A/N: Hello, readers. I hope everyone's Christmas was as enjoyable as mine was, whether you had it with friends or family. Here's the next update, and Jensen returns next chapter. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

House sat in the rocker watching his family.

The girls were slowly settling down as the day wore on, but the looks were still there, those quick visual checks whenever he and Cuddy came out of a room or came back inside from five minutes on the porch. Marina had been talking to them quietly a few times, too. He had no idea what she was saying, but it seemed to be helping. Marina had said nothing verbally to him, though he was cringing waiting for the trite words, but she had been hovering instead whenever she had an opportunity, making one of his favorites for lunch, bringing him coffee just as he liked it. Cuddy had obviously honored his request, and Marina didn't know that she was going to be babysitting for several days in a few. But the pure sympathy in her eyes was almost suffocating.

Here she came again, tiptoeing down the hall and peering around the doorway of the nursery. They had managed to get the girls down for a nap in their own beds but only by promising to be right here in the same room, and even then, sleep was longer than usual coming. House had sat down in the rocking chair, and Cuddy had sat carefully in his lap, her weight across his good leg. Afraid to disturb the girls, they were silent, and by the time Rachel and Abby were finally deeply asleep, Cuddy had drifted off herself, her head drooping over against his shoulder. Marina, now struck with this scene, gave one of those female isn't that so sweet smiles, and House scowled at her. She turned away, still smiling, and tiptoed back down the hall. At least she didn't take a picture.

He looked from his girls to his wife. All of them seemed too tired, sleeping almost desperately now that they had succumbed. Stress lines were visible on Cuddy's face, and he wondered how much sleep she had gotten last night. He shouldn't have knocked himself out, and he would have been able to help more. On the other hand, he knew that that bastard John would have crept into his dreams if allowed. John was almost hovering over his shoulder at times when he was awake right now; he would never have missed the chance in sleep. The girls didn't need to be scared even more by their father's nightmares.

John. House shivered as the old promise echoed. It will be your fault. In the end, John hadn't been the one to kill her after all; House had taken a hand in that himself. But so had she, concealing symptoms, ignoring her doctor's advice. He should have put her through a thorough review of systems himself before they even started those sessions. He had known she was 75.

As was Thornton. How much time did he have left?

House dodged that thought and ran straight back into the memories of John. The funeral. His stomach twisted into a knot. He knew he had to go, that he owed her that, but he hoped he wouldn't manage to ruin things. John's funeral was the only one he had ever managed to attend most of, and the memories and predictions then had been held off partly by the resentment at his captivity and partly by novelty. Once forced to go, once he had to walk through that door into the room with no possible escape left, he had focused firmly on the experience of seeing John dead. Actually dead, powerless, lying there like anyone else dead would. His heart wasn't beating, his blood not circulating. His hands were folded quietly and would never again reach out for Greg. His mouth was silenced. House had run through all the medical facts of death, but even so, he had been trembling a little as he reached for John's earlobe to snip that piece off, and the annoyingly nonlogical part of him had just been waiting for John to erupt out of the casket and accost him in front of them all.

But Blythe's funeral. There would be no take that, you bastard satisfaction to help keep the predictions at bay, no sense of ultimate victory. No, that really would be a funeral, like most people went to one. How on earth did they do it, face a loved one and know that this was the last time to ever see them, ever? Even without the guilt, he couldn't imagine how the process could ever help anybody. They called that closure? Closure was when the lid on the casket banged down, and the only meaning was that it was all over and couldn't be fixed. He had to get through it somehow, though. He just hoped he wouldn't make that predicted fatal (his mind couldn't help pointing out the irony of the word) mistake and ruin it for everyone there, all of them looking at him, pitying and laughing in turn, instead of at Blythe.

If he did, at least his girls wouldn't have to see it. They didn't need to see Blythe lying frozen and still in her casket, either. No, they were far better off here, safe with Marina. The nanny had asked when the funeral was this morning on first being told the news, and Cuddy had simply told her it wasn't arranged yet. Marina had accepted that with one of those painfully sympathetic looks at House.

Arranging the funeral. What was Thornton trying to do here? House had made it clear that he wouldn't get to meet the girls this way, and the other man hadn't even wavered on his offer. Did he just want to see House himself? Was he really that desperate? House wondered if the offer would have disappeared if he had said that he himself wouldn't come.

He had to come. And that meant facing Blythe's funeral, and seeing Thornton again, and facing John. He knew that John would be there in memory even if not physically. He wouldn't be able to escape him. Thornton at least wouldn't be as hard to face as the other two. House's breathing was accelerating a little as he thought of John and that funeral, and his muscles were tightening up. One muscle led the charge, of course. His damned leg was beginning to threaten to cramp, and he knew he'd been sitting still as long as he safely could.

House tried shifting position subtly, not disturbing Cuddy, and of course, it didn't work. She woke up immediately. "Greg? What's wrong?"

He would have gladly lied, but she would know in a minute anyway. "Leg. I just needed to move a little."

Guilt flashed across her face, and she immediately jumped up, turning to kneel on the floor. She reached for his thigh, and he automatically turned a little in the chair to give her better access. Her magical hands with their uncanny gift for chasing out the worst of the pain. Her loving hands. To him, the second quality still amazed him more, that she could touch something as ugly as that crater in his leg with love. The spasm averted, she stood up again and put her hand on his shoulder. It was almost as tense as the leg, even if not spasming. "Greg," she started, and her cell phone rang.

She pulled it out, and House knew immediately who it was from the relief mixed with tension on her face, followed by the quick glance toward him. She answered. "Hello?"

In the next moment, tension kicked relief clear off the field. Something new, something even she hadn't thought of yet, another complication. House steeled himself. Thornton was backing out, running away, wouldn't arrange things after all, and she would be stuck with all of it, because House himself would never be able to do it. "Mmph. That's a tough one." Yes, it is, he echoed silently. I'm sorry, Lisa.

Thornton said something else, and she sighed. "Just a minute. I really think I'd better ask him that." Ask him that? What was there to ask? Thornton had reconsidered. He couldn't blame his father, really, if he'd finally given up, on this funeral and on everything. "Greg? There's a double plot. She said once she wanted that, but that was before. Do you want your mother buried next to John or somewhere else totally?"

Relief flooded through him as he realized that Thornton really was setting things up and had not abandoned his self-assigned task. Immediately on its heels came the memories of John again. Should she be buried with him? Not that she would care; she was dead. Thornton must be trying to figure out which way would spare him, but nothing would spare him. John would be inescapable during the services, and whether it was this plot or one a hundred feet away would not change that in the least. He felt like yelling, really blazing away at Thornton's unwanted sympathy and futile efforts to make it easier on him, of all things (about 50 years too late for that effort, Dad), but he kept his voice down, trying not to wake the girls. "What the hell difference does it make where we bury her? It's all a hole in the ground, and it's not like they're going to be having dates or something down there. I don't care. Let him decide."

She read his tone flawlessly anyway, of course. "Okay." Turning away, she walked across the hall to the bedroom, taking the rest of the call privately. He stayed in the rocking chair, watching the girls. What a total train wreck of a week.

Cuddy came back after a few minutes. "The funeral is Monday at 10:30. Burial at 1:30, and she will be next to him." She was watching very closely, trying to read a reaction there, but he had none. As he'd said, it didn't make any difference. "The burial will be private."

That did get a reaction as relief returned. At least the crowd there to see his potential mistakes would be far less. If he could get through the funeral, the burial should be easier. "Thanks," he mumbled, looking down.

"That was his idea," she specified.

House sighed. "He's really doing it?"

"Yes, Greg. It's all arranged. He just wanted our input on that one question."

He shook his head, bewildered again. "Why?"

"He loves you."

He scowled and immediately changed the subject. "When they wake up, I want to go down to PPTH for a little while and check on Wilson." She looked at him first, then at them. Not only the girls' issues, but she wasn't sure he was safe out alone. "I don't need a babysitter," he snarled.

She touched his shoulder. "I'm not trying to be a babysitter, Greg. But I'm not sure that's a good idea yet. The girls are still too wired; even five minutes with us out on the porch is pushing it." He remained stubbornly silent. "We just got a victory getting them to nap in here. Let's not follow it up with another wreck. Why don't you just call Wilson instead?"

He was watching the girls again. "We have to try leaving. Really leaving, I mean. We have to do that to know."

She knew anyway. She thought he did, too, but he wasn't ready to face the fact yet. All she could do right now was try to minimize collateral damage while he came laboriously to his decision. "I know. We will try that, but please, not today. Please, Greg. I think having one day of purely good things, of us constantly here, will make that test a little easier." Which was true.

He shifted uneasily, then lurched to his feet. "Stay here with them. I'll call Wilson." He limped off to the bedroom.

House didn't stretch out on the bed this time. Instead, he walked a track around it, stretching his leg a little under Belle's annoying gaze. He punched speed dial two and looked at his watch. Why the hell hadn't Wilson already called anyway?

"I'm working on it, House." The oncologist didn't waste time with a salutation.

"It's about time. What have you been doing all day till now?"

"Seeing patients. Live patients."

House reached the end of his track again and made an annoyed turn. "You could have skipped lunch."

"I did skip lunch. That's when I did rounds. I'm just getting results now myself on the samples."

House stopped briefly. "What are those results?"

"Just finished looking at it in the lab for the third time. It's signet ring cell. Very rare to the appendix, more often stomach, which is why I reran it, but it was appendiceal primary with her. The ME sent over the appendix, several metastatic nodules from the peritoneal cavity, and also samples from normal-appearing sections of the stomach and intestines."

House closed his eyes. "That's a very aggressive one, isn't it?"

"Yes. Very aggressive, fast growing, resistant to chemotherapy. I doubt she had more than a year, even with treatment."

"You're sure it's signet ring cell?"

"You can't mistake that one, House. The whole reason they call it signet ring is how it looks under the microscope."

House resumed his limp pace. "I found a bottle of Pepto in her suitcase. Did you see that?"

"No, but I was just stuffing the clothes in and zipping it down quickly since I wasn't sure how long you'd be gone. Abdominal pain definitely could be a symptom, and lots of people mistake any abdominal pain for routine GI symptoms."

"She was complaining about that and fatigue to her doctor. He had just recommended further tests, including EKG and abdominal ultrasound, and she put it off until after Christmas."

Wilson sighed. "Patients are idiots sometimes. We all know that. So you called her doctor?"

"Yeah. He's out of town, but I've got an appointment next Wednesday afternoon with him in Lexington. I want to see that chart. I need to call her psychiatrist for an appointment, too. Meanwhile, how do we treat this?"

Wilson paused. "You do realize she's dead, don't you?"

House threw the cell phone across the room, Belle dodging quickly as it zipped past her over the bed. He quickly limped around to retrieve it, and his voice was scathing as he picked it back up. "I'd noticed that, moron, believe it or not. I was the one who found her." Finding her. He shivered, plunged again into remembering that room, and finally sat down on the bed.

"House? Are you okay?"

He blinked and focused. "Fine. How do we treat signet ring cell carcinoma?"

"We could try 5-FU, leucovoran, oxaliplatin and irinotecan. Maybe Avastin, too. But the prognosis wouldn't be good, House." Wilson hesitated. "I wanted to ask you something. Is it okay if I go to the funeral?"

House would appreciate having him there, and the request warmed his chilled soul a little. Of course, his tone didn't reflect that. "At least you're asking permission this time first instead of just forcing me to go." Silence. Guilt stabbed at him. "Yeah. Come on if you want. It's Monday at 10:30. I'll be there a few more days, because I've got the appointment Wednesday."

Wilson heard the genuine welcome behind the words that time. "All right. I'll come along, then. I'll do some more research on this cancer, see if anything new has come up. It is very rare. But with any patient with a resistant cancer who was already widely metastatic, we'd basically just be buying time." House didn't respond, and the oncologist switched subjects quickly. "Do you mind if we come over tonight?"

"Quit walking on eggshells, Wilson. I'm not going to break."

"Fine then. We're coming over once we get off work and pick up Daniel. If you don't like it, throw us out once we get there. How's that?"

House gave a faint smile. "Whether you get thrown out or not might depend on the food you bring."

"Chinese?"

"Hmm. Might at least take the sacks before throwing you out."

Wilson chuckled. "See you tonight, House." He hung up, and House sat on the bed for a while, scratching Belle's ears. Finally, he stood up and opened the door, walking back across to the nursery. The girls were still asleep, and he beckoned. Cuddy got up from the rocking chair and joined him in the doorway.

"Wilson wants to come to the funeral," he said. "Fills his need to be needed. Course, he'd be missing work. You're the boss."

She looked relieved, probably at the thought of a little backup. "He can have the time. We'll probably fly down Sunday; I'll check on planes. And back Thursday, since you've got the appointment Wednesday."

Together, they turned and looked at their daughters. Five days. They would be gone five days. House could feel her worry joining his own, but at least at this moment, she didn't say anything. They stood there in silence for a while, watching their girls, and finally he went back to the rocking chair and sat down, and she carefully, annoyingly carefully, rearranged herself on his lap. They were there when the girls woke up.