A/N: The scene beginning at the end of this chapter and extending through the next entire chapter is it, my top favorite in the story. This is the peak of H&F for me, and I've loved it since the idea for this scene first came up, which was very shortly after all those letters were introduced into the mix of things months ago during Legacy. Enjoy 58, and hopefully won't be long to 59.

(H/C)

Jensen felt a surge of pure pride in House. He had come so far since starting therapy. "What else do you need to do first?" he asked.

House shifted again, looking away. "Give me some help here," he asked, but Jensen heard the shielded dodge. House knew and just was afraid to put it into words.

"I can't. I agree with the assessment, and I'm glad you can see that, but I could easily be wrong about what needs doing from here. That's so personal; you have a better idea yourself of where things stand, what needs to be pushed and what needs more time. Trust your instincts. They're quite good ones."

"Thanks a lot," House grumbled. Suddenly feeling pinned in at the back of the van, as much by circumstances as physically, he slowly moved his legs down from the seat, using his hand to help the right one. "Let's take a walk for a few minutes."

"Okay." Jensen got up with considerably more agility and opened the sliding door. He exited the van and waited for House to join him.

House's thoughts were galloping like that damned horse of Thornton's as he walked. His leg was hurting, but his mind was almost hurting more at the moment. Oddly, it was Abby who had crystalized things for him. He imagined returning to the hotel and facing her perceptive, trusting eyes as she asked him, "You okay?"

No, he wasn't yet. There were several things that would take time, as Jensen had said, but there were also a few that needed to be confronted here and shouldn't be part of his luggage back to Princeton. He knew at least one thing that he still definitely needed to do before leaving Lexington, and the thought scared the hell out of him. Far easier to avoid it, but then he would have to lie to his family. Besides, he was finally, through hard experience, learning that things he simply tried to hide the impact of from others and himself and ignore had a habit of boiling over eventually and scalding his loved ones right along with him.

Jensen walked along easily beside him, and House suddenly felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude toward the psychiatrist. He had been here all day, had taken a very difficult assignment without hesitation, and had been with him in the appointments, keeping things grounded. Today would have been far more traumatic alone, and House couldn't imagine any better companion in facing these specific obstacles. Even now, Jensen was waiting but not pushing, not even worrying at the point silently, simply being there. House, who had trouble finding a personal off switch, had always admired the psychiatrist's ability to put things on hold for periods and then pick them back up later without impatience.

Jensen. House's stride caught for half a step as the idea struck him. Jensen looked over at him curiously but didn't ask, and House's mind dropped into even another gear, sorting, holding things up next to each other and considering the fit. Finally, he broke the silence. "So you pushed limits at times when you were a kid."

"Yes. I was hardly a juvenile delinquent, but I wasn't easy, either. Between me and Mark, I was definitely the one who gave my parents a run for their money."

House debated, then stopped and turned, facing the other man directly. "How would you feel about running the chance of getting arrested?"

"Depends on what kind of potential charge we're talking about," Jensen replied.

House started to outline his idea.

(H/C)

Cuddy came back from checking the bedroom. "They're sound asleep," she reported. She couldn't help a quick look at her watch as she sat down on the couch, and the other three adults all copied it immediately. It was now 8:00. House had checked in twice more since the community afternoon nap, and the last time, he had told her that they would probably be a few more hours, maybe even pushing 10:00, before they got back.

Wilson switched into brisk encouragement mode. "Remember, Cuddy, he's got Jensen with him."

"I know." It was a comforting thought, but the longer this went on, the more she wondered. His tone the last call had been different, too. He and Jensen had been having a pizza, he said, and he did reassure her that he was taking his meds, but there had been a familiar plotting edge beneath the tension. She had heard that one too many times over the years at PPTH to miss it. Administratively back in Princeton, she would have been suspicious, but in the emotional maelstrom of this last week, she was worried and hopeful in turns. Remembering his throwing John's medals into the river, she hoped that whatever he was up to here would help.

Marina, next to Cuddy on the couch, was following a similar track, although she didn't know about the river episode. "Whatever they're doing today, it must be helping. Otherwise, they would have quit by now. He's going to be worn out when they finally stop, though."

Thomas was worried himself, but he tried for distraction. Lisa's tension level was rising along with the numbers on the clock. "How long has Greg known Jensen?" he asked.

"Three years next month," Wilson reported, then flinched as if the thought had an unpleasant aftertaste to it. Thomas noticed, considered, and discarded pursuit for the moment.

"He's obviously done a lot for him. I could tell that at the trial."

"He's brilliant as a psychiatrist." Wilson squirmed a little. "Maybe even too perceptive at times. But he's the first person I've ever run into whom I would compare with House in his own medical specialty. They're good friends by now, too."

There was perhaps just the suggestion behind Wilson's tone of the same almost jealousy that Thomas had felt the other day. Not that Thomas begrudged Greg his brilliant friend or therapist at all; he was grateful to Jensen for helping him. He just wished that his son would trust him someday like that. "Greg mentioned playing the piano at his wedding."

"Yes," Cuddy confirmed, getting pulled into the conversation. "Jensen's daughter requested that. They came to our wedding; Greg had diagnosed Cathy when she was quite ill a few months earlier and saved her life, and she was very interested in him since then. At the wedding, he played a song for me that he wrote himself." She couldn't help pausing there, basking in the glow of the memory, and Marina and Wilson obviously revisited the same moment. "Ever since she heard that, Cathy has been fascinated by his music. She wants to play herself, and her parents are getting her lessons, but with her, it's as much determination as talent. She's a neat girl, 10 years old now, just full of life, and Greg says she reminds him of Rachel, only older. I don't know her as well as he does, but I can see it."

Thomas smiled. "Rachel reminds me of Tim in several ways."

Wilson straightened up as a thought struck him. "You do know she's adopted, don't you? Or do you? How much . . ." If Thornton hadn't even known what they looked like, how much had House told him?

"Oh, yes, I know she's adopted. You're right, though, I haven't had a flood of details on the girls. Little pieces, here and there. Greg has been cautious talking, and I understand that. But most conversations had at least one or two tidbits that I could save and add to the growing picture."

Cuddy sighed. "He's just protective of them, Thomas. It will take time."

"It's all right, Lisa. I understand. Can't blame him, really, when I abandoned him as a child, or rather, when he always thought I did. As for how much he's told me, he first brought them up in October. Since then, I know their ages and some basic interests and personality traits. I know Abby is a musical genius and that Rachel is losing interest there. I did know that Abby had Dad's eyes, too; that's the one physical detail I had."

Wilson tilted his head. "Those are your father's eyes?"

Thomas pulled his cell phone out, scrolling through his pictures until finding the one he wanted, the color shot of Timothy Thornton at the piano during a concert in 1946. He offered the phone, and Wilson got up to retrieve it and then went to sit on the couch between Marina and Cuddy where they all could see. He looked at the picture, then did a double take. "Wow."

"He looks so much like Dad. A lot more than he does like me. If John had known my father, he would have worked it out even sooner, probably." Thomas sighed. "On the other hand, if John had known my father, I wouldn't have ever thought deception was possible. It might have brought things to a confrontation right away and ended the pain for Greg. Tim looked a lot like Dad, too. That's why Greg and Tim never met. I never took Tim with me on a visit; he would have been a dead giveaway, especially side by side. Emily never met Greg until the funeral, either, because she was always with Tim when I visited. Once Tim was grown, she did come with me to visit John and Blythe a few times, but Greg was already gone."

Wilson handed back the phone, and Thomas fished through the pictures for another one. "That's Tim." Wilson and Marina analyzed that one thoroughly. Cuddy had already seen it, though she looked again.

"Wonder what House would have been like with a brother," Wilson mused.

Thomas gave a bittersweet smile. "Tim was always full of life, too. Like I said, Rachel reminds me of him. He did have his moments testing limits growing up, but we were really close. He also had Dad's prankster streak. The one thing Dad took seriously in life was music; everything else was a game."

Cuddy smiled at the image. "Greg and Tim probably would have been close, too, if they'd grown up together. I can just see them plotting things together. Such a different family. Of course, they wouldn't have known your father even so." The colossal unfairness of it all suddenly struck her. Everybody Thomas had cared about in life had died and apparently had died early, except for possibly Emily, who was still pushing the averages. "I'm so sorry, Thomas." She got up to return the cell phone to him and give him a hug at the same time. He was getting a little quicker to respond on those during the last day, at least.

Once she had sat back down, Thomas changed the subject. "About the girls, Greg had told me that Rachel loved animals, and he mentioned that when you all were watching a parade on TV back at Thanksgiving, she was especially fascinated with the horses. So I was hoping she'd like that stuffed horse."

"You did give her that," Wilson confirmed.

Thomas nodded. "She doesn't know. Be careful with that; the girls think they're from Santa Claus."

"Actually, they think their father is Santa Claus, but that's not because Greg lied about it." Cuddy looked at her watch again, then suddenly pulled out her own cell phone. Resisting temptation at the moment to call her husband and disrupt whatever he and Jensen were doing right now, she brought up her calendar. "Thomas, when is your birthday?"

"October 1st," he replied.

Cuddy entered it and saved. "I owe you 75 back birthday cards, but you'll definitely be getting one from now on. More than a card, even. Welcome to the family."

He smiled at her, but he couldn't help calling the technical point. "You don't owe me 75 back cards, Lisa, because you weren't around for several of those early ones. If you could send cards before you were born, Greg really meant it when he said you were compulsively organized."

"Oh, shut up," she replied fondly. She backed out of her calendar to the menu, looked at the screen for a moment, then put the phone away undialed. "You could take another nap while we wait."

"No, I couldn't," Thomas said, and there was a trace of Housian steel beneath his voice. "He said 10:00. Hopefully it won't be too much longer."

"Hopefully." Cuddy looked at her watch again, and Thomas did the same. Wilson firmly took hold of the conversation, steering it into various tales of the girls, trying to keep these two distracted.

(H/C)

Jensen drove as they neared their destination. House, stiffly upright in the passenger's seat, was riveted on the view through the windshield. The interval with pizza and talking about music and children had been a nice break, but shopping for supplies after that had wound him back up, and at the moment, every muscle in his body was tense. His leg was hurting, but he was barely aware of it.

Jensen circled the block his second time, catching a chance without anyone too close behind this time, and turned into the entrance to the cemetery, killing the headlights as soon as he was off the main road. The moon was almost full tonight, dimly lighting the graveyard, and the van picked its careful way along the darkened roads, slowly leaving the traffic and the city press behind. "You sure this is the right one?" House asked as Jensen turned at a cemetery path intersection.

"Yes," Jensen said succinctly, not annoyed but confident.

House sighed, and his fingers tattooed a nervous rhythm on the cane. "You'd better be. Must admit, though, I wasn't paying much attention to the scenery the day of the funeral."

"You were also drugged on extra Ativan," Jensen commented, his eyes not leaving the road. "You were missing a few details that day."

The remark was perfectly matter-of-fact, no judgment attached, but House couldn't help getting defensive. "You going to threaten to cut me off on that? I don't overuse it, damn it. Only take it when I need to."

"No, I'm not going to threaten to cut you off. I'm not even going to say it was the wrong thing to do on that day."

House studied his profile in the dark, waiting for the other shoe to drop, finally growing tired of the wait. "So you just want me to know that you know?"

"Yes," Jensen said. He took another turn. "Fortunately that site is a good way from the main entrance." He pulled up and switched the van off. "Here we are."

House looked around. In the dark, the cemetery looked otherworldly. A few old oak leaves, clinging stubbornly to their branches, rustled in the light wind as he opened the door. This seemed a totally different place than Monday, but he knew that the memories were there, lurking behind the stones around them, waiting to leap out and assault him. There were ghosts all around. Jensen walked around the van to the passenger's side, and House picked up the box of letters while Jensen grabbed the Walmart sack and the two shovels. House thought he would always remember Jensen silently but firmly picking up the second shovel from the rack in the store. Not taking his away, not offering to do it instead so the cripple wouldn't have to, but definitely and equally joining him.

The psychiatrist finished collecting his load and put the shovels down to shut the door as softly as possible. It still sounded horribly loud to House. He looked around quickly, but no guard was in sight, and no police appeared. Not yet, anyway. He turned toward what he knew was the right direction, but he still waited. Even in the January air, he was sweating in his coat. Jensen waited patiently. After a moment, House made himself take a step. Then another. Then another. One slow step at a time, he approached the site of Monday's breakdown.

He had to do this. He knew he had to do it, had to confront that lying tombstone without bolting this time, and had to say goodbye to her. He needed to face this before he went home. His stride caught, and Jensen touched him lightly on the arm, and he managed another step. The ground grew more uneven as they left the gravel path, more difficult for cane walking, and the psychiatrist pulled out the flashlight from the sack and turned it on, focusing carefully on the ground right in front of their feet. The two shovels, tucked under his arm, clinked together.

"Keep those damned things quiet," House snapped. Another step.

Unexpectedly, the smell struck him. The flowers, all the flowers from the funeral, spread over her grave. Still fragrant, still beautiful. They had not yet died, though they would. He was suddenly glad that Cuddy had taken a bush. Hopefully, that would not die, not until long after he did, at any rate. He took another step, following the smell, trying to think of flowers and not of that stone, not of the lies, the pain of the past, and the cold, hard, irrevocable finality of the present. At least it was dark. Nobody here but Jensen. He could have come earlier, at least until he added the thought of the letters, but the world would have had the opportunity to see then, and this farewell, this funeral was private.

Another step. He saw the outline of the flowers on the ground ahead now, and a gleam of color stuck back from the edge of the flashlight's circle. He took a final step to the foot of his mother's grave and stopped. Trembling even with Jensen's hand on his arm, he slowly looked up the length of the flowers that covered the site, and finally, he faced the tombstone again.

He stared. His breath caught for a moment, and afraid his eyes were playing tricks on him or that he truly was losing it, he snatched at the flashlight, nearly dropping the box of letters as he redirected its beam upward. He and Jensen both stood motionless for a moment in surprise, and then the psychiatrist laughed softly, and after a moment, House couldn't help joining him.

The tombstone had already been confronted - and had lost.