The world was going down the sewer and all House could do was watch it circle the proverbial drain.

Nothing but screaming babies, screaming kids and screaming mommies demanding to know what he was going to do about little Johnny's cough and little Suzy's sniffles. Chicken soup and baby aspirin, he told them flatly, now get out of my sight. Mommies bitched about wasting gas to come all this way for his less-than-extraordinary advice. House reminded them that he hardly forced them to make the drive, next patient please. By noon his head was throbbing.

Only a few fleeting glances of Cuddy gliding down the corridors like a ghost. That did nothing for his headache or his mood. He tried to distract himself with some yo-yo tricks, but that worked for maybe five whole minutes. He knew only so many yo-yo tricks. The day still had twelve hours left.

By three o'clock his headache was one screeching brat away from being a migraine. House was ready to put his fist through a wall.

Six o'clock. Home sweet home. House chewed four extra-strength migraine pills and collapsed on the sofa. No lights, he couldn't handle anything beyond the near total darkness. His stomach was sour. He tried to think of nothing as the headache slowly but surely ebbed away. Thinking took effort and effort made his head hurt even more. No effort, no pain. It was almost too easy.

Finally he could open his eyes and move again. Chicken noodle soup for dinner. Hardly a feast but his stomach wasn't going to let him get away with anything big and spicy.

The evening was spent watching Cold Case Files. He had already seen these particular episodes. After the third glass of scotch he felt too lazy to change the channel. Plus he was afraid that if Donald Trump or Martha Stewart popped up on the television he would kick the screen in.

Knocking on the front door. It was after 10pm. Too late for Girl Scout cookies.

"Can I come in?" Cuddy asked through the two-inch gap.

"Of course," House sputtered as he picked his jaw off the floor.

She wafted in barefoot, one shoe in each hand. Band-aids covered the back of her heels.

"New shoes, Lisa?" House grinned as he closed and locked the door.

"Trying to break them in," she scowled, dumped the shoes and flopped on the sofa. "They broke me instead."

He limped over and sank in next to her, lifted up her legs and put them on his lap. Fire-engine red polish gleamed from her toenails. "What brings you by?" House asked, massaging her ankles.

"I got my work done. I figured I'd swing by and surprise you."

"Consider me surprised."

"I knew you would be. That feels nice." She smiled as House continued to rub her feet and moved up to her legs.

"Long day at the office, boss?"

"Don't even get me started. I never want to see another manila folder for as long as I live. How about you?"

"Yuppie moms with yuppie concerns," he said. "The day one of them brings in an actual sick kid I'll drop dead from shock."

"So it was just like any other day."

"Pretty much," the doctor chuckled. "You look tired, Lisa."

"I need a long hot shower and a nice warm bed."

"You could have gone home for that."

"I don't feel like sleeping alone tonight."

"What a coincidence, neither do I," House said. "My shower is your shower, but I'm all out of cucumber-melon bodywash and orange-blossom hair conditioner."

"I'll get over it," Cuddy grinned. "And I need something to sleep in."

"You just took two of my shirts and now you want a third?"

"Just for tonight. It won't leave your place, I promise."

"You know where they are." House sighed and rested his head on the back of the sofa.

"I don't want to sleep alone," Cuddy said, standing up.

"I'll be there," he said. She was relentless in her efforts to get him to sleep more than five hours a night. He had to wonder if she understood it wasn't because he wouldn't, it was because he couldn't.

Four hours later he joined her in his bed. He slid up to her side, draped an arm over her, and rested his chin on her shoulder.