Again, many, many thanks for all your feedback. I am simply overwhelmed with the response to the story. Thank you so much for reading!

Part 25

For the second time in less than a month, someone had handed Cuddy an envelope from James Wilson.

The Baltimore attorney whose business card had fallen out of Wilson's journal had told her that Wilson sent it to him just after days after the death of Greg House, and requested it to be delivered to her after Wilson's own. That meant it had been written before he'd known House was alive.

The envelope contained a note from Wilson:

Lisa,

With death waiting in the wings for me, I am handing over my practice to my colleagues at the hospital and preparing to live life to the fullest in the time I have left.

That's why I'm hoping you'll forgive me for what I'm about to do. Believe me, I did not make the decision lightly to send you this letter and its contents, but I honestly didn't know what else to do.

House has checked out on me when I need him most, which I know you understand better than anyone. In doing so, he's left me with yet another mess of his to clean up — namely his possessions.

His mother is his sole beneficiary but she has declined to take them. I think they are too painful for her to see. She has asked me to dispose of them so I've taken possession of them in exchange for paying for his funeral, which makes some sort of twisted sense considering his penchant for spending my money instead of his own. But I honestly just couldn't see myself benefitting from the sale of his personal things, and even with my impending departure, I know I'm not ready get rid of them.

If House were here, he'd accuse me of being overly sentimental and caring too much. And he'd be right. He was always right about me.

But I worry that Blythe may change her mind some day and want them and I don't won't her to grieve again at having let those parts of him go too soon. It's for that reason that I've stored them and am giving you this key to the unit.

It is a climate-controlled facility to protect his piano and guitars, and the vintage vinyl. It is paid up for the next five years so you won't be burdened with an expense and you never have to open it.

I know you may not want the responsibility of it, and I understand if you want to just hand the key off to Blythe now, but I think she just doesn't want to think about it and needs time, which I don't have.

I know the pain he caused you and I don't mean to stir the feelings anew. I'm angry at him, too, over a lot of things. He was a selfish bastard to the end. But his mother deserves the chance to grieve before making such a final choice.

So, if only for me, keep them safe for a while and let her grief settle. If she still doesn't want it, then do what you see fit.

Your friend,

James

Standing outside the unit in the self-storage facility, key in hand, Cuddy was unsure if she should open it. Many memories waited behind the big, gray steel doors in front of her. A part of her wanted to experience them but another feared being overwhelmed in the face of her rekindled love for him and the uncertainty of his future.

Cuddy debated what to do for many long minutes before she talked herself into looking, if for no reason than to check the conditions of the contents, and to make sure they were still there.

Thefts from such facilities were not unheard of, even from staff, and House's things were of significant value, which could make them a target of the unscrupulous. Cuddy had no reason to believe anything had happened, the attendant who'd guided her to the unit seemed nice enough, but even the remote possibility that his possessions had been violated or pilfered was enough of an excuse for her to face her fears.

Stepping forward, Cuddy inserted the key into the lock and turned it. She closed her eyes as an intensely familiar scent rushed out and over her.

House.

Cuddy had always thought it fascinating how material things could absorb the smell of their owner and remain for years. In this case it had been only months, so the scent was still strong. Leather, paper, wood, aftershave…

Eyes opening, Cuddy stepped inside and did a visual survey. She saw his piano in the back corner. His guitars were there, in their cases and … oh God … his clothing hung on a rack just inside the door. His t-shirts were there, his jeans and jackets, and an insane number of athletic shoes in a box beneath. His dresser was there and memory supplied her with what each drawer contained. And there, too, was a collection canes poking up out of an umbrella holder. He'd kept so many…

Cuddy eased into the room, further into this strange room full of wonderfully familiar things. She let her fingers graze over his clothing, stirring anew the smell of him. It swirled around her, sparking memories of the days and nights they'd spent together as friends, lovers, and sometimes professional adversaries.

He'd been such a huge part of her life for a long time, so long that she had trouble remembering when he hadn't been a part of it. Even when they hadn't been together, he'd been in her thoughts in some form or fashion.

The decidedly vivid memories of their time in Michigan, of that first glorious weekend had surfaced more times than she could count in the years between that day and her recruiting him for Princeton-Plainsboro. And, even though she'd moved on with her life in the last two years, recollections of the time they'd spent together as lovers had haunted her. And now there were other, new memories to join the chorus.

It was singing loudly as she eased farther into the room, her hand dropping away from the clothes to reach and drift lightly over the curved handle of one of his more plain-looking canes.

Cuddy wondered if he'd gotten a new one. She wondered if he knew Wilson had kept his things. She wondered what he'd think if he knew she was here among them, thinking of and longing for him. She wondered where he was and what he was doing.

Turning to scan the room again, Cuddy wondered how long it would be until she saw him again.