Cuddy knew that House had been sleeping in his office since Christmas, minus the four weeks in rehab. "How about your place?" she asked a bit disingenuously, if gently.

"Why?" The suggestion elevated his natural wariness to suspicion.

"You have a fireplace. I don't." Plausible enough. And true. "You have wood?"

"I have wood." House had realized that eventually he'd have to return to his apartment. Maybe it would be easier with someone, even if that someone was Cuddy. She'd leave him no opportunity to think too much about it, or at least forestall things for a while. On the other hand, how would he explain to her that he hadn't been back there since shortly after Christmas. It would be easy enough for her to tell, he considered. It had been a wreck when he left: still not entirely put back together after Tritter's dismembering of it, not to mention his own damage inflicted. At least he'd had the presence of mind to clean up the vomit and the dishes. As disheveled as was his personal appearance, he had no interest in sharing his flat with roaches or mice. A rat, in a cage, was another story.

House had given Steve McQueen to a neighbor to feed before going to see Tritter on Christmas morning, sure that he was going to be taken immediately to rehab. He didn't want the rat's starvation on his conscience. Very little about his thinking was clear that morning, but he was no rat murderer.

"The apartment's a mess, Cuddy. Why don't we…"

"What happened to your cleaning service?"

"Yeah. Another casualty of Tritter's. They took one look at the chaos wrought by Tritter and his friends and told me I needed a bulldozer and not a 'housekeeping' service."

"But that was in November!" House looked away exasperated at this line of inquiry.

"Yeah, well…I forgot. Just wave my magic cane and voila! Apartment put back together. How stupid of me to have not remembered that…" Cuddy's stare bored into him, but he wouldn't return her gaze.

"House. I know it's difficult for you. Why not hire…"

"Oh, what was I thinking? I did have a few other things on my mind…I…"

"Doesn't matter. It's getting too chilly out here. A wood-fire is just what I need right now. So, your apartment. If you're extra-special nice, I might help you clean up a bit."

"Fine." Defeated, he handed her the his helmet and they traveled the short distance to Baker Street. The thing of it was that it wasn't the mess that kept him away so much as memory of Christmas eve. Hell Christmas eve, the memory of that whole week; that whole month. But Christmas eve especially.

House asked himself if things were any better now than they were then? Did he really feel much differently about…everything…than he had when he had called his mother? Catherine had told him that he shouldn't expect much from a month. To give her time; to give himself time. For what, he wondered? He wasn't going to down another bottle of Oxy with a whiskey chaser. Time to heal? He hadn't healed in 40 years; or seven years; or six months—take your pick.

It wasn't rational to not want to return to the apartment. House knew that. "I haven't been back here since Christmas, you know." He dismounted the bike and took the helmet from Cuddy as he unlatched his cane.

"I know." House arched an eyebrow.

"Been spying on me?"

"Just concerned."

"Is that what this is about? I have a shrink you know."

"This," she said emphatically, "has nothing to do with that! And …how's that going by the way. Thought rehab's over, hence my question about using the present tense regarding Catherine. You know, scam and all…" She probably should have let the comment drop, but he had left the opening. She had tried to keep the teasing in her voice.

House unlocked the door and stepped into the foyer. A pile of mail on the small table near the mailboxes threatened to topple over. He glanced at it, and realizing the effort to pick it all up and open his door was too great for the moment, House ignored it.

The apartment was not as trashed as she had feared, but it wasn't good. Saying nothing, House piled some logs on the hearth and lit them. Cuddy began to wonder what the hell she was doing there. It had all seemed a good idea, back at the jazz club, wine seeping through her veins, watching House, the musician become someone entirely different. Now, she wasn't at all sure. About anything.

House was pacing, picking things up; an expensive lamp that had fallen. A guitar, laying askew against the sofa, House replaced in its rack on the wall. He folded several throws, setting them carefully over the back of an armchair. Finally, he sat on the sofa, propping his right leg on the coffee table. The nearly empty bottle of Maker's Mark sat upon it, an unwelcome reminder of Christmas. He knew Cuddy was observing him and it made him uncomfortable. This was not a good idea. An uncomfortable silence enveloped them.

"I suppose I should offer you a drink. I suppose I'm not being a very good host. I don't usually…"

"Don't get up. Where do you keep your beer? In the fridge?"

"I can get you a beer, Cuddy. I'm not that…" But she was already up.

"I'll get one for you too." Cuddy threw on the light in the kitchen, only to be stunned. The place had been ransacked. Every cabinet, every drawer had been emptied; their contents dumped unceremoniously on the floor. The shattered remains of antique etched crystal goblets (his grandmother's maybe?) shattered amongst metal flatware, broken dishes and copper pot covers. No wonder he hadn't wanted to return to this. No wonder he couldn't deal with putting it all back together.

"House…Tritter's people did this?"

"Amazing what a little search warrant will let ya do, huh?"

"They did major damage. Is there anything you can…?" House shook his head, taking the bottle from Cuddy. He took a long swig.

"On the other hand, kitchen's nothing compared to the bedroom. They did a really good job there. Real thorough." House was surprised at how bitter he still felt after over a month. On the other hand, the priceless collection of artifacts he had collected as a kid; his beloved chemistry set—destroyed; a crumbled heap of so much ground up glass and rock lying beside his bed. House sighed, rising from the sofa. He walked to the fireplace mantle, staring down into the fire.

The light from the blaze made his eyes nearly colorless. Cuddy approached him cautiously, lightly touching him on the back. Again, she noted the slight flinch. And again she noted that he didn't move away from her touch. She figured that it wasn't the destruction of physical things that had upset House; it was the violation. It was the violence of it. But she didn't think that even that was the whole story. He turned, slightly surprised to find her quite that close.

He both craved her touch and was repelled by his own neediness. He broke the contact and stalked to the sofa, sitting in the corner of it, warning her off and daring her at the same time. She took the dare; knowing him too well to be put off by his glower. She knew the moment, as it were, had passed, recalling how serene he had looked back at the club, playing, immersed in his playing. She tried to move the game back onto his turf, back into his comfort zone.

"Play me something?" She grabbed his hand playfully, pulling at him, while being mindful of his bad leg. "I'm a pushover for a good song, you know. I'll do anything, maybe even help you clean up this disaster area before it's condemned." She tried for a combination of seductiveness and pragmatism.

"Gee, Cuddy. So, I play 'Mary had a Little Lamb' and you'll follow me to my bedroom?"

"To clean."

"It's a start." He arched an eyebrow, making his way to the baby grand.

Cuddy sat beside him on the bench. Close, but giving him room and access to the entire keyboard. A smile quirked his lips as he pecked at the opening measure of "Mary…" Cuddy slapped his arm.

"Ow."

"Play, then."

"Fine. I'll play." He thought for a moment before the lyrical sounds of Gershwin's American in Paris wafted from the soundboard. Cuddy closed her eyes. She could nearly see the Eiffel Tower lit in the dark.