That night, in the secluded, precious privacy of his own home, Doctor House made a few phone calls. He called the parents of a sick girl who he'd recently had the pleasure of diagnosing with obsessive-over reactive-mother-syndrome. He called his obsessive, over reactive, but very sweet mother. He called the pizza delivery man, and had a long, involved conversation about whether or not anchovies were acceptable on a pizza after six o'clock in the evening.

Having no other available numbers, House considered calling Cameron. She'd talk to him no matter what time of night it was, no matter what he wanted to say, for however long he felt it necessary to abuse her. The devotion to both him and to the workplace both sickened and attempted to inspire him. He didn't' call her for just that reason. He was in no mood to be sickened, or to be inspired, and he had no stomach tonight for pity.

Television provided little of interest. There was an awards show on, showcasing movies he'd never seen, and TV shows that he'd never heard of. There was a golf game in progress, but he wasn't in the mood to be put to sleep. Casablanca was playing on one channel, touting "family movie night, fun for all ages." He watched the black and white love triangle until he could no loner stand the dramatically delivered dialogue, and the hackneyed long, romantic looks.

Unable to sleep, House's mind drifted back to the conversation he'd had with Wilson earlier that day. In the middle of the living room, he had a piano, one that had belonged to his father when he was young. He'd never played when he was younger; in fact, he'd never played while he lived in his father's house. Maybe it was a rebellious streak, or just good old fashioned belligerence. Either way, he'd started late, and so it had taken him longer to learn.

His mother had played the piano. She was a very graceful woman until she reached her fifties and lost some of her vision. Even then, there'd been something graceful about her hands. He'd never go as far as to reflect on watching them when he was younger, or to reminisce about her beauty in her musical moments. He did however cede that it could have been that tableau, of her, and her piano that had made her seem so powerful to him as a child.

He played through the four songs that he knew once through to get the feel of the keys. Two pieces of Bach, "Summertime," and Rufus Wainwright's "Hallelujah," before he finally started to feel himself getting tired. His playing slowed down as he got sleepier, taking longer to remember and to pick out the keys as he slid his hands over the black and white ivory.

Just as he was ready to crawl off to bed, the phone rang. House groped for it under the covers of the bed, and then held it to his year, muttering, "What?"

"Hey." Wilson's voice on the other end was tentative. "How's your first full day?"

"Peachy keen." House let out a yawn, and Wilson laughed on the other end.

"Really wore you out, huh?" He waited for a moment, and then added, "You know, I'm not sure if now is really a good time to do this."

House grumbled. "You said that the last time. And you call yourself my friend. Friends don't let friends do drugs."

Wilson sounded frustrated. "They aren't drugs, they're painkillers." He paused, then sighed. "Anyway, you do whatever you want, I just don't want you to hurt yourself, that's all."

"Thanks, mom," House replied. He could just see Wilson shaking his head at the receive on the other end, throwing up his hands in defeat.

"Anytime, darling. Don't forget to eat your carrots." He said, in a falsetto.

House winced. "What?"

Pausing, Wilson replied, "What do you mean, what? Your mother never told you to eat your carrots?"

House shook his head. "My mother hated carrots. She didn't care what I ate as long as I ate something and remembered to bring home good grades from med school."

"Well," said Wilson responded decisively, "That's what's wrong with you."