House's head was clearer than it had been for years. The five-day ketamine treatment had cleared his system of opiates. He had been off morphine for his injuries for nearly three days. Every thought, sound and idea rang in his head without having to reach for it. He had forgotten how that felt.

He was lost in the Magic Flute. He felt surround by the beauty and unadulterated joy of the Mozart opera thinking how it contrasted at that moment with his Requiem. House conducted with small movements of his hands and anyone who walked into the room was sure to think him insane. Well, they thought him insane anyway, but not quite in that way.

It was a good way to pass the time until he and Cuddy took their midnight stroll. The corridors would be darkened, the curious eyes of colleagues would be absent. He looked forward to the exercise.

"House." A voice penetrated the aria. It did not sound like Cuddy. He opened his eyes. "House." He repeated, a flat lowly intoned tenor. The voice now had a face. The shooter.

House's eyes widened. He reached for the call button. "Put it down, House. I'm just here to talk to you." His tone was collegial.

"You're supposed to be dead. Why…? You can't be real. I must be…"

"No, I'm real."

"As real as Cuddy. Or you. Now that's interesting. You and Cuddy."

"I'm calling…"

"Relax."

"I know what you are. And you're not real. You were killed. They told me…"

"Yeah. And everybody tells the truth. Your motto, right?"

"No. I…"

"Hey. I'm not here to finish the job. No, that you'll do yourself. You think you're in the clear? Pain free? Grab onto life again? Maybe set up housekeeping with the boss? Who're you kidding?"

"Now, wait a minute. At least be consistent. In your last appearance, you told me I didn't want to live. Now you tell me I can't. Make up your mind. Or my mind. I was confused. You are my mind."

"Well, believe that if you want."

"Anyway. I remember you. It wasn't your wife I treated. It was you. Clinic. So that whole sad story was just a load of bullshit. Your wife didn't commit suicide. Or if she did, it wasn't my fault."

"Yeah? Then who was she? That gorgeous brunette."

"She was the wife of a patient. Just not you."

"You said yourself, their integers didn't match. Could be his wife. Wouldn't make sense if she was."

"Fine. You're so smart, then who was she?"

"Stacy."

"Yeah, well see, that's where you're wrong. She didn't look anything like Stacy. Didn't even sound like her."

"Well, remember, she was a hallucination, after all."

"Why the Hell do you keep bothering me?" House clamped down his eyes, willing Moriarty away.

"Oh. Well. I guess I could go. I thought we had a date." House jumped. The voice had changed. Cuddy.

"I…uh…"

"You weren't dreaming. Were you hallucinating again?"

"No. I…" But Cuddy knew better. House was deeply shaken. His breathing was too shallow.

"Do you want me to come back? Do you need some time…?" He took several deep breaths, desperately trying to calm himself.

"No. I mean…Is it 10 already?" Cuddy observed that his hands were trembling. House glanced warily around the room. "Let's go."

The hospital corridors were nearly empty. "Your walking better. How was physio? Of course she knew, but she wanted his assessment."

"Good. They gave me routines and a schedule. For my recent injuries and my not so recent injuries. Twice a week with Framington. A soft brace for my right thigh to support the remaining muscle. I could never wear one before. The friction and pain were too intense. My leg couldn't handle the pressure. So, now that I'm…well, we'll give it another try. It was the shooter." House had stopped in his tracks, turning to face Cuddy.

Cuddy was bewildered at the seeming non-sequitor. "I saw him. Just before you came in."

"You hallucinated him. He's dead. There's no way…"

"Yes. I know that. He was so real. How can I tell. What if it's not obvious? What if…?"

"How frequent? Any you haven't told me about? I know about your parents, but…"

"No that was the last one. Cuddy, if I can't tell reality from something I conjured in my mind, how will I be able to practice medicine? How will I…?"

"They will get less. I know it's upsetting." They were walking again. "House…Greg…tell me what you remember about the shooting. The shooter." They approached House's office. House paused at the door, gazing into his inner office, careful to not look into the conference area. Grateful that it was dark. "You sure you want to go in there?"

"Not really. I want to sit outside for awhile. This seems as good a place as any. Wilson's not around tonight is he?"

"I doubt it. I think he has a hot date." House arched an eyebrow.

"Jimmy… Well, he doesn't waste a moment of time, does he? No key." Cuddy produced a large key ring.

"Got just the thing for breaking into a locked office. Right…..here." She brandished the key, offering it to him, rather than opening the door herself. House smiled. He finally looked relaxed again, she noted.

House walked quickly through the office, picking up the immense red and white tennis ball before opening the terrace door. Cool nighttime air washed over him. The breeze was heavy with rain. Lightning flashed far in the distance. He leaned on the terrace wall, letting the breeze cleanse him of the endless days of confinement. This was so much the weather he loved to ride his bike in. Not tonight.

Cuddy had been standing near the door, just watching. Observing from her oblique angle of him. His eyes had been closed as he leaned into the breeze. When they opened, they seemed to catch all of the moonlight, making his eyes luminous. They were moist, she thought.

House turned and settled into one of the terrace chairs. Cuddy followed suit. "He was a clinic patient. Nothing out of the ordinary. I think he had the flu. I maybe saw him for five minutes."

"I know." House tilted his head, wondering how. "I looked up his chart. With you, who knows why anyone would want to come in and shoot you. But no. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a crazy guy. Who knows what set him off. He's dead. Hold on to that thought the next time he makes an random appearance in your life. OK?"

House smiled. But they both knew it was never that simple when it came to the mind, especially House's mind. Especially now that it had been somewhat altered, albeit and hopefully, temporarily.

"How will I do this, Cuddy?" He looked away from her, avoiding her eyes, hating this feeling of vulnerability. "How will I do my job if I can't tell what's real?"

"You can, most of the time. And the hallucinations will go away. We both know they will. You have to give yourself time."

"Yeah. I know. You already said that."

"Talking about it will help. I know you hate that idea, but don't keep it a secret. At least tell someone when you've had one, or think something strange is happening. Or when it's over. Or you're afraid you're losing your grip. You know you can call me. Any hour. Any day. Anywhere. Even if I'm on the golf course."

House tried looking away, but Cuddy stopped him, touching his face and drawing his eyes toward her own. "I'm serious. You are as far from insane as anyone I know. I won't let you do this to yourself. I won't let you…

"I never told you how much I appreciated your keeping my confidence when…You know when I was doing the fertility treatments. I didn't think that…"

"I told you. I'm a really good secret keeper." He was trying to break the serious mood. He was uncomfortable with gratitude. Some things never change. "So, what happened? Did you turn off that biological alarm clock, or just hit the snooze button?"

"I think I'll keep doing the fertility treatments. Maximum effectiveness won't be until next month. But I think once I find…if I find…I told you that you were right. I need to find the right one. Someone I like. Someone I trust." Her voice had too much emotion, she knew.

"Any time, Cuddy. Any hour. Any day." He sat back, shutting his eyes. Enjoying the peace, the night air. Even the approaching storm.

"Hey we need to get you back to your room. I'd be setting a really bad example if I let a patient get soaked in the rain, huh?"

"Right."