A/N: Here's a longer update and hopefully the answers to a lot of questions. Written down yesterday, proofed just now. Hope you enjoy! I do miss Kutner. He was always my favorite of the fellows.

(H/C)

House started his search by typing Facebook into the browser address bar. He thought email likely contained the most potential clues to Kutner's plans over the last few months, but email was a broad field to dig in, especially if it included a few months' worth of hopefully non deleted trash. Facebook was the best source to quickly give him one thing he needed to search email more efficiently, a name. The Kutners had said that their son bumped into an old friend of his birth parents on Facebook recently. It was the best candidate House had as a guess for the catalyst that had set special plans into motion for this year's anniversary.

All that was assuming that this year was special in more ways than P. falciparum, that Kutner didn't routinely do something this elaborate, but the passport was clear. For at least the last seven years since getting it, Kutner had never been to India. Also, House had already checked vacation records. For the past two years since coming to PPTH, Kutner had taken that particular day off but in isolation the first year, as part of a 2-day request last year. The whole week off, requested three months ago, was unusual; Kutner loved work and tended to take his time in scattered days here and there.

And why hadn't House noticed that? He should have noticed it at some point, damn it, should have pushed for more details. Dealing with his mother's death and his father's reappearance in his life, as well as getting blown up at the racetrack, didn't excuse the lapse.

Annoyed all over again at himself, House realized that the computer was already at Facebook and waiting patiently for him. Kutner was still logged in. Good. House went straight to private messages, looking for the standard, "Are you the same Lawrence Kutner who?" inquiry.

Bingo. He quickly picked out the name Nikhil Singh from the list and scrolled back to the beginning of their conversation, which had been in January. Yes, this was it, a man asking gently if his name used to be Choudhary, stating that he had known his parents and he thought he remembered that their son after their death had gone to foster care with a couple named Kutner. Enough details but not too many, walking carefully in case this was the wrong person or still a touchy subject.

Kutner had responded promptly and had been delighted to run into his parents' old friend, whom he vaguely remembered. House skimmed through a few reminisces, nothing that seemed relevant here. After about a week, Kutner had given Singh his personal email address.

Over to email, then. Kutner had many messages waiting to download, having not read his email since last Friday, more confirmation on the timeline of his illness. House did a blitzkrieg scan of the subject lines of the new emails, all of which seemed routine, and then looked at the folders. None were conveniently labeled anniversary, parents, or India. The trash did extend back a few months, at least, as did the sent items. House ran a search for Nikhil Singh.

An entire page of hits came up on that, and he started working through the messages datewise, oldest first. Kutner had requested that week of vacation in February. Whatever set him off came before then.

Singh had sent a couple of old pictures. Stories had been exchanged. Again, just routine memories, along with chit-chat (Singh liked Star Trek himself, though not as rabidly) and updates of how Kutner was doing now. House paused in his speed reading at one message sequence.

I'm working for Dr. House now. He's the best. I've learned more from him already about being a doctor than I did in my entire education up until now.

The same Dr. House that was on the news last summer with that case? Singh had replied. House let out a low growl, which faded as he read Kutner's answer.

Yes, but he's so much more than what was on the news. Like I said, he's the best.

House slammed his hand against the desk. "Then why couldn't you talk to me about this?" he snarled at the screen. That damned password. Kutner thought that highly of him - and had still lied to him along with the rest of the world about his plans for last week.

Of course, part of House sympathized with the desire for privacy, too. And he still had no excuse for failing to pick up on Kutner's preoccupation himself. The younger man wasn't that good an actor. There should have been signs that something big was going on, signs that House could have read if he had been paying attention.

The email exchange after that in the list caught his attention in a hurry, just as it had Kutner's.

Here's another picture I found last night, Lawrence, but I think this is the last one I have. Always been one of my favorites, your father looking at that river. He always loved rivers, said they made him feel at peace.

I remember going to a few rivers with him. Thanks for the picture. His and Mom's ashes were put in a river.

I remember that ceremony. Yes, that's what he wanted. He'd mentioned that to me a few times. He said once it would be nice if it could have been the Ganges, but he realized that wasn't practical now that he lived in the States, and he was looking forward to a river here.

The Ganges? He wanted to have his ashes put in the Ganges?

No, he didn't. Sorry, I think I said that wrong. He knew that couldn't happen. It was just an idle comment he made. He said right after that that it was appropriate in a way that it should be a new river because of his new country.

Kutner hadn't replied, and Singh sent a followup email the next day. Lawrence? You okay? Kutner replied with a terse fine and changed the subject.

House picked up his thinking ball, not tossing it, just spinning it like a globe in the dark. His finger and thumb gripped it on opposite sides as he thought of the distance between.

A quick Google search confirmed what he'd remembered. The Ganges River was considered sacred by Hindus. Still, the logistical problems with a burial there would have been prohibitive to an immigrant family to the US that wasn't wealthy, and Choudhary had obviously realized that. No doubt it had been just an idle comment, thinking out loud, not a formal statement of wishes.

But did Kutner realize that? Or was it seen now as a failure on the part of his 6-year-old self all those years ago, putting his parents in the wrong river? Not that he would have planned the service arrangements himself at that age, but emotions defied logic at times. Had he wanted to symbolically redo their funeral since he couldn't literally?

Whatever plans had sprouted, this definitely was the right seed. It was within a week after that message that Kutner had requested a full week of vacation surrounding the anniversary.

House skimmed on through the Singh messages. Nothing else jumped out at him. He then searched email on the keyword of Ganges, and that turned up several hits, almost all of them communications with the same person. Sensing the quarry in sight, House leaned forward a little and ran another search, messages to or from that individual. After the namaste, the messages were all in English.

The first message was dated two days after Singh's comment on the Ganges. Namaste! So glad we found each other on Ancestry. Are there many more of my father's relatives still around in India that you know of?

Off the conversation went with this distant relative, nicely casual, a little shared family tree shaking back and forth, but to House, Kutner's ulterior motive was obvious, zeroing in. Within three days, he had casually asked, Would you be willing to get a memento in India for me and mail it if I pay postage? I'd like to have something from the old country to remember my parents by.

Of course. No problem. What do you want?

How close are you to the Ganges?

It's about seventy miles away. I'm up that direction on work every month or so.

I want some of the water. You could seal it in a jar.

The water? From the river? You want me to mail you some of the water?

Right. Packaged carefully, of course.

Why do you want the water?

I just want a piece of the sacred river. He wanted to be buried there but couldn't. Just something to remember them by.

I should be up that way at the end of March, probably could do that, but I can't promise it won't leak out or break.

I'll take the chance. Thank you.

The emails were turned sharply by Kutner at that point back to ancestors. He didn't want to answer too many questions on this. House started tossing his ball lightly, thinking. The water. What did Kutner want to do with the water?

Pour it into the river in California, of course. Since he couldn't take his parents to the Ganges decades ago, he wanted to bring the sacred river to them now. House grinned, imagining what the EPA and various other agencies might think of that, but it had a wacky symmetry to it that reminded him very much of Kutner. Screw the EPA anyway. Kutner had never been afraid of taking risks in a good cause; it was what made him such a promising doctor. House pictured Kutner going to the river, adding the foreign water, and then taking a sample of the soil, that last actually intended as a memento for him to keep. He had probably made flight and hotel reservations in California after this email and planned out his week of remembrance and redone funerals.

But the arrangements in India apparently had fallen through. For nearly two months, everything had been fine, the two communicating regularly with ancestry stories. Kutner mentioned the water now and then as a reminder but never dwelt on it.

Five weeks ago, the boom had fallen.

Namaste. I don't think I can get you the water next week after all, Lawrence. I mentioned it to a friend of mine a few days ago when he happened to bring up the river. He works somewhere official. He said there were all kinds of restrictions on importing. Environmental rules and such. I hadn't thought of that, but he said the US is very strict, especially from places like India, because of the disease risk. Mailing a bottle of river water into the country would be illegal, and if the package got inspected along the way, I could really get in trouble. Sorry, but it's too much risk. I'd be glad to send you something else to remember them by, but this isn't going to work.

Kutner hadn't replied for a full day. Then he sent a terse, I understand. Thanks anyway.

That next weekend was his whirlwind trip to India, when he had obviously collected a test tube or something (the smaller and less noticeable the better) of water from the Ganges himself and personally smuggled it back through customs. House flinched as he thought of the cost of last-minute tickets to India. Kutner was still paying off student loans and didn't have a lot of extra, which was no doubt why he had tried to delegate the India end of things in the first place. California, which he had to do personally, was going to cost him enough.

The email string with that contact had trickled down to near nothing after that. House moved over to the trash and scrolled through, looking at the names of senders and subject lines, watching for anything that jumped out. The fact that he wasn't working totally blind now on dates helped him. There were indeed confirmations of plane tickets and a motel reservation for California for last week right after the man in India agreed to get the water.

An email in the week after the reservations was headed Department of Corrections, California. House clicked on it. It was a reply to a message Kutner had sent.

Mr. Kutner, we have asked Mr. Weldon if he would be willing to talk to you. He has agreed. Visiting hours for inmates are 9:00 to 12:00 a.m. on Mondays and Fridays. We will expect you in the week you mentioned.

House shook his head, scoring one bewildered point for Thomas. Apparently, Kutner had wanted to talk to his parents' killer. Maybe he really did want to forgive him. House filled in the week's agenda: Prison on Monday, since he would have flown out by visiting hours Friday. Thursday, the actual anniversary, would have been the redo funeral, probably held early in the morning for more privacy both for memories and for the illegal pouring of water straight from India into a US river. Other days in the week would have been earmarked for visiting the store site and other childhood places of significance or memory. His flight from Newark to California had been on Saturday morning. He had deliberately planned several days worth of this memory fest, probably scheduling everything except getting critically ill at the end of it.

Skimming on through the trash, House stopped at another email. This was dated one day after the plans to have the water mailed to him fell through, three days before he flew to India to get it himself. Kutner had taken out a loan for $5,000 from the website Cashcall. Money for the unexpected trip.

House gritted his teeth. "Damn it, I would have loaned it to you myself if you'd just asked. No interest, even."

Someone walked by in the hallway outside, and House looked at his watch. Not that that told him anything; it lacked a light, being among the very earliest models of wristwatches. He turned on the desk lamp for another check, only then remembering that there was a clock on the computer anyway. Both the ancient and modern technology agreed that it was 5:30. He'd been fishing through the computer for hours. He wondered what sort of kittens the CDC would have if they knew why Kutner had really gone to India, but he wasn't about to tell them.

5:30. He needed to call Cuddy to report in. He'd also call back a little later and talk to his daughters, trying to make up partially for not being there for breakfast with them. This morning, he would also fit in his PT session.

His cell phone rang in his hand before he could hit speed dial 1. It was a hospital number, and he answered before the first ring had even stopped. "House."

"Dr. House, this is the nursing station at the ICU. Dr. Kutner just woke up briefly, but he was completely disoriented and upset, and he didn't recognize his parents."

House closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. "I'll be right there." He stood a little stiffly, started for the door, then returned to shut down Kutner's laptop and lock it back in his desk before heading at his best speed to the ICU.