House was back at work only six weeks after the complex partial seizure that should have left him permanently aphasic, or at least dead.

On his first day back, he noticed that Cameron had poorly covered up an acne breakout on her chin and that her breath still smelled like spearmint-covered vomit. Acne and morning sickness meant that she was in her first trimester; her body was still adjusting to the hormone spike.

His loss for words that day had nothing to do with his recent brain injury.

At the end of that week, House was in the boardroom with his team, minus Cameron, running a differential on a man suffering from hives and uncontrolled hiccupping. "The hives tell us it has to be allergy," Thirteen said.

"Then why aren't the steroids working?" Taub asked.

"We should give it time," was the only suggestion she could offer.

"Sure, Thirteen, time," House said. "Call me on your fiftieth birthday – if either of us is still around – you tell me then what time is all about."

"That's –" Taub began.

"If you say 'uncalled for,' you're fired for unoriginality."

"So," Thirteen said, "what kind of allergy doesn't respond to corticosteroids?"

"Would be nice if we had an immunologist around," House muttered. "I'll go find one, but I want more ideas when I come back."

The doctors glanced at each other, most likely confused that House hadn't sent someone else to find Cameron.

House pushed open the door to the fourth-floor women's bathroom with the tip of his cane. "Oh, Dr. Cameron …"

Immediately he noticed that Cameron was seated on the floor of one of the stalls. "Open up." He knocked on the stall's door. "Let me help you."

"No," he heard her say.

"Are you bleeding?"

She reached up and unlatched the lock. Her gray trousers were unbuttoned at the top but still hugged her waist; her behind was pressed to the floor and her feet rested against the stall's opposite wall. Her cell phone was between her left ear and shoulder.

"House, you shouldn't be in here."

"Is there something you want to tell me?"

"Does it look like it matters now?" Her cheeks were wet.

He wanted to tell her that it mattered.

"Clear out." Those were the first words that Wilson had spoken to him in almost two months. Cameron had called him on her cell.

An orderly followed Wilson with a wheelchair. Wilson knelt beside Cameron, a move that House's leg would not permit him to make.

"You can't get up, or you're afraid to?" Wilson said gently.

"I'm cramping. It's cervical, I can feel it. There's blood. I'm miscarrying."

"Okay, come on." He helped her to her feet, wrapping an arm around her waist as she settled into the chair.

"Sarah wasn't supposed to be in today," Cameron told him. "I had to page her at home."

"Just try to breathe, slowly." Wilson took both of Cameron's hands in one of his and held on as the orderly wheeled her to the elevator.

From the far end of the hall, House stared at his former friend and the mother of his child, wondering if it was better this way.