A/N: Happy New Year to all! Sorry for ending it where I did, but I will try to get the next scene written down this weekend, provided that it isn't interfered with by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

(H/C)

Wilson was carrying three grocery sacks as he entered. "Morning, Lisa. Morning, House." He headed straight for the kitchen.

"You know, James, I do have food," Cuddy pointed out.

"Nope. You two have to experience my famous pancakes. Besides, we'll think better if we're well fed." He was soon making a cheerful clatter in the kitchen. House looked amused, but Cuddy couldn't help noticing the wistful expression that had swept across his face at the mention of pancakes.

Ten years. Ten years he had been in self-imposed exile, existing mainly on peanut butter sandwiches, missing far more of the world than just pancakes. A fresh wave of determination seized her. They would get this case solved; she refused to let him just retreat back into the painful loneliness.

The pancakes were all Wilson had advertised them to be, and House ate six of them. Cuddy herself, not normally a fan of pancakes, had to admit that she'd never had better. Wilson sat there soaking up the bilateral appreciation while eating his own stack. "You know, you could have these every morning if you want," he reminded Cuddy.

She tightened up, remembering his attempt to get a commitment from her last night - and his track record with all those other women. "No, James."

He gave her a disappointed but resigned smile. "Doesn't hurt to ask."

"Yes, actually, it does," she pointed out. He looked guilty.

House wrenched the conversation onto the business at hand. "All right. The way I see it, our only chance to clear this thing up once and for all is to trap Tritter."

Cuddy's eyes widened. "That's a pretty risky way to tackle it."

He shook his head. "It's the only way to tackle it."

"We could get evidence to take to somebody else on the force. The evidence should prove that you're innocent and he was involved if we can just find the right piece of it to use for our argument."

"Ten years, Cuddy. He's ten years ahead of us. Do you really think that the three of us - none of us cops, mind you - are going to suddenly discover something while chatting around this table that has been missed on the physical evidence? If there is anything incriminating him, I'm sure it's been destroyed long since."

Wilson dribbled his fingers for a moment in thought. "He's right," he conceded. "Tritter is a professional, and all of us are not only ten years behind him but are amateurs."

"At this," House corrected, stiffening up. "I'd take him on in medical diagnostics any day with one hand tied behind my back, but this is his own field. I'm sure he's revisited this case over and over, polishing it, admiring it, preening at his part in it. He's not stupid, just narcissistic. He wouldn't have left an obvious clue lying around for ten years and not noticed by now."

Cuddy was still trying to grasp this strategy. She had been the one to encourage him to wake up and start to fight for himself, but the abrupt boldness of his proposed attack took her breath away. "But how do we trap him?"

"Give him an opportunity. Face to face, if the two of us were alone, I think I could poke him into giving himself away before he tried to kill me."

Wilson jumped right along with Cuddy at that. "Tried to kill you? You can't take him on alone, House."

Cuddy knew the moment Wilson said it that House would take that the wrong way, and she was correct. His eyes absolutely ignited as he glared across the table. "Being crippled as I am, you mean. Go ahead and say it."

"That's not - I just - I didn't mean it like that." Wilson scrambled under the diamond-sharp blue glare.

Cuddy spoke up. "Maestro, you mean deliberately giving him a chance to kill you?"

"Of course," House replied. "It's the only way to trap him. If I went down to the station to turn myself in, I'd be arrested, and Tritter would never be revealed. Everything in terms of evidence would be covered; they wouldn't believe me. Nope, I have to give him a shot at me alone. He would come up with a story later to explain my death to the rest of the force, of course. Self defense, probably. But I do think he couldn't resist the chance first, especially with a little scoffing from me, to admire how perfectly he had arranged that crime."

"One problem with this plan," Wilson pointed out. "It winds up with you dead."

"Nope. It winds up with him convicted by his own words. Nothing else besides a confession will trap him at this stage. We need to have hidden witnesses - you, Cuddy, and let's throw in Brenda for good measure. Enough that he couldn't get out of it. Plus a recording, of course. But you three would be there, and you would call 911 already before you come out at the crucial moment - and tell him that, please. Tell him they're already on the way."

Wilson whistled low under his breath. "Risky."

"But effective," House said. "When the game gets serious, life or death, that's the time when you have to go all in."

Cuddy sighed. How could he sit here talking so casually about his own future fate? Then she saw the tension in his fingers as he gripped the edge of the table, the tension that wasn't in his voice, and she realized that he knew full well what he was doing. It was his decision, and he had made it. Furthermore, no doubt he was right. He always had been able to see solutions, even drastic ones, faster than she had. "Okay," she said. "I'm with you."

House looked over at her with relief mixed with gratitude. "Call Brenda."

"One thing, House," Wilson asked. House looked back at him and raised an eyebrow. "What happens if we're wrong and Tritter isn't in fact behind all this? What if he just shows up and arrests you?"

House met the point with a wry, brave smile. "Well, in prison, they do at least have more than peanut butter sandwiches."