A/N: Thank you to everyone reading this. Please leave me a review even if it's anonymous. Just let me know what you think! BTW I made a slight change in regards to Foreman's position. IMO what I have written is more realistic. I'd like your feedback on it!

It was Thursday and the week had gone by rather quickly for House. He divided his time between a couple of cases, clinic duty and his diagnostics seminar. It was no secret House hated clinic duty and he'd been fortunate that Foreman, in his position as Interim Dean, had offered House the opportunity to conduct a two-hour Diagnostics seminar once a week in exchange for a reduction in clinic hours. House hated lecturing but he hated clinic hours more so he was quite receptive to this offer. Besides, less time spent in the clinic meant less time around Foreman, who had become a real pain in the ass. It seemed that ever since the neurologist had been appointed Interim Dean after Cuddy's replacement Dr. Valderrama dropped dead from a heart attack, he had been a thorn in everybody's side, extremely demanding and was more obnoxious than ever before. Rumor had it that Foreman's appointment had something to do with his friendship with a few of the board members. Some also speculated that it didn't hurt with respect to donors that Foreman was African-American. House had not known Valderrama because he died before his return to the hospital however Wilson informed him that the man, while not in Cuddy's league as Dean, had indeed been a likeable individual and competent administrator who had previously served as Chief of Pediatrics at the University of California San Francisco Medical Center, one of the top teaching hospitals in the world.

It was around six in the evening and House had just ended his three-hour stint in the clinic. For some reason his mind was churning and he wasn't ready to deal with the solitude of his apartment quite yet. He decided to check the emergency room for possible cases. As he perused the patient files at the nurse's station, he noticed a couple who looked to be in their late thirties sitting outside one of the ER rooms. The woman was crying and the man was holding her, stroking her hair and trying to console her. It seemed the more the man tried to give her words of comfort the harder and louder she cried. House was annoyed by the incessant crying yet as he watched the man attempting to comfort the woman, he became curious.

House walked over to one of the nurses working nearby and asked, "What's up with that couple over there?"

Without paying much attention to the annoying diagnostician, the nurse just waved him away and said, "House. Not right now. We're really busy."

"Just tell me what happened."

She took him by the arm, led him to a private area nearby and whispered quietly, "Their daughter died."

"Oh let me guess, teenybopper OD's because mommy didn't love her enough?"

"House!"

"Well?"

The nurse sighed, leaned forward and said in a whisper, "I heard that they were crossing the street after leaving a park and their daughter dropped her teddy bear. She pulled her hand away from her mother's for just a moment to run back and get her bear when she was hit by a car. She was thrown and hit the pavement. She suffered severe head trauma and died en route. I don't think anyone could have saved her."

House was speechless.

"House?"

"Oh sorry. Uh...how old was she?"

"Five. She was five years old. Their only child too. It's so sad. They've been sitting there for almost two hours already, the mother won't leave. It took her husband an hour to get her out of the room so we could clean up the little girl. It's just heartbreaking." And with that she walked away.

House just nodded his head and turned towards the couple. He could hear the sobs of both parents now as they held each other. It was then he noticed the father was clutching a stuffed teddy bear in one hand as he held his wife. House felt a lump in his throat. Though he didn't have any children of his own, it didn't mean he didn't feel bad for them. He may be a son of a bitch but he wasn't a monster. In an unusual move, he walked over to them, cleared his throat uncomfortably and said, "Excuse me. I'm Dr. House. I work here at the hospital and I just wanted to say I'm sorry for your loss."

The father looked up at House with red-rimmed eyes and said, "Thank you" before returning to consoling his distressed wife.

Later, House went down to the morgue to see the little girl and when he walked in it was not difficult to spot her, the small body lying under a sheet on a gurney near the wall. He walked over to the gurney and gently pulled back the sheet. Suddenly he felt a chill up and down his spine. The little girl, who had been cleaned up by the nursing staff, had straight shoulder length brown hair and pale skin. The shape of her face, her cheeks, her nose, reminded him of another little girl who was about her age. As he secured the sheet back over her body, a tear made its way down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away as if it never happened.

House limped back to his office and pulled out a bottle of scotch and his coffee mug. He was about to pour but stopped, putting the cap back on the bottle, pushing it away. He wasn't in the mood to drink, not tonight. He also didn't want to be alone. There was something he had to do. He pulled his phone out and dialed a number.

Twenty minutes later, Wilson was sitting on the couch in the living room of his condo as he heard a key in the lock. He didn't look up as he knew who it was. House closed the door behind him, threw his backpack and leather jacket on a chair and limped his way over to the couch, sitting beside Wilson. Neither man said a word. Tension filled the room and finally Wilson asked House, "Do you want to talk about it?"

House leaned forward holding his cane, with his chin resting on top of his hands. He wanted to talk but he wasn't even sure where to start. After a few minutes he said, "A five year old girl was hit by a car and died in the ER tonight."

"House, I'm sorry."

"What's to be sorry about Wilson? She wasn't my daughter?"

"Obviously from the sound of your voice over the phone, this is bothering you. I'm here if you want to talk about it."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay." Wilson went back to his reading.

House leaned back on the couch, dropped his cane on the floor next to it, closed his eyes and sighed. Wilson knew House wanted to talk but he knew he'd talk when he was ready.

"She was five fucking years old."

Wilson closed his book, turned to House and listened.

House fumbled with a pillow on his lap and muttered "She was hit by a car. Head trauma. Never had a chance."

Wilson said nothing.

"I told her parents I was sorry. Me? Sorry? Go figure. I've seen kids die before. It's no big deal."

Wilson could tell it was in fact a very big deal.

"I didn't even know her."

"It doesn't matter, it was a child House. Children don't deserve to die young."

After a few more minutes, House broke the eerie silence. "She reminded me of Rachel."

Wilson sat there looking at his friend. House seemed so terribly affected by the death of a child he didn't even know.

"House, it's okay to feel bad about this little girl. It's okay to think about Rachel too. You miss her."

"Wilson, I need you to do something for me." House got up from the couch and went into the hallway where his jacket lay on the chair. He brought the jacket back and took something from the pocket. He resumed his seat on the couch and handed the item to Wilson who opened it and realized it was the letter House had written to Cuddy.

"I need you to mail this to Cuddy."

"House. You're serious. You really want to send it!"

"You seem surprised."

"Well, I wasn't sure if you were really going to do it. I didn't want to pry."

House smirked. "Oh that would be a first when the oh-so-kind and caring Dr. James Wilson doesn't want to pry into my life!"

"House. Be serious."

"I am being serious!"

"Why do you want me to send it?"

"First, if I think too much about it I might be too scared to do it" he said as he looked down at his shoes as if embarrassed by the revelation. "Second, you have her address and when she sees your handwriting on the envelope, she won't throw it away before opening it."

"House? Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I owe it to them…to Cuddy and Rachel to tell them how I feel...about what I did to them. I've been debating this. It's time."

"Does this have anything to do with that little girl who died tonight?"

"I don't know. Maybe. All I know is seeing that kid in the morgue...she shouldn't have been on a cold fucking slab under a sheet. She should have been at home, safe, drinking warm milk, listening to her mom reading her bedtime stories. I mean one minute she was playing with her parents in the park and the next she's dead. What if it had been Cuddy who took Rachel to the park and she ran back to grab her doll or something and was hit by a car? It could have been Cuddy sitting all alone in the ER crying over her dead daughter. She was their only child. It's not fair."

Wilson was clearly stunned by House's revelations. "House, you're the first one to say life isn't supposed to be fair."

House just looked at Wilson with a raised eyebrow. "Seriously? Of all the times you have to quote me?"

Wilson smiled as he got up from the couch and went into his study. He knew it was not easy for House to admit his feelings and he had a long way to go but he was proud of him for trying yet again. Wilson pulled out his address book and an envelope, addressed it to Cuddy and placed the letter inside. For a moment he wondered if Cuddy would be mad at him for helping House by sending the letter but he disregarded that knowing Cuddy couldn't stay mad at him long. He knew firsthand that House was doing everything he could to try and fix himself and if writing a letter to Cuddy was part of that, so be it.

After placing the stamped envelope on the kitchen counter next to his briefcase so he could mail it in the morning, Wilson returned to the couch with two beers, handing one to House. "So…monster trucks or El Fuego de Amor?" he asked.

House just smirked and replied with a knowing look, "What do you think?"

Okay folks! Consider the letter mailed! I'd planned to mail it all along, I just wasn't sure how I wanted it to happen. This story isn't planned out. I simply sit down once a week and think about what I want to write and write as I go. I want it to be realistic and believable and if it seems like I'm taking my time with it, it's because I am. I want to do this right.

Thanks again everyone!