It took a shadow passing on his eyelids for him to realize there was light on his face. He blearily opened his eyes, and found himself staring up at a pastel pink and orange sky, visible in patches through leaves and branches.

He had slept outside? He didn't even remember going outside. Expecting to see his apartment, he struggled to sit up; and the sight of the cabin and the weeping willow jarred him. At his feet lay his cane, and Wilson's wallet. House picked it up, turning it over in his hands as it came flooding back to him.

He worked hard to get to his feet, feeling so much more than just his age. All the lights were on and the back door was wide open. Good thing it wasn't his apartment.

House let himself inside, closing the door. He used the facilities and went to the couch, put his feet up on the coffee table, and checked his phone. No way—Cuddy had called him? He couldn't believe he'd missed it! He sat frozen on the couch for quite awhile, trying to put a speech together. He didn't want to say anything stupid. He was sorry he'd missed her call, it was good to hear her voice, he'd been wondering how she was doing... But then what could he say? Or should he just listen? She clearly had something to tell him.

Returning a call eleven hours later. A call he had been hoping for many years to have. He didn't know what to say. What he did know was that it had been some time since he had eaten. Once he had, he would call her back...when he could listen to her, without having to listen to his stomach.

He checked his phone. It was a little after five AM. He tucked his phone away in disappointment; at this hour all the restaurants were as closed as his heart. The kitchen only as full. Deciding to rest, maybe even sleep until noon, he started to lay down on the couch—but was distracted by movement in his peripherals. He looked up at the stairs, seeing a distorted shadow sprinting across the wall adjacent to the rail. Damn ghosts. He was up in a flash, swiping his cane off the table and sending the cups to the floor. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he hooked his cane over his left arm as he put his left hand on the rail. Beginning to heave laboriously up the steps, his right hand clutched the gaping hole in his leg every step of the way. He listened to his own panting breaths of determination as he forced himself to the top. But when he got there, he found himself standing at the top alone.

Feeling like he had just conquered Everest, he wiped his brow and peeked tentatively around the hallway. There were no faces, no voices, no horrifying hallucinations. But he would not mistakenly envision a shadow. A shadow was harmless, meaningless.

Nothing he did was meaningless.

So he began searching the rooms. The first of two bedrooms and the bathroom proved to be empty. But as he was inspecting the second bedroom, he heard a noise. A very soft thump, almost indiscernible. He quickly looked into the direction of the noise, but couldn't see the source. Oh, God—he had acute schizophrenia. Or it could be the alcohol. Auditory hallucinations ruled out Charles Bonnet syndrome. On the other hand, it could be an atypical case, since everything else about him sort of ruled it back in. It would figure; auditory hallucinations and visual.

Another thump fragmented his worry. He followed the noise to the opposite side of the bed—and looked down in pity at a wounded cat. She lay on her good side, exposing her wound. It was bad. House placed his cane on the bed and approached slowly.

She looked in his general direction as he advanced. He knelt beside her and retrieved the injured feline, as gently as his unsteady hands would allow. As he brought her close, she started squirming. Her paws scrabbled harmlessly on his wrists. Sitting on the bed, House gripped her good side and kept her injury from rubbing against him as he lifted up her paw, separating the toes.

She had been declawed.

The wound on her right side was ugly, but it was small. Maybe a raccoon bite. She didn't seem to be symptomatic-positive of rabies. Grabbing his cane and cradling her like a baby, he limped all the way into the bathroom and started tending to her wound.

No claws, and yet, no collar. Her coat was filthy; probably been out there for awhile. He pitied the cat, but he also took delight in patching her up. It was what he did, what he had always wanted to do since the rock-climbing accident. His lips pressed together as he remembered. He could still hear the scream. Still see the horror in his friend's eyes as their hands slipped. The fear, the betrayal; like he had let go on purpose.

How could he forget?

He couldn't have readjusted his grip. He couldn't let go of the rock.

Closing the wound, House cut off the extra material and surveyed his work. It was like he was still a doctor.

"You're all set," he said.

Leaving his cane on the counter, he picked her up one more time and knelt, putting her on the floor. His leg cramped and he fell to both knees with a gasp of pain; one hand automatically reaching for his pills. His hand tasted like fur, and he was making a face as he struggled to his feet. Luckily there was no hair on his tongue. Now that would be morbid.

He grabbed his cane and limped to the bed. He would save the stairs for later.

The front door to the cabin blew open; and Chase lurched inside, his wide eyes frantically scanning for a body. Seeing that the living room and kitchen were empty, he ran up the stairs. But he made the same discovery House had several hours before; aside from a cat, the upstairs was abandoned.

Chase looked at the cat, who swiveled and peered up at him before running awkwardly from the room. He retraced his steps down the stairs. "Well, he's not here," he called. "Did you find anything?"

Cameron gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. He approached her, looking down as his boot sent a sliver of porcelain skittering across the wood. Two mugs lay shattered on the floor. The beer bottle was empty. Then he realized that wasn't where she was looking, and he followed her stricken gaze to a bloodstain, about the width of two hands.

Chase knelt, picking up a sliver of porcelain. "It's clean. He didn't cut himself."

"No, he just shot himself and went somewhere else to die." Cameron's voice was a hoarse whisper.

Chase dropped the mug chunk and stood swiftly. "He's not dead."

"What makes you so damn sure of that?"

"There's a cat, an injured one. He gave her stitches." His wide, determined eyes searched hers. "If he didn't give a crap about living things, you think he'd have done that?"

"Then show me the gun."

"What for?"

"House has a revolver; he fired three shots. If it still has three, I'll take your word for it."

"It's...scary you know that," he mumbled, as they began searching the living room. Kayla began searching the kitchen, even as she peered out of the window into the sunbathing forest, looking for an old man on the ground. Then, at the same time, Chase and Cameron both exclaimed, "I got it!"

They frowned at each other and began pulling out their findings. Cameron pulled out the gun, and Chase pulled out a wallet. They each looked inside as Kayla entered the living room.

"How many?" Chase asked.

A tear ran down Cameron's cheek. "Two."

Kayla quietly cleared her throat, and said, "Revolvers can hold five. Doesn't prove anything."

"I know they can hold five. I also know they can hold seven. His didn't." She stood up, checking the safety before discarding it onto the couch cushion. "He always said," her voice hitched, "That he was paranoid enough to have a gun, and confident enough to come up short."

Chase still didn't look away from the ID as he said, "House didn't kill himself."

"Right. Because he saved a cat."

"No. Because that blood belongs to Wilson." He brandished the card between two fingers.

The door came open again and they all looked at House's distinguishable profile. His left hand held a plastic bag. He let himself inside, closing the door without looking away from the group. He stood there for a moment, as he absorbed their presence and they absorbed his, then said, "Anyone seen my cat?" and raised his eyebrows when they still looked flabbergasted. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" Chase repeated.

Cameron moved closer, gazing unblinkingly at him. "Do you have any recollection of what you said to Cuddy last night?"

"Nope."

He grew awkward as she slowly and gently embraced him. He stood awkwardly, both hands occupied.

"You called 'er, said you were going to kill yourself," Chase said. "Apparently you fired three rounds when she accused you of crying wolf. Adams called me, I called Cameron, Cameron called Kayla...and she raced here thinking you were dead."

House lifted his mouth away from Cameron's hair. "Well, if I am, I'm very talented."

"You made Cuddy cry," Chase said bitterly. "Said all these horrible things; like Wilson didn't have a head? What was that about?"

"Uh, I hallucinated that part," House said, trying not to show his embarrassment at the prolonged display of affection. He could feel Cameron's hands moving on his back. He finally tapped on her leg with his cane. "Hey, knock it off, will ya? I'm still here."

Cameron stepped back, looking miserably at the floor.

"Is it true?" Chase asked, squinting at him. "Did the booze lower your inhibitions, make the truth come out? You been feeling like this for a long time?"

"So...none of you have seen the cat."

"What did you see?" Chase inquired.

House blinked, widening his eyes at the inanity of the conversation being forced on him. "That Wilson didn't have a head." He made a sour face at him as he finally left the front door, limping further inside and depositing the shopping bag on the coffee table. "Seriously, the cat."

Chase sighed. "You really need human patients."

"Ah, you did see her. See, you could have just said yes." He fought to liberate the Styrofoam container from its plastic nest, eventually sending the bag to the floor. He practically shoved the box of food into Kayla's face, and she took it.

"Uh, okay. Thanks. It smells good."

"Oh, that's not for you. No, I want you to take that to my cat," he said, as he limped towards the kitchen.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I didn't know you'd be here, but Evan already was."

"She's a girl," Chase said.

"So is Evan Rachel Wood."

Kayla frowned at him, turning towards the stairs. "Okay. But why me?"

"So we can giggle and gossip about you like it's the eighth grade," House answered cryptically, as he took out his Vicodin. Kayla carried the food up the stairs and disappeared, and House passed up the opportunity to objectify her as he took his last handful of pills.

Cameron walked closer, defiantly putting her hands on her hips. Her narrowed eyes seemed to burn into his.

"Don't worry. I'm high."

"I think you're mixing medications," she said, prompting Chase to walk closer as well.

House scoffed. "Well, you know I didn't hire you because of your medical judgment."

"You adopted a cat," she said simply.

He sighed, meeting her eyes for as long as he was able, then averted his attention to the empty pill bottle he deposited on the counter. "It's a common coping mechanism."

"You hate common," Chase said.

"True. But...there is a commonly-shaped hole in my life. And I'm not exactly dealing with the uncommon," he added, and offered a half-hearted shrug. "I don't know what to do."

"Talk to me."

He considered it, then gave a half-nod. "Sorry for whacking you with my cane."

He limped past his colleagues, equally surprised by his apology; but ruined it by saying, "Good talk."

"House," Chase drawled, as he turned around. And saw House picking up his gun.

House turned around, twirling it in his fingers like a toy. "What's the deal on my apartment?"

"It's..." Chase frowned. "Still there."

"Break in, return this." House extended the gun, observing Cameron's relief. "Does that make you feel better?"

"Yes."

"Then you're an idiot," he said simply. "There's plenty of ways to go."

"House, come home," Chase said. "Redo the tests at PPTH."

"Soon as I cross that border, I'll get arrested."

"So what? You never wanted the MRI in the first place," Cameron pointed out.

The cabin was quiet as his colleagues watched his body language.

"Have you developed OCD?" Chase asked.

House finally looked at them, and spoke brokenly. "I want those test results. I...I want to know why."

"You know, you won't get arrested for the pseudocide," Cameron began.

"There are other charges," he growled, and tapped his cane on the floor. His eyes shot up as their faces began to mutate; their skin turning gray and their eyes pooling with blood. Again, his voice was a weapon. "Get out."

Cameron dejectedly went to the front door, and Chase followed, patting House on the arm. House closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, listening to the door open and shut.