A/N: A short update in honor, sigh, of work being out for the first few hours this morning. Music week is going wonderfully, though. Reviews are virtual bucks to the author.

(H/C)

House sat at the piano, not playing, just sitting there, one hand touching the keyboard. Just last night, he had sat here playing the piano with his mother listening. Not even 24 hours ago. He tried to remember what the last thing she had said to him was. She had wished him good night. As many times as he replayed the evening, tried to study her for physical clues, looked for any indication in her behavior that she was feeling off, he couldn't find anything. After the session, once Jensen had enforced the halt, they had all had a peaceful evening, and there was nothing in the two hours between then and going to bed that stood out.

But should there have been? Was there something there that he hadn't noticed?

That last session. No escaping the fact that Jensen had tried to call time before it ended, and House had steamrollered over him and kept going. Was that the fatal minute there, the straw that broke the camel's back? Or the hot tub later? Or a combination? Or was it cumulative effect just over those two days? How could he have forgotten to take her age into account? He had felt utterly exhausted himself last night by the time he went to bed. What had she been feeling like? He should have gotten back up to check on her and ask.

He looked at his watch. The girls had finally gone down for their afternoon naps, although they both had been extremely reluctant to go to sleep, probably picking up on the turmoil of the day, and it had taken over an hour before they truly fell asleep about 2:00. He had been worried for a while that they wouldn't be asleep by the time he would have to leave, adding two more people to ask him questions. It was going to be hard enough to get away already. The ME's office had called him back earlier, and while he had kept his side of the conversation brief and ambiguous, he had learned that they were putting a rush on Blythe's case as a courtesy to him. The autopsy was scheduled at 3:30, and they had promised him at least preliminary results by the end of today.

He had no intention of waiting to get them.

House stood up casually, or at least tried to. Damned leg. Four sets of eyes, including Belle's, immediately zeroed in on him, and all conversation fell apart in mid sentence. Wilson and Sandra had been trying hard to talk on general subjects today, offering a distraction unless the other two seemed to want to talk about Blythe at any given moment. Cuddy herself looked in shock. House hadn't even looked in the mirror to see what he looked like. He could guess. Now he had to slip out in front of the assembled babysitters somehow. "I'm going for a drive," he announced. "Just need to think a little."

Cuddy hit her feet like a jack-in-the-box, and he couldn't suppress the stab of envy that ran through him any time he saw somebody jump up like that. "Great idea. I'll join you."

"I was going to take the bike," he countered. He hadn't been, actually. Not only was it snowy and cold, but his leg was already giving him hell.

Her eyes flickered toward his thigh for just a second, then came back to lock onto his. She had her stubborn look on, but he could almost hear the mental effort. Back six months ago at her meltdown, she had converted her stress and concern for him into unintentionally sharp comments about his leg. Now, she was almost visibly trying to avoid doing the same thing. She was silent for a moment, scrambling, filtering, and then she played her ace. "I'll ride along with you, then."

Annoyed respect flooded through him. Riding double was a little harder to balance even with a cooperative partner. There was no way he would risk her at it while his leg was hurting as much as it was right now. Even riding solo would have been harder than usual, and the cold air and exposure would only make things worse every mile. In one short reply, she had him over a barrel. "Just go ahead and say what you're thinking," he snapped. "The poor cripple isn't up to it today."

She flinched, and he felt bad for pushing her to the statement she had been trying so hard to avoid. She didn't back down, though. "All right, I will say what I'm thinking. I don't know what you're up to, Greg, but it isn't just taking a drive. But whatever it is, you're not going to do it alone."

"I'm just going out for a little while to think," he lied. "I'll be back before too long."

"I'm not stopping you." She put on her coat and offered him his. "But I am going with you. Wilson and Sandra can stay here with the girls."

House looked at his watch again. Damn it, he really needed to get going to be there in time. "You didn't make the bed this morning," he said, hoping to distract her with something undone. Not that he really thought that would work.

Sandra and Wilson had been watching this whole exchange with concerned interest, and now Wilson came to his feet, the smooth motion again drawing House's attention. "I'll make it. Go ahead, you two. Have a nice drive."

House gave him a wounded look. "You're supposed to be on my side, damn it."

"I am," Wilson insisted. "And she's right." He also made a mental note to tidy up the guest room where Blythe had died while they were gone, not only making the bed but completely changing the sheets, trying to remove any visible reminders.

House growled under his breath and pushed on to the door, pointedly not taking his offered coat. Of course, Cuddy was far faster than he was, and she easily caught up with him just outside the door and put the coat over his shoulders anyway. She hesitated at him taking the wheel but decided to let that go, though she was watching him closely. House backed his car out and hit the road, still annoyed. Cuddy was silent. She did turn the heater up in the car, and slowly, as they drove, the air around them warmed. House almost resented it, even though his leg was grateful. Things should be cold today.

Cuddy held her silence all through the drive through the city until he parked at the official lab where the ME's offices and facilities were located. Then the sign on the building connected in her mind, and her hard-held silence shattered. "Hell, no. You are not going to watch the autopsy."

He looked at his watch - 3:20 - and stiffly exited the car, not wasting time arguing, simply starting to limp toward the building on leaden feet. Cuddy caught up and physically blocked him that time, putting herself firmly between him and the lab. "No, Greg."

He could feel his whole body shaking the closer he got, and he knew it wasn't from the cold. "Get out of the way." She didn't budge. "I need to do this, Lisa. I have to know why."

"No, that's not what this is about. You're going to know why, Greg. They'll take care of that. But right now, you're just trying to punish yourself. You don't really want to do this; you just think you ought to make yourself do it to really see what you've done or something like that. It wasn't your fault, Greg."

"So now you're omniscient, too? Shame your perfect insight only works with other people." He tried to dodge. "Get the hell out of my way!"

She moved back in front of him, and this time, instead of just blocking, she seized him, embracing him tightly, not caring for once what the public might think. He fought her for a moment, but there was no strength in him. She could feel the tremors running through his body. "Easy, Greg," she said softly. "I'm here."

He leaned into her, even while putting up a token resistance. "I need to know," he repeated, mumbling the words into the top of her hair.

"You will. But not in person; that's too much."

At that moment, her cell phone rang. She cautiously released him with one arm, though he didn't seem to be going anywhere now. He was still trembling. She answered. "Wilson? What's wrong?"

House stepped back, his head jerking up, and she saw the naked fear in his eyes. His attention totally left the building behind her. "We're . . . we'll come back. Yes, straight back. About 20 minutes." She thrust the phone at House. "Here, try to talk to them, Greg. The girls are freaking out, and they won't calm down at all."

He took the phone quickly. "Wilson? Let me talk to them." Freaking out wasn't an exaggeration; he could hear them in the background in another room along with Sandra's inadequate efforts at reassurance. They had woken up to find both parents unexpectedly missing. Wilson walked to them quickly and tried to hand off the phone. "Abby? Rachel? It's okay, girls. We're fine. Nothing's wrong. We're coming home." He wasn't sure they could even hear him over the cries. He was barely aware of Cuddy steering him back toward the car to the passenger's seat and buckling him in. He kept trying to reach them, but they were still crying as she pulled into the driveway 15 minutes later. She left him behind for his slow exit and ran on to the door herself.

By the time House got there at a faster limp than he would have thought possible, they were both locked onto her, still crying, obviously terrified. He joined the group hug, holding them tightly. "We're here. We're fine," he murmured.

It was five minutes before the sobs had calmed down enough that the girls could talk. Rachel was the first to speak; Abby was still buried in his shoulder. "You not dead?" she asked. "Go away and not ever come back. Like Gramma."

House and Cuddy looked at each other with mutual dread. As if the day had needed one, they obviously had added another problem.