He shivered violently, wondering when he would end up tearing his stitches. The sweat covering his body, dampened his sheets. The next bout of nausea swept over him and he made sure not to miss the trash can this time. One more hour and she'd be here. She'd see him at his worst...again. She'd feel sorry for him, and that made him grit his teeth in anger.

"Get out!"

"House, I-."

"Get out! I don't want you in here!" He reached to his side and looked down. He'd blown his stitches finally.

She made to grab pack of gauze, but his hand around her slender wrist stopped her.

"L-leave m-me alone." He stuttered as his body rocked with another shudder.

"Dr. Cameron," a nurse touched her arm. "I think it's best if you give him privacy."

So, she looked at him as the nurse began to tend to his tear and he muttered something to the ceiling. All she wanted to do was hold his detoxing body. This was a different kind of pain. This was the pain of knowing he couldn't do this with her. She walked out then.

"Hey," she whispered into the near dark.

"Hey," he said hoarsely as he felt her refreshing hand on his face. He leaned into it.

"How are you?" She gently began toying with his hair.

Groaning, he closed his eyes. Every part of him ached. He felt like he'd be sore for the next millenia. His head still pounded with every heart beat.

"How do you think?"

"Awful," she smiled softly. "Like you're going to murder all those doctors and nurses when you get your cane back?"

"Oh, it'll be a bloody massacre."

He could feel her hand caressing his head, then slowly falling down his tired face, and finally resting on his chest.

"How long?"

"Close to twelve days. You're through the worst, by far. Your counselor thinks you're making good progress."

"He's only seen me twice and I didn't even say anything."

"Well, he must have a thing for you then."

"Yeah, looks to me like the only thing he has things for would be The Thing." He sighed heavily. "I may have lost my witty sarcasm during this whole thing."

"Really? Then what am I doing here?"

"You're here 'cause you love me."

"Ah, that's right."

"Like you could forget."

She took his hand in both of hers and brought it close to her face. It'd been so long since she'd touched him like this.

"The almighty authorities are going to kick you out soon."

Quirking an eyebrow, she smiled. "You're going to let them?"

He smiled and let his finger caress her cheek. "Not a chance in Cuddy's hell."

"I missed you."

"I couldn't do it with you here. You know that?"

"I don't," she finally met his eyes. "I don't understand it, but yeah. I know."

Having been so long since she'd felt his warmth along the length of her body, she gingerly made her way to lay beside him.

He hissed through his teeth when she inadvertently bumped his right thigh.

"God, I'm sorry, House."

"No," he sighed, still gripping his thigh. "I'll make it."

Slowly and lightly, she sat up on the bed and covered his thigh with her hands. With controlled movements, she carefully began to massage his leg, hoping it would help.

"Better?"

He sighed again, this time not in pain. "Yes. Lie back down."

Lying on her side again, she let her hand rest on his heart, needing to know it was still strong.

"Is it bad? The pain?"

"It always was."

"You know what I mean."

"It's like the old pain, magnified by a thousand."

Cautiously, she tucked her head under his chin. "You can't get back on the vicodin."

"Yeah, well these new pain meds aren't exactly vicodin."

"Well, you're going to have to get over it because they're staying."

"You're such a pain."

"Yeah yeah yeah." She raised up on her elbow, his arm around her waist nearly not letting her. "But you love me anyways." She kissed him soundly, yearningly, and passionately, wanting him to lose his breath because he'd made her lose hers, though for different reasons.

"You know," he said as he began to let his hands run under her light pink shirt. "You can't kiss me like that and expect me to not need more."

"Your stitches, your leg, House." She didn't resist as his hands unclasped her bra.

The buttons on the front of her shirt were beginning to annoy him, but he finally undid the top one. He wanted her so bad. It'd been too long since he'd held her like this, and now they were surely on solid ground. This was love, no matter how much it frightened him.

"I'll get over it, Cameron."

He faintly felt her lips press against his stubbled cheek as she said something in the morning. He mumbled under his breath, and he could tell she smiled against his face. Then she was gone.
It was amazing how much had changed in one day. House had finally asked for her. He was off the vicodin, in rehab. They'd finally made love again. He hadn't taken back his words of love, which she was sure he would. She dropped her keys on the dresser before heading to the shower, knowing she'd have to fly back to the hospital to be back on time for work.
The sharp stab of pain woke him from his deep slumber. It lit his body on such intense fire, he had to grip the edges of the bed to keep from screaming. He didn't know how long she'd been gone, but she definitely wasn't here to help him now.

Somehow, he reached for the call button located on the desk beside his rehab bed. His vision blurred and he nearly fell out of the bed.

"Cameron," he whispered as the orderly rushed into the room and his body fell to the floor while everything faded to black.

The eyewitnesses would always claim that the blue truck ran the red light. The driver, a twenty-four year old man coming home from a night of celebrating his brother's graduation, would always claim he couldn't remember.

Of course, she'd get stuck at the longest stoplight on her way to the hospital. Quickly, she pinned her hair up in a bun. The light turned green and she waited for the maroon colored car in front of her to go.

"Come on," she said to no one.

Not even midway through the intersection, she saw movement out of the corner of her left eye. By then it was too late for her to do anything. Her eyes blinked reflexively and her foot stepped ineffectively on the brake.

She could see everything happening in slow motion as the truck collided on her side. They twirled, like lovers dancing some sort of wishful waltz or tragic tango. With wondrous force, her head hit the window, creating a serene spider web pattern. The twirl turned into a lift. Her hands, somehow firmly gripping the steering wheel, turned white. The lift shifted into a well choreographed flip. Sensation lost its meaning, and she knew that was bad.