Damn, its going to be a long day. House knew what might happen—he's already getting into the mood, and had to be devious in his postures so that she wouldn't notice what her new outfit was "inspiring" in him—yet, in her moment of upset, not once did he suggest to her to call a cab—

Blame the heavens.

Cameron stayed overnight. The rains wouldn't let up, and he still held back the information from her to call a cab.

She refused to sleep in his bed—not with him, of course, for his peace of mind and for her sake—and took the couch. Her clothes were laundered and folded in a nearby chair—House was tempted to unfold them and appease his curiosity: is she wearing her underwear now?

He shrugged and decided to call it a night. He'll try to find out in the morning.

"Who'd want to shoot you?" the low, raspy voice whispered. There was a click and then—BANG!

There was a yell, a scrambling sound, and a scream.

"House? HOUSE!"

Someone was shaking him. No—he's come back to finish the job!

Not in this dream…"No!"

He reached out and grabbed someone by the shoulders, tossing the person on the other side of the bed. He grabbed the other person's hands and raised them up over their head, not minding their yelling, his sense of self-preservation managing to control the struggles of the perp as he positioned himself on top, locking the bastard in between his legs and keeping the hands above their head…

"House! Let me go!" Cameron screamed. "You're dreaming, House! Stop---STOP!"

House woke up, the fog of the nightmare finally clearing out of his mind. Dazed, he looked down, really looked, and realized that it wasn't the shooter he had tackled and locked in a compromising position, but Allison Cameron.

"Jesus," he gasped, letting go of her and, still dazed from the sudden awakening and what violence he could've done her, grabbed her in an embrace. "Shit—Cameron, I'm—I'm…"

"It's—it's ok," Cameron managed to say, her voice muffled as once again, her face was plastered into his broad chest—his bare chest—hesitating a bit before raising her arms and holding him to her in turn. "It was just a nightmare, House—just a nightmare."

His heart hammered hard and fast in his chest, and he knew she could feel it. Minutes passed, and the feeling of shock was replaced by something else—something electrifying.

He felt it in their present position—he felt it as her soft hands gently caressed his bare back—it was on his chest as her face was pressed into it—and it was making him lean down, tilt her face to his, and kiss her.

It was the culmination of their mutual attraction—after two years of flirting, suggestive bantering, holding back due to their positions at work and certain circumstances, some wet dreams and one vivid hallucination (House)—they did it.

House remembered that there was a sense of urgency and a need to make it last all night; both of which were true for him, and to an extent, for her.

It happened that night—only that night.

It had been a year and several months since he and Cameron had that one night. The problem was, he didn't want it to go any further. After Stacy—hell no! Allison Cameron was no Stacy, and he was afraid to lose her because of himself, just as he had lost Stacy. In Cameron's case, he almost hurt her, and he'd rather cut off his good leg rather than repeat that again.

He suspected it was either that, the hush-hush phone call she received the following day, his declaration of not being enough for her or the fact that he started zoning off on his secret stash of morphine two days later. Whichever the reason, three weeks to the day they did the deed, she sent in her resignation to Cuddy and moved to New York at some obscure hospital in Brooklyn.

Now she's come back to him.

Why?