Hi everyone!

This is, again, a pretty sad chapter... But I think you'll like where the story is heading next.

Thank you for your feedback! Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think.

As some of you may know, I'm not Jewish. Everything I know about Jewish funerals comes from an Internet search, so I apologise if you find any inaccuracies.


Chapter Three


When Cuddy opened her eyes the next day, she had made her decision.

She would blow off the last day of conferences and go to Harrisburg, South Dakota.

She grabbed her phone to cancel her flight back to Detroit and booked the same flight to Denver again, where she would this time catch another plane to Sioux Falls.

As daunting as meeting the abusive asshole that had adopted her son was, it was her only hope of finding Shaun. By the end of the day, she might have an address or a phone number belonging to a young man who was half Gregory House.

She called room service to have breakfast delivered while she took a quick shower. She wouldn't have time to get new clothes and would have to keep the outfit she'd worn the day before – wrinkled and vaguely smelling of sweat, but for once she didn't care.

Quickly gathering her stuff into her purse once she'd filled her stomach, she headed to the airport.


It was early afternoon when she arrived at the Murphys' – she'd looked at her watch when her plane had landed, and had had a thought for House, who'd just been buried. She hadn't had lunch in order to get there earlier, but now regretted it; if both the Murphys were at work, she would have to wait until they got home anyway.

Her stomach in a knot, she knocked at the door, and braced herself in case it was the husband who opened the door. She was face to face with a woman a few years older than herself, with soft features and black wavy hair.

"Hi, are you Mrs Murphy?" Cuddy blurted.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry to bother you. My name is Lisa Cuddy."

The woman just looked at her. Cuddy froze. She started toying with her pinkie, at a loss for words. How the hell could she put it gently into words?

"Do we know each other?" Mrs Murphy asked, prompting Cuddy to say the first thing that came off the top of her head.

"You adopted a baby boy back in Ann Arbor, in 1988."

Mrs Murphy blanched, suddenly recognising some of Shaun's features on the woman's face. She covered her mouth with her hand and, before Cuddy could say anything, she'd told her to never come back and slammed the door in her face.

But Cuddy wasn't going to be deterred or discouraged. She'd come this far. She needed to see her son again. Her eyes filling with angry tears, she pounded on the door until someone opened it again – someone none other than Mr Murphy, who towered other her and seethed into her face, "You need to leave."

"Please," she insisted. "You adopted my son!"

"That little freak stopped being your son the second you abandoned him!"

Cuddy recoiled, bile rising in her throat. "Look, I'm sorry –"

"Adopting him was the worst thing that happened to us!"

"I'm sorry about what happened to your son –"

"How do you know about that?" Mr Murphy took another step towards her, his voice cold and threatening.

"I just need Shaun's address," she insisted, with a courage she didn't know she had. "Or his phone number, I'm not here to harass you."

"Shaun killed our son," he growled into her face. "He is dead to us. Now leave."

As he walked back towards his house, Cuddy caught a glimpse of Mrs Murphy standing in the hallway, a concerned frown on her face. "Mrs Murphy, please –"

Mr Murphy whirled around, grabbed Cuddy's arm and dragged her to the rental car she'd parked along the curb. "You don't talk to my wife."

"Let me go, asshole!"

"If I ever see you around here again…"

Cuddy didn't wait for him to finish his sentence and ducked into the car, turning on the ignition with shaking hands. The sounds of her harsh breathing filled the car as she drove away, until could pull over and take a minute to catch her breath. She closed her eyes and tried to find her inner peace. Her arm still throbbed where the man had grabbed her and she knew it would bruise. She could taste bile in the back of her throat.

She broke down in tears.

She'd left her son in the care of those horrible people, and she wouldn't be able to get in touch with him. They'd been her last hope.

God, she wished House had been with her…

The area was deserted, so she allowed herself to cry her heart out.

Eventually, seemingly on auto-pilot, she drove back to the airport in Sioux Falls, booked a flight to Denver to pick up her stuff in Ann Arbor, and another, final flight home, seeing that she wouldn't have time to catch the flight she'd originally booked. She wouldn't be home before midnight at best, but at least she could tell David her flight had been cancelled. Her alibi was safe and he would never have to know.

As she fastened her seat belt for that last flight with a sigh, she decided that she wouldn't be flying again for a long time.

When she unlocked her front door and Rachel came barrelling towards her, she wondered why she was bothering chasing ghosts.

All she needed was right here.

She knelt on the floor to welcome the little girl into her arms, holding her tight, whispering in her hair that she'd missed her. She filled her lungs with her smell, trying to hold back tears, loving the feel of her soft pyjamas against her palms.

David knelt next to her and held them both in his arms. She chuckled.

"She didn't want to sleep until you were home," he said, apologetically. "Neither did I."

She was so swept up by love and happiness that until she was lying alone in bed waiting for David to join her, she didn't remember she was mourning.

She hastily wiped her tears when he pulled back the covers on his side of the bed.

"Lisa, are you okay?"

"Yeah, just tired. And sad."

He lay on his flank and took her hand. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

She shook her head no. No, she didn't want to tell him she was grieving a son she'd never told him about, or the most important man of her life (that she hadn't told him about, either).

He knew she was a private person and did not insist. He did, however, motion for her to roll on her side so he could spoon her. Letting her cry without an audience was the best thing he could do.

They switched the lights off. She cried quietly, holding their clasped hands against her chest.

"You know my friend Wilson?" she spoke up after a while. "I got a call from him. The cancer's not looking good."

"I'm sorry." He kissed her behind her ear. "Maybe you should visit him again?" She shook her head no. Princeton held too many bittersweet memories. Princeton without House would be even more painful. "Give him a phone call?"

"Yeah. I should do that."

After she had moved away, she hadn't been in touch very often. She'd told herself that she needed time to move past the trauma. She'd called Wilson after a few weeks, but they'd quickly realised that apart from House, they didn't have a lot in common. Wilson had mentioned that he hadn't forgiven House and wouldn't be visiting him in prison; Cuddy had immediately changed the subject. Then House had been released, and Wilson had been painfully striving to hide from her that he and House were friends again, and she had gritted her teeth and pretended she couldn't read between the lines or hear that he sounded more cheerful than before.

They'd talk about work, for maybe ten minutes, then promise to call each other soon, without ever suggesting that they meet up.

Then he'd told her about the cancer.

"Is he there for you?" she'd asked, rather reluctantly.

"In his own way, but yes."

She'd remembered he hadn't been for her. She'd remembered she hadn't been there for him either after his relapse, how her regrets had consumed her day and night in spite of how cruelly he had been treating her afterwards.

She'd wondered how things would have turned out if they'd been more supportive and understanding of each other – she might be in Princeton with him, with Wilson, facing his diagnosis – and she'd quickly locked that thought away and mentally disposed of the key.

After that, they would call each other less and less frequently – she would tell herself that he was tired, that he was dealing with the news, that House was there for him anyway and Wilson didn't need her.

But now that House was gone… Wilson was on his own.

It was what he did after all, the selfish bastard – he got high and didn't own up to his responsibilities towards the people who loved him.

She let a sob escape her and David held her tighter.


The day after, she called Julia, like she did every Saturday.

"Hey Jules, what's up," she greeted her cautiously.

"What's up? Do you want to tell me why you needed me to fax the foster care paperwork?"

David had taken Rachel to the park. She could talk freely.

"You said you'd call," Julia continued.

"I know, I'm sorry. Wilson called, during the symposium," she began to explain, but her throat closed up. "House died," she finally let out.

She covered her mouth with her hand, but there was no way Julia could have missed the tremor in her voice.

"Well, good riddance, isn't it?" But Cuddy didn't reply. Julia sighed. "Lisa, I don't know why we're having this conversation again. You should have stuck with therapy. He drove his car into your dining room."

"I know."

"He could have killed you. He was a manipulative, abusive son of a bitch, and the world will be much better off without him."

But it didn't quell her tears.

"You're not still in love with him, are you?" she asked with dismay.

"I don't know!" Cuddy exclaimed. "I've known him for so long. Suddenly he's not here. I miss him. And I want my son."

There was a pause, where Julia understood her need to meet her son after she got the news. She deeply resented the man for the way he'd handled her sister's health scare, hated him for destroying her house and forcing her to move away overnight, but he also was the father of a child that she'd abandoned and never mentioned again. Having children of her own, Julia couldn't begin to imagine how painful it all had been for her sister.

"So how'd that turn out?" Julia asked softly.

Cuddy told her everything – from the address in Casper, Wyoming to her blowing off the symposium to fly to Harrisburg, South Dakota.

"God, what if I never find him?"

"Have you tried googling him?"

"I did. He's not on facebook or anything else." She sniffed. "He could be dead for all I know."

"You can't lose faith!"

"I know."

"You'll find him eventually. Knowing you and knowing House he might very well win some Nobel Prize in a few years."

She chuckled through her tears.


She promised herself to call Wilson every week – which she did.

Much to her surprise, he'd gone on a road trip, riding across the country a motorcycle he'd learned to drive in college.

She was worried about him driving in his condition – what if he lost consciousness on the road? But he sounded so happy about this trip that she eventually convinced herself that it was the best thing he could do. What was the point of spending his last five months alternating between his office and a private room in PPTH?

Besides, she figured that taking that bike trip was his own way of honouring his best friend's memory, of being closer to him.

Good for him, she thought.

Every week he told her excitedly about the landscapes and the monuments he'd seen, the people he'd met, the foods he'd tried. She listened enthusiastically and drew his itinerary on a map that she'd bought. Sometimes he sent her postcards, which she pinned on the map. Rachel didn't remember him much, but she'd sit and look for a long time at the itinerary of Uncle Wilson.

Realising that there was a high risk of never seeing him again, Cuddy would occasionally ask for them to meet up, spend a few days together – she would happily fly to wherever he was, but he always declined, telling her he never even knew where he would be the day after. He always promised her that he would come knocking at her door if he ever found himself in her neck of the woods.

One day, he didn't pick up.

Two weeks later, Foreman called her to let her know the funeral would be held the following day.


A lot of the attendees were waiting outside when she got to the synagogue; among them, she recognised many of her former employees. Taking a deep breath, Cuddy got out of the car.

David had suggested that he accompanied her to Princeton, but she'd declined. He had not been a part of the PPTH aspect of her life. She needed to go alone.

The sky was overcast, the chilly weather typical for a November morning. She pulled her coat tighter around her frame as she joined the crowd.

She was surprised by how many people stepped up to greet her. After all, she'd left in a rush, without a proper goodbye to anyone – the police didn't know where House was, and he could come back anytime to 'finish the job', although she'd doubted he would break into her house at night and smother her with a pillow. Still, him driving his car into her dining room had scared her, rattled her. When the shock had waned and night had fallen, she'd made the decision to leave and take Rachel as far away as possible.

Their former employees told her they missed her and that PPTH wasn't quite the same, but she didn't regret her decision. In retrospect, getting away from all the House madness was one of the best things that had happened to her.

Still, being at the funeral was weird. All these familiar faces that she knew and who recognized her and nodded at her (she'd considered going with a pair of sunglasses, Jackie Kennedy-style). The missing one that she sought out without realising it, like the missing last piece of a puzzle.

She shook hands with Thirteen, Taub, Cameron, Chase, chatted with Foreman.

"I don't know if he'll be there," Foreman told her. "I haven't heard from him since…" His voice trailed off, like she was supposed to fill it in for him and say "oh, right".

"If who'll be there?" is what distractedly came out of her mouth instead.

Foreman stared, and even if he could come up with a name fast enough, she could see on his face that he knew he'd just made a mistake.

It took him a split second to consider his options – he could, tentatively, ask her, "You didn't know?" stall for a few seconds and make a decision based on her answer and reaction. Because he knew that he'd just stepped in it – and that she was going to know eventually.

"House."

There was a pause.

"Right," she said.

They were let inside the synagogue before she could process the news. Once they were all seated, they were joined by Wilson's parents and his ex-wives, each wearing a black ribbon pinned on their clothes, who sat in the front row. The synagogue was full, and some attendees had to stand in the back.

Cuddy held herself together during the prayers, but when the eulogies began, her head started to spin.

She'd just lost one of her closest friends, and she hadn't seen him in months.

House hadn't died – and this changed everything. Wilson hadn't died alone. For that she was relieved and grateful; but she'd mourned the son of a bitch, and for that she wanted to rip his head off.

Covering her mouth with her hand to muffle her sob, she rushed out of the synagogue to get some fresh air.

And she saw him.

She'd recognize his tall silhouette anywhere.

He was standing in the distance, staring in her direction. Her bursting out of the synagogue must have caught his attention.

He was just as she'd remembered – though maybe a bit thinner.

They just stood there, looking at each other.

It was hard not to remember his cold stare as he handed her hairbrush, the deafening racket of his car shattering her walls and furniture.

It was hard not to remember the fleeting, ephemeral look in his eyes when they'd lie together in bed, a look that bared his soul and his heart without him needing to say a single word.

She'd thought she would never see him again.

She wanted to run towards him, towards this oh-so-familiar figure that would fill the gap he'd left in her heart, no matter how conflicted her feelings about him were, but there was something about him that kept her frozen in place.

She didn't know for how long they just stood there, but when she heard the doors of the synagogue open again behind her, she turned around to see the attendees begin to walk out quietly.

When she looked in his direction again, he was gone.

But in her mind, there was no question at all that it had been real.

She followed everyone to the cemetery, casting glances behind her shoulder without realising it. She caught Foreman's stare and he looked away.

She was the last one to stand in front of Wilson's grave, making up for her absence in Wilson's life those last months. Unconsciously, she hoped that House might join her.

She let herself mourn her friend, tears cascading down her cheeks in silence.

She added a pebble to the fresh earth that would soon be a tomb and, even though she didn't have the heart to, she joined the attendees at one of Wilson's ex-wife's apartment to sit shiva with them. It unfortunately wasn't her first funeral and she knew from experience that she needed to surround herself with human beings if she wanted to get through the day – and besides, she needed to eat.

When she made it back to her hotel room in the early evening, she called her home for a few minutes to check in and collapsed on the bed.

A couple hours later, the unmistakeable rap of wood against wood stirred her from slumber.

Surely enough, House was standing there when she opened the door.