A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has left me lovely reviews. I'm sorry, but things are so crazy at this time of year I don't have time to reply personally to you as I would normally like to do. Please accept my thanks, I sincerely appreciate each and every one of you who take the time to leave a comment.

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Stave IV: The last of the spirits

"Shouldn't you be haunting Chase instead of me?" This time when House woke up he wasn't startled by finding someone standing beside his bed, he practically expected it. And in contrast to last time, to Amber's harsh words and the terrifying waifs, the bald little girl standing there beaming at him couldn't have been interpreted as threatening in any way.

At House's comment she giggled and blushed in a way that House might have been forced to concede was cute. "When was the last time you kissed someone?" she asked.

"I don't kiss nine year olds. Or however old you are. Uh, were," he corrected himself.

"When was the last time you kissed someone?" she repeated.

He remembered. He remembered exactly. Not that he was going to tell Andie about that. Instead, he used his usual sarcasm to cover his emotions.

"Isn't the lesson I'm supposed to be learning here about loving my fellow man? Or woman? And they send me a child? What would you know?" House scoffed.

This time the smile Andie gave him wasn't cute. It was wise, knowing, and full of pity. Suddenly House was jealous of this person, someone who'd spent only one-fifth the amount of time that he had on the earth, and yet seemed so much more comfortable in her own skin than he ever had. His automatic response was to scowl.

"Looks like Wilson was wrong. You didn't outlive me after all." House was satisfied to see her smile falter slightly at that.

"No, I didn't. And it was painful, right until the very end. The hardest thing was saying good bye to my mom." After a moment her expression brightened. "But I look over her, and she's better now. She's even starting to have happy moments, and that's so nice to see. I think she knows that I'm watching."

House didn't want to get into that. "So what, you're here to show me my future?" he sat up in the bed and folded his arms. "What's so bad about that? I already know what I'm going to see. My funeral. No one turns up because I'm a grumpy old bastard. Who cares? I'm dead anyway. I'm not going to worry that the funeral directors cheated me because I paid for silk lining in my coffin and they gave me polyester. It's not like it's gonna make me itch."

Andie smiled again, that beatific, saintly smile that House knew would be driving him up the wall very shortly.

"Come with me," she said, holding out her hand.

House had to admit, the best thing about all of this was that his leg didn't hurt at all while he was hallucinating. He made a mental note to try to remember this when he finally recovered to see if he could work out what it was that allowed him to have such vivid, pain-free experiences.

He reluctantly took Andie's hand, recalling Amber's terrifying flight and wondering what to expect this time.

"I am the ghost of Christmas yet to come," Andie said, the solemn words sounding odd coming from her girlish voice.

"Yeah, I kind of figured that. But I thought you weren't supposed to speak. You know, the silent spectre and all that."

"Nah, I talk. And I sing. I really like Christina Aguilera."

"Of course you do."

Andie began to hum under her breath as they moved out of House's apartment and through the city in that way that was kind of like flying and yet not. Andie was wearing a billowy white cotton summer dress, and it seemed like the folds of her skirt carried him along.

Eventually they slowed, coming to a halt in the corridors of Princeton Plainsboro, a hallway House was intimately familiar with. They eventually stopped immediately outside his office.

"Hey, what about my funeral?" House complained. He'd actually been kind of curious to see it. Would Wilson have come? Cuddy? Chase?

"Not yet, not this time," Andie said. "Look."

Andie's arm spread wide and suddenly the two of them were transported inside the glass walls of his office. They were standing in the conference room, to be exact, and he was there, looking fifteen, maybe twenty years older. Greyer, more hunched, hardly any hair left, but what was there was still sticking up all over the place. His cane was in his left hand now, and House knew with the certainty of dreams that it was because his right hand had become arthritic. The pain of grasping the cane had become worse than the pain he was trying to prevent by holding it in the first place. House unconsciously tightened and relaxed his fist in reflex, enjoying the freedom of freely-moving joints now, knowing that the time for that was limited.

There were three faces around the conference table that he didn't recognise – no doubt his new bunch of fellows. That meant that right now, in the present, these three were just children, perhaps on the cusp of puberty, about to launch into their pre-teen years. House suddenly felt ridiculously old.

They were running a differential and House cheered up slightly when he noted that although his body had suffered the ravages of time, his brain seemed as sharp and quick as it had always been. He threw out possibilities, crushed the ridiculous suggestions of the others, prompted new thinking and eventually sent them off with a list of diagnosis tasks. There had been some new terms, new diseases, even new medications mentioned in the discussion and House was a little disappointed because he knew he wouldn't remember them. That would be a cool trick. He could just imagine going in to work tomorrow and ordering a drug that hadn't been invented yet.

Once the young doctors had left, his older self made his way down the corridor and Andie beckoned House to follow. They walked around the corner to a large suite of offices and conference room – much like his own, only newer and larger – with "James Wilson M.D." clearly marked on the door. Wilson had obviously done well for himself.

His older self barged in, just as he always had, and slouched in a chair in front of Wilson's desk, waiting for Wilson to finish a phone call.

House noticed a photo on the desk: Wilson, a pretty blonde lady and two little girls. Again, with the clarity of dreams, knowledge came from nowhere. House knew that for Wilson it had been fourth-time lucky. His wife of fifteen years and their two daughters, Helena and Eva, were a model family.

"How're the girls?" older House asked Wilson when he finished the call.

"All good. I can't chat for long, Eva's in the holiday school play and I have to get home and help. Sophia made me promise to be home on time – Eva's the arch-angel and she can't manage Helena, Eva and the wings."

House was intrigued by the smile on his own older face; he seemed to be genuinely pleased about Eva's angel role.

"Not to mention the whole religious confusion."

Wilson grinned. "You're not wrong. We're just skipping over that for now."

"Well, I'm sure she'll be a great angel."

Wilson beamed, the proudest father House had ever seen. "They're both angels."

"Not that you're biased at all."

"Not at all," Wilson happily lied. He gave the House sitting opposite him a gentle smile. "I'm sure the girls would be thrilled if their Uncle Greg was in the audience," he said, hinting.

"I don't think so."

"Come on, House. What are you going to do otherwise? Sit at home on your sofa?"

"That sofa and I have a very special relationship."

"It's the longest relationship you've ever had."

"It's faithful, comfortable and dependable. What more could I want?" Older House rose from the chair painfully, looking down as he did, as if he needed to give his legs encouragement to do his will. As his head was down, present-day House didn't miss the look that Wilson gave his friend – pitying, sad, sympathetic. He'd obviously learned his lesson though, because as soon as House was fully vertical, Wilson wiped the expression and gave him a neutral look.

"I don't know – conversation?" Wilson bantered back.

"Conversation's over-rated."

Wilson took in a deep breath, seeming to reach some kind of internal decision. "I heard from Cuddy," he said gently.

House knew himself well enough to recognise the expression on his face – older and more deeply lined as it was. It was his composed expression, the one he used when he was being careful to ensure that no one knew what he was thinking. Only now, seeing it from the outside, he wondered if it ever worked.

"Yeah? How's the old lady doing?"

Wilson gave a quick laugh. "Not too shabby for an old lady, House. Still in London. She's just been made the CEO of Princess Margaret Hospital and is, by all accounts, giving the NHS a real headache."

"Power-hungry wench," House muttered.

"She was talking about coming back to visit for Christmas – until the promotion came through."

"Oh." House's flat response gave Wilson nowhere to go.

"You know how much she loves the girls. And how Hope likes spending time with them too. It's almost like the three of them could be sisters. Or cousins."

"How old is Hope now?"

Wilson gave the older House a funny look, and House knew why – there was no way he'd forget something like that. Maybe his previous estimation of his senility had been overly generous.

"She's sixteen. And apparently giving her mother all the grief a teenage girl is supposed to."

"Cuddy deserves it. It's not like she was as pure as the driven snow."

"Actually that's what I said to her," Wilson said with a laugh. "Not those exact words, of course, but I reminded her of her wilder days. But then she was going on about this music Hope likes that's driving her insane—"

"House?" Andie broke into House's careful observation of the conversation.

"Yeah?" he asked without turning away from his older self and Wilson who continued to discuss modern music.

"Hope is playing music you sent to her." She giggled, her cute little schoolgirl giggle. House was surprised to find it wasn't bothering him as much as he thought it would.

"I sent music to Cuddy's daughter that Cuddy hates? Cool."

"It's a secret," Andie said. "Hope's not allowed to tell her mother where it comes from. And she hasn't."

"Hope sounds like a cool chick."

"She is. She's so much like her mother you wouldn't believe."

"Her mother?" House asked, turning away from Wilson to look at Andie. "Which mother?"

"Cuddy, of course," Andie chided, as if he should have known. "She's just as wilful, strong-minded – and beautiful."

"So Cuddy's the CEO of a hospital in London and has a beautiful, headstrong daughter," House summarised. "Sounds like she's doing fine."

Andie frowned. "Have you even been listening?"

"Yes," House said, bristling. "Except for when you interrupted."

"Fine." Andie stuck her tongue out at him. "Listen."

House turned back to his older self and Wilson. They'd moved to the door while he'd been talking to Andie, Wilson had his briefcase in his hand, House had one hand on the doorhandle.

"Cuddy said the invitation's always there," Wilson said, biting his lip. For the first time, House noticed that his friend had begun to grey around the temples. He still seemed to have a full head of hair though, damn it.

"London's a long way away."

"It's not that far."

"You know I don't travel."

"You don't do anything except work and watch TV."

Both versions of House were stopped short by Wilson's impulsive reprimand.

Older House recovered first. "And it suits me just fine," he said carelessly, opening the door and stepping through it, clearly bringing the conversation to an end.

"Merry Christmas House," Wilson called to House's retreating back.

"Give Helena and Eva a kiss from Uncle Greg. Don't forget to tell them that angels don't really exist," he called over his shoulder.

"Yeah, I think I'll leave that part out," Wilson muttered, locking his office and heading home.

House spun to face Andie. "So? What? What does that mean?"

"Let me show you," Andie said gently. She put her hand on House's arm and the office and corridors around them were instantly replaced by House's own apartment. It was almost identical to the way House had seen it before going to bed, just a few hours ago. Some of the appliances were different and the TV – wow, if that was even what it was – looked astonishing. But basically very little had changed. Even his position on the sofa – yes still the very same sofa that Wilson had been making fun of – was the same. Surely the cushions had been worn thin with the pattern of his butt cheeks by now, House thought. But then House knew that if it was him, he'd simply have the cushions re-stuffed, and seeing as it was him, he figured that's exactly what had happened.

The House on the sofa poured an amber-coloured liquid into a glass and took a long sip. House was relieved to find that his other self had poured a decent fifteen-year-old whisky and was glad that such a thing would still exist in the future. He decided not to think about the fact that somewhere in his present that very whisky was going into a cask in a dark room to sit and wait for this day, for him to open that bottle. The whole time travel thing made his brain ache if he thought about it too much.

"House?" Andie gave him a sad look, her eyes welled with tears.

"What's wrong?"

"You are." She took in a shaky breath. "You're wrong."

House sighed. "I am getting really sick of vague, mysterious portents from dead people."

"You're sick."

"Not the first time I've heard that."

"No really, you are. At this time, your sickness is just beginning. It's going to kill you. You're going to die."

House scoffed. "Well of course I'm going to die. We all are. And given that I must be – what? – sixty-six, sixty-seven here? – I'm not all that surprised. With what my body's been through, the Vicodin . . . " Actually, although his words were brave, House was surprised to find that his stomach clenched a little in facing the reality of what had hitherto been a reasonably abstract – if definitive – idea.

"You're not going to die just yet," Andie said, although her sadness hadn't abated. "By the time you do, you won't have seen Cuddy or Hope for five years. You won't have seen Wilson for three days, or his family for a month."

House shrugged.

A tear rolled down Andie's cheek and her voice was so quiet House had to lean in to hear her. "It'll be three days before anyone notices."

House swallowed hard. That was not what he'd expected her to say. His instant defence mechanism sprang into play. "Well, could be worse. I remember some guy in Chicago, his remains were mummified before they—"

"House?" Andie interrupted, her breath now coming in quiet sobs.

House fell silent, staring at the child in front of him who seemed to be able to muster more emotion about his demise than he could manage himself. She threw her little body at him, hugging him, just as she had all those years ago when she'd left the hospital. Her hope then was just as futile as her hope now, House couldn't help thinking. Only this time, not quite against his will, House found his arm rising, encircling her, patting her back in a way that could almost, almost, be compassionate.

"Cuddy will cry," Andie said, her voice almost indistinct as she pressed her face into his shirt. He could feel her tears dampening it. "And Hope will cry."

House nodded. "Well, at least someone will."

"They will. They'll sit together and cry." Andie sniffed and pulled back, looking up at him with big, tear-filled eyes. "Cuddy will cry for what she lost, and Hope will cry for what she never had."

For some reason, whether Andie, the ghost of Christmas-yet-to-be, was capable of making such a thing happen, or whether it was just House's own vivid imagination, his mind's eye was filled with a vision of Cuddy and her teenage daughter clutching each other in grief. He tried hard to figure out what emotion it was that sprung up inside him in response to the image. He figured, rationally, that he should be glad he was missed. Surely that was a natural human desire. But interestingly, the more prominent feelings were guilt and sadness, that he'd hurt two people so dramatically with the simple act of dying. It wasn't what he expected at all.

Truth be told, the idea of lying on that sofa, or in his bed, for three days, dying, dead, before he was found, didn't sit particularly well with him. He knew what he'd look by then, what the state of his body would be. He knew it would be undignified, and no matter what kind of lectures he gave to patients about the dignity or otherwise of death, he didn't want his own to be like that. He wasn't exactly sure what he did want it to be like, but not that. Not . . . alone.

"It doesn't have to be," Andie whispered.

"I guess I could go to Cuddy's lunch tomorrow," House said casually, as if the idea had just occurred to him. "She did go to all that trouble to make fruit cake."

Andie smiled at him through her tears. Once again, House thought his eyes were deceiving him: he wasn't sure if the room was growing dim, or if it was just in contrast to Andie who seemed to be getting brighter. Her smile glowed at him, warming him, and she began to shrink, growing smaller and smaller, and brighter and brighter, until she was like a little doll and House could have reached out and held her in one hand.

"I know what it's like to kiss a boy," she whispered. Then, all that was left of her was a bright point, like a star, and when the light faded House found himself back in bed.