Using the computer to do his own research on Logan, House wrote the address of the sawmill on his piece of paper, pocketed it and closed the program. Getting up, he swiped his cane and started limping for the exit. His impressive cognitive skills were barely functioning; all he wanted was answers. It was like an itch he couldn't scratch. Yet. But turning them in... Oh, it was going to feel so good. To destroy them―as they had almost destroyed her.

One sawmill, three schools, and a shitload of hospitals. Though he would try, he doubted he could actually obtain any information from their patient files. It would be a shitload of hacking―and he would have to go behind the scenes. Pretend to be a doctor, learn just enough about the records to try hacking them... What he needed was Anonymous. But he was already halfway across the room, and there was always tomorrow, and a shitload of days after. His stride didn't falter as he limped for the exit.

Logan had early work hours, too; early nights. Pain in the ass. But it mattered little; House had decided to take initiative, get the ball rolling. If his cognitive skills had been rolling, he could have taken initiative the instant he found out about them. Maybe they could have avoided this whole Cameron thing.

His anger self-directed itself as he let himself out into the afternoon. The teenagers were still there, now blathering about school.

"Shouldn't you be there?" House interrupted, as he limped on by. They laughed, like he had just told some kind of joke; stopping by the wheelchair access ramp, he turned to observe them with a confused smile. "Sure, go ahead and laugh. It's only your lives."

That seemed to mess with them. Another duty accomplished, he turned and went down the ramp.

Now, for the part that was arguably worse than porn and hacking into patient files... Part one of three.

A gentle knock on the wall made the heavyset, grumpy-looking secretary peer up at House. She frowned, removing her bifocals. "Uh, yes?"

House lifted a completely blank piece of paper he had found outside. "I'm here about the job opening."

"I didn't know there was a position open."

He gave a light scoff. "And you're the secretary."

"Excuse me," she said, standing up. "I need to check with the principal."

"While you're doing that, do you mind if I catch up on my correspondence?" he asked, motioning to the computer. "My computer died last night, and I'm expecting an important email."

"Go ahead."

"Thanks," he said sweetly, going to the desk as she was leaving. He quickly typed in one name that stuck out to him―Raelynn. He didn't know how to spell it, so he alternatively tried hyphenating and putting in a space, as well. Nothing was coming up. He stood up and wandered away from the desk. He nodded cordially at the secretary and principal as they entered the secretary's office.

"Okay, I just got off the phone with the board," the principal said, "And I don't know how this happened, but there's been a mistake; they're not hiring right now."

"Oh well," House said, his voice rough.

"Oh well?"

"Big bummer. What can you do?" he said, moving to the door as quickly as he could. He turned, adding, "Now we get to play a game."

"Uh, a game, sir?" the principal asked.

"Pin The Tail On The Dummy," he said, and wandered to the front doors. He heard the woman raise her voice, and hazarding a glance over his shoulder, he saw them arguing. With a grim smile, he let himself out into the parking lot of Nesika Elementary and limped towards his bike.

Well, that was easy! Too bad he'd have a bitch of a time with the hospitals. Sitting on his bike, he dug out his phone and speed-dialed Cuddy.

"Hello?"

"Nesika's a no-go. No luck yet pulling Kayla's medical records."

"Of course you tried pulling her medical records," Cuddy grumbled.

"You're ashamed of me? Can't count the number of times you were implicated."

"Wait! Wait, wait, wait," Cameron blurted, her voice getting closer. "House―please tell me you didn't go to that school."

"It's a school?" Cuddy asked quietly.

"Yes! And I interrogated the school secretary, asked for the name of a child I learned. Where she is, Kayla is."

"You're starting to scare me," Cameron said, her voice barely audible.

"I thought you didn't care about Canada," Cuddy broke in.

"He doesn't!" Chase exclaimed. "He cares about Cameron."

"Of co― How did I not see that?" Cuddy asked.

"Okay, let's not lose objectivity," House growled, sitting on his bike. "Another school, another hospital. One day these bastards are going to jail."

"Aren't you afraid of going to jail?"

"I've been there," he answered simply. "Any assistance you can provide with your newfangled phones with all their bells and whistles would be very much appreciated. In any event, duty calls―another school, another hospital, interrogating the bastards in question. Maybe I'll even see you guys again."

"House―"

This time he ignored the voice, disconnecting the call and pocketing his phone. He put on his helmet; then, rolling the paper around his handlebar, he put his hand over it and roared off the school grounds.

Pulling the same trick at the other elementary schools yielded one result―Raelynn, and therefore Kayla, went to Cataline. Feeling like he had made progress by 1%, House returned to the cabin do some more interrogating. Sitting on his bike for a moment after he shut it off, he wrote down the name of the school and finally Logan's license plate as well; soon pocketing his pen and paper and letting himself into the quiet cabin. The first thing he noticed was that it was abandoned; the second thing he noticed was that Logan had covered up the pizzas, to protect them from bugs.

House limped over the pizzas, lifting up the big bowl covering the nearest one and smiling when he saw that Logan had eaten some.

"See?" he yelled, just in case Logan was home. "They're not even poisoned!"

There was no response, and he helped himself to a plate, a beer, and the TV remote. As he barely paid attention to the screen, he wondered why they would have electricity and no computer. It would definitely make his job easier if he could work from...well, somebody's home. No computer, no date night. Were they lame at the dirty talking, too?

Marriage: The worst trend throughout human history. Sure, people could be together forever. Nobody was supposed to be alone together forever. It would lead to loneliness, hostility, psychosis. Maybe in ten years, maybe in forty...and he didn't know how long they had been alone together for. He shuddered to think of having only the company of his wife forever and ever. Granted―he didn't want the company of a bunch of people, but it would be so much worse if there was no choice, if he was a slave to isolation. To keep himself confined in a dark, miserable box and call it life itself. Their home life and prison, not much difference.

Well, there was a better view out of the windows here. But the prison yard was bigger than their entire property. With a speed-healing ability and the power of persuasion, they could be the most feared inmates in their cell block. The guards would be afraid. Where there was fear, there was respect. They could take whatever they wanted from the other prisoners. It could be their castle. Nobody would hurt them, and those who tried would be sorry.

Not like him. All those years later, and he still remembered exactly where he'd been hit, and how much it hurt. Now here he was, close to getting arrested again. Almost as if Cameron was right.

When his plate and his bottle were empty, he left the dishes on the coffee table and lay down, meaning only to close his eyes for a moment. He ended up dozing off and was woken by the sound of Kayla letting herself into the house four hours later. In a drunken haze, he begrudgingly started sitting up, with the grace of a nearly-70-year-old man.

"Did you do this?" was the greeting she extended.

"Yeah. Stone cold by now."

"It's fine. I love cold pizza."

"Be honest. You're annoyed having me here. It's been a long time―hell, you probably wouldn't let your sister stay over so long."

"I have. And if I ever need her hospitality..."

He finally surged to his feet. "Ah. The old not-free favor."

She averted her eyes, finally taking off her sweater. "Nothing's free," she muttered, and wandered back to the closet.

"In a strip club, no. On the other hand, if you're a dancer, pure profit." He looked down and realized that all of the information he was gathering on them had fallen out of his pants, and he swooped down to put it back in his pocket.

Coming back from the closet, she crossed her arms, shrugging. "It costs you other things."

"What am I costing you? Be honest."

"I'd rather unwind," she said, her rough voice indicating a bad day. She went to the fridge as he picked up his dirty plate and bottle.

"Somebody needs a firm massage..." he muttered, limping towards her without his cane. "Well, I know I do. But you might."

The room swayed and he slammed the plate down on the counter, grabbing on to steady himself.

"Greg?"

"Fine," he answered her unasked question. "Drunk."

She reached for his plate and he swiped it away, limping to the sink. His leg was killing him, and being off Vicodin was no damn picnic. He stood there, scrubbing his plate and remembering with fondness the way he had thrown his cane to the ground and beelined to the mother choking her baby. The time he had thrown his cane into the Dumpster because he was high on methadone. The time he had gone jogging and skateboarding and felt young again. But all those good times were not enough to quell the immense pain he was in now, and his hands trembled as he dried off the plate and put it away.

"Is there something I can do?"

Feeling like a shark was gnawing his leg off, he turned and forced a smile at her. "Just talk. Uh, when did you and... He meet?" he finally decided, still not quite able to recall the man's name. God, he needed to be assigned a number...

"2009. He saved me from a protestor."

As Kayla continued providing answers that were probably and probably not useful, House tried to pay attention to her and not his leg. It didn't matter; he was too drunk. He wasn't even coherent enough to realize it wasn't just her voice fading away; it was the entire room. The last thing he heard was his name before the vindictive hardwood floor suddenly smacked his head. Barely conscious, he felt a sharp, sudden onset headache before blacking out.

It wasn't so much the ice pack pressed to his forehead that got his attention, as it was Logan's voice. "You're crazy if you think I'm hauling him up to the guest bedroom."

His eyes came open, and he found himself looking at the ceiling. Ah...intellect.

"He's injured."

"He's a drunken dumbass."

House's chuckle made them both look down at him. "You say that because you're not capable of getting inebriated. If you could, you'd have liver failure by now," he added, once again struggling with a groan to sit up. Logan rolled his eyes, but extended a hand―almost rocketing House across the cabin. "Hey! Fuck, man, can't you be gentle?"

"Yeah."

"One good leg. One good arm!" he muttered, searching the room for his cane. "Good thing I'm not a surgeon. Although I have cut into people. As a doctor, not...like you." Turning around, he grabbed his cane, leaning against the couch with its rubber end pressed firmly into the coffee table.

"You opened people up without a license?"

"There you have it; the real reason I went to med school."

"That's entirely unethical―"

"Not as unethical as letting him die."

They were quiet for a moment, watching each other; then Logan asked, "How many people do you think you've saved?"

"Uh, pfft... About 417. Give or take."

"Is that all?"

House smiled, though there was a particularly evil glint in his eye. "What about you, Superman? How many have you saved?"

Logan didn't answer.

House pointed his cane at Kayla. "Just the one?"

Logan hesitated, then began walking away. "Hell or the guest bedroom. Pick one."

House began limping for the stairs, trying to ignore Kayla's quiet smile. He leaned over and took the ice pack as he passed by. "Hey, uh... You," he said, pointing at Logan with his cane. "I really have a harder time remembering guys' names. Mind if I call you by a number?"

"Well, I've already got a number."

"Yeah, what is it?"

Logan smirked then. "4-5-8-2-5-2-4-3."

"Seriously?"

"Well, you could also call me Logan."

House turned grouchily to the stairs. "458," he muttered, and hanging his cane on his arm so he could grab the rail, he started ascending. Unbeknownst to him, Logan watched the way his hand trembled on the banister and tried to remember that he was an old, fragile, mortal man. It was probably a terrible thing, and he would never know. Huffing a sigh, Logan drank his beer and pondered treating him with a little more compassion.

Limping into the bedroom, House clunked the ice pack onto the nearest surface, then shut and locked the bedroom door. Carrying his cane and the ice pack to the bed, he emptied his hands on its thick blanket just waiting to be used. "Sure," he grumbled to himself. "Live alone, kill trespassers, terminate your friendships... Guest bedroom."

Made no fucking sense. And why did it look used? Spick-and-span surfaces, and one of them was a dresser. With his-and-hers clothing, same deal for the closet. The room was furnished in black; including the fake black flowers sitting on the black dresser. The blanket, black. The pillows, black. The only color in the room was on the matching silver vase and doorknob, although the vase was much more ornate, the white baseboards, the clothes in the closet...and him. The window overlooked the cliff, and taking only his cane, he limped to the window and stared out for awhile.

When he was ready, he went to the bed, took the information out of his pocket, and sat down, speed-dialing Cuddy.

"Hello."

"Hey," he sighed. "Want to hear what I've got so far?"

"Not really. I just...want you to be here."

He gave a genuine smile, dropping his cane on the blanket. "If I didn't think you and Cameron would tie me up and throw me in the trunk, I'd be there in a flash. I'm all for being tied up by the both of you, but―"

"You really don't know when to shut up, do you?"

"No. I also imagine I'd have duct tape on the mouth."

She hesitated, and he waited, anticipating a bribe, maybe a "mouth on the mouth" comment.

"You're driving me crazy," she finally said. "Just... Tell me you set a time limit. Will you give up and go home next week, maybe next month?"

"Actually," he looked at the paper, "I think I'm getting close to having a decent report. I think I can make the call and come find you pretty soon."

"Oh," her relief flooded her voice, "Good."

"Want to hear it now?"

"No. Please don't...implicate me any further. I have scruples to find."

He couldn't help yelping into the phone as another wave of unbelievable pain overtook him. Gasping, he disconnected and barely pocketed his phone with a trembling hand. With the other he picked up the ice pack, pinching it between his face and the pillow he used to muffle his cries.