The parking lot of Princeton-Plainsboro was decorated abundantly in autumn splendor. Crisp sunset-colored leaves scuttled noisily across the wet pavement as Dr. Foreman walked into the clinic, tactfully maintaining his perfect record of entering the hospital at 7:30 AM. Already donning his long white coat, as usual he was the picture of professionalism; and though his workplace rigor would be appreciated by his fellows and higher-ups, the patients being discharged barely gave him a glance. But then, nothing seemed out of the ordinary anymore. It had been many years since anyone had dealt with the unorthodox modus operandi of Greg House.

Foreman approached the desk, giving a perfunctory nod of greeting to the veteran receptionist. She didn't seem too interested in repetitive niceties, returning her eyes to the computer monitor that illuminated the shadow of a smile she aimed moreso at the screen. Sliding the clipboard across the counter, Foreman turned away and began following the familiar pathway to his spacious office. It appeared to be a day like any other; there was a box of doughnuts and a steaming coffee placed on his desk; placed within reach, off to the side, with a napkin folded meticulously into a triangle, courtesy of Dr. Park. As he sat in his chair and settled in for the day, the evidence of routine was almost enough to make him smile. He never asked her to bring her his breakfast, and he certainly never demanded a perfectly folded napkin. It had been her natural response to finding her loyalties lying with a different dean.

As Dr. Chase came in to volunteer clinic hours, and as Dr. Adams came seeking advice on a neurological matter; the day continued to progress with deceptive normalcy. Foreman's scheduled trip to the facitilies came in at 1:00, and the norm was that Dr. Park would have brought him a hot meal, in a nearly obsessive-compulsive manner. But today, things were not the norm. Lured out of the office by Dr. Adams, he decided to take advantage of the convenient proximity of the public washroom instead; and as he came walking through the hallway, he was stopped by the sight of a person in his office. Through the obstruction of the vertical blinds, he could see that his visitor wore neither the coat of a doctor, nor the gown of a patient. He could glimpse only jeans, and frequent motion.

Walking to the door, he was hoping only that the authoritative title on the door would keep his guest in line; but it was he who stopped cold behind the glass door, stricken by the familiar, punk-chic apparel. With a young sense of hope, Foreman slowly pushed open the door. And Remy Hadley turned to face him, with an inadvertent flick of the hand that slightly surprised the stoic Dean of Medicine. "Hey, Eric," she chirped.

"Thirteen," he said, and quietly cleared his throat. But she was amending his mistake before he knew he had made one.

"It's been nine years, Eric. I'm not a number anymore." Her smile was clearly forced, not matching the subtle undertone in her ocean storm-colored eyes.

"Of course you're not." Foreman finally closed the glass door. "How've you been?"

Her eyes followed him as he returned to his desk. "I've been better. And I'm going to get worse. That's why I'm here."

Foreman looked up at her, interlacing his fingers as he studied his former fellow and girlfriend. She hadn't changed much. The biggest difference was in her eyes. She seemed lost, desperate―like she had run out of options. And he had the chilling suspicion he knew why she was there.

"I'm not sure I follow."

"I have a deal with House; I came looking for him. Who's John Harper?" Remy tilted her head inquisitively, noting the sudden look of nauseated withdrawal on Foreman's face.

"Oh, God," Foreman muttered. "Have a seat, okay? There's something you should know."

Remy's face was a confused smile as she sat down, dropping her hands into her lap. She barely had time to give him a nod of encouragement before her head was uncontrollably jerked back. Foreman sighed, leaning forward and waiting for Remy to reorient herself. When her eyes returned to his, he dropped the bomb.

"House is dead."

She stared at him, the subtle raise of her eyebrows the only indication she had heard him. "What?" she finally asked.

"Sorry. Maybe I can help you."

"Oh, gee, uh..." She frowned, leaning back away from him. "Not sure I'm comfortable with that."

He shrugged. "Mull it over. You want some coffee?"

"Uh, sure." Remy clenched her shaking fists together, frowning at her lap as she absorbed his shocking words. And, bringing her the coffee, Foreman studied her, the woman he once had loved. She sat quietly, occasionally twitching. Finally her eyes shot up to his. "Uh, what happened to him?"

"Burning building."

Her mouth opened. Her face contorted. And she regressed back into her silent state. Foreman looked down and pretended to be busy with his papers, allowing her the time she clearly needed to find herself in her grief.

"He said he would kill me."

The words were spoken so softly that Foreman had to make sure he had heard her correctly. "What?"

"He said he would..." Deep breath. "Put me out of my misery when it became too much."

Foreman stared at her. "And is that why you're here now? Because you're ready to die?"

She hesitated only briefly, then nodded. "You think that's something you could do?"

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as they stared at each other. Finally Foreman seemed to thaw. "It's not the doing it that slows me up; it's the living with it."

"You'd be helping me. That's all. It's not murder."

Another silence, filled only by Foreman's long sigh as he leaned back in his chair. "I...okay," he stuttered, "Let me just...mull it over. This is...big."

"I think it's kind of perfect," she announced, starting to smile. "With House, he knew and I knew it would be impersonal. Cold. And it wouldn't happen somewhere I wanted to be. This is my last chance to have a getaway."

"You just got back from a getaway that lasted nine years!"

"I mean a getaway with someone I...love."

He raised his brows. "Still?"

"Always." She smiled as he leaned forwards, reaching across the desk to take her hands in his. "Eric, that vacation was...well, it was a mistake. Every time," her voice broke off as the door opened, sending reflections of light across the wall behind Foreman.

Dr. Chase stopped, looking down at Remy and back up at Foreman. "Uh, sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt, but Danny's forgotten who he is and his mother's having a breakdown."

Remy looked at Foreman, smiling at his apologetic expression. "Go see your patient. I'll go to the cafeteria; maybe I can find something to wash down this coffee." She made a face.

"I'm sorry, this could take awhile," Chase told her.

"Oh, no problem. I'll stop by Oncology and see how Wilson's doing."

"He's not here."

"Oh, will he be in today?" she pressed.

Chase stared at her. "Well, it's...been eight years, but you never know."

"He quit?"

"No, he vanished. That sound familiar?"

"Chase," Foreman cut in. "Don't compare them. She left for some fun before she dies; it's totally different." He returned his eyes to Remy. "Sorry. I'll go check on the Brenners and meet you in the cafeteria."

Remy nodded, and she and Chase stared at each other until he disappeared behind the curtains.

There was not one familiar face in the cafeteria, and Remy placed her order looking forward to being joined by Foreman. She sat, drank, and twitched; well aware that her intermittent spasms were garnering the attention of a couple at a neighboring table. She looked at them and smiled. "I have a deadly disease," she said softly. "I'll be dead in a matter of days. And, gee, I sure hope it's not contagious."

The couple quickly evacuated the area. Remy stirred her coffee and pondered Foreman's words as she drank. Finally she dug out her phone. After dialing she crossed her arms in an attempt to keep herself from flinging her cell phone across the room. "Tell me your name. Please," was how she greeted her caller. "Well, because I don't know if you're aware of this; but everyone thinks you're dead." Her eyes lifted as Foreman and Chase strode into the cafeteria. "Uh, I have to go now. But I'm calling you back and I want a reasonable explanation. Okay, 'bye." She hung up, smiling and trying not to look guilty as the men sat beside her. "Chase, I thought you were the diagnostician. Who's this John Harper?"

"The...diagnostician," came the witty answer. "I resigned in 2015."

"Why?"

"Well, the pressure got to me. I had to follow House, a...stolid mahatma whose intellect was unsurpassed. And it always will be." Chase shrugged; his defeat had clearly been accepted for some time. "They passed the torch on to me...I got burned."

Remy nodded in understanding, at least for the most part. As the conversation progressed, changing to the Brenners' ordeal; it was almost as though the guys had forgotten she was there. Remy used the time as an excuse to analyze them up close, under the ruse of simply being a good listener. And she may not have been able to contribute an opinion to their case, but she clearly understood that they actually believed House died a long time ago.

Realizing Chase had just looked at her, Remy forced herself to pay attention as Foreman said, "There's a personal matter she needs my help with, so I'll be taking a sabbatical soon."

"If it's a personal matter, what's it any business of yours?" Chase asked.

Remy smiled at him and said in a silky voice, "It's between friends, Robert."

Foreman's eyes flicked to Chase, who stared at her with indignation. Remy finished her coffee and shared a furtive glance with the Dean of Medicine; and trying to ignore the fact that they trusted one another, Remy had to force her expression to remain impassive as the wheel began to turn.