Disclaimer: I do not own House MD or any of the characters, but I sure as hell wouldn't mind owning Hugh Laurie!

A/N: Hi, guys! So, here's chapter 17 (when did I get to 17?!) … I know I promised Huddyness in this one, and I guess towards the end it builds up to it, but … See, I fully intended to have this as a really Huddy chapter … but then I started writing it and realised that I'd have to split it into two chapters … much like "House's head" and "Wilson's heart" … although I'd probably call these next two chapters "House's head" and "House's heart" … On the upside, the next chapters is already written and ready to be posted, so as soon as you guys read this and review (:D) I'll post it and give you all … more or less … what you've been looking for :D

Thank you so much for your lovely reviews, I'm so happy so many of you are liking this :D


Enjoy!

When House finally arrived at PPTH, he parked his bike and limped to his office, hoping to have a fresh new puzzle to start working on. Anything to keep his mind of that odd feeling in his gut. The one he was sure was guilt.

"What do we have?" he asked Foreman, Thirteen, Taub and Kutner as he entered the room.

As the four exchanged looks, House inwardly cursed, he wasn't going to like this.

"Well, we're still waiting for the results. White count is elevated, and we're running an ANA, but we're pretty sure it's autoimmune" said Thirteen as Kutner nodded, Taub looked at Foreman and Foreman looked at House, sensing a yelling session coming on.

"So, basically you have nothing different than you did when you called me half an hour ago?" asked House, his anger growing. Greg was getting his say in this, and he wasn't happy at all! "You dragged me here, at night, for a case that we have nothing on?" he asked looking around at one of his old ducklings and all the new ones "You keep wanting to be the boss, acting like one, well why the hell can't you deal with this on your own?" he asked shouting directly at Foreman. He did have a point there.

Without another word, House limped into his office and, closing the blinds, sat on his trusted yellow chair.

This wasn't going to work. The security light reminded him of how her legs looked in it. The light of the phone reminded him of all the times she called to yell at him. There was no escaping the woman, not when her sent was mingled in the very fibres of your clothes and the taste of her lips still lingered on yours. Oh no, as soon as House realised the puzzle was going to take a little longer to solve, he metaphorically sat back down, and Greg took the opportunity to make some sort of stance.

"Where are you going?" asked Thirteen as she saw House walk past their common room in his leather jacket, his backpack on his back.

"Home. Don't call me until well after 10!" he yelled back limping away.

"What now?" asked Kutner in a voice that one would usually attribute to a lost puppy in some adorable cartoon.

Everyone merely shrugged and looked at Foreman their now, not-so-fearless leader.

House's house was nothing like Cuddy's. On a normal day, he'd claim that it was a much better place. But now, the high of the puzzle gone, he wasn't so sure. Of course, he was a big fan of the big empty place. No one to bother him, everything chaotic but in its own strange way organized, his Vicodin reachable at all and every points of the place. It was his little piece of heaven, the one place where House could be House, or Greg could be Greg. But tonight, he felt that it was lacking, something.

And Greg being Greg right now wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to sleep, because in sleep, both Greg and House finally shut up and the tired body and brain could relax, all and any dreams numbed by the power of the Vicodin.

It was exactly what he wanted. Two Vicodin and a bed. Nothing more nothing less. Well, not in that precise moment, anyway.

But sleep didn't come easy either.

He'd dropped his cane at the entrance and limped through the whole process of dressing. White t-shirt was easy enough to put on. Right arm, left arm, over the head. Simple. The trousers, not so simple. Without a cane, and unwilling to, even when alone, use objects to clasp onto, he made the decision to dress on the spot. Right leg up. Painful but tolerable. One pant leg on. Light left leg up. Fall forwards. He cursed as he clung onto the bed.

He hated his leg. He hated that he couldn't use it, that it made him a cripple, that it constantly reminded him of her, the woman who had taken the muscle away, the one who had been in the OR and the one that he hadn't driven away after it happened.

And then the thought struck him as he turned around to lean on the bed and pull the pants finally up. Fathers were supposed to toss footballs with their sons, run around and have a good time, they were supposed to take their daughters to ballet lessons and walk them into school in the mornings. What kind of kid would want him to do any of that? Firstly, he wouldn't be able to play around with a son like other fathers, and he certainly wouldn't be the kind of man that a little girl would want to present to her friends. He just wasn't fit for it. He knew it. He accepted it. So why the hell was he so disturbed by it? Why did he constantly think about what it would be like if he weren't that guy?

Climbing backwards onto his bed, House pulled the covers over himself and focused on sleeping. It wasn't really something you had to 'focus' on, not really. It actually more or less required a lack of focus. That could be the reason why he didn't sleep. Sleep always had a way of escaping when you willed it to come. It was another of those things in life that you just learn to accept.

But he had a feeling that this time, it was something else keeping the sleep away. Even with the Vicodin numbing him, even with his rationalisations, he still felt it. He still missed her, and wanted her, and needed her. He missed seeing her sitting behind a huge belly; he missed the rare moments where he actually felt his child kick. He really did.

After what could have been a minute, 15, and hour or eternity, House gave up on sleep. It just wasn't going to happen; he had to just accept it. Move on to the next best thing. Music.

He limped to his piano and laid his fingers on the keys. They were so perfect, pearly white and shiny black. Perfectly tuned, perfectly shaped. Flawless. Unlike him. Keys never lied. You pressed one, and you knew what sound you would get. Humans were different. They always lied, you never knew what to expect with them. That's why he didn't like them. They were volatile, changing. He hated change.

The first notes filled the room and he closed his eyes, letting his fingers glide over the keys, not even registering what notes he was playing. But they were so perfect, so right. So …

He knew the words, they filled his mind but, like so many others, failed to escape his lips.

In every heart there is a room
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along

I spoke to you in cautious tones
You answered me with no pretence
And still I feel I said too much
My silence is my self defence

And every time I've held a rose
It seems I only felt the thorns
And so it goes, and so it goes
And so will you soon I suppose

The piano was depressing him. It was beautiful, pure. Too pure, too truthful. He didn't need it's blunt accusations, it perfect truths and its beautiful tones. He needed something different, something … he spotted his guitar.

That was different, it was a mixture of sounds creating one, like his feelings. That was perfect. He picked it up as he sat on the piano stool. Tuning it, turning the knobs slightly as he leaned his head to the left and closed his eyes.

He wouldn't go over there, he decided as he changed from the E string to the B string. He wasn't going to go over there and start all this again. He couldn't bear to hurt her anymore. He couldn't bear to make himself live with it anymore. Sooner or later, he'd have to make a decision. And he was scared of the one House would impose on him, he was too aware of his power over Greg. He was too aware that, if he kept caring and analysing, he'd end up doing something he'd regret, even if it was what he wanted to do. Or at least, what he thought he wanted to do.

As he reached the final E string and tuned it almost to perfection, he promised it to himself. He wasn't going to hurt her anymore, because he couldn't take the effect that it had on him. He'd leave her alone, let her have their baby, watch her raise the child to its great potential, and love them both from a distance. It was the best for all involved. Well, at least it was the best for Cuddy and the baby. And, at that moment, House heard some small voice inside of him yell "women and children first". Yes. And the captain goes down with the ship. He was willing to live with it. It was the order of things. It was how they happened, no arbitrariness, no randomness. This, he could understand.

His fingers strummed chords as the others found the right spaces and soon, he was giving up on the guitar just like he had the piano. He had always thought music was the one great escape, the one perfect way of secluding yourself in a world where anything you wanted could happen. Where you're on a highway to hell, smoke on the water all around you and some hotel in California ready to take you in. But right now, he was realising that, it wasn't all as perfect as it seemed. 'Living easy' and 'living free', not needing 'reason or rhyme', with no one to 'slow you down' seemed great, but at some point the smoke was going to cloud your eyes and you'd realise that that hotel was a trap, it 'could be heaven or it could be hell' and you could 'check out any time you liked, but you could never leave'.

Resisting the urge to smash something, House put the guitar down at his feet and looked at the cabinet behind the piano where he had his trusted stash of Scotch whisky. His trusted friend. Sleep had failed, piano had failed, guitar had failed, maybe a little bit of scotch with the Vicodin would succeed. Maybe.

Just as he was about to get up, he heard the phone ring next to the couch, for a few instants, he considered ignoring it, it was probably just Foreman, but then again, maybe yelling at Foreman would help ease his mind a little.

"What?" he asked harshly as he held the receiver to his ear, standing up, still determined to get his scotch.

But he stopped half way there as he heard a sob on the other side. And not just any sob either, a female sob, her sob.

"House?" came her voice from the phone. He felt his grip tighten around it. So much for forgetting all about her "House?!" she almost shouted "Are you there?"

Regaining the power of speech, he cleared his throat and answered "Yea, I'm here"

On the other end, House just heard Cuddy break down further.

"What's wrong?" he asked in a soft voice, something he didn't really recognize in himself and something he was sure Cuddy would have found strange, had she been in a state to find anything anything.

From that point on, House wasn't sure what Cuddy had said. Between the crying, he'd caught only snippets of the conversation. But what he did catch had him worried. Sure, he'd promised himself to stay away, but when the woman you loved more than your own cane called you in a panic, crying about the baby she was carrying, a baby that just so happened to be yours, there was no promise strong enough to keep you back. At least that's what House found out as he told her he'd be right there and ran/limped out the door.

TBC

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