Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Sorry it took me awhile to upload this chapter. I've just been really busy with school, and I had wanted to complete the piece before uploading this chapter, but...chapter 10 is still in the process of being written. No guarantees on when I'll finish it, because this is sort of hell week(s) for me and my beta. Thanks, once again, to all my encouraging reviewers.

A/N: Melissa, thank you for always being there. I hope work doesn't kill you because if it does, this story will never get done, since I can't write without you!


It was black and she was in pain. Senses returned to her slowly: First she felt the pain in her head and the fatigue in her arm and leg muscles; then she felt the bed that she was lying on. There were voices nearby, talking angrily, though she couldn't quite make out what they were saying. She recognized the starch clean smell of linens and realized she must be in a hospital. Fear filled her; what was she doing in the hospital? She cast her mind around, trying to remember what she had been doing last, but found she could not recall. She cast her mind further back, trying to remember what had happened the previous day…A patient? She had been working in the E.R. She had been with Wilson…Where was Wilson?

She forced her eyes open, hoping one of the people speaking nearby would be able to give her some kind of explanation. She didn't recognize the man closest to her, the one wearing surgical scrubs. He was talking to a man with a cane and a tweed jacket. She only knew one man who would wear tweed to work. But what was House doing here? Their voices were becoming louder and she strained to hear what they were saying just outside the open door.

"What do you mean she won't remember anything?" House was shouting.

The surgeon shook his head. "She won't lose her memory completely," he responded. "She will still remember certain things – who you are, for example. She might even remember how to take a blood sample; we won't know the extent of the memory loss until she wakes up. However, it is clear from the scans that she will have no declarative memory and will not remember what happened to her. And she won't be able to form any new memories. Her short-term memory is gone. She will only remember everything up until the attack."

"That's just great," House said sarcastically. "Anterograde amnesia. So she'll know how to tie her shoes, but will have absolutely no recollection of who she is or what the hell happened to put her in this condition!"

"No," the surgeon corrected him. "She will know who she is. She hasn't forgotten her--"

"Please," House scoffed. "So she knows her own name, big deal. But she won't have any long-term sense of herself. She's frozen in the present. Tell me, how can a person still know who they are if they can never change?"

"I understand this is difficult," the surgeon said in clearly what he thought was a pacifying tone. "I know your friend was there, too--"

"Damn right he was, and I want to know what happened last night!"

"Please, Dr. House," the surgeon said cautiously. "I know you are upset. But you have to understand that she isn't going to remember what happened that night. Her assailant has permanently destroyed her memory. There was a lot of bleeding; you are lucky she survived."

"Lucky!" he exclaimed angrily. "My best friend is dead and you're calling me lucky?"

She didn't catch the surgeon's reply. Wilson was dead? She had – she had been with him when he had died? And now she would never know why. Anterograde amnesia was permanent if it was the result of brain damage. Tears filled her eyes slowly. She was stuck in the present until…until…

"I know you're awake, you know."

House?

She opened her eyes. She was lying in a hospital bed and in a great deal of pain. Her head was pounding. She swallowed hard, trying to wet her dry mouth enough to speak. "What happened?" she whispered.

House pushed a cup of ice chips to her and she took one gratefully. "Why don't you tell me?"

Cameron shook her head. "I don't remember. Why can't I remember?"

House just stared at her. "Three years of diagnostic work on my team and you can't figure that out?"

She just stared at him, and then opened her mouth to reply. "Anterograde amnesia – short-term memory loss."

He looked at her carefully. "How did you know?"

"What do you mean 'how did I know'?" she asked indignantly. "Three years on your team, you'd think I'd be used to coming up with a diagnosis quickly. All that's missing is the whiteboard."

"No, it's not that," said House. "How did you know it was anterograde amnesia? That's not the only thing that can cause memory loss."

"That was just a suggestion. I didn't think I would be – oh my god," she broke off. Anterograde amnesia…but how?

"Result of head trauma," House said quietly. "Any idea what happened last night?"

Cameron shook her head. "I was with Wilson…there was someone trying to get into my apartment. I think he made it in…"

"You think?" House scoffed. "He did make it in, FYI. Wilson is dead."

Her eyes widened. "Wilson is dead?"

"You know, this conversation would go twice as fast if you didn't repeat everything I said," House told her.

Cameron ignored him. "Does anyone know what happened?"

"No."

She bit her lip. "And there is no chance that I will…?"

House paused for a moment before answering quietly, "Again, no."

"How am I going to live like this?" she whispered.

"Don't look at me," House told her. "I've never dealt with any kind of handicap before. I have no idea what that feels like."

"But you don't have any idea what that feels like!" Cameron interjected. "You ignore your pain because you can control it with your Vicodin addiction. I can't make my memory come back."

"I can't make my leg muscle grow back," House responded bitterly.

"But you can still be a doctor!"

"You never know," he told her. "You still know how to take a blood sample, right?"

"That's not the point," Cameron said angrily. "You just told me I'll have no short-term memory for the rest of my life and all you want to know is whether or not I can take a stupid blood sample?"

"You just told me I'll never know how my best friend died and all you want to know is why I'm such an asshole? Same difference, really." He reached down into a bag by his feet and pulled out a box, which he tossed to her. "Here, catch."

She caught the box and opened it slowly. She pulled out a Polaroid camera. Cameron raised her eyebrows. "You bought me a camera?"

"Of course not," said House. "I already had it at my house. You really think I'd spend money on you?"

Cameron brushed off his jibe. "But…why?"

"To take pictures with," House told her. "I know, you wish I'd said something dirtier. But it's kind of hard to make a dirty joke about a camera." He stepped closer to the bed. "Take a picture of me," he instructed her. She hesitated and he said impatiently, "This is not a joke!"

Cameron raised the camera and pressed the button on top to take a picture. The Polaroid slid out of the bottom neatly. She picked up the developing picture. House handed her a pen.

"Write my name on it so you don't forget."

"But I won't forget," she insisted. "Anterograde amnesia doesn't destroy long-term memory. I'll still know who you are because I've known you since before I lost my memory."

House shrugged. "We're not taking any chances." She did as she was told. "Now flip it over," he instructed, "and write something on the back."

She flipped the photograph over. "What should I write?"

He paused for a moment and then looked at her seriously. "'Hates you for killing his best friend.' That's something I never want you to forget."


A/N: So...one chapter left. Can you guess what it will be about? If you've caught onto the pattern, there is only one piece missing now. Please review!