Saturday began bright, warm and sunny. The morning light through the window in Darcy Coughlin's small office bounced off a crystal that hung on a filament from the curtain rod and scattered rainbows around the room. In preparation for their appointment, Coughlin took House's file out of the locked cabinet behind her desk and opened it to look at the notes Zophia had left for her. Apparent nightmare, increased pain, and self-inflicted social isolation. At least he ate the meal Zophia brought to him. Coughlin hoped that he had also written something, anything, in the notebook, but based on his reaction to the suggestion she assumed that he probably refused to do the homework.

At precisely 11am House knocked on her office door. She told him to come in and have a seat and was not surprised that he sat in the same chair in which he had sat the day before. He looked exhausted. She was surprised to see that in addition to his cane he was clutching the small, black notebook.

"How are you feeling this morning?" she asked as she sat down.

"Fine," he responded.

"House, when I ask that question it is not merely a social nicety."

He sighed. "I'm fine," he insisted.

"OK," she said. "I see you have the notebook with you. May I see?"

He somewhat reluctantly handed it to her. She flipped open the cover and read the first page. Guilt and grief... not surprising considering the conversation the day before. Turning to the second page, however...

"What is this?" she asked holding up the notebook with the second page open.

"College educated, finished Medical School and a residency training program and you haven't seen musical notation before?" he asked sarcastically.

"Touché," she said and quickly moved on not wanting to engage him in a battle of sarcastic wit. "What piece of music is this?"

"I wrote it yesterday," he said. "You said to write whatever came to mind. That's what came to mind."

"Is this for piano?" she asked. "I see it's a grand staff."

Well, well, Dr. Coughlin wasn't completely ignorant after all. He leaned forward and said, "Yes."

"Would you like to play it?" she asked.

"Is there a piano here?" he asked in response. She saw an excited flicker like a blue flame briefly dance in his eyes.

"I wouldn't have asked you if there wasn't," she replied. "It's on the second floor in the auditorium. I can bring you down there." She stood and gestured to the door.

Leaving the rehab ward was like escaping without breaking any rules and House was elated to know that there was a piano in the building. He tried not to seem too excited about it for fear of giving away too much of his inner workings to the shrink.

They rode the elevator down to the second floor and walked the long hallway to the auditorium in silence. She watched his gait and wondered if maybe some physical therapy might be helpful. When they reached the auditorium she opened the door and motioned for him to enter.

On the stage in the surprisingly spacious auditorium was a fully restored, rosewood Steinway & Sons Music Room Grand Model B, a Semi-Concert Grand piano. House was rather astonished to see an antique piano sitting on a stage in a mental hospital.

"Lovely, isn't it?" Coughlin asked as they walked towards the stage. "I think it was built in the early 20th century. About ten years ago the family of a patient donated it to the hospital and paid to have the auditorium remodeled, made larger and more fitting of the instrument. There is actually an endowment that supports its care and maintenance, so it is always in tune."

House walked up the steps to the stage, sat on the bench and leaned down to set his cane gently on the floor. He ran his hands down the natural ivory keys testing the tuning. It was in perfect condition. He tested the heavy brass pedals... excellent responsiveness.

Coughlin sat in the front row and watched her patient. She couldn't resist smiling as she watched him. He seemed mesmerized by the instrument.

He looked down at his hands and started to play. Coughlin still held his notebook and a quick glance told her that the melancholy piece that he was playing was the piece written on the pages of the Moleskine. He continued to play past the point where the notation ended in the notebook. It was hauntingly beautiful and so moving that she found herself on the verge of tears. Just a short time earlier she had asked him how he felt and now he was giving her the answer.

At the end of the piece he looked over at her and when he saw her expression he looked away. Damn. That was even more revealing than blurting out that he felt guilty and he knew it.

"That was beautiful," she said. "How about we make a deal?"

He turned towards her without rising from the bench. "...a deal?"

"Yes," she said as she stood and walked to the stage. "The deal is, you keep writing whatever comes to mind, music or words, and we'll spend half of every appointment down here instead of up in my office. But, you have to keep writing, or we spend our entire time together upstairs."

House looked up at the ceiling. It was ornately painted. The auditorium had been remodeled to resemble a Victorian era theater. He took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. "OK."

"I do want to finish today in my office, though," she added.

"Ah, the catch," he said under his breath as he retrieved his cane from the floor and stood.

"Come on, House, I don't want either of us to miss lunch due to this appointment running over."

He supposed there wasn't much choice and propelled himself down the steps from the stage as quickly as he could. "Hey," he said as he reached her in front of the stage, "any chance you can prescribe something other than IM buprenorphine for pain management?"

"That requires a consult from one of the doctors downstairs. Hospital policy. I think Dr. Krawiec is on this weekend. I'll ask him."

When they were seated in her office again Coughlin started bluntly by asking House to tell her about Amber. She clarified her request, "Not just the details of her death. Tell me about her. What was she like? She was dating your friend Wilson. Is that how you met her?"

House took a deep breath, "No, Amber was one of seven internship candidate finalists in my department. I only had 2 spots available and she didn't make the final cut." He decided not to mention that he referred to Amber as the Cutthroat Bitch.

"So, she met your friend Wilson through you then?" she asked.

"I suppose you could think of it that way. They didn't start seeing each other until sometime after she was cut."

"Was that awkward?" she asked.

"Awkward?" he asked. House really wanted to stop talking about Amber. He fidgeted with his cane.

"You know, awkward because she hadn't been accepted into your internship program, so essentially you rejected her, and then she shows up as your friend's girlfriend."

House remembered the day he discovered that Wilson and Amber were dating. Awkward wasn't the word he would choose. "It was pretty unbelievable, actually," he said putting it mildly.

"Oh?"

"Well, she wasn't his type, exactly." House clarified.

Coughlin raised an eyebrow. "His type?"

"Wilson has been married three times and all three of his wives were needy, kind of helpless in some way... Amber was neither needy nor helpless. She was..." he stopped.

"She was... what?"

"She was a cutthroat bitch," he said. Coughlin noted a hint of admiration in his tone.

"How so?"

House related a couple of stories from her time in the internship competition that he felt best clarified the reason that she garnered the appellation Cutthroat Bitch. Coughlin heard both admiration and annoyance in his voice. He seemed to admire her tenacity and drive, but found her unwillingness to be wrong annoying. Clearly House had attempted to mentor this young woman.

"I see," Coughlin said. "So, tell me about Wilson."

House leaned forward holding his cane horizontally in both hands. "Wilson... Wilson is never boring. I suppose it should not have been a surprise that he..." he stopped and stood the cane back upright.

"He what?" she asked.

"It should not have been a surprise that he fell in love with her," House responded.

"Were you surprised?"

He nodded. "She just wasn't his type..."

"You said that before, but, you also just said he fell in love with her. When did you realize that?"

He clenched his jaw. He closed his eyes and saw Wilson's face as they walked into the room at Princeton General where Amber lay unconscious and dying for reasons her doctors there could not understand. He saw Wilson grief-stricken in the back of the ambulance as they rushed to transport her to Princeton-Plainsboro. He saw Wilson hovering helplessly during the differentials and while they attempted to treat her. He saw Wilson distraught in his office asking him to undergo deep brain stimulation.

"House?"

"Not until it was too late," he said softly.

"So, after the bus crash?" she asked.

House nodded. "She loved him too," he added. "Also did not really believe that until... well literally while we were on the bus together."

"Really?"

He took a very deep breath, exhaled through pursed lips and rubbed his forehead. He was beginning to get a headache again. Coughlin watched his shoulders tense and his posture change as he grasped the cane more tightly. "When someone has a really annoying habit only those who truly love them are willing to accept them despite the habit," he said making direct eye contact.

"I don't understand," she said looking puzzled.

"I'm..." he started with a surprisingly self-conscious almost laugh. "I'm Wilson's annoying habit," he explained. "Amber was willing to put up with me, even drunk, because she loved Wilson. It says something about her," he added softly.

"But, you didn't know this until that night?" she asked.

"Getting a little repetitious, aren't you?" he asked in an attempt to deflect the line of questioning.

She ignored the deflection. "So, you didn't know that she truly loved him until you were on the bus with her, then the bus crashed, you were seriously injured and could not remember what happened, she was critically injured and suffering from mysterious complications—your area of expertise as a physician," she summarized, "you discovered, as a result of these horrendous circumstances, that your friend was deeply in love with this woman and he asked you to risk your life to save her, you agreed to risk your life, and followed through, almost dying in the process, and she died anyway. Right?"

It was a pretty stark reality when laid out that way. House nodded.

"What happened after?" she asked.

"After she died?" he asked.

"Yes, after she died. What happened?"

"There was a funeral, but I missed it since my brain almost came out through my ear," he said sarcastically.

She shot him a disapproving look, one eyebrow raised and cleared her throat.

He sighed. "I spent several weeks recovering from the skull fracture and brain bleed."

"And Wilson?" she asked.

"Wilson took two months off from work, and then he left for a while." His tone was nonchalant, but his body language told an entirely different story.

Unfortunately Dr. Coughlin had scheduled a patient during her lunch hour, which meant any minute there would be a knock on the door. She thought it was a good place to give him a break anyway.

She looked at her watch. "We've run out of time. I'm here tomorrow, though, because it's my weekend to cover the rehab wards, so I'd like to meet with you at 10am."

He sighed heavily and nodded.

"We'll go down to the auditorium," she hoped it was incentive for him to continue thinking and writing.

"OK," he said as he pulled himself up on his cane.

"I will talk to to Dr. Krawiec about the pain meds," she added.

"Thanks," he said.