A/N: Please give a hand to the Rolling Stones for writing lyrics that fit in so well with this chapter (excerpt from "Coming Down Again" Jagger/Richard). Please don't sue me, guys.

As always, House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Thanks you. Reviews and constructive criticisms are always welcome!

-4-

"Mutta!"

The sound came from…nowhere yet everywhere, carried by swirling fog and drifting clouds. Like a train horn in the distance it started out faint, but grew louder and clearer as the minutes (Hours? Years?) ticked by. Hmmm… no. He shook his head in slo-mo, thinking that maybe, just maybe he was the one in motion. Yeah, he was being pulled toward that sound like a shuttlecraft re-entering earth's gravitational pull..

Through the fog…

"Mutta!"

Through the clouds…

His tongue traced the dryness of his lips. Mutta. Funny word. Silently he tested its shape, its texture, then said it aloud. Mut-ta. His voice was a raw croak, grating against his inner ear. He was feeling the drag, the descent. Comin' down again…The Rolling Stones played in his head in Dolby stereo. Comin' down aga--a-innnn…Mutta…

He blinked once, twice. It was a challenge holding his head up, and even more difficult keeping his eyes open. So tired. What he needed was sleep, then a shower, then food. And in order to get those things he was going to have to make the three block trek home. Now, Greg, now! Time's a wastin'. Slowly he moved his gaze over the yellow grass, the quiet houses across the road. He swayed as the sun warmed him. A realization hit him as he teetered on the cusp of sleep: something was different. Open your eyes! Oh, yeah, how about that? He was on the ground. Silly boy! Don't you remember? No? Guess you were otherwise engaged. You kind of…collapsed. Not a pretty sight. Lucky no one was around or you'd be calling mommy from the drunk tank. Somehow he had managed to prop himself against the fence. His back hurt; his right hip ached. His duffle bag sat by his side like a faithful dog; his cane lay across his knees. A thin dusting of dirt coated his jeans. Something stank. He wrinkled his nose, realizing the stink was his very own. Great. Wonderful. You did this to yourself, loser. He didn't need a mirror to see the train wreck that was Greg House. Running a hand through his sweaty, tousled hair, letting it drift down to where sideburn met stubble, then further down to the sweat stained collar of his dress shirt told the tale. Yes, indeed, you're really ready to knock 'em dead at the old homestead.

A breeze tickled the hair on the nape of his neck as something galloped along behind him. Alright, I'll bite. He tilted his head and played a guessing game called What Could It Be? He was good at puzzles, he could figure it out. Okay. Maybe it's a…demon that followed him here from that lonely, surreal road he'd just traveled?. That's just dumb. You're an idiot when you're fried. Scratch the demon. What could it be? He yawned, discarding the game. Turning around seemed too much of an effort anyway, Eyes front, Gregory. It was better not to look.

The sky was bright, the sun high. It had to be around noon, which meant he'd been here for almost three hours. His mother was probably in a panic, most likely calling the authorities at this very moment, if she hadn't already.

My son, Gregory House, never arrived home. Description? Yes, of course. Late forties, tall, handsome, blue eyes, brown hair with just a touch of gray, probably unshaven, uses a cane. He's a doctor…

Shit! The thought of the police, the National Guard and the FBI scouring the city for him spurred House into action. Grasping his cane and using the fence for leverage, he pulled himself to his feet.

"Mutta! Mutta!"

House froze, then looked up toward that now familiar sound. Wow. The galumphing Mutta was not a demon at all. Mutta was a dog. The black Labrador bounded across the green sea beyond the fence, a red Frisbee clamped between his jaws. Some distance away a tall man dressed in Bermuda shorts and t-shirt clapped and whistled, attempting to convince the Lab that play time was over. Judging by his proximity to the parking lot, the guy wanted to get going.

"Mutta, c'mon, girl."

Mutta did an about face and was about to head toward her master, when House caught her eye. She trotted up to the fence, dropped the Frisbee, and pushed her snout through an opening next to House's hand.

"Mutta, " House said.

The dog cocked her head and stared at this stranger who knew her name.

"Go home. Git."

Her response was a sharp "woof!" She backed up, retrieved her Frisbee and dashed toward Bermuda Shorts Guy. Man and dog trotted over to a blue Land Rover, hopped into the front seat, and roared away.

He limped down streets he hadn't seen in over a decade. The stores were not the ones he remembered. A brand new condominium complex ("Now Showing Phase One") was up. So much had changed. Last time he was here he didn't need the cane, the post office was the size of a two room shack, not a city block, and he wasn't alone. Last time he was with Stacey. They had come for his mother's sixtieth birthday celebration. He paused to rest, gazing into the expansive tinted window of the post office. The customers seemed transparent, like spirits going about their important ghostly business.

Hi Greg.

Stacey.

He leaned forward, willing the image to remain, to solidify, to become…real. And damned if it didn't. Stacy was at his side, one arm tucked through his. The scent of her Chanel filled his head. She wore an amused smile and a black business suit that reminded House of the high priced 'escorts' who visited his apartment from time to time-the ones who refused to kiss him on the mouth. This woman never denied him such a simple intimacy. House had the urge to strip the Yves St. Laurent outfit off her slowly, piece by piece: first the jacket, then the blouse, uh huh, then skirt, stockings, shoes…

the way he used to…the way she liked it…

She stared at him with those big dark eyes, and he knew she was reading his mind.

What are you doing here? he asked the reflection. You hate this town.

So do you. The corners of her smile trembled, like she was fighting to hold back the throaty laugh that both irritated and excited him.

My mother asked me to come. It's their fiftieth-

-year of hell? She finished his sentence her way.

Wedding anniversary, he countered.

Since when does Greg House do something simply because someone asks him to?

House shrugged. She called a couple of weeks ago, didn't sound so good. Asked me to come to this thing.

She didn't sound good?

No…

Did she have a cold? she asked.

No!

Then for God's sake, Greg, say what you mean.

At times the attorney in her would take the reins and infuriate him. I mean…she…didn't sound good."

Stacey rubbed her chin and nodded. Oh, well, now that clarifies things.

His jaw clenched. I gotta go.

No you don't, she purred in his ear. Not yet.

Sure it would be easy to walk away. One foot forward, cane, step, cane step. But she was staring him down through the glass, holding him there with her eyes. He had no choice but to relent…

I hardly see them except when they pass through Princeton a couple of times a year on one of their road trips, he said. They travel up and down the east coast, visiting long lost relatives and a few of my dad's half dead Marine buddies. When they get to me I suddenly become re-ally busy and make some half-assed excuse so they'll cut their visit short. It's better when they don't stick around. He let out a long breath, glanced at his dusty Nikes then back at Stacey. Sooo…obviously I hadn't seen them for awhile. When my mother phoned she just didn't sound right. She actually pleaded with me to make arrangements to come to this party. So I figured, what the hell, I could do this for her.

Stacey's brow furrowed. Not a good idea, hon.

Greg narrowed his eyes at her.

Didn't you learn anything from the last time we were here?

Oops! That's right, Greg. That little near miss kind of skipped your mind. Can't say I blame you for trying to forget. But we shouldn't repress the important stuff. It could come back to bite you in the ass later, you know…

The last time he was home his father seemed hell bent on goading him into a confrontation. There was always a steady level of unease between himself and the old man, dating back before the time Greg opted for books over baseball, med school over the military. But this time, the animosity was of a more intense nature, and Greg knew why. It was Stacey's first visit, her first time sleeping with him under his father's roof. Greg offered to stay in a hotel but his mother wouldn't hear of it. "There's plenty of room here," she told him on the phone beforehand. In a softer, more cautious voice she added, "Tell Stacey it will be alright."

When they arrived, Blythe took Stacey on a tour of the house and then out to the store to buy 'something nice for lunch'. John watched them leave, waited until the door clicked shut and the car motor revved, before turning to Greg and clapping him on the back, announcing, "Time for a chat." It happened so quickly, Greg couldn't help but surmise it had all been planned.

They retired to the old man's study, where John locked the heavy oak door then sank into the leather chair behind his mahogany desk. Greg stood before him, arms folded in quiet defiance, like the bad, bad boy he'd become since leaving home for good. But John didn't flinch. Instead he leaned forward and proceeded to launch a long, vociferous diatribe about Stacy, commitment, and the sanctity of marriage. "Living in sin", he growled, "is not acceptable. It is not what we do."

Greg's gut churned. The desire to lash out, to fight back nearly overwhelmed him. But he managed to keep his emotions in check. No sense caving. That would just give the old man something to gloat about. It was Greg's move and he responded with a simple shrug and a sullen glare. Check. Easing back in his chair, John laced his fingers behind his head, placed one leg on the desk and announced, "Your Stacey is a slut." Check…mate.

I almost reached for it.

The letter opener, Stacey said, drifting into his mind, molding the memory into something with substance, sharp edged and solid.

House whispered, It was an antique. He had it for years, Kept it sharp, shined it up good.

It was right there…

…on the edge of the desk. He was only peripherally aware of his left hand clenching and unclenching.

We drove up then. Stacey squeezed his arm a bit tighter. The driveway was right outside the window. I could see the back of your father's head.

You'd bought cold cuts for lunch.

Ham, cheese, pastrami for your Reuben, she recalled. Lucky we didn't take too long.

I…wouldn't have done it.

Those dark eyes twinkled at him. Are you sure?

She was gone. In her place stood a brawny postal worker, looking pale and spectral behind the glass. He gave House a 'move along' glare as he crossed his meaty arms across his chest.

Stumbling away from the window, House blinked hard, attempting to ward off the effects of the bright afternoon sun, It was difficult getting his bearings; for the moment he'd forgotten which way he'd come and which way he needed to go. It would all come back to him in a moment. Yes, he would turn right then left and familiarity would set in. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk until he felt confident enough to take a step. One step, cane, step. As he pressed down, his hand slipped off the cane's smooth wood handle. He lurched forward as the cane fell, his body making a hard landing against a lamppost. He managed to remain upright, his arms hugging the post like it was a lifeline. Over by the curb, a foot or two away, his cane waited. Come on, gimp. We don't got all day. A low moan escaped House; his back and hip joined the party, jabbering their protest. He needed another pill or two, but he couldn't…not now. Nothing, absolutely nothing was going right.

An elderly woman wearing a ragged yellow windbreaker, pink pajama pants and slippers shuffled to the curb and picked up the cane.

"Hey." House released the post and managed to take two unwieldy steps toward her. "That's mine."

She set her dull blue eyes on him. "Nice cane."

"Yeah." He put one hand out. "Give."

"Good solid wood." Skin and bone fingers examined the handle. "They have canes at Adermo's Pawn up the street. Not hoity toity ones like this, though." Her eyes were all aglow. She had an idea! "This nice cane could probably fetch me a tidy sum over at Adermo's. Guy's a thief but he'd have to give me at least fifty bucks for it." Her laughter was a cross between a wheeze and a squeal. She had three teeth from what he could see. One of them was gray.

"You're not taking my cane."

She hugged it to her. "Who says its yours? You got a receipt?

Nothing. Absolutely- Grumbling, House dug into his back pocket and removed his wallet. There was a sharp intake of breath from his new lady friend as he removed a bill.

"Here." He shoved a fifty at her.

She sniffed and leaned forward to inspect the offer. "Fifty?" I can get that at Adermo's. Oooh, you got lots of green in there, don'tcha."

"Don't push your luck." He pulled out a twenty to go with the fifty.

She grabbed the money, then pushed the cane at him. "Thank ye kindly, sir."

House could still hear her cackling as he turned and limped closer to home.

---

Who would have thought he would be so glad to finally arrive, to see the white picket fence, the cobblestone walk or the autumn wreath hanging on the front door?. It was the weariness talking, the overwhelming desire to crash for twelve hours that was making him eager to ring the doorbell. He took one step onto the ramp next to the stairs leading to the porch. Uncle Mac, his mother's younger brother, had constructed it after House suffered the infarction. It was a decent gesture on Mac's part but ultimately unnecessary since this was the first time House had ever used it.

He took another step then stopped. Interesting. From the corner of his eye he noticed something different, something that hadn't been there last time. Strange. A post stood in the center of the lawn; a wooden sign was suspended from it by two gold hooks.. "Mrs. Blythe House Piano Lessons" was painted on the dark wood in cream and gold cursive, his mother's cell phone number was stenciled beneath it in white. He scratched his stubble, staring hard at the sign for a long moment before continuing up the ramp to the porch.

Cream colored curtains were drawn across the front window. He pressed his head against the glass, attempting to see through them. But they were too thick, excellent quality, probably cost more than his father wanted to spend. Odd. From inside the house, the strains of a Chopin nocturne could just barely be heard. It's the E Major, pretty crappy rendition, the same piece you dreaded practicing, the one that took that extra effort to perfect. He had fully expected his mother to be peering out the window, her eyes searching the walk, the road, and each car that passed for some sign of him. But evidently, she was too busy with the Someone playing the parlor Steinway. She certainly wasn't the one butchering Chopin. There were too many false starts and exasperating pauses. It was obviously a student, one who had a lot to learn.

Yeah? Well, student Someone is playing the Chopin a helluva lot better than you did in the old days.

Leaning against the doorframe, he hung his head and let the nocturne continue for two more halting bars, before deciding he'd had enough. "Time to stop the slaughter," he said, pushing the bell.

Then…silence, muffled voices and heels clacking against hardwood.

The door opened.

"Greg…"

He managed a small smile for her. "Hi, Mom."