A/N: Please send reviews. It's been a very tough last week. I have a concert this weekend plus make-up extra rehearsals for same (missed some past rehearsals due to weather), so I doubt I'll have a chance to write more this weekend.

(H/C)

The door was locked. He struggled with it, trying credit cards, trying even a slim lock pick that he found in his wallet. Nothing worked. He tried kicking the stubborn panel, and a bolt of pain shot back up his leg. He had to get in; he knew that. But nothing he tried worked. Finally, he had to rest, sweating and in pain, and as he leaned his head futilely against the door, he tried simply turning the knob for some reason, even though he knew in advance that wouldn't work. The door was locked, after all. To his surprise, the knob yielded willingly to his hand, and he nearly fell over as the door swung open.

Catching his balance, he entered the apartment. The smell of sweat and illness teased his nose, and he crossed the living room without looking around, heading for the bedroom. Kutner was there, and he had to help him.

Only it wasn't Kutner as he crossed the threshold. It was his mother, lying cold and stiff already but eyes wide open, locked onto him, reproachful. In the end, he hadn't been able to protect her after all. He stood in the door, unable to approach but unable to look away. He had taken too long at the door. His mother was dead.

But it wasn't his mother. The form shifted and shimmered like a Star Trek transporter, and now it was the old man lying there. Thornton wasn't looking at him; his eyes were closed. But he was sweating, his body trembling with chills.

He bolted across the room from the door to the bed at his fastest limp, reaching out urgently. Yes, Thornton was still alive. He checked the vital signs - not looking good - and pulled out his cell phone to call for an ambulance. The message flashed at him in huge letters that filled the screen. No Service.

Hurling it at the far wall with a snarl of frustration, he reached for a landline phone which was there. Several phones were there, actually, lined up on the nightstand, and somehow, he knew that he had to choose the right one. He analyzed them quickly, aware of the old man's shallow breathing behind him, and then chose one, picking up the receiver. No dial tone. He grasped at another, then at another, but it wouldn't work. He knew it wouldn't work. He should have picked right the first time; he didn't have enough leeway to run through a process of elimination.

Giving up on the dead phones, he turned back to the bed. Blood was flowing now, Thornton suddenly bleeding from a deep gash along the temple. He quickly pressed his hands against it, then the bedclothes, but the blood was flowing faster and faster, accelerating as he watched, and nothing he could do made any difference. "Damn it, don't you dare leave me!" he commanded. But the breathing slowed down and then stopped, and the pulse flickered out beneath his searching fingers. Only the flow of blood remained. He was trying futilely to do CPR when, with a crack and rumble, the ceiling fell in, burying him alive with the dead body of his father.

House jolted awake, nearly falling out of his Eames chair, and his leg immediately screamed at him. He was sweating himself, and his left side was aching along the recently healed ribs as well. He clawed at his thigh, working out the spasm, and even in the middle of agony, his eyes shifted over to his cell phone and pager, both on the bookcase next to the chair. Could he possibly have slept through a summons?

As soon as he was able to release one hand from frantic massage, he reached for them. No missed messages. He looked at his watch; it was 5:15.

Settling back a little, he tried to catch his breath. The nightmare still cast a shadow over him, and he lectured himself firmly that it had only been a dream. Well, most of it had. His mother was still dead, but she hadn't been looking at him in reproach. She had been tucked in for the long sleep, appearing peaceful, and it had taken him a few moments to notice.

Kutner was definitely ill, but the old man was fine, and the phones had been working. An ambulance had come, and House was in his office at PPTH, and it had only been a dream.

His leg finally deigned to retreat to a constant gnaw instead of a shriek. Tentatively, he stood up, glad that no one was here to watch his uncertain movements. Nightmares were very rare now, and he was no longer used to them. He normally could catch naps at work while on a bad case without problems; he had been up and down several times last night checking on Kutner at least every few hours. The dream must just be the tension with the case on this one, plus the old man moving to Princeton and his mother's recent death.

Convinced that he wasn't about to fall flat on his face, House limped to the conference room and started coffee. While it was brewing, he called the nurse's station. Kutner's condition had not changed since his last check a few hours ago.

He sighed, looking at the whiteboard. Locked doors, indeed. He hadn't found the answer yet, nor had the team, and talking to the Kutners last night when they finally arrived had been an exercise in frustration. First of all, they wanted reassurance and were full of concern, not realizing how much the questions about last week might be relevant medically. They kept returning to, "But is he going to be all right?" The summary of their knowledge, though, was limited. Kutner had lied to them, and they had never questioned it. He usually in the past had tried some sort of fun or distraction day on that anniversary, though House was now wondering how often in the past he had lied to them.

House had roped in Hollingwood in talking to the parents, pegging her as the most emotionally bonding type, but he had emphasized to her alone first that the primary need was information if they had any. The answer to "will he be all right?" was likely to change much faster the sooner they knew that. She was clearly good with people, and she actually got more details out of them than House had. House's impatience pushed in a little too far on his questions, pulling them up a little, though they were trying their best to cooperate.

He knew he had been too sharp at times last night, but damn it, they needed the diagnosis here. He had pushed the egglings relentlessly long into the night, almost daring one of them to break and sign themselves out for the day. None had, not even Hollingwood. She interested him. Exceptional grades, but she seemed so soft, too. He would have expected her to be the first one to run when the heat was turned up, and it would have made his selection that much easier. But she had held steady under his demands.

Ramirez, now, obviously had family issues tied to her "screw you" manifesto toward her past. As soon as they knew that Kutner's biological parents' murder most likely tied into this, she had retreated mentally for a bit and seemed to be struggling until House yelled at her. Then she had focused but with the dogged singlemindedness of somebody who is ignoring an elephant in the room of their own mind. She had had some good suggestions, though.

As had Templeton. House had quickly concluded that Templeton had asked Foreman for some inside information. He was suddenly too much better at speaking House. More likely, he had paid Foreman for the scoop; Foreman was nothing if not mercenary and looking out for number one. But Templeton also had been trying to contribute on the differential, and his idea about timing, whether last week was in fact relevant or whether there was a longer incubation period, was an interesting twist.

But last week couldn't be ignored. Something that large had to be considered relevant until proven otherwise, while keeping their minds open to longer-term options. He had started inspecting Foreman and Taub carefully, looking for any signs of illness. If Kutner had picked up whatever weeks ago, there was a chance they had, too. But no signs jumped out at him, and even stern questioning hadn't yielded anything.

Damn it, why hadn't he grilled Kutner more on last week?

The coffee was done, he realized, and House poured himself a cup and took two Vicodin with it. He eyed the Voltaren, but that had better wait until he ate something, whenever that was. Wilson had insisted on bringing him a sandwich at lunch yesterday, as had Cuddy last night before she went home. Probably they would turn up with food again. He couldn't take time out to go find some for himself.

The suite was silent, and the halls were still empty at this stage of the early morning. House had finally sent the team home about 11:30 last night for some sleep, realizing that they were getting tired enough that it was affecting clear thinking. He had stayed, napping in the office but checking on Kutner every few hours, too.

The coffee was hot and reassuring, but he was still having trouble shaking that damned nightmare. The old man was fine. It was just a dream.

He froze with the cup halfway to his lips. How did he know the old man was fine? He lived alone. He could die just like House's mother had, and nobody might even realize it for hours, if not a day or two.

Once the thought appeared, he couldn't shake it. One more call to check on Kutner, and then, feeling thoroughly annoyed with himself, he dialed Thornton. The old man was a morning bird, like Cuddy and like Jensen. He should be up, even at 5:30.

Sure enough, he answered quickly. "Greg? Are you all right?"

Thomas sounded so reassuringly alive and as usual that House was suddenly angry at him. He scrambled mentally for any unemotional, simple, logical explanation to be calling at 5:30 when the old man knew perfectly well that he himself was not a morning bird. His eyes fell on the whiteboard, and he seized the opening without pausing for further thought.

"Fine, but I have a question for you. What all have you done over the years to remember the day your parents got killed? Sentimental bullshit, stupid gestures, anything." The Kutners had been totally unhelpful on that point (assuming that Kutner had lied to them in any or all prior years once he was on his own). The egglings had had a few ideas, but no harm in checking with somebody who could really identify. The only anniversary of traumatic past House had celebrated over the years before getting with Cuddy was that of the infarction, and his ritual had consisted of nothing more than drinking himself into a pitiful stupor on his apartment couch.

Thomas was quiet for several seconds, and when he replied, House was startled at the edge in his voice. The old man actually sounded mad, something House had only seen directed at him once, the day he had insulted Emily. "You're calling me this morning first thing to ask that? And it's not bullshit, Greg. Those were your grandparents; that ought to mean something to you, too."

Baffled, House fumbled for a reply. Okay, maybe he could have phrased his question a little more tactfully, but he hadn't expected that much ire behind the response.

Unless. He rewound mentally. Calling me this morning. Definite emphasis there. Not just any morning, but this morning.

Oh, shit. Belatedly, he plugged in a fact that he had asked once back last fall but hadn't remembered in the worry over Kutner yesterday or in the grip of his dream this morning. "That was today, wasn't it?"

"You know that," Thomas answered, but he sounded confused himself now.

House closed his eyes. Damn it. Just when he thought it wasn't possible to screw up more than he had previously in life, he could raise the bar without even trying. "I wasn't . . . I didn't. . ." He fell into silence, waiting for his father to hang up on him.

"You weren't thinking of that?" Remarkably, Thomas at least sounded willing to consider the possibility, even if his voice still was unusually tense.

"I. . . never mind." He didn't reach for the end button, though.

Thomas took a deep breath. "Greg, why did you call me?" he asked.

The nightmare loomed back up in his thoughts, and this time, House was able to give it a firm mental kick. The old man was obviously fine, even if pissed off at him now. No, he wasn't going to talk about that. His nervous eyes landed on the whiteboard again. "I've got a case. A tough case."

"Lisa mentioned that. Not the name or personal details, of course, but she said it was somebody you knew. Did you ever make it home last night?"

"No. Still at the hospital. I was . . . just thinking about that case, and I thought of asking you. But I really didn't remember . . . I get locked in sometimes on things and don't see anything else right then."

All at once, Thomas almost sounded like he was smiling. "Believe me, Greg, I can identify with that. I've had my own moments, plenty of them. So you thought I might be able to help on the case?"

"Yes. Maybe. This patient had both of his parents die on the same day when he was a kid. They were murdered right in front of him. Armed robbery; they owned a store. Last week turns out to have been the anniversary of that. But he lied to everybody about what he was doing, even to his adoptive parents. Where he went and what he did last week is probably where he picked up whatever he's got." Though he couldn't rule out Templeton's idea.

"How old was he?" The sympathy in the old man's voice was overwhelming.

House answered, even though that wasn't technically relevant. "Six."

Thomas whistled softly. "Has he gotten some help dealing with it?"

"Yes. He got counseling then. He saw a shrink later. He really seems like a happy, well-adjusted guy. Never showed any signs of anything. He's mentioned it a time or two if it plugged into a conversation, sad but matter of fact." House had marveled over the years at how Kutner hadn't buried something like that or at least tried to. He couldn't imagine himself ever openly mentioning what John had done to coworkers, not even in summary form. Were it not for Patrick Chandler, they still wouldn't know.

Thomas was thinking. "The number one thing I can think of is to visit their graves, of course. Especially going back there later as an adult."

"Nope. They were cremated and the ashes dumped in a river."

"Did he go back to the river, maybe?"

Now why the hell hadn't that occurred to any of them last night? They had drawn a quick line through graves as an idea after the Kutners explained that there weren't any. Rivers could have some interesting microbes and germs. "Might be something to check out."

"What about the site? That would be a very tough one, but maybe, as an adult, he could go back to the store and face it?"

"It's been torn down."

"The site would still mean something, Greg."

Abruptly, a thought crossed his mind that had nothing to do with Kutner. "Have you been to the site?" he asked, and the question had none of the distant, hard tone with which he had opened the call.

"Yes." Thomas sighed. "It's a field. Could be any field. There aren't any scars on the land, not after years." He sounded caught between relief that there weren't and feeling a little bit that there should be.

"How long did it take you to be able to go there?" Now he was thinking of Kutner again, or at least working on parallel tracks.

"Seventeen years."

"You went to the graves long before that, I guess."

"Yes. Many times. Most recently a week ago."

House raised his head. "That's why you wanted to stop in Ohio."

"It's not the only reason, Greg, but one of them, yes. It's a beautiful cemetery. Peaceful there."

"Did it take you years to think of it that way, too?"

"Definitely. Peaceful wasn't anywhere on the horizon the day of their funeral. I didn't go back every year. I couldn't and probably wouldn't have anyway. But it was 15 years later that I finally realized how peaceful that place was. That was the first year that Emily went with me." Thomas' voice sharpened. "Is he in a long-term relationship?"

"If he is, it's a secret even from his cell phone." House drummed his fingers on the conference table. "Years and years. You think all these years later, maybe he was ready to do something symbolic at the river or the site of the store?"

Thomas was getting into this puzzle himself, though he still sounded sympathetic. "I think there's a lot better chance of it after several years. It would take a while. Maybe he was taking some memento there and putting it in the river, too. Or he could have done something that they always did together, not tied to a specific site but to the activity."

"Thanks a lot, old man. That narrows it down." There was a thread of actual gratitude running beneath the sarcasm, and Thomas seemed to hear it.

"Another idea, Greg. Murder, you said. Did they catch the man?"

"Yes. He's in prison. My, um, patient has testified at parole hearings. There wasn't one last week, though. We checked that."

"Maybe he wanted to talk to the man. Maybe he had something to say to him, or he wanted to forgive him."

House was taking another swig of coffee and sputtered over it. "Forgive him? For murder?"

"Bitterness tears you up inside, Greg. Forgiveness is more for you than it is for the other person. It can really help, even if they don't accept it. Even if they don't deserve it. I wouldn't rule out the prison."

House made a mental note. "We'll look into it. He did go somewhere - there was a suitcase - but he apparently drove. No airline tags."

"I wouldn't totally rule it out on that. He might have torn the tags off as soon as he got into the car at the airport after landing, then ripped them into confetti, then thrown them out the window on the highway. Sort of a finality gesture."

"You've done that?" House guessed.

"Yes." Thomas didn't elaborate on the occasion, and House, oddly, didn't feel like pushing him. "One other thing, if he did drive somewhere. Right before my trip a week ago, I had the Beamer checked over and the oil changed. They put one of those stickers in the windshield corner with the mileage for next change. Have you looked at his car? Maybe the odometer could narrow the destination down."

House grabbed a post-it pad from the middle of the table and wrote that down. Damn it. Foreman and Templeton both had dropped the ball on that one, and Foreman at least shouldn't have. "Not bad, old man. I'll check on it."

"That's all I can think of at the moment, but if anything else comes to mind, I'll let you know, Greg."

"What are you doing today?" House asked.

Thomas pulled back slightly, an edge of reserve in his voice again. "I'm taking a ride this morning, but this afternoon, I'll just stay around home. I picked up Jet last night, and we're getting to know each other."

"The homecoming of the crippled kitten," House said. He rubbed his leg.

"He's not crippled, Greg," Thomas said sadly. "He's just been hurt."

Silence lengthened again for a moment. "I've got to get to work," House said.

"Remember to take care of yourself, Greg. You'll think better after food and sleep."

"Says the one who apparently gave me the obsession genes, according to you." House's finger hesitated over the button. "Got to go," he repeated.

"Bye, Greg. Good luck and good skill." Then he was gone.

House sat there on the edge of the table, finishing his coffee, amazed that the old man actually had answered his questions and had a conversation after that horrible beginning. House really hadn't remembered the date, not this morning.

How many other details had he dropped? They should have thought of the car. He looked at the whiteboard again, remembering Foreman last night questioning his objectivity. Kutner was starting to produce a little more urine overnight. Foreman had, most likely, been right.

Was he able to be objective on this case? What if he wasn't functioning at full speed here and that in the end would make the difference?

He still felt unsettled, even with the ghost of the dream slowly retreating now. He called for another check on Kutner, and then, after refilling his coffee cup and sitting down at the table, he called Jensen.