House was taking a shower when she got back to the apartment with the shiny black gym bag full of extra clothes. Wilson declared he was starving, and disappeared into the kitchen to search for enough food to feed the three of them. Cuddy stuffed the gym bag into the bottom of the closet. Then she peeled off her suddenly constricting blouse and skirt and changed into a pair of baggy shorts and the Jack Daniel's shirt. Feeling more free and relaxed than she had in days, she settled on the sofa.

Ten minutes later House came limping out, bringing a cloud of steam with him. He had shaved, making the nasty looking scrape across his chin all the more visible. For whatever reason he hadn't put on his own tee shirt yet, it was bunched up in his left hand. His dark green pajama bottoms clung to his damp skin. Shiny beads of water dripped from his hair and rolled down the curve of his neck. Cuddy licked her lips and turned toward him, making sure he had a grand view of the most beloved item in her wardrobe. All the while, bangs and clangs echoed out of the kitchen, followed by various unintelligible mumbles from Wilson.

He didn't seem to notice as he made his way to the sofa, pausing to pull on his shirt, then sank into the cushion next her. He turned his attention to her and looked curiously at what she was wearing.

"That shirt is kind of big on you," House said.

"It's comfortable," Cuddy said, watching carefully as he kept studying the shirt with faint interest. Not one trace of recognition flickered across his features. She hoped he wouldn't look into her eyes and see her disappointment.

"I wouldn't have figured you for a Jack Daniel's kind of gal," he remarked, the beginnings of a grin curling on his mouth.

"I wasn't until I got involved with you."

"Really? I must be very influential, especially when it comes to peculiar fashion choices. Either that or this particular shirt must mean something to you."

"You could say that."

"In other words you're saying it means a great deal to you since you went well out of your way to make damn good and sure I noticed it. There must be quite a story behind it. Did I give it to you?" He made eye contact then. If he noticed anything he didn't say so.

"Yes, you did."

Wilson's voice suddenly cut through the living room: "I hope you two like Spaghetti-O's, because that's all there is in this place!"

With an annoyed glance, House called back, "It's fine."

"We could pick up the phone and order something," the oncologist yelled with more than little hint in his voice. He was making suggestions when a knocking at the front door cut off all conversation like someone pulling the plug.

House stared wide-eyed at the door, his breath had stopped dead in his throat. Wilson stood in the kitchen doorway, glancing between the door and his friend.

Cuddy was reaching over to put a hand on House's shoulder when a muffled, familiar voice spoke: "Dr. House? Is anyone home?"

It was Detective Eames.

Wilson smiled and opened the door. The New York detectives stepped into the room.

"Dr. House," Goren said with big smile. "You're looking very well. I told you that you were in good hands with Dr. Cuddy."

"Thank you," House replied, looking a little flustered. The sudden crowding of his living room appeared to be making him nervous.

"We were getting ready to order some dinner," Wilson said, strolling into the room with a stack of envelopes. "You're more than welcome to join us." He handed the envelopes to his friend. "Here, before I forget."

House frowned at them. "What's all this?"

"Your mail. I know a lot has happened over the last week, but that won't stop the cable company from wanting their money."

"Yeah, the last thing I need right now is to miss reruns of Boy Meets World," the diagnostician grumbled, snatching the envelopes and leafing through them.

Cuddy choked down a laugh. That was the Gregory House she knew.

"Thank you, James," Eames spoke up. "Actually, we were hoping to ask Dr. House a few more questions. Maybe he'll remember something; even the smallest detail might be helpful. We'll be as quick as possible and let you enjoy your dinner."

Wilson said, "Please stay, if you can. We don't mind at all. We were thinking about pizza, or maybe Chinese. How does that sound?"

Goren glanced at his partner. "How about it, Eames. You think spending an extra hour or two down here will matter all that much?"

"If you can pony up a few bucks to pay for our share, then it's fine with me. And we are paying for our share," Eames insisted. "But if Ross starts bitching, you can explain why we were gone for so long."

"Pizza sounds good to me," Cuddy said. "Is that all right with you, Greg?"

She turned to him and froze.

He was holding what looked like a greeting card. His face was the same color as the pale white envelope it had arrived in.

"Dr. House?" Goren threw a concerned look over to the sofa. "Are you okay?"

He didn't answer. Cuddy then noticed that he was shaking.

"Greg, what is it? What's on there?" She grabbed the card out of his hand just as House let out a strangled sob that was pure misery.

It was a Get Well card with a silly picture of a mouse holding a bouquet of flowers on the front. Inside was a sloppily scrawled inscription. Cuddy read it, her disbelief and horror rising with each word read. She reached the end, and while barely aware that Goren was carefully taking the card out her hands, she screamed, "Oh, my God!", a scream of terror from the very base of her being. The words boomed off the walls, making the seasoned detectives flinch.

Goren looked in the card and for a moment was only able to gasp at the short message:

My Dear Gregory,

You are alive because I allowed you to live. Remember that every time you look at Lisa. My love to the detectives.

"What the hell is happening? Oh, Jesus, what the hell is happening?" It was Wilson, his voice cracking. He was looking at something. It wasn't the card. He was looking at something in House's lap.

Eames noticed it and walked over. It was a dark square object, a Polariod photograph. It must have fallen out when he opened the card. On it was a clear close-up of Dr. Gregory House, eyes closed and slumped against a wall, a gloved hand holding a gleaming butcher knife to his throat.