A/N: Thanks everyone so much for your lovely comments. Sorry I haven't been able to reply personally as I would like to, life has been a little hectic recently. We're getting very, very close to the end! Short chapter, but I will post again shortly.

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Five days later, Kitty walked back into her apartment. House carried her small bag and she walked gingerly, her ribs still sore and aching.

"I can't wait to sleep in my own bed," Kitty said, genuinely excited by something so simple. "Those plastic sheets on hospital beds are all crunchy and uncomfortable."

"Would you prefer they didn't have them? Knowing that the last patient who slept there might have—"

Kitty held up a hand to stop him. "Please, don't continue. You're right, but I like being able to complain."

"Are you going to bed, or what?" House asked, taking a step toward the bedroom.

Kitty shook her head. "No. I'd like to just sit on the couch for a while, have a coffee and feel normal."

House shrugged. "Okay." He headed down to the bedroom to dump her bag.

Kitty had no sooner sunk down into the cushions when there was a knock at the door. She groaned, not wanting to get up to answer it. Apart from her ribs she felt fine, but tired and weak. She figured the weakness was more than likely from the unnecessarily extended bed rest that her doctor had insisted on. Not without some serious persuasion from the constantly interfering Dr House, Kitty suspected.

"Greg, can you get that?" Kitty called out.

House appeared looking grumpy. "What did your last slave die of?"

"Too much sex," Kitty quipped.

House rolled his eyes, but gave her a little grin.

When he opened the door, Kitty could barely see the delivery guy through a massive arrangement of flowers. House searched his wallet for a tip and asked the guy to bring them in and put them on the table – they were too big for House to hold in one hand. After the door closed behind him, House let out a low whistle.

"Someone loves you. And it's not me."

"You do love me. You just wouldn't spend a ridiculous amount of money on flowers." House gave her a smile that let her know she was right. "Who sent them?"

He searched for the card and pulled it out, frowning when he read the name.

"Who is it?"

House looked for a moment as if he might not tell her, but then he brightened up, a smile plastered over his face. "Princeton Plainsboro. Cuddy's guilt knows no bounds." He crumpled up the card and tossed it in the trash in the kitchen.

"It's not her fault. I've told her that a million times," Kitty said. She sighed. It was no one's fault except a deranged woman who now resided in a mental facility getting the care she needed. Despite how unpleasant Miranda had been to her – despite the fact that she'd tried to kill her – Kitty couldn't find it in herself to hate the other woman.

House made them both coffees and they sat on the sofa to watch TV. Thanks to Cuddy's generosity – or guilt – he didn't have to go back to work until Monday, so she had another three days of him with her at home. So far so good, but Kitty knew domestics weren't House's strength. She wondered how long it would be before he started to get restless.

As it turned out it was less than an hour.

"I need to go back to my place," House said abruptly after he'd played with the television remote for ten minutes without settling on anything.

Kitty nodded. She knew he needed space. They hadn't discussed marriage since the fund raiser and Kitty was starting to wonder if she'd imagined it. House had been surprisingly patient and caring while she'd been in hospital, keeping his temper in check and even curbing his sharp tongue around the nurses who took care of her. After that first day he hadn't been with her twenty-four seven, but at the minimum he'd come to see her three times a day: each morning when he came into work, sometime mid-afternoon and then he'd spend a few hours with her before she went to sleep at night. When no one else was watching – and often when he thought she was asleep – he would stroke her hair, or press a kiss to her hand, or run his finger down her cheek. But she knew at heart he was a loner. She didn't mind, she knew it was one of the things she'd have to accept about him if they were going to make thing work between them. But she couldn't help wondering if her heart attack, her sudden unplanned neediness, had changed his mind about them having a future together.

"No problem," she said, trying to sound breezy. "You go. I can take care of myself here. I'll probably take a nap and I've got some soup frozen in the freezer. Then I'll just take myself off to bed. Maybe you could come back tomorrow?"

He frowned and a funny expression crossed his face. He shrugged. "Yeah, okay." He picked up his jacket from where he'd thrown it over one of the sofas. "Anything you need me to bring?"

Kitty shook her head. She had a funny feeling something important had just happened, but she wasn't sure what. Watching him pick up his jacket made her feel suddenly teary, and she gave herself a mental slap. So what if she was going to be on her own on her first night out of hospital? It was how she'd managed for most of her life. It wasn't like she was incapacitated, she was just a little weak. She could walk, go to the toilet, make herself food. She didn't really need him to stay.

But oh God, she wanted him to stay.

"Right then." He gave her a curt nod, turned on his heel and left, shutting the door hard behind him.

Kitty felt a tear well over the edge and roll down her cheek. He hadn't even kissed her goodbye.

She sat for a while feeling sorry for herself before picking up their empty coffee mugs and taking them back into the kitchen. She thought for a moment about calling Steve Grosvenor, but he and his wife had already done so much for her. Apart from House they'd been her most regular visitors, popping in with flowers and little treats like the dark-chocolate Sees candies that were her favourite.

Kitty glanced at the trash can and noticed the crumpled white card from the flowers sitting on top. Without knowing exactly why, she reached in and pulled out it, straightening it so she could open it again to read the message inside.

With our best wishes for a speedy recovery, Seth Bannister and the staff at Bannister McKinnon.

Why would Andrew's lawyers be sending her flowers? And why would House lie about who sent them?

Just as the thought crossed her mind, there was another knock at the door. Kitty's heart soared: he'd come back.

"Just a minute," she called out, gingerly making her way over to the door, knowing she had a goofy smile on her face. "We really need to get you a key if you . . ." Her words trailed off as she opened the door. It wasn't him.

-

-

House was in a foul mood by the time he got back to his apartment. He wasn't sure if he was angry with Kitty, with himself, or the world in general. He slammed the door hard, pretty sure he was angry with it.

He'd been all ready to share his life with Kitty. Fuck, he'd asked her to marry him. But she didn't even need him when she was an invalid. She'd sent him away without so much as a second thought. He'd just needed to pick up some clothes, but otherwise he'd planned to spend the next few days with her, making sure she was okay, taking care of her in his own way. Although he knew it would probably be chaste for a while until she got her strength back, he had been looking forward to sleeping next to her again for the first time in nearly a week; feeling her body next to his; sleeping deeply the way he'd discovered he only did when she was there.

But now every instinct he had screamed at him to run, to push her away before she could finish the job and get rid of him for good. Just like with Stacy. He'd seen in her eyes that it was too much, that she was going to go. He'd pushed and pushed until she had no choice because at the time he hadn't had the strength to tell her to go. This time was different. It was time to get rid of Kitty – be the dumper before she had the chance to make him the dumpee.

Why then, did the very thought of doing so make his stomach flip over?

It was all so illogical and irrational.

He poured himself a shot of bourbon, the liquid sloshing over the side of the glass in his irritation. He downed it in one.

House didn't do illogical or irrational.

It was irrational for a woman who'd had a heart attack six days ago, her life threatened by attempted murder, to want to be on her own so soon. It was illogical for House, a doctor, to let someone in a weakened condition spend their first night out of hospital alone.

So logically, rationally, it made sense for him to pack his clothes as he'd originally intended, pick up some takeout, and go back to her place. Purely to ensure that she didn't do anything to set back her recovery and so that someone was there in case she suffered some kind of unforeseen complication.

House headed into the bedroom, opening drawers and pulling out random handfuls of t-shirts and underwear. He grabbed a gym bag and began stuffing it full.

It was logical and rational.

He was really glad he'd made an argument that made sense. Because otherwise, running back to her in spite of her rejection might make him look like he was pathetically in love.