29 – "But listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness like a heartbeat drives you mad in the stillness of remembering what you had, and what you lost." – "Dreams" – Fleetwood Mac

House's eyes followed Wilson as the latter turned and left his office. As soon as Wilson was out of his line of sight, he stood up and paced to the window. He gazed at his own fractured reflection, broken by the vertical blinds hanging in front of the glass.

What had he just done? He was no longer sure.

If this was a medical case, he would be so definite, resolute regarding procedure and treatment. But in his own life . . .

Of course Wilson had immediately agreed to let him stay at his condo again. There had been no doubt as to the outcome on that score.

But asking Wilson that question was admitting to . . . what? That he was a failure? House knew the emotional fallout from the last 24 hours would be severe. And he innately knew he would be unable to handle it alone. It was either move back in with Wilson or go back to taking Vicodin. Wilson and his condo were the obvious choice, really the only choice, for now anyway.

It seemed like after his release from Mayfield, his emotional life had gotten more confused rather than less so. Old wounds that had been dead and buried were open and festering once more. His shrink, Dr. Nolan, had said that the wounds had always been there and had been gangrenous for some time. Nolan also said that House would probably feel worse before he felt better.

Then what was the point? He'd told Nolan that his goal was to be happy. Why could he not achieve his goal? What was taking so long? Hadn't he changed, or at least hadn't he changed enough? While he believed that no one could change their true nature, couldn't a person still learn to deal with difficulties differently? Certainly things were changing around him. Why then was he still miserable?

His frenetic mind wandered again and when it finally settled, it settled on Cameron. He began to think back through their patchwork history.

He remembered standing in the hallway with her when she asked him if he liked her, a question he immediately answered in the negative, a bald-faced lie. Confronting her in the lab when he was thoroughly confounded, asking her 'why' she liked him. She was, after all, the equivalent of a stuffed animal made by grandma while he was anything but warm and fuzzy.

He thought back to their many arguments, she always advocating for the patient morally and ethically, if not always medically, the color rising to her cheeks, the fire blazing in her eyes.

No. He needed to stop.

But more memories came to him, hurried and unbidden. Standing in the hallway outside her apartment, practically begging her to come back to his team and she providing her ultimatum; she would only return if he took her out on a 'real' date. How he'd felt, both excited and nervous, like a fumbling schoolboy taking the homecoming queen to the prom.

He was nervous dressing for their date. He even took Cuddy's advice and wore the sky blue shirt because she had said "It almost makes you look nice" and he himself knew that it made his eyes reflect the blue, showing them to their best advantage.

He wanted to buy her flowers, to demonstrate his appreciation, to thank her for returning to him, to his team. No, for returning to him. Roses would not do for Cameron, too predictable, too run-of-the-mill. He'd bought her orchids, beautiful, mysterious, easily damaged, like the woman to whom he presented them.

Then he'd blown the evening by wrecking her dreams, by being methodically cruel and pushing her away. But it had been for her own good then . . . just as it was for her own good now. She needed to be with Chase, she needed anybody but him.

And what did he need? This morning he needed, no wanted, Cameron. Twenty-four hours ago, he had thought he needed Cuddy. Bad timing. She was already involved with Lucas. And she was still treating him sympathetically, as if he was so fragile that any adverse news would send him screaming back to Mayfield . . . or to Vicodin.

Cameron had been the only one who had not visited him when he was released, the only one not treating him with pity and kid gloves. And he respected her for it, cared for her because of it. Loved her because . . . no. He didn't love her, couldn't love her. He doubted he was even capable of that particular emotion any more, even though the fierce ache in his chest suggested otherwise.

It was simply bad timing with Cameron too. He had enough chances with Cuddy, enough chances with Cameron and he had blown them all. He had even fantasized about Cameron, years ago, as he had done with Cuddy last year.

When an angry gunman had shot him in both the stomach and the neck, House had dreamed that Cameron approached him, stood up to him, stood close to him. But that had all been the frantic ravings of his oxygen and blood-starved brain; just as last year's hallucination of his night with Cuddy had been the result of his Vicodin-overdosed, sleep-deprived brain.

Like pouring salt into an open wound, he continued to focus on Cameron. He needed to punish himself in some way. He needed to feel this pain now, the familiar pain, both welcome and abhorred.

He remembered the first time she kissed him, when she thought he had brain cancer and was trying to distract him in order to get a blood sample. He remembered the feel of her lips and tongue as he'd finally succumbed to the kiss. He remembered the tingling sensation and touching his own fingers to his lips as they continued to burn. Oh, how that kiss had lingered long after she'd left his office.

And thoughts of her this morning, moving in tandem, kissing, touching, her taste, her incredible smell. Then lying together, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as if it were truly beating for the first time, no longer hollow and empty but fluid and alive, beating for her.

He slammed his fist down on the bookshelf, scattering his thoughts momentarily with the shock to his hand. He needed a distraction, a constant white noise in his brain and in his heart to keep him from thinking about what he had lost and what he had sacrificed.

Had he truly sacrificed himself? Or had he sacrificed Cameron on the altar of his own fears? Had he, more than likely, taken happiness and thrown it away with both hands? Was it his fear that made him push her away or had it been like he told her in the diner, that he could never make her happy because he would never be good enough for her?

The truth was, he knew he would rather see her happy with someone else than pull her down with him into the pit of despair that was, that would perhaps always be, his existence.

It just made sense that Cameron go back to Chase. After all, how long could he possibly make her happy or stay off Vicodin? It was just a matter of time before he imploded again. Self-destruction was inherent in his nature. That he could never change. Better to keep Cameron at arms' length or next time she might be destroyed in the blast.

He turned, limping greatly, back to his desk. He took his ibuprofen out of a drawer and popped a few before sitting down again, rubbing his aching leg absentmindedly.

House knew he had to get his old team back. That would be just the diversion he needed. He wanted everyone, Thirteen, Taub, Foreman and yes, even Chase and Cameron, clambering for their old positions while he, in the catbird seat, choosing who would stay and who would go.

But he wasn't sure that he could keep her on his team. Hell, he wasn't even sure that he could work at the same hospital with her. How could he ever be close to her? How would he be able to smell her hair or hear her voice and not touch her, not taste her again?

He shook himself. This thinking was getting him nowhere and was only increasing the pain in his leg and the weight in his chest.

Within half an hour, Foreman returned with several folders from the ER, tossed them on House's desk and then silently left the office again. He knew his boss well enough to recognize when House was in a touchy mood and, like a hungry tiger in a plastic cage, should be left well-enough alone.

Ordinarily, he might engage in some aggravating behavior to try and set off House, to repay him for all of the bull-baiting that occurred on his account. But Foreman felt that House deserved a reprieve for the way he had handled Chase this morning, and therefore, said nothing. Foreman still didn't know all the details of the situation anyway and he decided it was better to hold back until he did.

House was quick to pick out a patient from the stack of folders that Foreman had brought him. The porn star with a "mystery" illness would serve his purpose in getting all of his team back. He already surmised what the guy probably had based on his symptoms but he was going to play his cards close to the vest on this one. He was going to let all his old fellows fall over themselves and each other to solve the case. And then he would decide who he would keep.

This latest production of his puppet theater would allow him to avoid Cameron. In fact, they would both be so busy, he with the manipulations of his many strings and she, with her outrage against the porn star's chosen profession, that they would probably have very little, if any contact at all. With her around less often, he could avoid thinking about her, erase her from his mind completely.

He'd done that with love before; surely he could do it again, especially since this situation was totally different. After all, he just couldn't be in love with Cameron. Could he?