Ellen Hurn was fifty-seven going on fifty-eight, five foot four and portly. She loved Frank Sinatra, hated Lionel Richie but could tolerate Celine Dion. Her chestnut brown hair was cut short but chic, and she had green eyes that seemed to change shades with the weather. Her thumbs were particularly stubby and ugly, and she liked wearing checkered shirts. She was married, with two sons – one in college and the other a lawyer – and she loved to cook.

She could be gentle and soothing, but she could also be relentlessly probing and persistent; she wasn't afraid to dish out harsh but sobering advice when necessary. She could read people as well as she could cook, but more importantly, she knew how to make them feel safe. She was trustworthy, dedicated and damn fine at her job.

She had entered semi-retirement a year ago, but at the request of a dear friend of hers, who ran a psychiatric hospital, she had come out of it to take on the case of one particularly challenging patient.

Every session with this patient, however, was nail-bitingly challenging. Some of the most challenging in her entire career, which spanned thirty years, in fact. It was to be expected, since her patient was the famous Dr Gregory House. She had heard all about him – rude, abrasive, almost a genius, selfish, misanthropic… the list of negative adjectives could go on forever.

But Greg was more than that.

After six months of therapy, she had managed to peel back some of the many layers he had donned in order to protect himself. Inside, she found a man who carried the weight of burdens so heavy that others less strong would have crumbled under by now. She found repressed feelings of unworthiness and abusiveness and self-loathing from an abusive childhood; guilt, so much guilt, from people he couldn't save; an intense dislike of, almost a phobia of, change, thanks to years of moving about when young; and an inability to form connections with most people. When he did form connections, they were deep and strong and he was likely to do anything for them. Anything. Even frying his brain. It was almost scary, how far he was willing to go for people he loved. It was bordering unhealthy.

She hadn't quite known what to diagnose him with. It had taken two, three sessions with him before she finally had settled on major depressive episode and PTSD.

It had been a tough six months. House had come far. He was no longer the desperate, broken and defeated man whom she had met, and whose entire world revolved around his work and a single friend.

She surveyed the man sitting at her dining table, tucking into her famed chicken stew. She knew he used to be extremely confident, almost cocky, but in front of her now was a man who was quieter and more cautious after his brain - the only thing he admitted could trust – had betrayed him.

It had taken much work, and there had been many changes made to his life.

Wednesday afternoons were reserved for therapy sessions, as well as to provide a break from his grueling work schedule, which honestly, was 24/7/365. She made it clear that she was always available for him, and was just a phone call away. More pills had been added to his regiment – pills for anxiety, pills to help overcome the chronic insomnia and get a full night's sleep, a new pain regiment that relied less heavily on opoids – and there was a fixed regiment and schedule that he had to follow. No more randomly popping pills. And if the pain ramped up, they would talk about whether it was psychosomatic, or just a bad pain day, before she would personally come over to administer breakthrough pain medication as quickly as she could.

"How," Hurn bent over, her elbows on the counter, and slid the glass of milk across to him, "would you feel about Dr Wilson coming back?"

House hesitated, his spoon hanging in mid-air as he contemplated his question. She observed a spark of hope in his blue eyes, which quickly dimmed as he assessed his reality.

"He won't come back," he said quietly, ducking his head.

"What if he does?"

Silence.

"Greg – "

"He won't," House snapped back testily. "He said – he just won't, okay?"

Hurn observed as House's hand immediately wandered to his pocket, where his Ativan was. She watched, as he clenched his fist hard, and gradually withdrew it. "How's the stew?"

House shoveled potatoes and chicken into his mouth, eyes narrowing. He didn't wait to swallow before saying accusingly, "You just want me to praise your cooking. Again."

Hurn grinned and shrugged. "Always nice to know it's good."

House grunted and focused on dipping his baguette into the stew and stuffing it into his mouth.

"Tell me about your latest case."

"Nothing spectacular about it."

"Uh-huh," Hurn made her skepticism clear. "You had to reschedule our session last week, which makes it pretty damn well noteworthy in my books."

As House launched into a play-by-play account of his latest case, Hurn sat down and devoted her attention to him. He was still uncomfortable with having the full attention of someone. Once in a while, he squirmed in the chair, fidgeting anxiously. Hurn took note of it. At least it was better than last time, when he would keep deflecting.

"How do you feel about re-assuming the position of department head again?"

House froze. He began picking at his lip, and jiggling his left leg anxiously. "Um…" he said, "I – Um."

"I just want to know how you feel."

House hesitated. "Chase is doing a very good job," he says slowly.

"And…?"

"Foreman doesn't dare to take risks, but he does. And he doesn't mind paperwork."

"I want to know how you feel, Greg."

"I hate paperwork."

"Yes… and?"

"I like… what I'm doing now."

"The half-days on Wednesday?" House nodded. Hurn could see the slight shame in his face, a conditioned response to what he perceived as weakness and mediocrity. "It's okay to like that. It's nice to have a break in the middle of the week. If you consider having sessions with me a break anyway."

House didn't respond to her attempt to lighten things up, which spoke volumes about how he really felt. "Mmm," he managed distractedly. "Yeah."

"If you don't feel up to it, Dr Chase will just continue as interim department head. You're not putting anyone out."

House exhaled heavily. "I.." he said slowly, "I don't want to go back as department head yet."

"Okay then." Hurn smiled reassuringly. "It's fine. Now, how's the new pain regiment going?"

House made a face. He hated this particular topic. "Fine."

"It is working, right?"

"Yes."

"You are having fewer episodes of breakthrough pain, so that's good. Any haziness from the narcotics prescribed?"

"No."

"Sleep…?"

"Good."

"Nightmares?"

"Fine," House growled. It was more of a stop nagging kind of growl, not one fueled by true resentment. "Everything's good… For now."

Hurn ignored the fatalistic comment. "I have some mint chocolate chip ice-cream. You up for it?"

"From Modesto's?" House straightened, a predatory gleam appearing in his eyes.

"Modesto's," Hurn confirmed. "I wouldn't settle for anything less for something as important as mint chocolate chip ice-cream."

After serving up the ice cream, Hurn took a seat from across House. She watched him intently. House's nose flared in annoyance as he realised what she was doing.

"I knew it," he growled, waving a spoon at her. "Spit it out."

"What?" Hurn asked innocently.

"Knew you wouldn't buy Modesto's mint chocolate chip just to ask me how I would feel about Wilson coming back," House narrowed his eyes at her. "There's something else you want to ask me." His face twisted just for the briefest moment before he dropped his head to stare at his ice-cream. "Mom used to do this whole bribing thing too," he said softly.

Hurn gave him a moment. "I was going to ask you whether you feel up to going to visit your dad. I was just talking to Dr Whitley, and he mentioned that your dad has been extremely open and communicative."

"After his initial hostility. You forgot to mention that."

"Well, yes," Hurn admitted. The session she'd had with House Senior and House Junior had been… Well, it was ranked way up high in her list of Challenging Therapy Sessions. Perhaps it was No. 1.

It had taken several sessions before John House had finally let his own defenses down to admit that some of the disciplinary actions he had carried out in the past had been… excessive. It had taken even longer for him to be able to take that step to admit that he needed therapy too.

It had been a horribly tough month.

"Your weekly phone conversations have been going well. I'm not asking you to let him move in or anything, I just think that you need to actually meet him in order for your relationship with him to improve further."

"You mean I've hit a plateau."

"No," Hurn frowned. "I'm saying that you need to take a step further to for there to actually be more healing. There is only so much you can do over the phone."

"What if I don't want to meet him?"

"It's entirely up to you. As your therapist, I'm saying that I think you're ready to meet him. And Dr Whitley says your dad is ready to meet you too. But ultimately, it's your decision."

House eyed Hurn suspiciously. "You're not going to tell me that – "

"Greg," Hurn interrupted. "I promised five months ago that I wouldn't push you or manipulate you into doing something you didn't want to do. That promise still stands."

House seemed a little surprised at that, which disappointed Hurn. That was still something they had to work on.

"I don't want to meet him," House finally said. "Yet."

Hurn leaned back into her chair. "That's good enough for me."

"Chase."

Chase spun around from the whiteboard, only to see the last person he expected to see.

"Wilson," he breathed in disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

Wilson took a hesitant step into the conference room. "Um," he nervously ran a hand through his hair. "I'm moving back to Princeton."

Chase could only gape. It had been over a year – any hopes of Wilson coming back had long since been banished. In fact, it seemed like eons ago that it was the night of his bachelor party.

A year ago, watching House wallow in misery, Chase would have done anything to get Wilson back. Six months ago, after witnessing House's breakdown, he would have done anything to keep Wilson away from House.

But now, he didn't know what to feel.

"Where's House?"

As much as Chase would have liked to chase Wilson away, he knew he had no right to. There was just something about Wilson and House's relationship that he, that no one, could understand. And as much as Wilson had taken many missteps in the past year, he had stood by House for years before that.

Not to mention the fact that House actually wanted Wilson back. Chase still caught him gazing at the balcony and what used to be Wilson's office every now and then.

Wilson and House meddled in one another's lives all the time. But Chase couldn't meddle in their lives. He didn't possess that degree of a relationship with House.

Chase forced himself to take a deep, measured breath. Calmly, he capped the whiteboard marker in his hand. "He didn't come in today."

It was frighteningly easy to fall back into what had been a routine almost over a year ago. "Why?" Wilson's eyes widened in concern. "He called in sick?"

Chase chose his words carefully. "He isn't in on Wednesday afternoons."

Wilson looked down at his watch. "It's four in the afternoon. It's way too early for him to go home."

Again, Chase treaded carefully. "He didn't go home."

Wilson raised his eyebrows. House's team members had lied to him many times over; he could tell whenever they were lying through their teeth. "Then where is he?"

"A lot of things have changed over the past year, Wilson."

"I know that."

Chase cocked an eyebrow. "Do you?"

Wilson at least had the decency to blush, dropping his head. "I just want to see him, let him know that I'm moving – "

At that point, the sound of door of the inner office opening caused them both to turn their heads.

House stood there, hand still on the door handle, a stunned expression on his face. Wilson noted that his hair was cropped shorter now.

House's gaze lingered on Wilson for a long time. With much visible effort, he gathered himself together, his eyes flittering back and forth between Chase and Wilson. He swallowed hard, then physically turned away from Wilson. He transferred his cane into his left hand while expertly keeping the door open, his right hand going to his coat pocket, gripping something in it.

"Um," It took House several tries to actually make himself heard. "I… forgot to take… um," he said breathlessly, his eyes looking everywhere but at Wilson, "I forgot to take my meds. I was going home, since I've finished my session with Hurn, but… I think, um, I'm going back to Hurn's," He rambled to Chase, and Chase only, ignoring Wilson. "I… I need the day off tomorrow. Maybe Friday as well."

Of all the ways he'd imagined meeting House again, this was not the scenario Wilson had imagined. Avoidance had been one of the scenario's he'd imagined, but he hadn't expected to be ignored.

House limped quickly over to a shelf and snatched up a small bag. "Uh," he said, his eyes steadfastly on the glass door. "I have to go now. Bye, Chase." Still, he did not look at, or address Wilson. He practically charged out the door, as though escaping from a fire.

"Shit," Chase cursed under his breath.

Wilson barely had time to react before Chase was ordering him to "stay here", and running out after House.

As Chase exited the conference room, he caught sight of House disappearing round the corner. He gave chase, muttering apologies as he pushed people aside.

They ended up in a toilet, House shutting himself in a stall for the handicapped.

Chase could hear rapid, uneven breathing from inside the stall. "House?"

"Not a good time, Chase." House's breathing sped up, and he was almost gasping for air. "Really not good."

"Okay, listen to me, I can explain…"

"I need to talk to Hurn," House cut him off. "I really, really need to talk to Hurn."

"Okay, wait. House, I want you to take an Ativan."

There was a slight pause, then the sound of a fist slamming against the stall. "I don't need it." The panicked edge in House's voice set off warning bells in Chase's mind. "I just need to talk to Hurn." This was followed by the soft sounds of buttons clacking, which Chase took to be House dialing Hurn's number.

"Take it, House," Chase urged softly. "Just take one pill."

There was no reply from House.

"I'm hallucinating," House blurted out. He must have reached Hurn on the phone. "I saw Wilson. I'm hallucinating."

Damn. That was not what Chase had thought – he thought House had been unable to deal with the fact that Wilson was right there in front of him, or, he had been trying to make things easy for Wilson, leaving right away. He had not expected House to believe himself to be hallucinating.

"I didn't take any drugs. I didn't take any alcohol either."

"House – "

"Can you come, please. Please come get me out – "

"House," Chase said loudly through the door. "You're not hallucinating. Wilson's here. I saw him too."

There was a long pause. The only sound in the empty toilet was that of House's heavy breathing.

Then, House's hand appeared under the door. "Hurn wants to talk to you," House intoned. His voice had taken on a strange flat affect, though his breathing was still definitely off.

Chase winced and took the phone. He turned away from the stall, contemplating leaving the toilet to speak in private to Hurn. But he decided it was better to stay with House.

"Dr Chase."

"Dr Hurn."

"I am waiting for an explanation."

Shit, Hurn was pissed. She was not a nice person when she was pissed off. "I have no idea – Wilson appeared in the office ten minutes ago looking for House. He's coming back in two weeks' time."

"What do you mean he's coming back in two weeks' time?"

As though on cue, House's breathing sped up.

"House, take an Ativan," Chase urged aloud, then, addressing Hurn over the phone, "He can take an Ativan right?"

"Get him to take an Ativan."

"Hurn says take an Ativan, House." Chase waited until he heard the tell-tale click of the pill bottle cap being removed before he directed his attentions back at the phone. "He's taking one right now."

"I'm coming over. Just stay with him."

Cuddy stalked down the hallway of the hospital. Everyone scrambled out of her way – they knew that look. It was that. It was the same look she had when she snipped ties off and whipped the hospital into shape.

As Cuddy spotted Wilson exiting the Diagnostics department, she hollered down the hallway, "Wilson!"

Wilson spun around. Cuddy hastened her steps, not caring about the stunned looks everyone was trying to hide.

She yanked Wilson by the elbow into the conference room. "What are you doing here," she hissed.

Wilson was taken aback by Cuddy's reaction. "I just wanted to –"

"We were supposed to meet in my office at five-thirty. This is not five-thirty, and this is not my office."

"I just wanted to say hi to House and – " he quailed under her glare. "It didn't turn out so well."

"Of course it didn't turn out well. You stayed away for a year!"

At the accusatory tone, Wilson felt his hackles raise. "I had a right to step away from him."

"I am not saying you were wrong to do so. I'm saying that you can't just waltz back into his life twelve months after cutting off all contact, without a warning, expecting everything to go swimmingly well!"

"I emailed him!"

"Six months ago! Twice!"

"He didn't even reply me."

"He was… busy."

"Yeah, right," Wilson bit back, almost viciously. There was a stunned silence, then Wilson took a step back, shocked at the tone of voice which had escaped him. "I'm sorry," he murmured faintly. "I didn't mean that." He sank down into the couch that hadn't been there when he'd left. "It's just… it's been tough lately."

Cuddy observed the man in front of him, whom she had not seen for face-to-face for slightly over three months. Their communication was largely over brief phone calls and emails now. It was inevitable, she knew. When their lives were so busy, and they lived a distance apart, with no opportunity like work to allow them to see each other every day… drifting apart was an inevitability.

She flopped down onto the couch next to Wilson, angling her body towards him. Wilson knew her well enough to know that it was an invitation for him to go on talking.

"I found a lump six weeks ago," Wilson ventured hesitantly. "Right testicle." At Cuddy's horrified gasp, he hastily continued. "It was benign, thank goodness."

"Oh thank god."

Wilson smiled wryly. "It was a hell of a scare. And it made me… reconsider certain things. While waiting for the test results, I realized that I wanted to be back here. With you. With Rachel, and my friends, and colleagues, and people who I really know."

Cuddy opened her mouth to speak, only to find that words wouldn't come. Throwing caution to the wind, she clarified, "With House."

"Yeah," Wilson affirmed. "With House."

"Wilson…"

"I know, I know. It's been a year. But I've been wanting to come back for several months now. This was the catalyst that spurred me on to actually do something about it."

"A lot of things have changed."

"I – " Wilson chuckled bitterly. "Yeah, a lot of things have changed. House practically ignored me just now."

"I heard."

"Chase called you to come do damage control?"

"Like I said, many things have changed."

"Cuddy…" Wilson plucked hesitantly at his fingers. "How is he?"

Cuddy was very rarely stumped. So it was a shock to Wilson that she stammered, seemingly at a loss for words. "I… He's fine. Better. He missed you terribly, we all could tell…" Her voice trailed off, leaving behind an uncomfortable silence.

Wilson was evidently uncomfortable with discussing what had happened, for he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "So," he asked jokingly, "do you have a job opening for me?"

"You saw him?"

Hurn sat down on the toilet seat in the stall adjacent to House's. "Yeah," she confirmed, sliding her foot into the gap between the stall's wall, letting House see that she was there. "I walked past the department and he was there."

Hurn let the silence linger in the air, waiting.

"He said he was tired of me."

"The cargo elevator is nearby. We could sneak out."

"Why do you think he's back?"

"He's your friend, Greg."

"I killed his girlfriend."

"You didn't kill her. It was an accident."

"I'm poisonous."

"Greg," Hurn interjected sharply. "You're not."

They fell into silence again.

"I want to talk to him."

That was not what Hurn was expecting at all. She did a double-take. "Are you sure?"

"It's Wilson."

The way House said it… The way he said Wilson.

And that, Hurn thought, was precisely the problem. The way he said it, like his whole world had crumbled without Wilson. With all that hope in his voice. That was the problem.

"House."

"Wilson."

"Hello."

"Hi."

"How have you been?"

"Okay… fine, I guess."

"I emailed you six months ago."

"I've been busy. I didn't get to check my email for about four, nearly five months."

"Why?"

"I was… I took a leave of absence."

"I forgot your personal email account."

"That's okay."

"…"

"…"

"I found a lump in my right testicle. And as I was waiting for the test results, I realized that all I wanted to do was actually have some fun in my life."

"…"

"And I realized that I have the most fun with you."

"…"

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"You sound a little breathless."

"…"

"House?"

"Okay, I'm not okay."

"… What do you mean?"

"I had a breakdown and I was institutionalized. And I'm in therapy now, which is why I have Wednesdays off. Chase is the interim department head as I try to get my act together. You see that woman out there who looks like she can't wait to dig into all our dysfunctionality? That's my therapist."

"…"

"So yes, that's my exciting life while you were gone."

"…"

"…"

"I miss having fun, House."

"Welcome back, Wilson."

A/N: So much for regular updates. My muse has all but disappeared. The irony is, I have so much more time to write now that real life has settled down. I had to really get down to grind this chapter. Hopefully it sparks something off! Make what you will of that exchange between House and Wilson. It sets things up for what is to come. Here's hoping I get my writing juices flowing again.