Disclaimer…I own nothing except for the characters I create. The quote in the summary is a Swedish proverb. The style in which this is written was greatly inspired by Jodi Picoult's brilliant works.

Author's Note…Still looking for a beta, if anyone's up to it. Also, if anybody would please assist me--or at least help me figure out how to do it--in uploading this story on LiveJournal, that'd be great. Oh, last thing: the first part is Wilson's flashback and I switch between him calling Cameron 'Cameron' and 'Allie' on purpose. All will eventually make sense, I promise!

"…For I also had my hour;

One far fierce hour and sweet;

There was a shout about my ears,

And palms before my feet."

-GK Chesterton, "The Donkey"

The woman's eyes are as dark and still as Cameron's are light and changing and her hair is as fine and blonde as Cameron's is thick and red and her bodacious body is as curvy as Cameron's is slim. She is perhaps the most beautiful person I have ever laid my surely-vacant eyes on, and suddenly I am rendered incapable of doing anything but compare her to a woman that is not mine.

Luckily, the woman that is now standing opposite me seems to have no such affliction, and chats amiably to me about the Mets, and what a crappy job that Zambrano is doing.

Her midnight eyes are shining at me, her pupils like identical black moons. 'So are you in?'

At least, I thought we were talking about baseball.

I blink at her apologetically. This woman, Mary I think her name is, is as mercifully thick as she is gorgeous.

'The baseball game? Saturday night? Are you in?'

Saturday night; Saturday night; Saturday night. I rack my brain for any excuse that will prohibit me from attending that game, but all I can think about is that the Mets are playing the Yankees at Shea, third in the series, and they're looking for a sweep.

'Zambrano's not pitching,' she offers when she sees the evidently unreadable look on my face.

'Yes, but-'

'If you can't make it, I have season tickets.' A perfect grin stretches across her face. 'My dad gave them to me.'

My G/d, she's the perfect woman. Who am I to say no to her? A mere man, refusing this remarkable specimen surely sent from Olympus itself!

I really don't deserve her, I think miserably. Hell, I consider her a specimen.

Perhaps this shallow thought is what sends the approval from my lips to her ears.

She smiles wider; showing off brilliantly white teeth. 'It's a date, then.'

I nod a confirmation, defeated confirmation. 'It's a date.'

XXXxxxXXX

When we first started living together, Allie and I would have fun waiting up for each other if one of us had to work late. I do not know what Allie did to stay awake after Johanna went to bed, but she would always be in a good mood when I got home. That smile; it was certainly a nice welcoming, considering that when I had to work late it usually meant a patient of mine had died, nearly died, or was dying.

But Allie has this habit of not letting go of anything--anything--until she absolutely has to. I am sure there is a story or three to explain this habit, made more intricate by the fact that most people that she has really loved have left her. Johanna eventually came back, but...well, Johanna was the only boomerang of the group.

Nevertheless, I know it to be true that Allie won't come home late unless a patient has died or been cured. Usually they're cured. People normally don't associate the terms 'lucky' and 'employed by House', but the fact is; that job is better for Allie than she knows. House is as obsessive about saving people as Allie is; he is just dramatically obvious.

But I digress. As our relationship matured, it became harder for both of us to stay awake. We would try; Allie often came home to find the lights blaring, the TV screaming, and the radio piercing. I, however, would be fast asleep on our bed, entangled in the sheets. At first she thought it was cute, but after a while the neighbors began to complain about the noise level and threatened to have the three of us evicted.

Johanna, ironically, had no complaints.

The point is that no matter what, we always found a way to make each other feel welcome, especially after a long night. I suppose some would classify it as an unwritten rule, others as a sweet precedent, and others still as a measly, "couple-y," tradition.

But apparently, rules are meant to be broken, precedents were intended to eventually be ignored, and traditions die with time. I learn this lesson when I get home from work at two in the glorious morning, and Allie is on a warpath, speaking frantically into the phone.

"But you can't do that," I hear her insist to the person on the opposite end. "They can't do that!"

Allie paces the length of our relatively-small apartment and listens intently to the white noise coming from the portable, furrowing her brow.

"No, no, no. That's…why didn't I know about any of this!"

I raise my eyebrows at her, and she ignores me. Or perhaps she did not even hear me enter.

Ignoring her in return, I rub my eyes and walk towards the kitchen. I am halfway there when I pass Johanna's room. Her light is on.

I rap softly on the door and do not wait for her to respond. I do not know why, but a deep fear, a primal sense of foreboding, settles into the pit of my stomach.

All animals on this Earth, including humans, have a "fight or flight" response. Acetylcholine triggers the release of epinephrine and norepinephrine from your medulla of your adrenal glands. Then, catecholamine gives you all those wonderful physical reactions, the ones you notice; increased heart rate, blood vessels constricting, and dilated pupils are just a few of the symptoms.

When the fight or flight response is set off, you become incredibly aware of your surroundings. Everything around you, every aspect of your environment, be it a foreign country or your very own bedroom, is suddenly your worst enemy, a threat to your survival.

You get the choice, you know. Whether to fight or flight. Whether to combat or escape.

The minute I see Johanna, her eyes a fierce shade of brown, I know that she has assumed battle position.

As for me; well, I have decided I flight too much. Tonight, I fight.

XXXxxxXXX

Instead of barreling headfirst into the brawl, I stare Johanna down, giving her an early chance for surrender. She does not, and somehow, I know she is ready. She doesn't need guns; but she was born with ammunition.

I take a seat on her bed, purposely invading her territory. "What's going on," I ask in a rather hushed tone.

She stands up across from me and crosses her arms. I understand her completely; hospitality is a luxury reserved for times of peace. However small, this is war. "Nothing," she answers tersely, testing the enemy.

Reminding myself that in this setting, I am the foe, I do not break my gaze. "Who's your mom on the phone with," I ask, gesturing towards the closed door. We can still hear Allie's one-sided conversation.

Johanna shrugs. "Ms. Harding."

I blink confusingly and instantly put myself at a disadvantage. Johanna has the higher ground for the time being.

"My adoption agent," she clarifies after a brief silence.

In my mind, I drop my gun to the ground; bullets incorrectly loaded spilling all over. Ms. Harding does not have a name in our life; she was always regarded simply as 'the adoption agent.' She periodically checks on Johanna, each time finding nothing wrong with the manner in which she is raised. But she has never called first, always just showed up, and always at times when I am not home.

What could she possibly say to Allie that would precipitate such a disturbing reaction?

The question reverberates in my brain, leaving room for nothing else. I involuntarily start to compile a mental list, but I cannot think of a single thing.

"I need to go to Seattle," Johanna says suddenly.

I look up startled, still trying to sort out my thoughts. So Johanna is trying to run away? Maybe she has already tried, and that is why Ms. Harding is calling.

But why would Ms. Harding know about this? And why didn't I know about this--or Allie, apparently?

"Seattle," I repeat.

"Well, not Seattle exactly. This little town outside of Seattle--Augusta's Bridge, it's called," Johanna recites, feeding information to the defenseless enemy. "I need to go there."

I wonder what good ole Ulysses S. Grant would do if Stonewall Jackson wordlessly surrendered a winning battle and started naming towns that are thousands of miles away out of thin air.

Somehow, I doubt that either general would put their head in their hands and rub their temples, overwhelmed with this sudden turn of events.

I look at Johanna with weary eyes. "Why do you have to go to Augusta's Bridge?"

Clearly, there is a story here that Johanna does not want to tell. She glances at the clock, her hands, the hamper in the corner and finally focuses her eyes on the wall behind me.

"There are 92 stripes on that wall." Johanna looks at me, confused. Instead of telling her that I have counted every single striation in this room, I continue to point at the other three former fortifications. "12 on that one, 12 on that one, and 92 on that one."

Johanna recovers quickly. "There are 93 on that one," she tells me, pointing directly behind me. "See that little bit of extra wallpaper that's kind of falling off the corner? There's a stripe on that one." She smiles wanly. "It's faded, but it's there."

It's really no fair that I went into this battle, innocent of weapons and bombs and military stratagems while Johanna, the picture of innocence, is well-versed in the art of war. Looks can be very deceiving, apparently.

I turn my attention back to Johanna, not realizing that I was counting the stripes in my head. "Why do you need to go to Augusta's Bridge," I repeat, my voice leaving room for nothing but the straight answer.

Johanna suddenly looks very tired. "It's just something I need to do." She gives me a sad look. "I'll tell you when we get there."

Pure misery is draped across Johanna's face like a thin, rice paper veil, but that does not stop me from egging her on. "Why can't you tell me here?"

Johanna gives me the patented puppy dog eyes look. When she sees it do nothing to me, at least on the exterior, she takes a deep breath. "I just…I can't."

I sigh, slowly giving into defeat. "Is it a life-or-death matter," I ask jocularly, trying to restore the sweet and carefree aura Johanna usually brings into a room.

But Johanna looks at me seriously, and replies with a clear and concise 'yes.'