A/N: Thanks for your lovely reviews. You make my day!

--

A couple of weeks later

"Larry Fischer said that if you continue to steal his cardiology journals from his office he's going to send you a bill," Wilson warned.

House shrugged it off. "He should lock his office."

"He said it was locked."

In answer House just gave Wilson a smile that he knew would infuriate him. The two men exited the elevator and began walking down the corridor that led to their offices. He expected Wilson to peel off towards his own door, but he continued to follow House right inside his office, still lecturing about respecting other people's privacy. House stayed silent, letting Wilson drone on. There was something comforting about these little speeches of his, something that made him feel cared for.

They sat down either side of his desk and Wilson seemed to run out of puff because he fell into silence. House wiggled the mouse on his desk to bring his computer to life, figuring that without a current case, he'd spend the rest of the afternoon surfing the internet.

"What's that?" Wilson asked, peering at a grainy, black and white image pinned up on House's light box.

"Left over from the last patient," House said dismissively, scolding himself silently for his carelessness of leaving it on display.

"I can't even make out what it is . . ." Wilson said, leaning forward to peer more carefully at it.

"It's a small image I had enlarged, just trying to get a better look," House said, knowing that a partial truth would be more convincing than an outright lie. He wasn't about to tell Wilson that the night he'd slept at Lara's, while she'd been asleep, he'd searched for and found the small records box that she used to keep all her Grace-related papers and memories in. He'd found the memory book the hospital produced, with photographs of the baby, her tiny inked hand and foot prints, the little pink card with her name and weight that had adorned the crib she'd laid in. But after a quick look through he'd pushed that to one side, finding instead the polaroid ultrasound memento. It wasn't designed to be diagnostic, was simply a keepsake of the event. But House had pocketed it and had the chest-region of the image blown up almost beyond the point of recognition. It still didn't show anything, in fact, the low resolution made it practically useless, but House liked to stare at it, imagining that inspiration would somehow strike.

Come to think of it, he hadn't actually mentioned to Wilson the fact that he'd even seen Lara once, let alone been spending time with her regularly over the past couple of months. Or spent the night in her bed. He couldn't really explain it himself, so perhaps that was why.

Since the night they'd slept together, House had continued to visit every few days in the sort-of-routine they'd established. Only now he felt as if there was a tension there that hadn't existed before. He didn't know for sure if it was affecting Lara, but occasionally he'd caught her looking at him, caught a quick smile or a blush and he was pretty sure it wasn't just him. He didn't think it was only because they'd laid in bed next to one another. They hadn't even touched each other then. It was more than that, and it was growing each time they were together.

Wilson fell back in the chair, clearly giving up his guessing game. "Want to go out tomorrow night?" he asked. "I was thinking of going to—"

"Can't," House interrupted. The last time he'd been at Lara's she'd told him there was an Arrested Development marathon on TV on Friday night. It wasn't like it was a date or anything, but House had been looking forward to sitting on her sofa with a bottle of wine and watching it together.

"What, your social calendar's full?" Wilson asked sarcastically.

"I've got something else on," House hedged, wondering if it was time to come clean to his friend. It might be nice to talk to him about some of the things he'd been thinking recently, only House wasn't sure if he was up to that kind of sharing, that kind of revelation.

"Really?"

House could hear the surprise – and a little hurt – in Wilson's voice. He sighed. "I've made arrangements to see Lara." He deliberately made it sound as if it might have been for the first time.

"Oh, oh! Of course! You should do that, that's really important," Wilson was all apologetic suddenly. "I'm glad you're . . . I mean it's good that you're . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, Wilson, don't get all excited." House waved a hand dismissively.

"How's she doing?"

"Better."

Wilson took a deep breath before asking, "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine."

"I know you don't talk about it – don't want to talk about it – but I've been impressed with how you're dealing with it. You've been very . . ." Wilson searched for the right word, "mature."

House rolled his eyes, hoping Wilson would lay off. "Mature? What, have I not filled my quota of fart jokes this month?"

"You lost a daughter, House, something like that takes a while to get over, no matter how long you knew her for."

For some reason House bristled at Wilson's suggestion that Grace was something he had to "get over".

"I'm fine Wilson," he said again through gritted teeth. Thankfully something told Wilson that it would be a good time to leave things alone and he changed the subject.

--

On Friday night when House turned up at Lara's house with a bottle of chardonnay – he hated it, but he knew it was her favourite – he was surprised, and annoyed, to find both Paul and Larissa Kimble there. He'd seen the two occasionally when visits had overlapped, but either he or they had generally left quickly as if the assumption was that Lara could only have one visitor at a time.

When Lara showed him into the living room, he was even more annoyed to find that Paul had snagged his chair – an old-fashioned, wing-back style armchair that was particularly good for snoozing in. He was forced to sit on the sofa, Lara next to him, Larissa on the other side of Lara. After a while he had to admit that it wasn't too bad. He was sitting on the right side of the couch, his bad leg pushed up against a couple of pillows and the pressure was actually quite comfortable. Paul Kimble had seemed a little unsettled for a while – after all, House was his boss's best friend – but he'd relaxed soon enough. The girls were very happily making their way through a succession of bottles of wine, now with House's help. Paul was clearly the designated driver.

The show, one House had always enjoyed, was as funny as ever and the four of them seemed to laugh in the same places, chatting about the plot, about their respective days, nothing significant, but all easy and pleasant. Lara was drinking more than he'd seen her drink with the exception of the first night they'd met. Since he'd been coming over she'd always joined him for a glass of wine or a whisky, but she would usually stop after one or two. This time she'd been thrilled with the wine he'd brought, opened it straight away and poured herself some. She continued to drink steadily, although not excessively, through the night. In her tipsy state, she often brushed against him, and one time when she'd been laughing hard, she'd put a hand on his thigh to steady herself. House had been instantly aware of the connection, but she seemed oblivious.

A few hours later House realised he must have dozed off. He'd woken because his leg was hurting – his left leg. He found himself lounged out on the sofa, head thrown back, one arm along the back, his throat sore from snoring. The television was off, the room dark, and the Kimbles were gone. Lara was sprawled next to him, her head sagging low on his chest. He thought he could feel a small patch of wetness on his shirt from her drool and he smiled. One of her arms was pressed on his leg for balance, and that was what was hurting. He wanted to move, needed to move, but having Lara curled up to him like this was so . . . nice.

He dropped his arm from the sofa cushions and put it around her shoulders, his hand resting temptingly close to her breast. In response she snuggled closer to him.

He sat there for a while longer before his leg threatened to go completely numb, and he knew that wasn't a good idea because then he had no idea how he'd walk. And his bladder was strongly encouraging him to get up and go for a short, quick, stroll to the bathroom.

"Lara," he said gently, shaking her shoulder.

"Hmm?" she murmured.

"Come on sweetheart, time to go to bed." House wasn't sure where the endearment came from as it left his mouth, but it felt right.

"Oh." He felt the awareness slowly come to her body and bit his lip when she leaned more heavily on his leg to push herself up. She sat on the edge of the sofa rubbing her face and looking like a sleepy child. House searched for his cane, knowing he'd need it to stand up and found it fallen down the side of the couch. He stood painfully and took a moment to jiggle his leg until the feeling came back, then offered her his hand, which she took and meekly followed him into the bedroom. It seemed like she was too sleepy to remember that he was in the room. She stripped off her jeans and sweater and when she began undoing her bra, House quickly turned and headed for the bathroom, figuring he'd better get that errand done before his body's response to her bare skin made it impossible for a while.

Back in the bedroom he stripped down to his boxers, knowing he should probably at least leave his t-shirt on as he'd done last time he'd been in her bed. But from what he could see, Lara was naked, and he liked the idea of her skin against his. He got into bed and Lara instantly drew towards him.

"Cold," she muttered.

"C'mere." House put one arm out to let her burrow into his side, and then pulled her into his embrace. Sure enough, once their bodies were pressed together he could tell she was only wearing panties. Her nipples were peaked, and he could feel them rubbing against his side and chest, but the bed was cold around them, so he figured it was mostly likely a physiological reaction to that. Otherwise her body was limp and relaxed in his arms; it felt as if she was already drifting back to sleep. He ran his hands over her back in what he hoped could be explained as a comforting, relaxing touch, twisting his hips slightly away from her so she couldn't accidentally discover the response she had provoked in him. It made him realise that it had been a long time since he had felt this kind of stirring – it had been a while since he'd had the interest or energy to masturbate, let alone anything else.

As his hands roamed over her, House couldn't help remembering the last time they'd lain like this: the night Grace had been conceived. And he recognised how different Lara's body felt now. She was thinner, a lot thinner; he could feel her ribs prominent under his hands, her hip bone jutting sharply into his side. The lush, ample curves that he'd admired that night were gone. Her breasts were different as well, still full and about the same size they'd been, but somehow empty, as if they, too, were thin.

It was his fault, he realised with a start. SWS: Sex While Stupid. He was the one who'd been too drunk to put on a condom, too drunk to even have decent sex; his performance so bad he'd been sure he hadn't been hard enough to be inside her when he came. He knew that they'd made up for it – the day they'd spent together afterwards was one of the sexual highlights of his life – but he felt it was a shame that Grace's life had more than likely sprung from that first, embarrassingly awful encounter.

Despite the fact that he was thinking about how bad their first round of sex had been, House was achingly hard. He wanted nothing more than to roll Lara on her back and lose himself inside her again. He wondered if she felt even vaguely the same way. The grey shadows of the room bored away at his eyes; he blinked, picking out the shapes of the furniture and pictures on the walls, and knew he was far from slipping back into sleep.

Lara's arm moving over his chest startled him. With her fingers she stroked his shoulders and chest in much the same rhythm that he was using to stroke her back. Otherwise her body felt the same, relaxed, limp. But obviously not asleep.

She shifted in his arms, sitting up a little in order to bring her head close to his. In the grey gloom he could make out the glimmer of her eyes, a sparkle that disappeared as her eyes closed and he felt her lips touch his in the most delicate whisper of a kiss. She pulled back and looked at him again. Funny, but he felt as if she was asking his permission, as if she were the one having the lustful thoughts and he was the one who needed to be convinced. He raised one hand to her cheek, rubbing her jaw line with his thumb.

"Are you sober?" he asked quietly. He needed to know.

"Yes. I know exactly what I'm doing," she answered. The faint light in the room was enough for him to make out that she was smiling. Her hand moved lower and reached inside his boxers to encircle him, she ran her fist up and down his length and he hissed out a breath.

"Wait," he said. This was the bit he didn't want to do. The conversation that he normally never had a problem with. Hell, he talked about contraception with fifty per cent of the clinic patients he saw, who lately all seemed to be either pregnant or riddled with STDs. "I don't have a—"

"I'm on the pill." She leaned down and said it quietly into his ear before taking his earlobe between her teeth and biting gently. "For medical reasons, to regulate my cycle," she seemed to need to add. It wasn't necessary, House knew without needing to be told that she wouldn't have done it with the intentions of starting up a newly promiscuous lifestyle.

"Ah," he groaned as her fist tightened around him. His hands ran down her back and cupped her ass, squeezing and pulling her closer to him. She took her hand away from him to pull her panties down and House helped her push them away before they did the same to his boxers.

His hands went to her breasts, kneading and rolling her nipples between his fingers. He urged her to move up in the bed and she followed his request, lowering one breast to his mouth, sighing when his lips fastened around the nipple. He alternated between them, kissing, sucking and licking, enjoying listening to her breath catch, to the little noises of pleasure she made in the back of her throat.

After a while she pulled away and lay back down next to him. He leaned over her, continuing to make love to her breasts and his hand hand went between her legs. For a moment he paused, remembering what their lovemaking had created the last time they'd touched each other intimately. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing, because as his fingers delved into her hot folds she stiffened.

"Shh, it's okay," he said reassuringly, kissing her clavicle, rising to her throat and kissing her pulse. He found her entrance, relieved to find she was wet, and then rubbed her, trying a few different strokes until she breathed, "Yes, there," into his ear.

He continued touching her until her hand clutched around him again, almost too tight, rolling up from root to tip in a way that made his back arch and his cock leak.

"Oh God," he groaned. "Now, I need you now."

"Yes, yes," she murmured in agreement. Her arms wrapped around him and she tried to pull him over her.

"No," he said, "you, here." He fell back on the bed pulling her with him, reaching down to place her leg carefully over his right thigh. "It'll be better if you're on top, you can control it."

She paused, kneeling over him, her eyes bright in the darkness. Bright with tears. For a moment he wondered if she was going stop, jump off him and run away. He hadn't really given much thought to what he'd just said, it was just an instinctive call from the rational, medically trained part of his brain that never seemed to shut down, even in a situation like this. It had told him to let her direct the penetration, that way she could go as fast and as deep as she felt comfortable. But it was an unwanted reminder of why they needed to take such care in the first place.

"Oh, Lara," he said, pleading, desperate.

"Shh." She leaned down and kissed him, their tongues meeting. He felt her hips moving, fitting herself to him, rubbing her hot, wet seam over his hardness. Then her hand was between them, positioning him, and she pushed down, slowly, slowly, until he was buried almost to the hilt and she let out a breath against his lips.

"Are you okay?" he asked, unable to help himself.

"I'm perfect."

"Yes, you are."

She smiled and House smiled back.

She pushed herself up, taking more of a seated position over him, using her thighs to control how deep he went. House clenched his hands into fists, restraining himself from the desperate urge to grab her hips and slam her down on top of him. Instead, he waited, and was rewarded when she began to move, her body adjusting, her breathing shallow, almost gasps.

It only took a minute before she was rocking against him, every downward stroke accompanied by a moan of pleasure, and House was once again almost at the peak, urging her to continue.

"Yes, Lara, oh God, yeah."

He put his thumb against her for added pleasure and delighted in the keening cry of near-agony that contact immediately provoked, her body clutching and shuddering above his. He tried to focus on maintaining the pressure and continuing to thrust through her spasms until he couldn't manage to hold off any longer, coming in desperate, throaty groans that made him feel like he might have been in danger of blacking out.