Hours or perhaps years later, House's eyes open, and he finds himself lying on his own couch, back in his apartment. He sits up, taking in his surroundings. He reaches down to pat his leg and breathes a sigh of relief when he feels the familiar hole in his thigh.

"Back in the present," he mutters, reaching for his cane. "Hallucinations over." He stands up and walks around the room.

And almost trips over something on the floor.

House looks down to find his body, still lying in the same place, still in a drug-induced stupor.

"Awww, crap," he mutters.

Then, a noise from the adjoining room.

The doctor looks to find the kitchen lit up brightly, and limps hesitantly toward it.

Only to find that his kitchen has been laid out in an elaborate feast.

House surveys the scene. There are at least half a dozen huge entrees and numerous side dishes, steaming or chilling, placed end to end, and sometimes stacked on top of one another, in every corner of his kitchen.

The man tending the stove turns to face House, but he would be unmistakable from any angle. Clad in a green jumpsuit and gold apron, 400 pounds heavy, with a turkey leg in one hand and a spatula in the other . . .

"I think you took a wrong turn," House advises his visitor. "The stockings are hung by the chimney with care, just like the instructions said. But, from the looks of it, you might wanna lay off the milk and cookies this year. There's some low-fat nut clusters in the cabinet if you want."

George Hagel smiles and speaks in his calm, rich voice. "Doctor House. I must say, I love what you've done with the place. But I had to make a few adjustments to the kitchen. After all, what's Christmas without Christmas dinner?"

"That's what this is? I was expecting homeless people to be lined up outside."

"Oohohoho." George dumps the contents of one of the stovetop pans—what looks to be sweet potatoes—onto a plate and carries them to the table. "It sounds like I'm just in time."

"Just in time for what?"

"You haven't figured it out yet?" George spreads his flabby arms proudly. "I'm the Ghost of Christmas Present."
"Well in that case, I hope you're in time. That sounds like a gig where punctuality is important."

George takes a bite of his turkey leg. "How right you are."

"But, wait," House says. "How can you be a ghost? Last I checked, you have at least a couple more months before you die of lung cancer."

"By your infallible medical calculations. But that's my own problem. Does it really matter to you if I'm dead right now or not?"

House shrugs. "I'm curious."

"Your enduring concern for your patients blows me away." George takes a spoon and stirs another bowl. "But just to indulge your curiousity, I'll tell you. As a practical matter, I'm not really George. I'm a reflection of George."

"You're a reflection," House says dubiously. "So where's the mirror?"

"Last I checked, it was passed out on the living room floor."

House casts a brief glance over his shoulder, realizes how pointless it is, then turns his attention back to the Ghost. "So, let me guess. You're gonna take me to Bob Cratchett's house so I'll see what a miser I've been and start giving back to the community."

George pops a sweet potato. "Close, but no."

"You're gonna show me two children named Poverty and Syphilis so I'll change my cynical ways and start showing compassion for a lot of people I'll never meet."

George laughs. "I'm not about that."

"You're going to take me to Cuddy's house so we can watch her get undressed?"

"Nope," George answers through a mouthful of sweet potato.

House shrugs. "So what are we gonna do?"

The Ghost pulls a chair up to the table and grins from ear-to-ear. House visibly winces as his guest lowers his large form into the chair. "I," George says. "Am going to eat. You'll find everything you need . . . in this." He grabs a giant bowl of red jello and hands it to the doctor.

"Should I dive in?"

"Think of it as my crystal ball."

Sighing helplessly, House peers into his reflection in the dessert. Images play inside the jello, and House squints, trying to see inside. He blinks, and suddenly finds himself inside the image.

"Whoa," House says, looking around his new surroundings. "Cool trick."

"Thank-you," the Ghost says from behind him, startling the doctor.

"So, where are we?"

The Ghost points over House's shoulder, and he turns to look. There, lying in bed, half conscious, is Eric Foreman, dressed in—

"Fur-trimmed red pajamas??" House says, choking back laughter. "Oh, I can't wait to get back to work." He pauses, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "He's gonna wonder how I found out."

"His girlfriend got them for him," the Ghost says.

"The nurse from Pedes. Well, she doesn't like me, so he obviously wouldn't believe that she told me."

"What do you think he's dreaming about right now?"

"Probably getting naughty with his favorite nurse."

"Not for another hour. Go take a look into his eyes."

"Are you serious?"

"What are you afraid of?"

House shrugs. "Good point." He makes his way toward his half-awake employee and peers into his face. "No dancing sugarplums. But, wait…"

Somehow, inside Foreman's eyes, he can plainly see an image, just like in the jello. Somehow, he sees Foreman in Foreman's mind's eye, talking to House himself in Cuddy's office.

"He's dreaming about when he broke into Cuddy's drawer for me the other night."

House watches the familiar scene play out in Foreman's head with the unfamiliar feeling that he was somewhere he really shouldn't be. Himself, heckling Foreman as the neurologist jimmies the lock on Cuddy's desk.

"Only an idiot goes to prison for being stubborn," Foreman advises his boss.

The dream-House responds, "Only an idiot settles for mediocrity. An idiot would have let John Henry Giles kill himself."

In the dream, the door bursts open, and Foreman's old mentor, Marty Hamilton comes in. "Are you going to let him talk about me that way, Eric?"

Foreman sighs. "He's right. I mean, Marty, you helped me take my first baby steps." He pauses, as though unsure that he wants to finish his statement. "But House saves people that no one else can save. I don't want to be just another run-of-the-mill neurologist. I want to be extraordinary." He looks at his jonesing boss. "Learning from you is the best gift this universe could have offered me."

"You can't give him those pills!" Marty said angrily.

"With all due respect, sir," Foreman replies. "We're far past the point where you can give me orders." With that, he yanks the drawer open, and millions of Vicodin pills flood out, covering the room like a blanket of snow.

The dream-House begins to eat the pills like a starving dog. Marty Hamilton, drowning in Vicodin, screams for help. Dream-Foreman walks out of the office, unaffected by either the storm of pills or his old mentor's pleas for help.

Foreman's eyelids flutter and close.

House is back in Foreman's room with the Ghost.

He turns to the Ghost and says, in his teenage surfer voice, "That was so cool. Any chance you could stop by more often?"

George gives a long, booming laugh, then says, "Nope."

House frowns.

"Come on," George says, munching on his turkey leg. "More have we to do."