Cuddy was clean and fresh when House returned to their hotel suite. "Where have you been?" was the greeting she extended. He was quiet, limping slowly into the room. "It's been eleven hours. You trapped me in here for eleven hours! Talk about being ineffective! All I did was cry and puke."

"That's not true. You showered."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Brilliant."

He stood still, watching her pin back her hair. "I was at the cabin. On the cliff," he added darkly, when their eyes locked. "Do me a favor?"

"I think I've done you enough favors. Maybe it's time you do something for me."

"It's about my Vicodin," he said, and raised his eyebrows at her.

"What?" she inquired, staring at him.

He reached into his pocket and tossed it to her. "Flush 'em. I have some doctors to bribe."

Her hand curled tightly around the container as she watched him sit on the bed. He didn't give the pills another glance, totally entrusting them to her. Saying nothing, she turned and went to the bathroom, and he tried to ignore it when he heard the toilet flush.

"Hi, this is Gregory House, and I've been waiting on my test results for over a week. Uh-huh," he added, after listening for a moment. "You may want to check my records; I'm a retired doctor."

Cuddy came back, leaning on the wall and watching him.

"Just a friendly reminder; I do know how to operate hospital equipment and patience is not one of my virtues. Yeah... I look forward to your call."

He hung up, tossing his phone on the bed.

"Progress?"

He looked at her and gave a curt nod. "He'll let me know by Sunday."

"That is, if a Canadian receptionist is eager to oblige an American criminal!" she said playfully, as she approached with a bounce in her step. When he only stared at her like she had grown a third eye, she froze in place and stood awkwardly, tapping her fingers on her palm. "Well, you are one," she finally said.

"No, it's... I-I thought you'd be pissed at me."

She sat on her bed, bringing up her feet and crossing her legs. "I tried to be," she confided. "But you've been through hell and back. And it pains me to say it, but you're my best friend." She rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

He paused for a moment, then smiled with a light scoff. "Is this you talking, or your hormones?"

"I'm afraid we are one and the same."

He intently watched her adjust her position.

"House?" she began. "Who hit you this time?"

He paused, suddenly remembering that he had not simply lost his balance and hit his head. He scoffed humorously, though his eyes clearly displayed confusion. "It was Kayla."

"What?"

"They work together. I knew it." He hesitated, then began patting himself down. "Crap. She took my knife."

"So? You can get another one, you can stay here while I go—"

"My fingerprints are on the knife."

"And she's a teacher."

"No. She said she's a teacher. Everybody lies." He shook his head, squinting. "Every criminal needs a cover. He tells people he's a lumberjack."

"House, this isn't a case."

"It doesn't need to be. She never said what she teaches. Clearly it's science."

"You think she's tutoring an FA army in case, what, she and Logan and this SUV gang of yours can't apprehend you within twenty years?"

"We don't know."

"God," she moaned. "My feelings for you acknowledged and put aside, you are not that interesting!"

He narrowed his eyes at her, but only said, "Keep talking."

"Your criminal offenses can be used as sleep therapy. You'd be within your rights to subpoena them just because they sprayed graffiti on your fence, and all it takes is a dimwitted desk clerk for these guys to forget you exist."

He considered her words. Then he brushed them off with a shrug. "Except they are trying to kill me."

"Trying to kill an old man with a limp. And these are the same professional hitmen you mentioned last night?"

"Oh, I see. You think we're safe," he snapped. Then he stood up and lurched two steps forward, letting his knees bang into her bed as he grabbed her backpack. "Okay, well, this was a waste of money, then," he said, pulling out her pocket knife. "Who needs it, if the only criminal is right here at your bedside!"

In the awkward silence, he realized that the muffled noise of the television from a neighboring suite had gone silent. He sighed and stood up straight. When he spoke, his tone was calm, but he still held the knife. "I was gone eleven hours because I had my lights punched out. I had to traverse a mountain twice, and then I had to wait for a taxi. That's where the hell I was."

"A ta— Where's my car?"

"Somewhere between a rock and a hard place. Or is that us?"

"Do you want me to be pissed at you? Is that what you want from...literally everybody?"

House hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "I've been trying to figure out what I want my whole life," he muttered, and gave a shrug. "I just don't care. So," he continued, and took two steps back before sitting on the edge of his bed, "If you actually trust the people who shot at Cameron more than you trust your—and I quote, best friend... Then there's nothing more I can do. Clearly caring is...just a waste of time."

Her eyes shot down to his hand as he lifted the knife. His hand never stopped moving, albeit slowly, as he began to speak. "I've been hurting people my whole life. I didn't want to, didn't mean to. It was just something I was good at. Like medicine. Well, it's been a long time since I helped a patient that didn't have four legs."

"House..."

He pressed the tip of the blade against his throat. "Since I don't care either way, I may as well do some good."

"Making me see this is good?"

"You're right. I should leave first."

Cuddy swung her legs to the floor, stood up, and walked to where he sat. She put her right hand on his left cheek, then moved it down his throat, down his chest and down his arm, barely touching him. Her hand curled around the knife. "Let it go."

"I can't live like this anymore, Cuddy."

"Give it to me."

"I'm tired of being numb. I don't—"

"Give me the knife, House!"

"It hurts," he uttered, and taken aback by his admission, she hesitated, moving her hand back up to his face as he continued, "It-it's not supposed to feel like this. It's not supposed to feel like anything."

"You're not numb. You're mourning." She put her fingers on his chin and tilted his head up, gazing down into his red eyes. "And it's about time."

On the verge of breaking, he nodded, but his words contrasted her opinion. "I'm not mourning Wilson. I'm not mourning her. I... It's me. I'm dead."

She knelt, finally pushing the knife out of his hand. It fell to the carpet with a dull thud.

"You're not dead."

"Well, I'm not alive. I'm stuck somewhere in between, I'm-I'm useless."

"No. You are not. Greg," the foreign sound of his name in her gentle voice effectively captured his attention, "Nobody truly knows what they bring to the table. Your life? Your legacy? You're the most impressive person I know."

"I'm only what my patients are, nothing more."

"God only knows what your patients have become! Sixteen years. You saved well over 100 lives that nobody else could."

"So, basically, you're impressed by somebody doing their job. Go offer your platitudes to the people who need 'em; the farmers, the nurses. They're the ones who need a vote of confidence."

She tried to smile even though she felt bruised inside. "Do you realize how many patients you saved, students you taught, could have become doctors?"

"None."

She frowned at him.

"100 people? 97 of them go about their daily lives once they recover. The other three are killed the same year."

She hoisted herself up onto the adjoining bed. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Leave, if you want."

"Where would I—"

"Go look for a doctor."

She nodded, but then surprised him with a pithy, "No."

"No?"

She leaned forward, putting her elbows on her knees. "Group activities. You stay, I stay."

"I'm not the one who's missing!"

"You're also not the one with a BOLO out. Her life is not more important than yours," she coaxed, when he grimaced in displeasure.

"Right. I forgot. You have a date."

"Will you stop?" she asked tersely. Checking herself, she quickly altered her tone, reluctant to dissolve into tears again and prove her weakness. "House, I'm not abandoning you. I came all this way so you wouldn't be alone."

"I could swear, she did, too."

Cuddy bit her lower lip, then dropped her head. Lifting it she stared unblinkingly at him. "It's like there's no right answer with you."

"I missed my afternoon nap."

She glowered at him for a moment, then retrieved the knife. She swiveled at the waist and shrugged into the backpack straps. Remaining quiet, she started walking for the door, but stopped cold. "Shoot. Shoot," she muttered, and deposited the backpack on the floor before promptly going into the bathroom.

He was listening to her puke when his phone rang. He eagerly looked at the screen, disheartened to see Foreman's name. He took the call anyway. "I want my line clear. Can you call me back? Around, I don't know, Monday."

"Yeah. Okay! I'll wait 43 hours and then tell you about Cameron. Since you asked nicely."

"What about Cameron?"

"Someone fitting her description was spotted heading toward, uh, Enterprise Road."

"Thanks," he said pithily, and closed his phone. Grabbing his gear, he limped to the wall across from the bathroom door and let himself rest against the wall. Raising his cane, he tapped it on the door. "Hey, Cuddy?"

"Yes I'm fine, and no, I'm not done. Screw you anyway."

House let himself lean heavier into the wall, twirling his cane. He knew two things; one, he hadn't been followed back to the hotel. If anyone discovered their car, they would be stymied. And two, there was no reason why anyone involved hadn't beaten them to the hotel in the first place. Unwilling to yell out privileged information, he kept quiet and waited for her to exit the bathroom.

When she did, she had to squish the desire to feign another wave of nausea and shut the door in his face. She dropped her hand from the knob as her eyes found his backpack. "You're not coming with me."

"Don't you think you're overreacting?"

"No, House, I'm being polite. I'm always polite towards you, and I always get nothing back! Except disappointment, and I don't consider that a generous refund so here's the deal. You're gonna sit here and stew for eleven long hours, and I'm gonna go out there and do whatever I have to do to get over it. Because I know you're never going to get any better and as such, neither will our time together." She took a step and a half, retrieving her coat from the closet to her right side. "I don't know how to be Wilson. You get injured, give me a call. If you get sick, give me a call. If you're going through withdrawal or even if you're upset emotionally, give me a call. Because seriously, it would be nice to know you have emotions as in, plural."

She bent, grabbing her backpack. As she stood up, his voice made their eyes lock.

"Well, when you get tired of doing whatever, you might want to mosey on towards Enterprise Road, because we have a lead."

"Well, why didn't you tell me to shut up?"

"Because we've got no time to waste." He tapped his cane, offering her the shadow of a smile.

She glowered at him, but was too relieved to stay angry. "Are you coming?"

House closed the back door and squinted as the car drove away, its back tires stirring up dirt. He turned his attention to Cuddy as they both adjusted their backpacks. "I...thought it would be more convenient," he began with a sigh.

"Convenient," she scoffed. "You basically steal my car, abandon it—which would be bad enough in our country. And let's not forget the time you cost us. Cost Cameron!"

"I figured—"

"You were sparing me, from the big bad Canadians. No," she interjected, when he began to talk. "I'm not interested."

He watched her increase her speed and draw ahead of him. "Hoc non est mea quaestio," he muttered.

"House, you don't care if you are the problem. Long as you're the one who finds the solution."

"You really think there's a solution to this?" he asked, as they entered the parking garage. "You were wrong before. Actually it is a case. But it's not a puzzle."

"Shut up and tell me which parking space."

"Ah, uh... 47C. Same size as your..." His words ran out when she lengthened her stride and pulled quickly ahead. Then his deep yell echoed throughout the parking garage. "Ass!"

Her hurried steps faltered as several people at a parked car all looked their way. She came to a reluctant halter and brushed back her curls, waiting for him to catch up.

"Really? You're just going to let me say it? Get in your car...consider my needs?"

"I tried leaving you behind once. Couldn't do it. Besides," she added with a contemplative sigh, "It's my problem."

"I thought I helped you move past that."

"You help strangers. Your friends can all go to hell." She began digging for her keys and added, "Since you love puzzles so much, try and solve that."

Finding himself unable to reject her point, he said nothing the rest of the walk to 47C. Arriving at her vehicle, they deposited their backpacks into the backseats before getting in. He buckled and was staring out the window as she eked out of her parking space. As she drove towards the exit, his sudden silence filled the car more than words. Finally having attained the golden silence she wanted from him, for the duration of their entire professional relationship, she tried to enjoy it.

He finally glanced at her as the hum of the motor grew louder. Sensing his eyes on her, she spared his sad, wrinkled, red eyes a brief glance before blindly feeling around for his hand. "We're going to find her. It's okay."

He squeezed gently. "Yeah," he muttered.

She released him, bringing her hand back up to the wheel. "Care to navigate?"

"Yeah," he repeated, and began searching the car. "Uh, where's..."

"I put it in the glove compartment."

He leaned forward and popped it open, making a face as cotton balls and tampons burst out of the confined space and into his looming face.

He glanced up at her.

"Don't snoop on me again."

He was quiet as he extracted the map and spread it open on his legs. Looking over at him, she felt her initial remorse subside when she saw his grin.

House and Cuddy stood with their backs to each other as they leaned on the hood of her car; their backpacks sandwiched between them. Neither of them spoke. She pulled out her phone to check the time, 5:33 PM. The sky was beginning to cloud over and there was a chill in the air that had her pulling her jacket tighter.

Time passed, slowly. The day appeared to be an uneventful one.

His weight soon lifted off the car, and the rocks crunched under his feet. "We should have bought some flares. Before splitting up."

"It wasn't on purpose..."

"We should have anticipated it. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst."

"It's a...good motto," she said inanely, still peering into the trees.

She listened to the clunk of metal on metal, then the familiar, homey scraping of a can being opened. "I didn't buy a pot."

"I know."

She looked over her shoulder as he chugged some soup. "Hey—aren't you worried about it being undercooked?"

"It's not."

She raised a brow at his backside. "Mr. Living On The Edge."

"Yeah. God, that's a bitch to write out on my forms. We're not gonna find her."

"Sure we are."

"You're guessing."

"Just like you are with the food. You know, standing here for a few hours carries less risk since we're not eating Cameron."

"Well, if you were so worried, you should have bought a pot."

"I should have done a lot of things."

"Everybody should have done a lot of things. Just because you're special, doesn't mean you're different."

"Thanks. I think."

"You're not welcome. You and your moodswings. Dr. Cuddy and Mrs. Hyde... Pick a lane and stop blowing smoke up my ass."

"What moodswings?"

He rolled his eyes and lifted the binoculars, peering into the dark shadows of the woods. The movement he had glimpsed turned out to be a man and his dog. With a sigh, he lowered the binoculars and hesitated a moment before stuffing them into his backpack while muttering, "This is pointless."

"It isn't."

He turned around and saw that she was already looking at him.

"We're not going to find her!" he growled. "All we're doing is increasing our odds of getting murdered. It's been my position all along we should leave this to the police. You said there's a BOLO, so I don't know why the fuck we're standing here!"

"I was talking about staying in the hotel. Not crossing the border, going back to our lives, and saying good riddance!"

"Why does she matter?"

"What?"

"You thought Cameron was going to kill you. Why risk everything for her?"

"Uh," Cuddy scoffed. "I've known her a long time, she's a good doctor, maybe it has something to do with the MD at the end of my name, or that I—"

"The only MD you are anymore is manic-depressive."

"I'm sorry, but it's a little hard to take hypocritical comments to heart. And if you're so worried about these murderers tracking us down, stop talking my ear off. Be observant. Watch. Listen, and pick a damn lane."

He said nothing more. She turned her back to him and again checked the time on her phone.

Looking down at the backpack in front of him, he retrieved his lighter from a side pocket and then turned away from Cuddy, snatching his pack of cigars. Slamming the container onto her car, he was a little pleased when he saw her flinch. They remained quiet and he lit up, content with awkward silence.

He had finished smoking and was pressing the hot tip of the cigar into his palm when movement up ahead made him glance up. To see a woman standing there, her blonde hair blowing in the wind. She wore a brown jacket.

He grabbed his cane and began limping for the woods.

"Where are you going?" Cuddy called.

"Gotta take a leak."

He moved as quickly as he could, only slowing when he was near enough to recognize Amber's face. She shrugged, shaking her head and making the golden veil of hair move. "We all know she's dead."

"I know you are," he growled. Thoroughly disappointed, he absent-mindedly raised a hand to rub his tired eyes, cringing when the jolt of pain effectively woke him. He lowered his hand, scowling at the ground behind the ghostly manifestation of his own conscience as he tried to think like Cameron. Until Amber's nonexistent voice interrupted his thought process.

"You hallucinate people. Not freaks."

"The effects of an overdose. Things get freaky."

He limped to the nearest bushes and unzipped his pants.

"That freaky? You're not creative. You're rational."

"Can you just...stop talking and let me do this?" he muttered, and hearing nothing he was able to answer nature's call. Zipping back up he turned around, his eyes scouring the abandoned forest.