Here's an AU take on the series finale. Sadly, Wilson is still a goner, but House didn't do any of that faking-his-own death nonsense.

The Other Woman

Cuddy took a deep breath, steadied her hands—which were shaking a bit—and dialed the all-too familiar number.

She tried to imagine where he would be: At the piano? On the couch drinking scotch? Or, she shuddered at this thought for a second, crouched in the bathroom with a needle in his arm?

But the voice who answered wasn't familiar at all: A woman, with the slightest trace of a Midwestern accent.

"Hello?" the woman said.

Before Cuddy could even process her shock, there was a man's voice—House's—bellowing into the room: "I got it!" followed by his typically nonchalant, "Y'allo" into the receiver.

"Hello, who's there?" the woman repeated.

Cuddy had a momentarily urge to hang up, to forget the whole thing. Instead she said: "House?"

Then, it was House's voice again—only changed this time, tense, tentative: "Ellen, hang up. It's for me."

There was a click.

"Cuddy?" House said. She could hear him limping across the room, closing the door.

"Who's that woman?" Cuddy said.

"My God. It's really you," he said, almost to himself.

"Who's that woman, House?"

"She's, um. . .she lives here now. Are you okay? Is Rachel okay?"

"We're both fine," Cuddy said.

"I'm just. . .this is so unexpected. How are you?"

"I already said, I'm fine. Look House, here's why I'm calling."

"You don't need a reason to—"

"I'm seeing a therapist."

"Okay?" he said, confused.

"And she seems to think I'm having some issues with…closure. That I still have a lot of anger, mostly aimed at you frankly, and that it might be helpful for me to express my feelings to you in a . . .safe setting."

"Safe setting?"

"Yes. Like, a therapist's office. I'm asking if you'll join me for my therapy session."

There was a momentary, stunned pause.

"You can say no if you want to," Cuddy said, somewhat tersely.

"No. I mean, yes. Of course. It's the least I can do. Just tell me where and when and I'll be there."

"Tuesday. 11 am. Dr. Anita Rosenberg's office on 191 West 71st Street."

"191 West 71st," House repeated.

"You're not going to write it down?" she said.

"No. I got it. Cuddy, I'm just so glad that you—"

"I'll see you on Tuesday then. Thanks for agreeing to this."

And she hung up.

House stared at the phone for a long time. Finally, he limped out of the bedroom, into the kitchen.

Ellen was standing there, stirring batter—she was making banana-nut muffins.

"Who was that?" she said.

"It was, um, someone I work with," House said.

"Someone you work with?" Ellen chuckled. "Could you be more vague?"

"It was Dr. Chowdery, from pediatrics. She needed a consult."

Ellen stopped stirring and squinted at him.

"Why do you look so freaked out?"

"I'm just . . . annoyed that she called instead of paging me. That's all."

"Okay," Ellen said skeptically. She had been dating House long enough not to push it. "Do me a favor and go chop the walnuts."

"Okay," he said, glad to be off the subject.

#####

Cuddy came to her therapy session a few minutes early to brace herself for his arrival.

"He'll be late, by the way," Cuddy said. "He always is."

"How are you feeling right now?" Anita said. She was early 60s, long gray hair pulled back into a loose bun. She tended to dress in flowy layers—lots of expensive looking sweaters and scarves. Her office was classic Upper West Side intellectual: Leather coaches, faded Oriental rugs, bookshelves stacked with everything from Freud to Kierkegaard to Phillip Roth.

"Weird. Anxious. Defensive. And strangely. . .annoyed that House has a girlfriend," Cuddy admitted.

"How do you know he has a girlfriend?"

"Because when I called, a woman answered the phone."

"Could've been a friend, a colleague."

"House doesn't do friends, except for the late great James Wilson, who has probably achieved sainthood by now. And colleagues don't answer your home phone at 10 at night."

"So why does her existence annoy you?" Anita said.

"Because I haven't been able to maintain a relationship of longer than 2 months since he rammed his car into my living room and he's living with someone? I'll just throw it on the ever-growing pile of Incredibly Unfair Things."

"Well, perhaps we can address it today."

"I don't want him to think I'm jealous. I'm not jealous. I'm annoyed."

"I understand," Anita said.

Cuddy fidgeted a bit on the couch. She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them. "This is weird, right? It's okay for me to feel weird about this."

"It's highly 'weird.'" Anita said with a reassuring smile. "But you'll do just fine. Be honest with him. Don't hold back. And I'm here to throw the flag if he gets out of line."

Her desk phone buzzed. She answered.

"He's here," she said to Cuddy. Then she looked at her watch. "Right on time. You ready?"

Cuddy straightened her shoulders a bit, nodded.

"Let him in," Anita said.

House emerged in the doorway looking, if anything, more nervous and fidgety than she was. He was wearing a suit and tie, the kind of unnecessarily formal gesture that she might have found touching once upon a time.

"Hi Dr. House. I'm Anita Rosenberg. Of course, you know Dr. Cuddy."

House nodded at Cuddy, then licked his lips, as though his mouth were dry.

"Have a seat," Anita said, gesturing to the far end of the couch where Cuddy was sitting.

With the exception of Nolan, who had slowly gained his trust, House had a natural disdain for psychiatrists. He considered them quacks, charlatans, one step above carnival psychics. But Cuddy could tell, just by his body language, that he was going to at least try to behave.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet us here," Anita said.

"As I said to Dr. Cuddy, it's the very definition of the least I can do," House said. He was trying to catch Cuddy's eye, but she was looking straight ahead, at Anita.

"Good," Anita said. Then she chuckled: "I hope you feel that way after the session."

"So how does this work?" House said, scratching his beard nervously.

"No rules," Anita said. "Just a clearing of the air. But before we have Dr. Cuddy unburden herself, let's catch up a little. How long as his been since you two last saw each other."

"Almost four years," Cuddy said.

"Three years, eight months, and 14 days," House said.

Anita eyed him.

"And what have you been up to in that time?"

"The usual," House said. "18 months in prison. Buried my best friend. Oh and I've been sober for 337 days."

He looked at Cuddy again, expecting some sort of sign of approval, but she remained stony faced.

"Congratulations," Anita said.

"Thank you."

"And the woman?" Anita said. "Dr. Cuddy says a woman answered your phone."

"My, uh, girlfriend, Ellen Chalmers. She owns a flower shop in Hoboken. We met at a NA meeting."

"You go to NA?" Cuddy said, incredulously. "He's an atheist," she explained to Anita ."He doesn't believe in any higher power other than himself."

"I tune most of it out," House admitted. "But I find that sobriety loves company." Then he smiled, sheepishly. "And there are donuts afterward."

"I agree, Dr. House," Anita said. "It easier to stay sober when other people are supporting you."

"Ellen was my sponsor," House said. "But once we got, um, involved . . . someone else took over."

"Definitely wise," Anita said.

Cuddy folded her arms. This whole line of conversation was irking her. House seemed so calm, so reasonable, so self-actualized. She wanted to shake Anita and say, "Don't let him fool you! He's a raging megalomaniac."

"So. . .Lisa. . .is there anything you want to say to Dr. House, before we get started?"

Cuddy looked at her hands.

"I was sorry about Wilson. I wanted to go to the funeral. I hope you understand that I . . .couldn't."

"Thanks," House said. He swallowed hard. "It was rough."

"Dr. Cuddy says he was your best friend?" Anita said.

"Yes," House said. "He died of cancer a little over a year ago."

"Is that when you decided to get sober?"

"Yeah," House said. "I was sort of in a freefall. It was basically either time to pack it all in or try to. . .regroup."

"By pack it all in. . .you mean suicide?"

House eyed Cuddy.

"Yeah. I've considered offing myself several times in the last few years."

"I'm glad you didn't," Anita said.

"Me too," House said.

"Why would you?" Cuddy said, snidely.

House turned to her.

"Excuse me?" he said.

"I mean, you have everything," Cuddy said. "Your home, your job, your standing in the community."

"We both know I've never had any standing in the community," House said.

"Go ahead, Lisa. Tell him what you're feeling."

Cuddy closed her eyes tightly, then opened them.

"I just. . .resent the hell out of the fact that my life was completely uprooted and you got to keep everything the same."

"I lost you," House protested. "Then I went to jail. Then I lost Wilson. . .My life is hardly a bowl of cherries."

"You're still at PPTH, right?"

"Yes."

"Running the diagnostics department?"

"Yes."

"And let me guess, there's at least one beautiful young woman on your team."

"Some might describe her as beautiful."

"And now you're in love again."

"I said I had a girlfriend. I never said I was in love," House muttered.

"Seems like things are going just fine for you."

"But not for you?" he asked. He sounded like he really cared, which made her feel ill.

"Well, the nightmares stopped last year, so there's that," Cuddy said.

"Cuddy, I'm sorry. . ."

"And I'm damn good at my job, even if I don't get as much personal satisfaction out of work as I used to."

"Of course you're good at your job," he said.

"And Rachel is blissfully unaware of the fact that the man she used to think of as a father figure almost killed her."

House started to protest, then thought better of it.

"I'm sorry," he said, bowing his head.

"I can't trust men anymore," she said. "I haven't had a long-term relationship since you."

"If I keep saying I'm sorry, is going to start losing meaning?" House said. "Because I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say."

She ignored him.

I'm stuck, House," she said. "And I blame you."

"Last time you were stuck," House said, ironically. "It actually worked out pretty well for me."

She shot him a look.

"Don't go there," she said.

Anita, who had been following their back and forth like a tennis match, now stopped.

"Fill me in," she said..

"The night Cuddy told me she loved me, she described herself as being stuck," House explained. "Couldn't move forward with her life unless she found out if we could work. She also said she didn't want to be in love with me, but she couldn't help it. . . ." He gave a self-effacing smile. "It was actually a lot more romantic than it sounds."

"I'm sure it was," Anita said. Then she turned back to Cuddy. "What else, Lisa? Now's your time to get it all out."

"Does Ellen know about your past? About what you did? About your criminal behavior?"

"Of course," House said. "We talk about hitting rock bottom a lot in NA. I'm the poster child for hitting rock bottom."

"And she's willing to overlook that? She must really be the forgiving type."

"We're big on forgiveness in NA. Ellen's isn't worried that I have violent tendencies. As we both know, I don't."

Cuddy snorted.

"Actually, if you must know, Ellen's bigger concern is that I still have. . .feelings for you."

Cuddy rolled her eyes.

"This is what he does," she said to Anita. "He's trying to change the subject."

"I'm just telling the truth."

"Did you tell Ellen you were coming here?" Anita asked.

"It, uh, didn't seem wise," House said.

"I'm not treating you, Dr. House. But if you were my patient, I'd advise against that."

"Good thing I'm not your patient then," House cracked.

Anita shook her head. She was on Lisa's side, for many reasons (not the least of which being that Cuddy was paying her), but she liked this Dr. House. She certainly understood what Lisa had once seen in him.

"As we're nearing the end of the session," she said. "I'd like to clear the air even more. Dr. House. Is there anything you'd like to say to Dr. Cuddy?"

House looked down.

"Only a thousand things," he said. "That I'm happy to see her. That I miss her—and Rachel—more than she could possibly know. That I've discovered the single worst word in the English language, and that's 'regret.'"

He glanced, somewhat furtively at Cuddy. "I know you think I ruined your life. And. . .maybe I did. But you ruined me, too. When you get everything you ever wanted and then you screw it up, for no reason other than screwing things up is what you're good at . . .it's hard to live with. I live with that regret everyday."

"Your life doesn't seem ruined, House. Your life seems just fine."

"Then you're not looking close enough," House said.

They stared at each other for a moment.

"What about you, Lisa?" Anita said. "Anything you want to say to House?"

"Thanks for coming?" she said, with an ironic laugh.

"Any time," House said. "Literally."

"Do you feel any better about things?" Anita said.

"Not really," Cuddy said, slumping her shoulders a bit. "I just feel really sad."

House wished they were sitting closer on the couch. He might be tempted to take her hand, or at least touch her in some way.

"I wonder if we might try this again?" Anita said. "Next week? I feel like a lot was left unsaid."

House and Cuddy exchanged another look.

"I wouldn't mind that. . ." Cuddy said.

"Me neither," House said, quickly.

"Okay then," Anita said. "Same time next week. Oh, and it's for the best if you two stay out of touch until then. I think all your conversations should be restricted to a therapeutic setting."

"Of course," House and Cuddy said in unison.

They got up together and walked out. Then, of course, they ended up in the elevator together.

"Am I allowed to ask you what floor you want?" House cracked. "Or is that violating the rules of therapy?"

"Lobby," Cuddy said, laughing despite herself.

"It's great to see you laugh," House said. "You look beautiful."

"Now that definitely IS against the rules."

"Sorry," he said. "Couldn't help myself."

She shrugged.

"How's Rachel?" he asked.

"Uh uh," she said. "Definitely verboten."

"Can you at least tell her I say hi?" he said.

"No."

"Okay." He nodded sadly.

The elevator door opened and they both stepped out, into the lobby.

"It's past noon," House said, looking at his watch. "Can I buy you lunch?"

"What part of 'conversations should be restricted to a therapeutic setting' don't you understand?" Cuddy said.

"She's not a judge," House said, with a charming smile. "She's a psychiatrist. What she says are more along the lines of . . .helpful suggestions."

"I don't want to have lunch with you House," she said.

"Oh well," he said. "Same time next week then?"

"That's the plan."

######

"Where were you this afternoon?" Ellen said that night. They were lying in bed. She was reading a romance novel; he was reading a medical journal. "I called you at work and they said you weren't there."

"Why didn't you try my cell?" House said.

"I did. It went straight to voicemail."

"It's customary to leave a voicemail when trying to contact someone."

"Greg, you're doing that thing we talked about."

House scratched his beard.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "I was meeting my accountant. In Manhattan."

"Your accountant?"

"Yeah. Tax stuff. Investment stuff. Estate stuff. Real thrilling."

"And it had nothing to do with that woman who was on the phone the other night?" Ellen said, putting down her book and looking at him.

"Why . . .why would you even ask that?" House stammered..

"Because you were completely freaked out by that phone call. You looked like you had just seen a ghost. And you've been totally distracted ever since."

"Just an annoying coworker, not a ghost," House said. "As for me being distracted, just thinking about a patient. Nothing more."

Ellen sighed skeptically.

"Okay," she said.

"Okay," he said back, teasingly.

Then she turned off the light on her side of the bed.

"My manager called in sick so I have to be at the shop early tomorrow," she said, leaning over and giving him a kiss. "I'm turning in."

"Goodnight," he said, kissing her back.

Ellen and House didn't exactly have what you might call a wild sex life. Their romance hadn't blossomed out of any great passion, at least not on his part: Ellen was a friendly and supportive face at the NA meetings. When other people called House rude or arrogant, she always took his side. As his sponsor, she was a calm and comforting voice on the phone those restless nights when he was on the verge of a relapse. On a few occasions, he was so high risk, she felt compelled to come over—she would make him tea and play cards with him, ask about his record collection, anything to distract him from his pain. Then, one night, House gazed at her and said, "I don't know what I would've done without you these last few months"—and cautiously kissed her on the mouth. She kissed back, gratefully—she'd had a crush on him since the moment he'd limped into NA, so brilliant and handsome and snarly, so full of blustery, wounded anger. She slept over that night and basically never left.

But at this point, eight months into their relationship, they had the sex life of an old married couple: They had special occasion sex, or if either or them was particularly horny. Mostly, though, they gave each other a chaste kiss on the lips and fell asleep.

Ellen knew about Cuddy. Knew she was the love of his life, that no other woman would ever measure up, and she tried to convince herself that she was okay with that. She was thirty-seven, after all, divorced, a former addict (Oxycontin). She loved him more than he loved her, but so what? Life was about compromise, right?

"Tell me about more Cuddy," she had asked him one him night, innocently.

"We don't talk about her," he had snapped back, turning away.

So that was that.

Still, this night, as she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, she couldn't help but to wonder if the mysterious woman on the phone was Lisa Cuddy. It would explain everything: His caginess, his unexplained absence, the haunted look that still lingered on his face. She needed to find out.

#####

He wasn't wearing a tie this time—just his grey jacket over his pink shirt, plus jeans, Nikes.

He sat down, rubbing his right leg nervously. (Pain? Or just force of habit?)

"I am quite possibly the first man to have ever voluntarily gone in front of a firing squad twice," he said.

"We appreciate your being here, Dr. House," Anita said, mirthfully.

"Hi Cuddy," House said, giving her a cute little wave.

"Hi House," she replied, wearily.

"I want to pick up on something we were talking about last session, if that's alright?" Anita said.

"Shoot," he said. "But not literally."

"Lisa, you said that you couldn't trust men anymore and that House was partly to blame. Can you elaborate?"

Cuddy cleared her throat a bit.

"Seems self-explanatory, right? The man I let into my house, my heart, my bed tried to kill me. Something of a trust breaker."

"Can I object here?" House said. He turned to Anita: "Am I allowed to object?"

"This isn't a court of law, Dr. House. It's a therapy session. Speak your mind."

"I let you get away with this characterization last time, because, well, frankly, I would've let you accuse me of war crimes just to spend an hour in your presence, but I can't any take it any longer: I DID NOT TRY TO KILL YOU!"

"The New Jersey criminal courts said otherwise."

"Reckless endangerment, not attempted vehicular manslaughter! I was stoned out of my gourd. You know that."

"You were lucid enough to get all worked up with your ridiculous unfounded jealousy."

"That's how addiction works," House said, eyeing Dr. Rosenberg, hoping for some backup. "You distort things. You inflate them. You overreact. In my drug-addled mind, I was making a point. It wasn't an attempted murder. It was a 'fuck you' with gusto."

"Empirical fact: You could have killed people. You could've killed my child."

House, who had built up a little head of steam, now looked down contritely: "I would never hurt either of you intentionally. You have to know that."

"It was hard to make the distinction between a symbolic gesture and a homicidal one when a car is barreling toward you at 45 mph," Cuddy said.

"Cuddy, I'd die before I hurt you," House said, pleadingly. "Or Rachel. You have to know that."

"Too late," Cuddy said.

House put his head in his hands.

"Tell me how to fix this," he said. "Tell me how to make this better for you. I can't undo what I did. So. . .what? You want me to quit my job? Break up with Ellen? Join a monastery?"

"Yes," Cuddy sniffed. She was crying, but his suggestion of joining a monastery had at least amused her.

"Okay," House said. "I'll do it. I'm going to look awful with that Friar Tuck haircut. But I'll do it. I need to start practicing my chanting. Do monks chant? Will I have to wear that horrible brown robe?"

For a second, they smiled at each other and it was like old times. House being impossible. Cuddy laughing despite herself.

"Dr. House does ask a good question," Anita said, trying to regain their focus. "What concrete thing can he do to make reparations? Do you really want him to quit his job?"

"No," Cuddy said. "He's a great doctor. He needs to stay where he'll do the most good."

"Would you be happier if he broke up with Ellen?"

Cuddy gave another snort.

"Of course not."

"I'll do it," House said, looking at her unblinkingly. "I'll break up with her. I'll do it tonight."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I don't love her. You know that, right? She keeps me company. I'm alone in this miserable world and she keeps me company. That's it. You're the one I love. You're the one I'll always love."

"I know," Cuddy said softly.

"Good," House said, momentarily appeased.

"So where do we go from here?" Anita said, addressing them both.

Cuddy shrugged.

"I feel better I guess. I thought I wanted House to be unhappy, but that's not really what I want."

"I am unhappy!" he said. And for some reason, that made them both laugh.

"I guess what happened between me and House was a tragedy in its own way," Cuddy said, thoughtfully. "We were in love. I got sick—or at least we thought I was sick. He took drugs to cope. I broke up with him. It all spiraled out of control from there. It ended up with House in jail and me leaving my whole life behind. I guess no one was the winner in this scenario."

"You were the victim," House said. "I'm perfectly clear on that fact. I may not have been trying to kill you, but I'm the bad guy here."

"Yes," Cuddy nodded. "You did a horrible thing and we're both still paying for it, I guess. But you've done a better job at moving on."

"I'm surviving, Cuddy, that's it."

She nodded. "You've always been good at that."

House looked down, kicked at the tassled edge of the Oriental rug.

"Yeah," he said.

"And I'm glad your sober," she said. "I really am. I'm proud of you."

"Thank you," he said, swallowing hard.

"Good," Anita said. "Very good. I think we're done here for today. Lisa, same time next week? We can debrief on these last two sessions. And Dr. House, it was very nice getting to know you. I have a colleague I can recommend you talk to if you ever want to move beyond 'survival' mode."

"Thanks," House said.

Once again, they ambled out, rode the elevator down together.

"Can I buy you lunch?" House asked again.

"Actually, I would like that," Cuddy said.

House's face lit up.

"But I can't. I have a yoga class in an hour."

His face fell.

"Can't you blow it off?"

"No," she said. "I need it. Today was good though. Helpful. Cleansing."

"Can I call you?" he said.

Cuddy closed her eyes for a second. "Let me think about that. I have your number. I'll call you if I want to see you again."

"Please, please do."

"Alright House," she said. "Be good."

And she reached up and gave him a hug. They held on for a long time—too long—and he took in her scent, the feel of her body against his for what he hoped wouldn't be the last time.

"Okay," he said when they parted. "Go get your Zen on."

They smiled at each other and she walked away. House watched her, longingly, til she turned the corner and disappeared.

######

From across the street, Ellen Chalmers watched the scene from a park bench, her face obscured by a newspaper.

She was struck by several things: That Lisa Cuddy was impossibly beautiful, more so than she'd even feared (pictures on the Internet just didn't do her justice.) That she'd never seen Greg look so powerless in someone's presence, so eager for approval, so totally vulnerable. So this, she thought grimly, is what Gregory House looks like when he's love. And that it was clear—from the way she held onto him when they embraced, the way she smiled at him, the meaningful way she looked at him before parting— that Lisa Cuddy was in love with him, too.

Ellen got up and began to walk briskly. She turned the corner exactly where Cuddy had turned and she spotted her, several yards down the street turning into a building. She followed her inside.