A/N: Thanks to the people who have favorited this and/or are following it. I appreciate it.

2009

House slept in the guest room and Wilson slept on the fold out couch in the living room. Everything was quiet and House lay on his back staring up at the ceiling. He would get up tomorrow, put on his black suit, go to the funeral, say a few empty, meaningless words and then leave. He heard the front door open and close then the sound of footsteps. The door to the bedroom opened and Reilly slipped in. House sat up and reached for the switch on the lamp.

"Don't," she whispered. "Scooch over."

He slid over to the other side of the full sized bed and flipped back the covers. Reilly got into bed and shivered slightly.

"Cold?" he asked softly.

"Yeah," she told him. "You okay?"

"Not really," he told her.

She snuggled up next to him and he put his arm around her as he pulled the blankets up over her shoulder.

"Is it because you have to say something about him?" she asked her warm breath ghosting against his neck.

"Yeah. What am I supposed to say about him? He wasn't really my father? He was a narcissistic, abusive asshole? Living with him was pure hell?"

"I don't think any of that would go over too well," she replied. "Just say you are the man you are today because of him. It's the truth."

"Shut up and go to sleep," he told her.

When House awoke the next morning, Reilly was gone and the smell of coffee tickled his nose. He flipped back the blankets and stretched. Grabbing his robe and cane, he made his way to the kitchen. His mother and Wilson stood near the stove. The scent of bacon and pancakes mixed with the scent of coffee.

"No sausages?" House asked as he went over to the coffee maker and poured a cup of coffee. He added several heaping spoonfuls of sugar, stirred it and then took a sip.

"Not this morning," Blythe smiled at him. She wore navy pants and a navy and white sweater.

Wilson flipped a pancake. He was dressed in jeans and his McGill sweatshirt.

"Any chance those are macadamia nut pancakes?" House asked him as he leaned back against the counter.

"Nope," Wilson replied. "Just regular pancakes." He flipped the ones on the griddle. Blythe got plates and cutlery. She carried them into the small dining room and set the table.

"The funeral is at two," Wilson told him. "Our flight leaves at seven."

"Oh, you're good," House grinned.

Wilson shrugged and scooped the pancakes up. He added them to the stack on the plate at the back of the stove. "Let's eat," he said as he slipped on oven mitts and picked up the plates of pancakes and bacon.

The funeral home was filled with people milling around talking softly. House walked in behind his mother. People turned when she entered and she was immediately pulled away. House found a quiet corner with a chair and sat down. He saw Reilly with Sarah and Jenny. They stood with Meara and Gil talking to a group of men in uniform. The base chaplain came out of another room and told everyone they were ready to begin. Two Marine corporals opened the double doors leading to the main room. John House was laid out in his uniform. An American flag was draped over the end of his casket. Blythe found House and they walked in and sat down in the front row. Wilson sat down next to House. Gil walked up to the podium and stood at attention as the chaplain said a short prayer. Then he stepped behind the podium and looked over at the open casket. House tapped his cane against the carpeted floor. He felt a sharp pinch from behind and looked over his shoulder at Reilly. She looked back at him with wide, serious eyes. Don't, she mouthed. He turned back and gripped his cane.

Gil cleared his throat and recited the The Prayer For The Dead that House heard Reilly recite so many times. Then he pulled some notes from the inside of his uniform and put them on the podium. He smoothed them and looked out at the people sitting in front of him.

"Dear friends and family gathered here today," he began to read. "This day is a hard one for us all. It is so much easier to mourn in silence; it takes away the worry of not being able to get your words out, or even just simply getting the right words out. But silence or not, one thing which I am sure we all appreciate today, is being here all together, sharing in each other's silence, sharing in each other's moments of thought for John, who we all respected."

House leaned close to Wilson. "I bet he got that off the internet," he whispered.

Wilson gave him a warning look.

"We will all have our own personal and special memories of the mark John left in our hearts, in our lives and it is very hard for me today to be up here, hearing my own thoughts out loud, trying my best to focus on the happiest times John brought us, rather than the fact that he is no longer here with us today," Gil continued. "I am certain of two things, though. He would have wanted us all to be here today with our happiest thoughts of our times spent together and secondly...John is still here with us, very strongly in spirit. He was such a strong person through and through, from character, personality and presence. We are all here because somewhere, somehow, we have all been touched by John House." He cleared his throat again, folded the papers and tucked them back in his uniform. "Now, we will hear a few words from his wife, Blythe."

House's mother rose slowly and walked up to the podium. Her face was serene as she looked at House.

"It means more to me than...than I can say to have all of you here today. And now, uh, our son Gregory would like to say a few words," she said. "Greg?"

House gripped his cane and stood. He limped up to the podium and Blythe stood to one side. She took his arm and looked straight ahead.

"There are a lot of people here today. Most are from the corps. I notice that every one of them is either my father's rank or higher. That doesn't surprise me. Because, if the test of a man is how he treats those he has power over, it was a test my father failed," House said in a steady voice. Blythe tightened her grip on his arm. "This man you're eager to pay homage to, he was incapable of admitting any point of view but his own. He punished failure, and he did not accept anything less than —"

He looked out at Reilly. A look of hurt shone from her eyes and she shook her head. House cleared his throat.

"He loved doing what he did," he continued more softly. "He saw his work as some kind of…a sacred calling. It was more important than any personal relationship. Maybe if he'd been a better father, I'd be a better son. But I am what I am because of him, for better or for worse. And I just ...I just wish …" His voice trailed off. Slowly he walked over to the casket. Slipping his hand in his pocket, he pulled out nail clippers. Leaning down, he snipped a bit of skin from John's neck, just below the collar of his uniform where it wouldn't show. He kissed John's cold forehead and slipped the clippers and the skin sample into his pocket. Then he turned and walked down the aisle and out of the funeral home. Wilson followed him out.

"What did you do?" Wilson asked suspiciously as they walked out to the rental car.

"Got a DNA sample," House told him. "Now, take me home."

"Aren't you going to say goodbye to your mother?"

House placed his hand on the roof of the car and closed his eyes. "I'll call her when I get home."

The next day, House sat in his office with his feet propped up on his desk. He tossed a small rubber ball up in the air and caught it. In the conference room, he could hear the team as they worked on case files. There was the occasional burst of laughter and then more talking. Wilson sat in House's lounger with his feet up reading a book.

"How long does it take to test some DNA?" House asked as he continued to toss the ball up and catch it.

"Considering that she's doing it without permission, I'd say a while," Wilson told him without looking up from his book.

The office door opened and Reilly walked in holding a piece of paper. "John House is not your father," she announced as she walked across the room and handed the paper to House. "You are not even remotely related to him. You and Wilson, however, share an ancestor."

Wilson looked at her in shock. "You tested my DNA?" he asked.

"Amber asked me to," she told him with a shrug.

"Why?" he asked as he sat up and looked into the conference room.

"You'll have to ask her."

House carefully read over the results and then tossed the paper on his desk. "My mother is a slut."

"Was a slut," Reilly corrected. "Mom told me Aunt Blythe used to sneak out when John was away on missions. She apparently had sex with a lot of men."

"So, does this mean things can go back to normal?" Wilson asked as he shut the book and stood. He made his way to the door to the conference room.

"When have things ever been normal here?" House asked. "And my guess is Amber had Reilly do a DNA test on you because she's pregnant and doesn't want any nasty little surprises when she pops out your spawn."

Wilson swallowed and all the color drained from his face. He walked slowly into the conference room and they heard him ask Volakis to come to his office.

"Oh, he is so gullible!" Reilly laughed. "He's been driving Amber nuts with the marriage proposals."

"I know," House grinned. "She's an evil genius and so are you."

"Well, you helped," she told him as she sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. "Now maybe they can get that condo she wants."

"Or he's so freaked he'll break up with her," House told her holding his hands up. His fingers were crossed and he grinned hopefully.

"Oh, he's so in love with her he's not gonna do that. Besides, you spend just as much time with him as you did before they started dating," Reilly reminded him.

"Yeah, but now he has a curfew."

Reilly shrugged. "She really likes having sex with him and they do it at least twice before they go to sleep."

House made a face of disgust. "Do not put such terrifying images in my head, you evil little pixie."

"Turnabout is fair play." She leaned back and crossed her legs. "So, what are you going to do about the paternity thing? You going to try to find your real father?"

House tossed Reilly the ball and they began to throw it back and forth. "I don't think so," he told her. "He was just some random bit of strange my mom picked up for a one nighter."

"You aren't curious? You're curious about everything."

"Not about this. It's….icky."

"Okay."