The front sign for Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, lined in snow and lit up by multicolored lights, loomed above them.

"Let's go," the Ghost says. "Much to see."

House follows him through the front doors, past all the decorations, and into the elevator. The Ghost waves his hand, and without further adieu, they rise up, through the ceiling of the elevator, up the shaft, and to the next floor. They step through the closed doors.

The Ghost points. "Behold, the Department of Diagnostic Medicine . . . five years from when you left."

House walks down the hall, followed closely by the black specter. A few paces later, he stops, and does a double take. Up on the wall is a huge portrait of himself, looking positively dignified, holding his cane at his side. Below it, words were imprinted in stylish metallic letters. The words read:

"Right and wrong do exist. Maybe there's no way you could know what the right answer is. That doesn't make your answer right or even okay. It's much simple than that. It's just plain wrong."

In Memorium of

Gregory House, M.D.

A Man Who Never Gave Up On His Patients

"See?" House said. "Now that's more like it."

He makes his way down to his office and pauses to look at the glass door.

"Eric Foreman, M.D.," he reads, and walks through the glass. "Very nice."

The setup of the room had changed little. The conference table was in the same place, spread with files and notes, and attended by three fellows.

The door swings open and Foreman, carrying a clipboard, wearing a grim expression, sweeps in.

"Okay, people," Foreman says, in a voice that somehow managed to sound both tough and friendly. "I don't have to tell you how serious this case is." He puts down the clipboard, picks up a black marker, and crosses to the white board. "I need your ideas. No matter how silly you might think they are. All of them. Let's go."

The fellows rattle off obscure diseases and Foreman begins scribbling. House watched him. He turns to the Ghost, smiling and motioning toward the scene. "Look at this guy. I'm halfway to impressed."

As the differential concluded, only two ideas remained. Foreman shook his head. "Impossible. Neither of those conditions explain all the symptoms."

"No, not impossible. Idiotic. Both of those ideas are idiotic," House says to Foreman, who ignores him.

"What about lupus?"

Foreman rolls his eyes.

"It's our best shot right now. The patient's getting worse. We need to start treatment immediately."

Foreman was staring into space. "Burton, go over to Immunology. Bring Dr. Cameron for a consult. I want her approval if we're going ahead with a lupus diagnosis."

Burton, a well-groomed young man, nodded, stood up, and left the room.

"You, go bring me the latest stats on the patient. You…" He rolls his eyes and blows out a breath. "Go to the patient's apartment and look for anything we might have missed."

"But, Doctor Foreman, we already…"

"So look again!"

The fellow gets his coat and hurries off. Foreman continues staring into space.

House walks around him. "Come on. You know lupus is a weak diagnosis. You never have a problem with thinking outside the box. What's clouding your judgment now?" He looked at the neurologist's far-off eyes. "Oh boy." He turns to the Ghost, slapping the air in frustration. "He knows the patient. He can't be impartial." House stared at the ceiling. "Now we have to count on Cameron for objectivity."

"Why don't we check on her?" the Ghost suggested.

"Okay. Let's do that."

The Ghost raises an arm to point…

"Aw geez." House heads out of the office.

Over in Immunology, Burton had caught up with Cameron.

"Dr. Cameron." The woman turns and House was taken aback. He'd never seen Cameron look so . . . detached.

"Dr. Foreman needs a consult. He wants your opinion before we go ahead with lupus treatment."

Cameron's eye-roll seemed to surprise House more than Burton. "It's not lupus. Haven't you people come up with anything else?"

"No," Burton says, sounding as though he'd been hit in the stomach. "That's why he's asking you. We've been through every disease we could think of."

"Right," House says.

"Right," Cameron says, assuming a brisk pace back toward Diagnostics. "You've scraped the bottom of the barrels. Seems to me the barrels were never too full in the first place."

Burton was rushing to keep up. "I know. It's frustrating for all of us. I know you must be going through a difficult time . . ."

"A difficult time is one thing," Cameron says. "Difficult times become more difficult when everyone else around you seems to have their head up their—"

"Doctor Cameron." Burton stands in front of her, forcing her to stop. He adopts an earnest expression. "This has been hard for all of us. Maybe tonight, we could talk about it . . . over dinner."

House raises his eyebrows and grins. Cameron, however, is not near so impressed.

"Burton, how do you ever expect to do anything for your patients when your mind is always on the next pair of panties you can scrape off your bedroom floor?"

"Doctor Cameron, it's not—."

"I know it's not. Not going to happen. So get your head in the case and out of my butt." She shoves a clipboard into his arms and walks off.

Burton watches her go, his expression one of sadness and confusion. "It's not like that," he finished quietly. The fellow turns and walks off in another direction.

House watches him, then looks at the Ghost, who can only stare at him with his cold, inexorable gaze. House makes a face.

"Nyuuuh. All right. All right. Come on."

He storms back down the hallway, the Ghost gliding after him.