Author Notes: This story is an unfinished work-in-progress that was first posted back when season two was airing. I started writing this before Stacy left the show, and before the start of Cuddy's baby arc was revealed. There are some discrepancies and inconsistencies with canon due to that.

While this fic will likely never be completed, I feel that the last chapter posted leaves the characters in a fairly resolved, satisfying place. Their story isn't exactly finished, but if you are reading this from the beginning, you don't have to worry about a cliffhanger ending.

Enjoy!

1.

She sat there in the bathroom for a long while, just staring.

At it.

She'd been worried for a few days, going on a week, but not too worried. Now it seemed she hadn't been worried enough. Not nearly enough. In fact there really wasn't a level of concern too high for this sort of situation, she realised.

For a few minutes she continued to sit, and stare, and quietly panic.

Then, she stood up and went to the kitchen. There, she rummaged around until she found a ziplock freezer bag - the kind she sometimes used to store pathetic, single servings of soup or stew if she made a big pot over the weekend. It would do. She sealed it up, washed her hands, and then calmly went about getting ready for work.

Just as calmly, she drove to the hospital, manoeuvring easily through early morning traffic, and pulled into her reserved parking spot.

As she walked towards the entrance she noted, very calmly, that House's bike wasn't in its usual place. He wasn't in yet. This wasn't out of the ordinary, of course; it was only just past seven and it was rare enough that he came in to work on time, let alone two hours early.

She continued on inside, nodding hello to a few people on the way, exchanging a few pleasantries. When she got to her office she sat down and pulled out some paperwork. All perfectly normal. Normal and calm.

At nine thirty she looked down and realised she was tapping her pen so vigorously that there was now a dent in her otherwise pristine desk blotter.

She put the pen down. Then she stood up, left her office, and travelled the all-too familiar route up to the diagnostics department.

She strode into his office, where he was enjoying a leisurely morning cup of coffee with his feet propped up on the desk. He looked up at her over the rim of his mug as she reached into her pocket, drew out the clear plastic bag and tossed it down next to his ridiculously flashy sneakers.

"We have a problem," she said.