Author's Note: Going home to see family. There won't be an update for a few days.

After the arrest of their attackers, House and Cuddy's situations didn't seem to improve. It almost seemed worse after they no longer had something to focus their energy on. In some way, they had been spending their time clinging to each other and trying to ensure their survival. When that fear and tension was gone, they were left with anger, and only each other to focus it on. To make matters worse, just as Cuddy was really embracing the thought of them in a relationship, House questioned if she was better off without him.

They spent Christmas night alone after deciding that they needed their own space, and the situation only deteriorated from there. The morning of the last day of Hanukkah, House found Cuddy in her office. He asked why she didn't respond to the numerous messages left by her mother to join her family, and Cuddy asked why he cared. Everything that had been so carefully built on their mutual dependence exploded when he offered his response. In moments, they were reopening old wounds that had been there for years while they lashed out all of their anger. Cuddy went to her door and was preparing to force him from her office when she asked, "Why can't you admit that you care about me?"

He stood before she could kick him out, and, leaning on his cane so his face was near hers, he whispered, "I'd hate to lie to you," and walked out.

They both sat alone in their own homes, places of former sanctuary that felt more like cages. Neither wanted to admit the sorrow that remained at the loss of the other.

After nearly two weeks, neither was willing to extend an olive branch. The January nights were long and cold. Cuddy had been making steady improvements with the help of her therapist in combating her PTSD, but she felt increasingly depressed and was working nearly eighteen hours a day. House had become utterly despondent and seemed to be hiding behind cases and chemicals. Wilson and Cameron had both attempted, fruitlessly, to intercede.

Cuddy was working late one night, and, deciding that it wasn't worth going home, she chose to shower at the hospital. She found an empty patient room so she could have some privacy since the locker room was still too open for her comfort. She stepped into the elevator, her hair still damp, when she heard the voice she'd rarely heard in recent days, "I thought you were cured and you didn't have to avoid going home anymore."

Blinking slowly, she turned toward the control panel to the spot where House had been leaning against the wall. "We can just go right on pretending that we don't see each other," she answered as she faced the doors and avoided looking at him.

"I may not be cured, but I can go home."

"Good for you."

"Want to come?" he asked, with gruff sorrow.

Her face softened as she finally looked directly at him, "Why?"

"You look tired."

"You don't care if I'm tired. So why bother inviting?"

"I haven't had my knob polished in a few weeks, so I figured if you were bored—"

She huffed angrily but she looked like she'd been stabbed. Cuddy folded her arms across her chest and scowled as she tried to leave the elevator, "Find a new polisher. I'm sure you've already bought one."

When she thought she'd found her escape, he yanked her back into the elevator and hit the button for the highest floor.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she yelled before she shoved him away. "Don't touch me. Don't you ever fucking touch me."

His back hit the elevator wall from the force she used to shove him and he shook his head. It looked as if something horrible was on the tip of his tongue and then he said, clearly, "Come on, Cuddy. Don't leave."

"It's too late. Whatever there was between us is gone. I needed you, I admitted my feelings for you, and you couldn't even admit that I mattered. You couldn't admit that you cared."

The door dinged as they reached the top floor, and he quickly pressed the button for a lower floor, and hit the emergency stop.

"How long are you going to keep me in here?" she spat.

"As long as it takes."

"For what? You want me to tell you how I feel so you can tell me you don't care? I'm not falling for it again. I've tried to talk to you, and I get back these cryptic little responses because you can't just admit that you have feelings for me like an adult. I know how you feel, I can see it in your eyes. The thought of something happening to me, the realization of what could have happened, it killed part of you. It is still killing you. But you can't even act like you don't hate me."

"If you already know, then why do I have to say anything?"

"Because you don't just avoid saying it. You have to lash out and try to hurt me. You try to prove that you don't care."

"You were the one who just pushed me."

"You pulled me in here. You tried to provoke me and it worked. You need help."

"I don't need help."

"You think you're fine?"

"I don't need help- - I need you."

She was stunned initially as she stared into the eyes that matched the words and she shook her head, "It's not enough. I don't want to be needed when you're looking for a – knob polisher. I counted on you. I put my trust in you. And then you disappeared."

"You said you needed me and then you didn't."

"You can be so fucking cold."

"Me?" he yelled.

"You made me feel something for you," she argued as her finger poked his chest. "You were there. And right when I was ready to take the leap, it was all over. You came back just as unfeeling as I worried you'd be. You need help."

"If you thought I needed help, why did you disappear? If you care so much, how could you leave when I needed you the most?"

"I was in love with you," she answered with nothing short of pure rage. "Fuck you for making me love you. Fuck you for making me trust you. And you cut into me just like everyone else and took the pieces you wanted before you walked away without a care in the world."

She was shaking her head, her body quivering with anger before he grabbed her face and dove in for a kiss. His tongue was immediately moving into her mouth but she put her hands on his chest and pushed him back again, "No, House."

His arms were still around her, her body was still against his, so her rejection was equivocal.

He admitted, almost in spite of himself, "I still love you. Is that what it takes? You need me to say it?"

"That isn't enough anymore. It would have been. I'm still not over what happened to me- -what happened to us. But you can't even admit that it bothers you anymore. You took huge steps backwards while you were running away from me."

"It bothers me."

"I can barely keep myself together. I can't keep us both together if you won't even try," she said as he kissed her forehead. She looked into his eyes and stated, "You need help."

"I know." He kissed her lips, softly.

"Knowing is not enough."

"True," he answered while he tried to kiss her again.

This time, she parted her lips, inviting him into her mouth for a few spine-tingling seconds before she backed away. "You love me?" she asked, suddenly accepting the words he'd said earlier.

"I thought it was obvious?"

"That's not an answer."

"I do. And you know it," he said, taking a chance and unbuttoning her shirt.

"I need you to know it, too. I need you to be able to accept it, because if you can't, what's the point?"

His hands slid around her waist under her shirt while he asked, tentatively, "But you don't feel the same anymore?"

"Of course I do," she said tersely while she reached for his belt and tugged the end through the buckle. "You better not be lying to me."

"I'm not," he sighed as he felt her reach into his boxers and wrap her fingers around his dick. His head slapped back against the wall.

"I need you to try."

He suddenly lifted his head and held her hand still, trying to prove that his declaration was not sexually motivated. "And I need you."

She nodded subtly, her answer sufficient enough to meet his demand. He moved her hand again, encouraging her to stroke him. He opened her pants, pulling her to him as he fumbled his way into her underwear. Turning them around, he moved her to the corner of the elevator. He pushed his jeans and boxers down after he yanked her silkier pants from her legs, pinning her between the walls and his body.

She braced her hands on the bars of the elevator and lifted her body while she wound her legs around his torso. Everything had turned so quickly, he seemed almost confused while he tried to figure out what to do next. His fingers reached for her slit, but she tightened her legs to pull him to her. She pushed her pelvis toward him, communicating her desires through body language.

He shoved into her, feeling the tight convulsions of her body reacting to his sudden intrusion, but she gasped out her pleasure. "You feel so good," they said almost in unison, reveling in the satisfaction.

Almost immediately their hips were in motion, finding their rhythm too easily. The pace was instantly fast, gravity rubbing them together in ways that made them nearly cum from the moment they'd started. She moaned as he impaled her body repeatedly, twisting his hips against her each time he moved into her. They were trading occasional sloppy kisses, tugging at remaining clothes, going at each other with ferocity.

There was nothing delicate between them as gasps, grunts and moans filled the tiny space in the elevator. He growled as he started to peak so quickly, adding an extra rock in his hips to push against her clit and gritting his teeth to try to hold off for as long as he could. She screamed. It was a loud, beautiful, uncontrolled scream of release that extended beyond the realm of the sexual. His orgasm cut through his fogged mind like a knife as the crisp sensations brought him into the world as much as it transported him away from it.

He was leaning against her, his hands braced next to hers on the rails, his weight heavy against her body. He was sated and stunned but more acutely aware than he had been in days. He was surprised that he'd even been capable of sex, given the amount of Vicodin he was on and the fact that he hadn't even been able to jerk off for days.

Moving inside her a few more times while he still could, he watched the tension in her face dissolve as the aftershocks of her orgasm zipped through her body. She sighed, a bit of worry coming back into her voice, "We shouldn't have done that here."

"No one is in this wing at this time of night," he answered, moving his hand to her breast. Some hopeful part of him wondered if he could convince his body, and her, to go for another round.

She pulled away, sliding down and lowering her feet to the ground. There was little space because he was still leaning into the corner. Putting her hands on his chest, she lifted his upper body, asking, "Are you OK?"

"Come home with me."

"Right now?"

"All of the time."

"My appointment is tomorrow. Come along."

"To your shrink?" he groaned.

"Yes. This is my appointment, it's not focused on you. You can see what it's like. But she asked a few times if I wanted you there since we went through everything together. She thought it might help me. Maybe she can recommend someone for you?"

"Maybe."

"You said you'd try. All that I'm asking is that you come along."

He nodded, his head still leaning against the wall.

"We need to figure out how to fight-"

"I think we're fine in that department."

"How to fight without everything falling to pieces. We convinced each other that we could be trusted, leaned on- -and then we left each other."

"Hey," he answered, suddenly becoming argumentative, "I wasn't the only one who-"

"Did I say you?" she interrupted, verbally pushing back. "I said we. I didn't handle it well either. But what's the point in convincing each other that we can be trusted if things like that are going to happen again."

His head bobbed while she moved out from under his arm to get dressed, and he unhappily fixed his clothes and leaned back against the wall, looking at the spot where his cane waited on the floor. She handed it to him and reached out to release the emergency stop, pausing for a moment. "I'm not going to force you to get help. You need to do it willingly. It's your choice. We both have to do what's best for us."

The truth hung loudly in his head, he knew that if he continued on his current path, she wouldn't be able to be in a relationship with him. She was trying not to say it, but he couldn't really blame her. He was no good to either of them like that just as much as Cuddy could no longer spend nights staring at doors she ritualistically locked.

"This isn't a threat," she offered, "it's just-"

"I get it," he interrupted, acquiescently. "I'll go with you."

She hit the release and whispered, "You don't look good."

"You do."

"I mean you look sick."

"Yea."

"You can't take this much Vicodin."

"I'm not quitting," he stated, firmly, glancing over at her with an adamant expression.

"I'm not asking you to. But the amount you're taking right now has nothing to do with your leg."

Before he could argue, he found himself silently agreeing.

"Things got a little side tracked," she added, "but we can do this. We agreed that we could do this together. We still can."

After the elevator opened, she walked into the lobby and turned to see if he was following. "You coming home with me?" he asked again.

"Yes."

"OK."

He finally began to follow her to the garage and she pulled his keys from his hand. "I'm driving though. You're in no condition."

They went to his apartment. He watched with interest when she walked in to see what sort of progress she'd made. She still locked the door, but only once, inspecting it visually for several seconds before she entered. She walked through the whole place in a very precise fashion, checking each window to be sure that it was locked, and quickly inspecting closets and the bedroom and bathroom for intruders. Her assessment was methodic and comprehensive, but when she was done, she seemed at ease. It was as if she allowed her body and mind to thoroughly ensure her safety without trying to hide what she was doing, but when she was done, her mind allowed her to feel safe in return. She had definitely made progress.

Her hands were on her hips, a bit defensively for a moment when he said, "Does it help?"

When she realized he wasn't asking in an accusatory tone, she answered, "Yea."

"Maybe I'll sleep better with the world's tiniest body guard next to me."

She approached, grabbing his hand to lead him to the bedroom, "Maybe you will."

When she came to bed, he was already there, looking sleepless and worn. She got under the sheets, pushing her body back to his. His fingers moved under the shirt she was wearing almost immediately, his rough touch feeling familiar and reassuring. She wasn't at all unhappy at the thought that he would initiate sex again. But almost as quickly as he found his way to her breast, his breath grew steady and deep and he stopped moving.

She looked over her shoulder, certain that there was no way the man could be asleep, but he was. For a moment, she convinced herself that she would never fall asleep there. After all, for as much time as they spent in a shared bed, it was normally at a hotel, so this place was far too unfamiliar. She hadn't even finished the internal argument about why she would never fall asleep when she drifted into unconsciousness.

In the morning when they woke, she saw him take one Vicodin, and even noticed that he glanced at his watch to note the time. Expecting him to argue about going to the appointment, she was already prepared for the possibility, but he showed up at her office at the proper time and went to the appointment.

Since Cuddy's anxiety was less pronounced, she now went to appointments at the therapist's regular office. House said very little as they waited in the waiting room, but when he almost reached the four-hour window since the last dose, he threw another pill into his mouth. He seemed desperate for it, but she could see the effort he was making. It was possible that he was taking them secretly, but since she hadn't made any specific demands, and he made no point to show her what he was doing, she had the distinct impression that he was limiting his dosages for his own reasons.

When they walked into the comfortable office that seemed more like a living room than what he had expected, the therapist greeted Cuddy and turned to House, "Dr. Rebecca Fisher. And you are?"

"House."

"House?"

"Greg House. I'm- -" he seemed to be ill-prepared to consider anything of roles, but answered after a time, "I'm her boyfriend. And I work for her."

"Nice to meet you," Fisher answered. "You were there the night of the attack."

"Yea."

"Coping with traumatic events like this can be a very difficult and complicated process. It's good to see you have each other's support."

He wrinkled his eyebrows and tightened his jaw as he considered the statement she had made almost as if it was a very weighty question. Looking at Fisher, the thought-filled expression left his face and he answered, resolutely, "We do."