"So, what, we just camp out here until we run out of supplies... I take my car, find the nearest trash bin, replenish our food supply, and... What, we just live out here until she falls into your lap, exhausted?"

"Well, it sounds silly when you put it like that," House chided her.

"Care to rephrase?"

"Sure. You're wasting time. Hanging out with me, even though you don't want to, don't need to. Picked a profession that requires bravery, but you're scared."

"Oh, what do you think I'm scared of?"

"Hearing what you already know is the truth."

Her head full back on the headrest, she turned to look him in the eyes. "You would really have me give up?"

He pondered for a moment, then shrugged. "Yes," he said simply.

She raised her head, frowning at him. "Why's that?"

"Either she's dead, or she's on the move. And we're just sitting here on a cold trail. You can try to deny the danger we're in, but I remember hearing the shot Logan fired at her. I remember Kayla head-hunting me. It's a kick to the face," he muttered, and her confusion cleared. "Not to mention all the other head-hunters on our asses."

Cuddy sighed, but let his comment slide. She settled back in her seat. "I can't believe she would do that."

"Well, look at who she's with. Girl's got issues."

"Yeah, it must be awful. Shutting people out, disregarding the laws. It's no way to live."

He narrowed his eyes as he realized she wasn't just talking about Logan. He looked away from her, returning his eyes to the road ahead. "Well, if you agree that the trail's cold, then... Let's get out of here."

"Why would I give up on Cameron when I haven't even given up on you?"

"You thought...she was trying to kill you," he said, his voice quiet and filled with confusion.

"And you drugged my mother under my own roof. God, maybe I've got issues," she groaned.

"Everybody's got issues. Being unnatural, it's...the most normal thing."

She closed her eyes, blaming her hormones on the tears that filled them.

"What's not normal is risking yourself. I don't care if it's for your best friend, your pet, your baby, or the love of your life. The only reaction that makes sense is preserving yourself. This is..." He stared out into the dark surrounding them, thumping a fist on the car door. "This is stupid."

He looked over to see the woman he loved dissolving into tears. He began rummaging around the glove compartment, mentally kicking himself. He handed them to her and she began drying her face.

"So," she said, once she was no longer dripping. "Tell me something. If risking yourself isn't normal, why do you always self-destruct?"

A subtle head shake was the only indication he'd heard her at all.

"One of your issues?" she pressed, and studied him intently. "House, you're far from normal."

He looked down, staring into the darkness beneath the dashboard. She turned sideways, bringing her legs up onto the seat and then touching his arm. "Forget it. Just think about home."

"I'd rather not."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Just tell me," she pleaded. "Why wouldn't—"

"Because I don't know where home is!" he shouted, making her recoil.

She oriented herself away from him and put her hands in her lap, not looking at him until she heard his voice, addressing someone else. "Hi, this is Gregory House; I'm a diagnostician currently visiting Canada. I need you to check the patient database for one Mrs. Allison Cameron, please."

Cuddy's eyes went down to her smartphone in his hand. She hadn't felt him pick her pocket, but she wasn't mad. All she could see was how badly it was shaking, and she cupped her waiting hands below his, expecting him to drop her phone.

"Well, I'm retired, but she used to work for me... Princeton-Plainsboro. It's, uh, in New Jersey. Yes, in America." He rolled his eyes and seemed to fumble Cuddy's phone before voluntarily depositing it into her waiting hands. "Sir, it's important. She's gone missing, and..." His eyes flashed to Cuddy's before he returned his eyes to the road. "It's, uh, going on three days," he lied.

Cuddy withdrew, lightly hitting his arm.

"No, that's not her. Thanks." He ended the call without giving the man time to respond.

"Well, how do you know it's not her?"

House responded while saving the number to his contacts. "Her name's Aletta Kamp, she's a German college professor."

"Oh..." she said emptily.

"Yeah, too bad. Expected to make a full recovery."

They looked briefly up at the dark form of a vehicle driving past. House turned his head, watching it go. Carrying people with normal lives, normal problems. Who was the fattest, who earned the most, who wasn't in a relationship. Normal people, who never had to bury their best friend.

"House," Cuddy said softly. "How well did you sleep last night?"

"I didn't."

She turned her attention to the dark nothingness ahead. "Close your eyes," she said simply, and he quietly obliged; destined to never know that she hadn't slept either.

He lay still, pretending to relax. But he felt so much worse than he was when he was being held up at gunpoint by Wilson. More than just his nerves were screaming—his muscles burned, his organs ached, and he was shadowed with the fear that his fellow, his friend, his Cameron, had died a lonely, agonizing death. And the fear that he was to blame.

"Hi, my name's Lisa Cuddy, and I was wondering if you could check your patient database for me."

At that moment House's stomach revolted. He wrenched open the passenger door just in time to vomit on the grass.

Cuddy stared at him, half-listening to the woman tell her it was unethical. "It's okay, I'm a doctor," she murmured.

After another dead end, she hung up the phone and returned her worried eyes to her passenger, who was trying again to relax. He'd left his door open, and they could hear a light rain.

"Can I...can I have some of your mints?" he asked.

She dug into her pocket, pulled out her Tic-Tac container and dropped some into his palm. Pocketing it again, she watched him down the mints, then stare out into the night, his head fully reclined. "What's with this voluntary detox all of a sudden? Why couldn't you have done this years ago?"

"I thought the pills were making my life better. They weren't. They made the pain better."

She startled him by touching his forehead. "You're burning up. When was your last dose?" she demanded.

"Uh...pretty much eleven hours before you flushed them."

She finally took her hand away, sparing a glance at the clock. It was 10:07. "Yesterday," she muttered.

"I told you the trail was cold."

"Forget the trail. House...you need to tell me the tipping point. What changed?"

He turned his head, staring at her with exhausted, empty eyes.

"You need to tell me why you, of all people, are freaking out."

He raised his head then, giving her the once-over before grumpily looking away. "When I ran into her in the mountains, she...she was Kayla, I mean at first, but then she was...blue."

"Blue?"

"Yeah, like...like I was watching Avatar in 3D."

"Uh, okay..."

"It was so bizarre. Her eyes were yellow, she was naked. Her hair was red."

"Of course you'd hallucinate her naked."

"Jealous?"

She smiled at him.

"And then she kicked me in the face," he concluded. He raised his brows, staring into the dark. "You know, I-I thought she and I were okay. I read people. I'm...I'm good at it. And she just...turned off a switch. Fooled me like I was...an ordinary idiot."

"Well," Cuddy began, then scoffed. "We both know you're not ordinary."

Her twinsult briefly made him smile, but as he continued to stare through the windshield, he sobered, letting his head fall back onto the headrest.

"I know," she said. "You're worried about her."

"I'm not," he said, and shook his head. "No point. I'm angry about her, about what they did, but...can't worry about the dead. I'm worried...about them," he finished, and raised his eyebrows at her.

"That's kinda messed up."

"Kinda?" he repeated.

"Okay, it's unnatural, absurd, and totally twisted. And not...unnatural in a normal way."

"Yeah, neither is you not telling me she's not dead."

The way she quietly stared at him made him feel uneasy. Finally she broke eye contact, brushing her fingers over her lips. "I don't know what I think. Everybody who didn't turn away from that broadcast is aware she was spotted near here, and there are no policemen," she said bitterly. "Not one. Not anywhere. Not even a single good Samaritan, just...helping out!"

Realizing he was hallucinating again, he turned all of his focus to her. "If you don't think it would make a difference, then it doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters. It's Cameron."

"So if it was someone else, we'd be living our lives."

"No," she said, sounding like even she didn't believe it.

"Yes. I'd be falling asleep in front of Prescription Passion, and you'd be dating a guy who likes low-fat mayonnaise. Don't pretend otherwise," he said, watching her dig into her purse. "Everybody's selfish; few are brave enough to admit it."

She took out the number, the strips of clear tape flashing in the moonlight.

Their eyes locked; then he broke eye contact, looking out into the dark woods beside him.

"What happens if I throw it away?" she asked. "Do you stop nagging me, like I don't have the basic human right to date and have sex? Do we...get together? Or do things carry on exactly the same? In which case, I'm going to buy a very short skirt."

"You don't want to be with me. You've been there before."

He avoided her eyes, only moving to fish out his ringing phone. "The good doctor and...Cuddy," he decided, "Are just a tad preoccupied looking for your fellow fellow. So unless you happen to be calling with an update..."

"I am. It's not medical, but it is personal."

"Is it important?"

"Uh, yeah. I'd say very," Foreman said. "And unless law enforcement forgot to get a phone number for the importance of the investigation, you'll have to let them call her."

"Fine, fine, Foreman. What do you got?"

"Your mother."

His sardonic smile faded and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Uh, what—what's she doing there?" he asked, causing Cuddy to whip her head around to stare at him.

"She's here to show her support after watching the news. Now instead she's insulted, because you never told her you got canned. So I had to do it. Meanwhile, there's a five-year-old terminal patient who got someone else's results and thinks he's going to recover."

House raised his eyebrows, finally uttering out, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry? I haven't seen you in over a year and somehow you're still interfering with my work." Foreman stopped and huffed a sigh, then continued, "I'm putting your mother on the line. She's got to be the only person in the universe who wants to talk to you. If you'll excuse me, I have to go break a child's heart."

House waited for his mother's voice, waving Cuddy's worry aside.

"Greg?"

"Hi, Mom," he said, and Cuddy unclenched. "Listen, uh―"

"Where are you? And you better not say Canada, young man."

"Okay, I'm...in British Columbia."

"Damn it, Greg!"

"Sorry, sorry," he said, with a slight chuckle. "Look, it's just for a few more days."

"Fine. But you better come see me!"

"I will, I promise," he laughed. "And, listen, about my work..."

"Oh, Greg, I don't care about that. You just stay safe over there. And find out what happened to that poor girl."

House sighed and met Cuddy's eyes as long as he was able―which wasn't long. "I-I'm sure nothing happened to her."

Cuddy stared at him as he wrapped up his phone call, then asked, "Since when you do lie?"

"Uh, let's see... Think I learned how to talk in the '50s, so, carry the one, that's... A long time."

"Okay, but since when do you lie to your mother?"

"Since the '50s."

Cuddy shook her head. "Close your eyes, House."

"My mother," he said promptly, "Is a lot nicer than yours. You're telling me you were always honest?"

"If I wasn't..." she began loudly, and stopped. She stared up at him, knowing deep in her heart that what she told him would not stay between them. Even if she clarified that it was being said in confidence, he would tell someone else or worse yet, use it against her.

Seeing her reluctance and sensing her fear, House looked away again, trying not to be ashamed of who he was. It wasn't like he could change.

"My turn to pee," she mumbled, and got out of the car.

Watching her walk away, his eyes eventually drifted down to the taped-up phone number she had left beside her purse. The pocket she had taken it from was still open, so he tucked the number back inside. As he continued waiting, continued staring out into the dark, he soon felt another wave of nausea; and vomited what was left of the mints. After vomiting another time, he went back into Cuddy's purse looking for the mints. Desperate to get rid of the foul taste and a little nervous about his physical state, it didn't occur to him that they felt different in his palm.

He threw the pills into his mouth, eager to taste something good. But they were flavorless. He waited, thinking the taste of puke was too strong and it was just taking longer to taste the mints; but grew anxious when he finally felt them with his tongue and realized they weren't what he thought he grabbed. He leaned out and spat the pills into the grass; then grumpily crossed his arms and waited for Cuddy to return.

He blasted her as soon as she sat down. "I needed some more mints while you were gone."

"That's okay."

"And I grabbed your meds by mistake."

She went still, driver side door still open.

"So! Now I'm...curious. Are you pregnant? Are you ill? Are you dying?"

"I'm fine. And I am pregnant."

"All the more reason I need to know if you're ill!"

She stared at the stubborn concern on his face. "I-I'm fine," she said, squishing the urge to touch him. "Baby's fine."

"Then what...what are they?"

"That is not your business," she said falteringly, and finally closed the door. Glancing over, she saw him going through her purse. "You don't think I anticipated you'd do that? They're in an unmarked bottle."

He slammed her purse down into his lap. "I need to know if you―"

"No, you don't need to know!" she shouted. She yanked her purse back, not caring if she hurt him. "You're not my doctor, and...and I take it back, you're not my friend. Leave it alone! Leave me alone."

He sat still, and was uncharacteristically quiet. Cuddy stared out her window and bit her lip, feeling her self-hatred grow. There he was; a man who watched his friend suffer through chemo, buried him...got shot, and who knows what else he went through because for all of his curiosity about other people, he refused to communicate. She turned her head to apologize and found herself looking right into his eyes.

He shrugged it off, looking ahead again. "You're hormonal. And everything's going wrong at once."

"And you're an asshole."

"Did I ever say I wasn't?"

Cuddy lifted her purse into her lap and opened the pocket where the mints were stashed. Pulling them out, she saw the phone number pinched under her thumb. She handed him the mints, still clutching the number. Looking reluctantly at him, she mumbled, "And you've been through a lot."

"Everyone has," he said, and popped the mints into his mouth.

"Yeah, but you..."

He glowered, hating the turn she was taking.

"I mean, I know what you did. And maybe I just can't wrap my brain around everything you told me. And you might sound a little superstitious, at times, when―"

"You know what, I need to close my eyes. It would help if you close your mouth."

He settled back, relaxing into the seat; but opened his left eye to peek at her when she sighed.

"It was Loperamide."

She waited a moment, then looked over to see him still trying to fall asleep―and trying not to laugh.