House moved between her and the wall, stepping awkwardly inside. He wanted to speak, but couldn't find the right words. So he said nothing as he dropped his cane atop the coffee table with a clatter and knelt to grab his fallen friend by the legs. As he began to drag him, he noticed one pocket dragging with more weight; and he was suddenly inspired to retrieve Wilson's wallet. Glancing up, he saw her lingering by the door, like she was lost. His voice seemed to anchor her back to the land of the living. "I understand if you don't want to help me in two weeks. But I prefer you tell me now."

She watched him drop the wallet onto Wilson's chest and fan out the money. "Seven thirty-five," he murmured. "Not bad."

He stuffed the money into his own pocket and again grabbed Wilson by the legs. He looked up at his dazed companion. "Let me rephrase that. I am now self-sustaining. You should go home, focus on work. Thanks for patching me up."

Kayla gave a jerky nod, but appeared barely comprehensive. So her question came as a surprise, effectively stopping his motion of dragging Wilson towards the back door. "What will you do with the body?"

"I'm going to bury him." He stopped, wiping a hand across his wrinkled forehead; then he was taken off-guard when she began to approach. His eyes met hers. She stopped, standing awkwardly to Wilson's left side and hesitantly meeting House's eyes.

"I'll help you, now."

Her brazen willingness to help him dispose of a man he had known would die intrigued him; and he was unable to look away from her inexpressive face. Not like he wanted to. Seeing him suddenly idle, and watching her like a hawk, Kayla quirked an eyebrow at him. "What?"

"What did you do?"

"Nothing." She gave him a belated frown.

"You shouldn't want to help me. The only reason you haven't run out the door is because you've done something worse."

"You are free to think whatever you want," she said, her voice deceptively soft. She turned and walked across the room with an odd stiffness, examining the dark interior of the closet and retrieving a shovel.

"It's not what I want," House said, as she began coming back. "It's the only thing that makes sense."

Kayla ignored him as she went to the back door. She opened it and watched him drag the body outside, unflinchingly watching him pass by.

The only sound in the night was the shovel hitting the dirt. Kayla stood nearby, alternating between attempting to read Wilson's ID by the light of the moon and peering into the darkness.

"Yeah, I'm not making these out," she said.

"Don't need to." He stopped then, handing her the shovel and retrieving Wilson's wallet and card. He spoke while putting the card back into its slot. "James Evan Wilson, born June 3rd, 1979. He drove a gray Volvo, parked in 244, took in a cat named Sarah, and swindled me to save a stranger."

"How did you meet?"

"Story for the ages. He...got arrested, and I bailed him out."

"Huh," she said, the shovel resting idle on the dirt. She scrutinized him for a moment, then continued to dig.

"That was a fairly loaded syllable."

"No, I'm just...surprised he's the one who got arrested, and you're the one who didn't."

"First time for everything."

She chuckled humorlessly and continued to dig; soon completing the plot for Wilson and helping House maneuver his body into the hole. Then House stood up, looking down at Wilson's cold, ischemic face as Kayla began to shovel dirt onto him. Then, in what probably should have been a moment of respectful silence, Kayla heard the distinct click of buttons on a flip phone.

He raised the phone to his ear and waited for two and a half rings. "Yes, hi, uh... My name's Gregory. Are you James Wilson's brother?" he said, and his eyes went distant as he listened to the response. "Oh. That sucks. Yeah, I'm sorry for your loss," he said, and hung up, closing the phone. "He called him just before he..." His voice trailed off and he found himself making a repetitive, circular hand gesture as he struggled for words and composure. To distract himself, he opened the phone again and scrolled through the contacts another time, but closed it seconds later. "Damn."

"What?"

"He had two brothers. And they never connected."

They were quiet, listening to the dirt fall. Finally, when the plot was filled in, Kayla stepped back and stood still, both hands curled around the handle. She finally looked at House. "I don't suppose you prepared a eulogy."

"Nah, I pretty much did away with the whole ceremony thing. And not just with him; with everybody," he clarified.

"So it wouldn't matter if I left."

He shrugged. "Don't want you to leave."

"House..."

"I know. You have to."

She nodded. "I assume you don't have a job to go back to."

"Dead men don't work."

"You're not dead yet." She stared unblinkingly at him, head tilted a bit to the left. "You can still do a lot of good."

"Yeah," he muttered noncommittally, and began heading for the cabin.

Kayla followed him inside, going to the closet and putting away the shovel with a clunk. "So, you're just going to hang out here for two weeks? And then what?"

He met her eyes and spoke with simplicity. "And then I go back to jail."

She crossed her arms, gazing at him and quelling her emotions; reminding him very much of Cameron. "Do you have anyone?"

"I have people. Not sure if I have friends."

"Will you let me know you're alright?"

He looked at her for a moment, and then gave a partial nod. "Sure. If you want me to."

She looked around the room, collecting a pad of sticky notes and a pencil. She wrote down her information and placed it on the end table between them, not daring to venture closer. "Two weeks, right?"

"It's a date."

Her smile did nothing to negate the warning in her eyes. "'Bye, Greg."

She turned and let herself out, shutting the door; and House limped to the window and watched her drive away. He started to close the curtain; but then reconsidered, pulling it open completely. He then went around the room, opening all the curtains and turning on all the lights. Reason being, he wanted any person potentially on their way to the cabin to know that it was occupied. He turned to the couch, and was distracted by the sight of the beer bottle and cups on the coffee table. He took a seat and picked up the bottle, turning it over in his hands. Looking over, he saw the gun laying right where Wilson had dropped it, right next to the bloodstain.

Making a face, he slammed the bottle down on the coffee table and leaned back; only to just seconds later retrieve the bottle. He swung his feet onto the couch and rested his head on the arm, staring up at the vault ceiling.

So much misery. He could put himself out of it. He could do it tonight. Go out with a bang.

Why had he allowed himself to get close? It was stupid. Forming bonds with someone only resulted in more loss. More pain, something he had spent his life trying to avoid, trying to fix, trying to heal. And he couldn't.

The sound of a motorbike broke into his concentration, and then the headlights flashed into the room. Hearing the rider kill the engine, House got up with a growl and limped to the front door, prepared to tell them off with language so strong, it could have been in the UFC. But opening the door, he saw himself looking at an empty driveway, an empty lawn.

He hesitated for a moment, then pushed the door shut; closing his eyes when Wilson spoke from behind.

"Wiskott-Aldrich? You paid more attention to my well-being than my wife."

"Oh, which one?" House snarked, as he turned around. He froze up when he saw the macabre illusion his tired, overworked, and probably abused brain had conjured. There he stood—a doctor without a head. Blood ran down his once pristine doctor's coat. Completely taken aback, House inadvertently stumbled into the door. His free hand fumbled for the knob even as he decided to lay down and get some rest. He turned and took one limping step towards the stairs, but saw Wilson sitting on them. This mirage was not headless, but held the gun; one finger on the trigger, one finger on the safety as he looked into House's eyes with a deep sympathy.

"I should have called her," Wilson mused.

"Well, it's—it's not my fault you didn't," House stammered.

"Of course it's not, what's wrong with you?"

"Course, on the other hand, you did regret not saying your goodbyes... And you still didn't. But...at least you knew you were stupid."

Wilson squinted, his eyes flicking up. "Whatever happened to respecting the dead?"

"Whatever happened to 'til death do us part?"

Wilson smiled, still looking peeved. "You can't win, House. I'm you."

"Great, then you don't care that I took your money."

"It's not like I need it."

House hesitated, absorbing his friend's careless reaction. "Huh. Yeah, I expected a whole rant about morals."

"Well. You never had those."

"Leave me alone," House growled.

"I'm you," Wilson repeated. "So? What's on your mind?"

House stared at his hallucination, who smiled as House dug into his pocket. He retrieved his own phone and went to the couch, sitting down and looking up at the stairs. Wilson had vanished.

He went into his contact list and selected a bittersweet name, raising the phone to his ear. After five rings, it went to voicemail. "This is Dr. Lisa Cuddy. I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

It beeped and House hesitated, finally taking a deep breath. "It's House," he said, and paused again, wishing he had organized his thoughts. "Just been...thinking about what I did. You'll probably delete this message," he added with an overwhelmed chuckle. "Yeah, I deserve that. Uh... I just hope you're doing okay." Another pause, and he started moving the phone away from his face; but before he could end the message, he changed his mind and kept going. "Me, I'm having a... Well, you know. It's me. Been thinking of taking myself out. It's just been a lot of...really hard times. You not being there makes it worse. Just wanted to apologize for all the hard times I gave you, and...say goodbye. Just in case." He sighed quietly, eyes roaming the otherwise empty interior of the cabin. "'Bye, Cuddy."

He ended the call and threw the phone onto the cushion behind him. He still appeared to be alone, and he covered his eyes, then ran his hands through his thinning hair as he felt himself drowning in a wave of exhaustion.

He uncapped the bottle; the sound of the cork exploding in the silent night. Tilting his head back, he began to chug greedily. Then, when the bottle was empty, he set it down on the coffee table one last time and settled down, prepared to pass out on the couch. He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply as the warmth of a tear on his cheek sent him into a spiral of inferiority and shame.

In more time than he preferred, he finally drifted off; dreaming about skeet shooting clay pigeons with his fellows' faces.

In less time than he preferred, he was jolted awake by the sound of his ringtone. He grabbed it and flipped it open, catching only a glimpse of what might have been Cuddy's name. "Hello?" he asked, struggling to sit up.

His caller sighed, and then he heard her sweet voice. "Well, I'm here now. Where are you?"

Rubbing his eyes, House dropped his hand. "You actually came?"

"Of course I came. Were you crying wolf?"

"Nope. Wait, listen." House grabbed the gun and fired three shots, listening to her yelp. "Plenty more in the chamber."

"Oh, God. Okay. He means it," Cuddy's distant voice said, as House sat up straight.

Foreman's voice then said, "Well, it wasn't a long way to rock bottom."

Now Cuddy's voice came on strong as she addressed him. "Don't do anything stupid. Tell us where you are."

"Oh, somewhere in Canada." He waited, listening to the silence, in which he thought he could detect a soft whimper.

Then her distant voice said, "Adams, get Chase back. House, listen to me. Whatever you're going through, we're all here for you, we can help, and we all care about you. Okay, a lot. So just...put the gun down and listen to me."

"Wilson's dead, Cuddy."

"What?"

House spoke emphatically, closer to the receiver. "Wilson's dead."

"Oh my goodness—"

"We all will be. You, me. The kid you adopted."

"House!" she cried. "Don't—don't talk that way. Don't hang up, please!"

Head hanging, House tilted the receiver closer to his mouth and drunkenly whispered, "He doesn't have a head."

As Cuddy's hyperventilating came through, he moved the phone away, disconcerted by how badly his hand trembled. Did he have too much to drink? He hoped that was all it was. In his hungover state, he pushed two wrong buttons before finally disconnecting. He lurched unsteadily to his feet and grabbed the arm of the couch for balance.

"Okay." He cleared his throat. "Gonna puke."

He grabbed his cane and limped towards the back door, leaving his ringing phone behind.

Author's note: This chapter was hard to write, as I lost a friend to cancer on the 7th.