Cuddy surveyed her medicine cabinet, debating over cough syrup. She took it out finally, deciding she wouldn't give it to him until she thought he was at least partially aware and oriented. Between the spiking fever and the fact that he was still under the influence of sleeping pills, she wasn't sure how much success she'd have there. The last thing he needed was to get choked over swallowing something at the moment. She also grabbed a washcloth and filled a bowl with cool water. No ice - she wouldn't make that mistake again.

She returned to the living room and set her supplies down on the coffee table, then knelt beside him and checked his temperature again, worriedly reminding herself that he also had both acetaminophen and ibuprofen in his system at the moment. "Now listen, House," she told him firmly, "you are one very short step away from getting an ambulance ride back to the hospital. So if you don't want to be around a whole lot of people, you'd better start getting better pronto." He twisted away from her touch, muttering something unintelligible. She wet the washcloth in the bowl, then carefully reached for him, speaking all the while. "This is just cool water, okay? It will help bring the fever down - I hope. I won't use ice, but I need to do something for you. All right, here it is." She wiped the sweat off his face and put the cloth as a cold compress across his forehead. He tightened up, retreating, but he didn't lash out.

"No," he mumbled.

"It's okay, House. Just water. I'm trying to help you. If we can't get on top of this fever pretty quickly, you're going back to the hospital." She stroked his damp hair soothingly, something she couldn't imagine John having ever done, hoping the difference would register somewhere through the fog of medicated fever in his mind.

"Didn't . . . tell."

"Easy, House. It's just me." She grabbed his good hand with her free one and held it.

"Didn't mean to tell. I'm sorry." He was getting more agitated, but he still wasn't actually fighting her.

Cuddy sighed. "You didn't do anything wrong, House. It's okay." He starting coughing again, and the cloth fell away. She dunked it back in the bowl for a minute and retrieved her stethoscope, carefully listening to his chest, being careful to warm up the metal first. His breath sounds were decreased somewhat in the bases, but they were equal, and he still had plenty of lung volume. He was on a pretty high-powered antibiotic, several IV injections so far, that was normally quite effective against most pneumonias; she hoped he was just having a final battle with the bug before it surrendered and not that he was fighting some resistant strain. Still, her cell phone was on the coffee table, and she was quite prepared to call 911 if things didn't turn around very quickly.

She picked up the cloth again, wrung it out, and wiped off his face and neck. "It's all right, House. This is just cold water to help cool you off a little and bring the fever down. It's not ice."

He pulled away from the cool dampness of the cloth. "Sorry," he muttered again. "Don't hurt . . ."

Cuddy blinked back tears, storing them for later. "House, I'm not your father. You're at my place, and you're sick. It's okay."

". . . her." Cuddy hesitated, wondering if the two parts of that delirious sentence fit together or not. While she was still wondering, he said it again. "Don't hurt her. I didn't mean to tell."

Her? Could he be referring to his mother? But everything she'd seen and heard from Blythe pointed to absolute obliviousness, even alternate reality, but not to fear on her own behalf of her husband. Cuddy had seen the two of them together. Awkwardness of all sorts between John and House, but Blythe had never seemed afraid or inhibited with him.

"House, it's all right," she repeated. "I know you didn't tell. Nobody's going to hurt her."

"No. Can't tell. I'm sorry. Don't kill her."

Kill her? Cuddy couldn't help listening to this in growing horror. House had said himself that Blythe never knew, that John apparently had done nothing to her. But had the threat been John's way of ensuring his son's silence? Something that he knew years later - when not delirious - was inapplicable but which had been ingrained into the frightened, lost child back then?

She soaked the cloth again and put it back against his forehead, taking a minute first to get a quick assessment on his fever again. No lower but at least it seemed to have stopped climbing. He flinched at the cool touch, and she picked up his hand again, squeezing it, hoping that would reach him.

"Everybody knows. But I didn't tell her. I'm sorry."

She mentally pummeled Wilson a few more times. No doubt what the main theme of his subconscious thoughts was at the moment. "House, everybody doesn't know. Only a few people, and you didn't tell her." She hesitated, then was unable to resist pushing on, just a little bit. "I know you didn't tell her. It's okay. But what happens if you do tell her?"

"He'll kill her," he said, as if reciting something by rote that had been drilled into him as firmly as the multiplication tables. "If anybody knows, he'll kill her and make me watch. It's my fault."

Cuddy dropped his hand, her own fingers suddenly losing power, and he jumped slightly as it fell back against the cushions. "I didn't tell." His voice was getting more frantic now.

She hit full retreat herself. She couldn't ask him more. Sharing with her should be his conscious choice, not involuntary under opportunistic interrogation. But Wilson had been displaced by John as her primary mental target at the moment, and her weapon of choice was no longer a slap. She picked up House's hand again. "It's okay. She's safe. You kept her safe. I know you didn't tell."

He was starting to shiver more, and she wrapped the blanket more tightly around him. "I didn't tell," he mumbled again.

"I know. You never told. It's okay, House. And House, he is dead."

He stilled a bit then. Amazing how his thinking look could be present, even when his eyes were still glazed and clearly unfocused. "He's dead?"

"Yes. He's dead. He'll never hurt you - or her - now. He's dead, House."

Tears welled up in the blue eyes and spilled over, tears not of grief but of relief. "So it's over?"

"Yes. It's over. You kept her safe. Nothing's going to happen to either one of you now." She wiped the tears away, then resoaked the cloth and put it back across his forehead. He pulled back, shivering.

"Cold," he mumbled.

"You've got a fever. You're going to be okay, though. Everything's going to be okay." She hoped. She picked up the thermometer from the coffee table and took another official reading. 102.5. It was going down. She gave his hand a squeeze and stood up. "I'm going to go get another blanket, okay? I'll be back in a minute." She went into the bedroom for one, popping in for a quick look at Rachel, who thankfully was sleeping soundly tonight. She returned to the living room and added the additional blanket on top of him, tucking it in securely. He was visibly shivering now. He had thrown off the washcloth during her absence, which didn't surprise her, and she soaked it again and put it back across his forehead. He was moving restlessly, mumbling unintelligibly again, but he settled down somewhat as she picked up his hand, and his eyes closed again. She only wished he'd let himself draw comfort from her while he was fully oriented.

She lost track of time as she sat there, only knowing it was long enough for her body to be complaining about kneeling on the floor, for her hand to be stiff from hanging on tightly to his, but it didn't matter. The cold compresses were working. That was all that was important now. He was still shivering, and after the fever had dropped below 102, she finally halfway crawled onto the couch with him, pulling him against her. He slowly relaxed, pressing against her, the tremors ceasing, and the next time she took the cloth away to refresh it, she found his eyes about half open when she turned back. They were still a bit glazed and unfocused, but they didn't seem to be seeing things that were no longer there anymore.

"Cuddy?"

"Yes. It's okay, House. Your fever spiked, but it's going down now." She smoothed the cloth out across his forehead, then scrambled stiffly up. "I'll be back in a minute." She got a glass of water in the kitchen, as well as a kitchen spoon, then returned to the couch. His eyes had fallen shut again. "House?" She slipped one hand behind his head, raising it. "Can you drink a little of this for me?" He drank without opening his eyes, and when he pulled away, she set down the glass and picked up the cough syrup, measuring out a spoonful. "Here. Open your mouth, okay?" He did but pulled away quickly, grimacing, reacting to the sharp taste. She had to grin to herself; in that moment, he looked exactly like any kid. "Just guaifenesin for the cough. I know it tastes sharp." She let his head fall back onto the pillow. She took his temperature one more time, then carefully pulled the blankets up under his chin. She would have been glad to climb back onto the couch with him, but she wasn't sure he'd appreciate waking up in that position in the morning as things stood currently. She stayed by the couch for another 30 minutes, and when she had finally convinced herself he was stable, she retreated to the recliner, feeling absolutely exhausted. Still, she set the alarm clock carefully for another hour, then curled up under her own blanket and fell quickly into sleep.