Despite feeling like crap thanks to the overdose and the hangover, House went back to work in the late afternoon. Being alone with his overactive and twisted imagination was not something he wanted, and besides, he was less likely to sleep at the hospital, where he was constantly pestered by his underlings.

House started to brew a new pot of coffee in his office, but at the first whiff of the coffee beans, he stomach revolted, forcing him to close the bag. After over a dozen cups in the past twenty-four hours, coffee was repulsive. So he bought a soda from the closest vending machine, instead, to serve as his caffeine rush. At this rate, he'd develop an addiction as vicious as the Vicodin one, but it was better than going back to that.

The caffeine boost wasn't enough, though. House's body still whined at him to lie down. But he refused to give in, keeping himself awake by bouncing a ball against the wall. It stimulated him about as much as knitting would, but the physical motion kept him from laying his head onto the desk and zonking out.

Sometime around throw number two hundred and six, Chase and Foreman came in. "Got more results and what happened to you?" Foreman asked, once he took a closer look at House.

House rubbed at his face, as if that might hide the signs of sleep deprivation and overdose. "Too many hookers. But enough about me, as fascinating as I am. Gimme the skinny on the McFinn girl."

Chase and Foreman exchanged weary glances, which House did not miss, even in his wiped-out state. He steeled himself for more obnoxious expressions of concern, but being good, obedient boys, they did as they were told.

Chase tossed a folder down the table. "The same thing happened as last night: she experienced heightened brain activity for a while, though for a much shorter period."

Something like a police siren went off in House's head. He scanned through the data, making sure that Chase hadn't misunderstood the numbers. "Any other REM patterns?"

"The neurons in the pontine tegmentum were active," Foreman said, with a mild grimace, "But no rapid eye movement."

"Her heart rate and breathing were regular, as was her temperature," Chase added.

The activity dated from ten oh three to ten eleven. While House didn't know at what time he'd passed out from the boozing and the drugging, nor had he checked his watch after being slapped into consciousness by the dream Wilson, it had been around ten o'clock.

"Maybe she's not in a coma," Chase said.

"How else are you going to explain her symptoms?" Foreman asked.

The overlap between his dreaming and McFinn's brain activity could be considered a fluke, if it'd happened once. Twice could be a coincidence. House did not, however, want to go for a third time to confirm or deny the correlation. He wanted answers, and he wanted them before his dreams freaked him out any further.

Was there a correlation?

"Jung believed in the collective unconscious," Chase said, smirking. "Maybe someone's tapping into hers."

It was a joke, but it caught House's attention.

Foreman sighed, as if disturbed by the kind of people he had to work with. "For one thing, the collective unconscious isn't some kind of brain-share; it refers to common aspects in human psyche. And secondly, how is that a valid suggestion?"

"I like it," House interrupted. "Take it further." They both stared at him. "Go on," he encouraged. "We haven't found answers inside the box, so maybe they're outside."

"You're not thinking that someone is dipping into her mind, are you?" Chase asked. "That's not scientific. Or even logical!"

"Don't want to hear about the reality of facts from an ex-wannabe priest," House snapped. "And it was your idea."

"House," Foreman said, "Maybe you're not in your right mind, what with your 'hookers' and Wilson's death, but you're the one who insisted we diagnose Diana, so if you're not going to contribute, the least you could do is stop being so narcissistic and forcing the conversation back to yourself."

Narcissism. That one world revealed, to House, a greater context. "That's it," he said, and before either one of them could ask what was what, he was gone.


While the hospital was an excellent resource on some branches of knowledge, it was downright lacking in others. But the public library was pretty good at filling in the hospital's gaps.

House pulled off as many reference books on Greek mythology as he could while still stumping along with a cane and touted them to the nearest table. However, despite the relative fame of the legend, only one book had anything on the subject:

"As for the famous love affair with Endymion … because of his beauty, Selene fell in love with him, and Zeus granted him a wish, which was to sleep forever, remaining deathless and ageless."

The idea had been more plausible in his head than on paper.

House rubbed his temples so as to keep his hands busy and unable to shut the book. The idea sounded crazy now, but then so did most of his epiphanies. He had a hunch, and House trusted his instincts. He read on. Unfortunately, this account does not make clear whether Zeus' offer was the result of Endymion's beauty or Selene's love, and whether Endymion's choice was at all prompted by the latter (so that he might look upon his youth forever?). No source claims that the sleep was her idea. Loukianos' dialogue between Selene and Aphrodite suggests that she has become enamored of him while seeing him asleep each night, and that when she descends to him, he awakens to fulfill her desires. House nearly slammed the book shut upon reading that last phrase; this all was stupid for words. But he made himself reread the passage. Doing so was about as pleasant as drilling holes into his skull--without anesthetics.

The passage all but memorized, House tipped onto the back legs of his chair and thought. His theory's main problem was its impossibility; even if he'd lambasted Chase for his disbelief, the kid had a point. Collective unconsciousness and ancient shepherds the object of a Greek goddess' lust had no place in science, especially not in House's interpretation of it.

Moreover, if it was true, then he was Endymion to Wilson's Selene, and the mental image of them dressed up as their respective parts alone made his toes curl with indignation. And even if it could be true, the pieces didn't fit. Wilson was dead, not a hunting moon goddess, and the one in a permanent 'sleep' was the McFinn girl, not House.

Then again, if he was going to seriously consider himself the victim of a piece of Greek myth gone astray, he shouldn't be picking at the details.

He had a hypothesis, as absurd as it was. The next step: testing it.


Cameron was with the McFinn girl, reading some chick lit book or other. Come to think of it, he'd forgotten to tell them to give up the brain-watching duty. Oh, well. He'd never aimed to be a kind boss.

"House!" She said as soon as she saw him. "Where you've been? Chase and Foreman said that you ran out like you'd had one of your breakthroughs, but you weren't--"

He held up a hypodermic needle. "Here's my breakthrough."

Cameron stood up, toppling the chair over. "Maybe we should discuss your breakthrough before you go stabbing--"

"Nah, I'm pretty sure about this," House quipped, searching for a spot to inject into. "You can cross your fingers and hope for the best, though, if you like." There. He pushed in to the girl before Cameron could stop him. She may have been a stick, but her stubbornness could level empires; better get to his destination before she could get in his way.

"What did you just do?" Cameron demanded, torn between trying to make House 'fess up through sheer eye contact and checking the girl's vitals to keep up with any changes and prevent potential crashes.

"Aw, I'm hurt," House said in mock-injury. "Don't you trust me?"

"Not when you're acting like a maniac!"

A groan came from the general direction of the bed. Cameron and House both snapped their attention back to their patient.

"Was that zolpidem?" Cameron asked.

"Maybe," House replied.

"So, what, you want to wake her up for a few hours? What good will that do?! And the FDA hasn't approved zolpidem for coma patients--"

"But does anyone actually trust the FDA?"

The McFinn girl moaned again, flexing her head like she was keeping track of a lazy fly buzzing about. "What are you waiting for? Won't her family want to have a boo-hoo-ful reunion while she's awake? Call them!"

Cameron shot him a dirty look, letting him know full and well that she recognized this tactic to get her out of the room. But she complied, leaving to get a phone number and probably tell Cuddy what had just happened.

The girl started to blink and grope, pulling herself up to lean on her elbows. The moaning had stopped, but now she looked frightened. "Is that you?" She asked, her voice thick from disuse and far too long a sleep.

"Am I who?" House asked, his heart rate speeding up. Just because he'd tested his theory didn't mean he really thought it could be true.

"Oh, God, it is," her eyes widened, "I thought--"

House was spared from any further awkward conversations about how they knew each other because Cuddy and Cameron stormed in then, with comforting messages about the care McFinn had and would continue to receive and how she'd get to see her family soon, wasn't that nice.

House left them. He'd received all the confirmation he needed, from her reaction to him, on her role in the dreams. And while a great part of him was curious to learn more, the subject felt too unsafe; dangerous. It weirded him out too much. Plus, he had to carry out the next part of his experiment before she went back into her coma.

He was dying for a good bit of restful sleep, anyway.

The thing about hospitals was that there was always a bed available. House walked into a technically unoccupied room, shooed away the intern that'd been napping there, and made himself comfortable. He was fast asleep within minutes.

When he woke up, all daylight was gone; it was an early-evening dark outside. He'd slept for hours, it would seem.

And he hadn't dreamt one single bit with Wilson.

Good, House thought. But he wasn't pleased.