It was close to noon by the time James heard the familiar thump-step in the hall. House was up finally, and probably not too happy about it. Coffee would be needed no doubt, along with copious amounts of food. The brew he'd have on hand, but House would be ready to rip his head off anyway. James busied himself with the familiar process, aware House was by now standing in the door, watching him. He poured beans into the coffee grinder he had given his friend two Christmasses ago. It didn't look like it had been used much since. House appreciated good coffee, but he valued convenience more. He would use instant if he was out of ground rather than go to the trouble of grinding beans. Still, as long as James kept a supply of fresh beans around, he was sure to have quality coffee whenever he stayed over at the apartment. Keeping his back to the door, he spooned the perfectly ground coffee into the French press, then poured over water just off the boil. He could feel House's eyes boring into his back.

"Coffee's nearly done. Why don't you sit down and I'll bring it over when it's ready?" James put two mugs on the counter and went to get milk from the fridge.

"You really think I'll ever again let you prepare a drink for me without watching every move you make." House sounded a little throaty, as he often did in the morning.

"Oh, come on. I owed you one, and you know it. You'll be safe after this."

"Until the next time." But House accepted the mug when it was handed to him. James added milk to his coffee and dumped in a couple of heaping teaspoons of sugar as well.

"I'll have to get you some vanilla bean sugar. It's fantastic." James stirred, took a taste, added another spoonful. "Gives it this nice mellow . . ." He paused as the little niggle of comprehension from the day before burst into full bloom in his mind. "Oh my god."

"Hey, I didn't touch that frou-frou sugar–didn't even know you had it!" House backed up a bit.

"No, I–it's not that–" He turned to face the other man. "You got Cuddy to create Diagnostics for yourself."

There was a brief silence. "Expand on that," House said finally.

"Well–what else is there to say? You needed to find out exactly what happened to you. You said at the time there was no history of blood clots or clotting problems on either side of your family. I–I guess you mean your real dad . . .?" James stopped. "So–you know who he is, like–one hundred per cent know?"

House looked away. "I'm not even dressed yet and you come out swinging for a home run."

"You brought this on yourself by never talking about it–"

"Maybe I didn't want to talk about it." House sounded angry now, but there was a subtle note of something else in his voice, some emotion James couldn't quite figure out. "That never occurred to you, apparently."

"Well, we're doing that now. Might as well get it out in the open." James sipped his coffee and waited. House turned away and limped into the living room.

They were both seated on the couch when House spoke again. "I didn't ask Cuddy. She . . . offered it to me. It was her way of trying to make things right for what happened, probably. At the time it seemed like a . . . a way forward, more or less. And it was a job."

"And you got two solutions in one," James said quietly. "More like three, actually. You could work on your own diagnosis, earn a paycheck while doing it, and also have all the puzzles you could possibly want at your fingertips."

House stared down at his mug. "Thought you would have had this aha moment a long time ago."

"But she didn't offer you Diagnostics. It didn't exist before you came along. You . . . you guilt-tripped her into creating a department you needed, knowing it would benefit other patients." Wilson set his mug on the coffee table. "Aside from slapping Cuddy with her own concern for you, that's almost altruistic."

"Bite your tongue." House took a swallow of coffee and eased back into the couch. "Puzzles, remember."

"And I never saw any of this." James felt a little sick. "All this time." He hesitated. "Have you . . . did you . . .ever find out what caused the blood clot?"

"Nothing's turned up." That elusive emotion was back, but now James could identify it: bitterness, alloyed with despair. "I . . . I run tests again now and then, just to compare . . ."

"'People don't get what they deserve, they get what they get.'" James waited. After a moment one corner of House's mouth quirked up a bit.

"True enough."

"Well, for what it's worth, you have the Oncology test lab at your disposal." James saw the smile widen. "You–you've already–jesus, you poached my own lab people?!"

"That cute little tech who runs everything really likes free cookies from Insomnia."

"So that's where that bill came from!" James had to laugh. "I spent weeks chasing it down and never found out . . ."

"...not quite on my level, as I said."

"So you remember that part of last night's conversation but conveniently forgot that I dosed you. Right."

"Oh, don't worry. I won't forget." House's eyes narrowed. "You said you took some too. You lied."

"You sound surprised. Everybody lies."

"You're enjoying turning my own words against me." House scrubbed a hand over his bristly chin. "Some breakfast would taste good about now."

"If you're hinting broadly that you'd like more of those pancakes, that could be arranged." James picked up his mug. "Any games on today? I guess we can check the schedule."

"Haven't you had enough of games?" House said it almost jokingly, but James understood the double meaning.

"This isn't a game to me, House. I don't know why you think it is." He set his mug down again. "I wish you'd let me help."

"And I wish you'd stick to watching people die. I'm not that far gone yet."

Sometimes House's barbs hurt even when he could see them coming. James decided to go all-in anyway. "I know that you know that most of my patients . . . actually they don't die. Many of them lead long and healthy lives until, yes, they reach the end of their lives. Like we all do. You choose to ignore the fact that I do more than watch people die. And while we're on the subject," James knew he had to keep talking and talk fast because he could tell House was gearing up for another scathing comeback, "you know that when I say palliative care, it doesn't mean the patient is dying. You're one of the smartest people . . . I–I don't need to explain the terminology to you. You're running your own palliative regimen - and you shouldn't have to. There's a reason why it's an interdisciplinary effort. You don't have to do this on your own. You shouldn't do this on your own." Wilson took a deep breath. "I'm your friend, House. You said there is no we. But there is when it suits you. You use me for crap like doing your laundry and cleaning your kitchen. Use me for the one thing I'm actually good at."

It was early in the day, too early to spring something like this on someone who had never been at his best in the mornings. But maybe this needed an element of surprise.

"Did you rehearse your little monologue while I was out cold?"

James almost smiled. "There's nothing to rehearse. I'm offering you my database of people who might be able to help. It's on you to decide if you want to work with them. Do your research," he gestured with his mug, "ask a thousand questions, alienate as many other doctors as you like till you find someone you can stand. Your choice."

House studied him for a few moments. Then he gave a sort of nod. "'Kay."

James hid his relief. "Good. Pancakes in ten minutes." He waited. The reply wasn't long in coming.

"You never finished vacuuming."

"Uh . . . you–you need a new model. The one you've got is old and a pain in the ass to use–don't start," he warned as House chuckled. "I'm not talking about your only friend, you know."

"I'll look into it. Maybe you should let someone else clean up for a change. And sit with your stage 4 patients as well." House gave him a brief glance. "It's not always on you to take care of everyone."

James didn't speak for a moment. "If I don't do it, no one else will."

"Now there you're wrong." House tilted his head a bit. "Cuddy does make sure you have minions. And if you're ever stuck, I can always send over Cameron." He smiled slightly at James's snort. "She loves that kind of thing almost as much as you do. And it would get her out of my office more often." His smile faded. "You're not the last resort for everyone. Stop acting like you have no other purpose in life. It's annoying as fuck." He got to his feet slowly and reached for his cane. "We need more coffee."

"Okay. I'll get breakfast started."

House said nothing, just stumped out of the living room and down the hallway. James sighed and went to the kitchen. So much for advice about letting someone else do things. People always said that, but never followed through.

He'd just added water to the coffeemaker when he heard the vacuum start up in the other room. It ran for a few seconds, then spluttered to a stop.

"Dammit, you piece of shit . . . Wilson! I need a new vacuum cleaner!"

James choked back a laugh. "Yeah, you do."

"Thanks SO much for telling me about it, jerk."

"I don't like to say I told you so, but I did. Five minutes ago."

House appeared in the doorway. "Uh huh. Stop being a smart-ass and get those pancakes right this time. They need more orange zest."

James chuckled. "I can follow a recipe." He paused. "What do you mean, 'right'?"

"Just what I said." House sounded far too innocent.

"How would you know . . . wait. Wait a minute. You–you're the one who sent me that recipe, aren't you?"

House actually chuckled. "Took you long enough. I emailed you two years ago."

James sighed. Set up again, and he'd completely missed it. Typical. "Fine, gloat all you like. The bigger question is, can the great Dr House vacuum a room?"

"He could if he wasn't stuck with such shoddy equipment." House sounded disgusted, but James knew it was mostly for show.

"Maybe you should see Walker in urology about that."

"Haha, you're hilarious. Just for that, I'll empty the bag on the couch and you'll have to sleep on the floor by the fireplace, in the ashes."

"I'm not Cinderella, House. Get busy."

House straightened and limped away. There was no reply, but after a few moments, the vacuum came to life once more. This time it stayed on. Wilson smiled and turned to the cupboard. House was doing a chore and allowing him the last word . . . a silent admission that Wilson was right in his assessment. He'd savor every moment.

I hear your footsteps in the street

It won't be long before we meet

It's obvious

Just count me in and count me out and

I'll be waiting for the shout

Oblivious