2009

House walked into Wilson's office. Wilson and the woman he was talking to looked over at him. House ignored them and sat down on the couch.

"My assistant will schedule a follow-up appointment," Wilson told her.

"Is he a patient?" she whispered leaning forward.

"No, he's a doctor here," House answered. "And he'd be thrilled if you got the hell out of here."

The woman hastily gathered up her purse and left.

"Do I need to start locking the door?" Wilson asked him.

"I need more Vicodin," House responded. "Write me a script."

"No."

House narrowed his eyes and sat forward.

Wilson shook his head. "I'm not writing you a script. Your pain is all in your head. You need to see a psychiatrist."

"Funny, because the pain feels like it's in my leg and not my head. My bad. Write the script."

"No," Wilson sad again, shaking his head.

House pushed himself up from the couch and limped out of the room. Wilson flinched when the door slammed shut.

House walked into the Diagnostics conference room and looked around.

"Where's Reilly?" he asked.

Cameron looked up at him from the charts she was working on. "She's at home. Said she had an emergency."

House turned and left.

Reilly was in the kitchen talking to a repairman. House went to the couch in the family room and lay down. He was on the verge of sleep when Reilly touched his arm. He blinked sleepily and looked over at her.

"Write me a script for Vicodin. Wilson is refusing," he told her.

She sat down on the coffee table. "I will on one condition," she told him.

He sat up and gripped his cane. "No!" he shouted. "No fucking conditions! I'm in pain! WRITE THE FUCKING SCRIPT!"

"Don't you yell at me!" she shouted back. "I know you're in pain but you don't get to take it out on me!"

He blew out a breath. "Just write the script."

She stared at him until he looked away. "Fine," she told him. She got up and returned a few minutes later with a prescription in her hand. She held it out to him. He took it and shoved it into front pocket of his jeans.

"I need to pick up my new car," he told her. "Come with me."

She nodded and left again. When she returned she had her purse. He got up and she followed him to the front door. As he opened the door, his cellphone rang and so did hers. She pulled hers out of her purse and answered it. He pulled his out of his pocket and looked at the caller ID. His mother's name and number showed up on the screen. He clicked it on.

"Hi, Mom," he answered. "I'm kind of busy-"

"John died," she told him.

"You okay?" he asked looking at Reilly. She was talking to someone and her face was unreadable.

"I think so," his mother responded. "The funeral is Friday. Will you come?"

"I don't know."

"Will you come for me?"

House sighed. "I'll call you back once I look over my schedule," he told her and hung up. He pushed his phone back in his pocket and looked at Reilly. She finished her call.

"Your mother?" he asked.

"Yours?" she asked.

He nodded.

"You going to the funeral?" she asked.

"No," he told her.

She nodded. "Well, the girls and I are going. Let's go get your new car."

Four hours later, House dropped Reilly off at home in his new, fully loaded black Mazda MX-5 Miata convertible. She got out and leaned in to look at him.

"I'll see you in the morning," she told him. "I'm going to make some calls about the funeral."

He waited until she was in the house and then he pulled out of her driveway and headed to the hospital. When he entered, he went straight to the pharmacy and got his Vicodin. Once he had the bottle, he opened it and dry-swallowed two.

"Reilly write you a script?" Wilson asked from behind him.

House began to make his way to the elevators with Wilson beside him. "Unlike you," House told him as he jabbed the elevator button with his cane. "She isn't a withholding bitch."

"Your mother called me," Wilson told him as they got into the elevator. "I'm sorry about your dad."

"He isn't my dad."

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. "I know you hate him but he's still your dad."

"He isn't my biological father," House told him as he exited the elevator.

"How do you know? Did you steal some of his DNA and test it?" Wilson asked as he followed House to his office.

"Nope," House told him as he sat down behind his desk. "Reilly figured it out." He tapped his cheek. "Dimples."

Wilson put his hands on his hips and blew out a breath. "You should go for your mother. Support her. She just lost her husband."

"I doubt she's all that broken up about it."

The phone rang and House answered it. He closed his eyes when he heard Meara's voice.

"I know ya know the truth about yer mom and dad," she told him. "Ye're right. John House isn't yer father. But yer mother needs ya. Ye're all she has left. So, you're coming. That's final. Have that boyo, James, bring ya." She hung up and the dial tone sounded. House replaced the receiver back in its cradle.

"I've been ordered to attend his funeral," House told Wilson.

"Who could get you to do that?" Wilson asked in shock.

"Reilly's mother. We'll leave on Friday morning. Go make the plane reservations and tell Cuddy."

"I can't wait to meet Reilly's mother," Wilson said with a smile as he left.

There was a slight chill in the air as House stood on the sidewalk outside Dulles Airport in Washington, DC. He leaned heavily on his cane as Wilson loaded their bags in the trunk of the rental car.

"Couldn't you get anything better?" he asked plaintively as he cast a dubious eye over the white Ford Escort.

"It's cheap and it was available," Wilson told him as he shut the trunk and walked around to the driver's side door. "So long as it gets you there who cares what it looks like?"

House opened the passenger door and very carefully got into the car. Once he fastened his seatbelt, Wilson pulled away and headed toward Virginia.

"Where's your mother going to live?" Wilson asked once they were on the highway.

"Don't know."

"Don't know or don't care?" Wilson asked acerbically.

"What a hurtful thing to say," House told him. Wilson glanced at him and saw he was serious.

"So, what is the deal with you and your dad?" he asked changing the subject.

"He's not my biological father," House told him looking out at the scenery as it flashed past. "Reilly and I figured it out when we were twelve. We were studying genetics. Technically, Reilly figured it out."

"And let me guess," Wilson replied. "You told him."

"Didn't speak to me for two months. When he had something to say to me, he typed it up and put it under the door to my room. Reilly begged me not to tell him but I hated him. Still do."

"What did your mom say?"

House shrugged. "Nothing, really. She hates confrontation. Besides, what could she say? She cheated on him."

Wilson was silent and House leaned back.

They arrived at the Marine base at Quantico just as the sun was setting. Wilson drove to the house where Blythe and John lived. Street lights were blinking on and most of the houses were lit from within with warm, golden light. Wilson pulled in behind a blue Chevy truck and a green Chevy Malibu. House sat looking at the cars and the neatly landscaped front yard. A large American flag mounted on the wall by the front window rippled in the gentle breeze. The house was a small ranch with a front porch. A walkway led from the driveway to the front door.

"It looks so normal from the outside, doesn't it?" House asked. "You'd never know a monster lived there."

"Oh, come on, House," Wilson sighed. "He couldn't be that bad."

"If I was late to a meal, I didn't eat. If I was insubordinate, disrespectful or didn't respond to a command quickly, I had to sleep outside, take an ice bath, get locked in the closet."

Wilson turned to stare at him in shock. "Jesus, House," he breathed. "Why didn't anyone do anything?"

"Reilly did what she could. No one else knew. He was only verbally abusive in front of Reilly's family. Aunt Meara usually cursed him and left when he was. John House was a respected Marine. From the outside, we were the perfect little family."

"I'm sorry," Wilson told him sincerely.

House shrugged and unlatched his seat belt. Grabbing his cane, he opened the car door and got out. He heard the other car door slam and then the front door opened. Meara walked out, saw House, and held out her arms. Wilson watched in shock as House hugged her tightly. She pulled back and smoothed her hand down his cheek.

"Oh, Greg, it's so good to see ya," she said softly. She looked over his shoulder at Wilson. "You must be James," she said. "I'm Meara, Reilly's mother."

Wilson walked up to her and held out his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Reilly."

Meara enfolded him in a hug. "We don't stand on ceremony," she told him. "And ye're to call me Meara or Aunt Meara as Greg does." She smiled at him. "Come in the house and see yer poor mother," she told House.

Reilly was sitting on the couch next to Blythe when House and Wilson walked in. Blythe stood up and walked toward her son. His eyes searched her face and she smiled at him. He pulled her into his arms and held her.

"I'm so glad you came," she said softly. Pulling back, she looked at him. "How was your flight?"

"It was fine, Mom," he told her. She nodded and looked at Wilson. Reilly got up and motioned for House to follow her. They went out the back door and stood on the small patio.

"Aunt Blythe wants me to ask you to say a few words at the funeral tomorrow," she told him. "Dad is giving the eulogy. But, if you don't want to, I can get you out of it."

House shook his head. "You are the only person who can lie to my mom."

"I have never lied to your mother," she told him indignantly.

He looked at her and she blew out a breath. "What do you want to do?" she asked him.

He shrugged and tapped his cane on the concrete as he looked out over the dark yard. "I'll say something."

"Why does that fill me with dread?" she sighed.

House looked at her and smiled. "I'll behave."

They went back into the house where the others waited for them.