Reach for me, and I will save you from the darkness.

You guys.

You guys.

This thing has been a long time coming. This was my baby from when I was a fifteen year old kid who knew nothing better than to sit and stalk Livejournal pages and cry over the stupid horrid things Gregory House would do to himself. This fic was the thing I dedicated every waking moment to when I was in high school; the thing I stayed up till 4am strung up on coffee and peanut butter to write and improve and perfect.

Man, this was a shitty fic.

But still.

Still.

It was my baby.

It deserves a second chance.

The heavy, ungainly steps of Dr. Gregory House thudded through the dark and empty hallway of the Baker street apartment complex; the slow gait accompanied by the quiet thud and squeak of the black cane in hand. It was late, much later than he'd hoped to stay at the hospital – and that said something about how his day had ended. Only a regular day, he was through the PPTH doors by five on the dot, if not earlier. Sighing as his apartment door came to sight, House leaned against the hallway wall for a brief respite and to soothe the throbbing of both his thigh and his head. Of all days, Cuddy had decided to play the righteous Dean of Medicine that was expected of her and spent a good hour or so yelling him deaf about this week's mistakes.

"First it's the broken MRI machine, and then it's a patient complaint about breaking and entering into his home without consent -." She had taken a moment to gather herself – and to soothe the throbbing vein on her forehead; and then her near-white cerulean eyes blazed into his face. "God forbid, House, if I have to receive a call tomorrow about you kidnapping a patient's child too!"

With another weary sigh, House rolled his eyes upwards to the ceiling at the memory of the migraine-inducing encounter. It was nothing a good thumb or two of scotch and take-out food couldn't ease away. And maybe a pill or two of his trusty Vicodin – those were a surefire way of soothing any troubles he had. And so with the promise of a hazy rest of the night ahead, he pressed onwards down the hall, and froze at the sight.

His front door was open.

"Damn it," he hissed, and the tall man shifted his backpack tighter on his shoulder as he stepped towards the door with a wary growl. Nudging the door wider with his cane, he peered into the darkness of the familiar space carefully, blue eyes cutting sharp and keen in the shadows for signs of movement or disarray. All was silent, all was still – and it bothered him more. Scowling deeply, he stepped into the threshold of his apartment. "If you're still in here," he began conversationally, shutting the door calmly; slipping the lock shut. "I'd recommend using the bathroom window."

His head tilted slowly, his grip on his cane tightened as he began to walk the apartment with an almost ominous purpose.

"Because…." His ears strained, his eyes sharpened – the shadows moved beneath the legs of his baby grand. "You're not walking out of this apartment through my front door."

There was a shuffling of papers beneath little grimy feet; childlike footprints on his music sheets lying like helpless victims beneath the piano. Slowly, painfully, the Diagnostician forced himself down onto a knee, bending with some effort to peer between the legs of the baby grand. When his eyes focused through the darkness, he blinked before his eyes grew wide.

At the furthest corner there, huddled deep in a threadbare rag of a shirt five sizes too big, was a girl. He could barely make out her face through the tangles of unkempt, unruly hair, but there was no mistaking the ice blue eyes that stared out at him like beacons of subdued fear and panic. It was to tell – dark as it was; what were bruises and what were shadows on her body.

Christ.

He sighed heavily. He seemed to be doing that a lot. "Kid, I don't know what you're running from, and I don't know if I can find the energy to care, but you need to get out from under there," he uttered bluntly, gesturing for her impatiently. House rolled his eyes in a groan when she scrambled further away, gasping in fright and nearly hyperventilating as he bent closer. He glared at her mildly. "I'm not repeating myself."

The girl whimpered – she couldn't be older than five. "Please don't give me back to Poppa, mister, please," she whispered pleadingly, flinching away from his hand when House tried to reach for her. "I won't do nothing wrong, please!" she begged, and the man saw the glistening of unshed tears filling her wide bright eyes dangerously. Her entire body trembled underneath the baggy shirt; he was surprised her bones didn't rattle.

House pulled back, reeling at the whimpered pleas for mercy and the evidence of her fear riddling her limbs and face. He knew why she was afraid – an idiot would know why she was afraid. An idiot wouldn't know those scars and those bruises as well as he would, though. "Hey, hey, easy on the water works, kid," he murmured quietly, inching carefully towards the girl as she huddled deeper into herself. "What's your name?" he asked slowly; she looked like she would spook at any moment.

The girl still refused to budge. Her wide eyes stared frozen on the cane lying by his foot; he could see the terror filling her tiny frame like a visible shroud. Immediately he rushed to soothe her. "Take it easy, kid; I'm not going to hurt you!"

The last words came in a harsh grunt as the girl bolted from beneath the baby grand, scrambling desperately away from the man and forcing herself to her feet. House hissed an expletive under his breath as she clambered awkwardly over the piano seat – watching sharply at the way she leaned heavily on her right leg for a moment before reaching out and wrapping his arms around her thin waist. Grunting as they both collapsed onto the ground, he wrestled her into submission, pinning her against the floor with as gentle of a force he could muster until the fight in her bones began to wane.

"Easy," he soothed her, shifting about her twitching limbs and easing on the weight until she curled into a ball defensively. She was anticipating punishment, he realized, and he felt a terrifying rage burn through him. Gently he grasped her arm, disregarding the way she flinched at his touch, and turned her to face him. "Hey," he said softly, holding the girl steady. "Kid, I won't hurt you, alright? I'm a doctor, I can help you."

The girl sniffled and whimpered into her shirt, cowering like a dog as he pulled her upright to inspect her. Confused, frightened eyes tracked his movements as he grasped one limb first, and then another – palming and prodding gently at the healing wounds on her body. Every so often she would flinch or squeak at a tender bruise, but the girl did nothing but stare wordlessly at House's face.

Eventually the staring and silence chafed his nerves, and House glanced irritably at her face. "Staring is rude, kid," he mumbled gruffly, though his touch stroked her skin like the gentle caress of a loving parent. "You haven't answered my question – what's your name?"

At first, the girl stared, until something shifted behind her wide, expressive blue eyes and she looked away shyly. "Kitty," she murmured, and it was so soft that House had to lean in to hear her.

Pulling back from his inspection of the girl, House gave a weary sigh, eyeing her with a troubled frown and he struggled to decide what to do with her. It was clear that someone in the building would be looking for her – there couldn't have been any other way for her to be in the building in the first place, and it was also very, very clear that if he hunted down the sick bastard who had laid belt marks over her arms and legs, there was a high chance of said bastard leaving the building in a body bag.

Still though.

He needed to get her somewhere safe…and out of his responsibility.

"Come on," he said, straightening painfully. It took a moment for him to gather his bearings and two of his pills, but he found his cane and took her hand in his. "We're going to see a friend of mine."

There was pounding at her front door. At first, it seemed like it was the pounding of the battle drums in her dream; the drums of her victory over the Furies after she'd drenched the sand of the Coliseum with their blood, but as the pounding grew heavier and began to be accompanied by the rough barking of her name, Lisa Cuddy realized that the voice was not the voice of her adoring fans from the stands. Groaning tiredly, Cuddy forced herself over onto her stomach, tangling into her sheets as she forced herself to focus on the bright red numbers of the alarm clock on her bedside table.

12:33 AM

"No," she moaned, and promptly proceeded to bury herself into her pillows. Unfortunately though, no matter how many layers of fine goose down she put between her and the bellowing voice, it persisted. Eventually though Cuddy realized she actually recognized said voice, and desperately wanted to end the life of its source.

"Cuddy!" he hollered, together with a demanding knock. "Open the door! I know you're in there!"

Cuddy groaned a long, tortured sound. Why was the Universe conspiring against her? She could leave him out there – really, she wanted to, oh how she wanted to – but she couldn't. It was miracle that none of her neighbors had called the police already; if she left him out there long enough, he'd just make his way into her house with her spare key.

The spare key that should still be under her flowerpot, but wasn't.

And so with snoopy neighbors and the potential of having police officers breaking down her door, the Dean of Medicine forced herself out of bed with painstaking effort. It was a sin to leave the safe warm confines of the Egyptian sheets she'd paid a healthy chunk for, but Cuddy placated herself with the knowledge that it was the least painful thing House had made her do in the past week. Huffing tiredly, she padded across the hall quickly, flinching at the cold tiles under bare feet before she pressed herself into her pounding front door and peered into the peephole. Her eyes cleared suddenly at the sight, and a stunned "what?" escaped her lips as she pulled the door open.

There in her doorway, was House – not an unfamiliar sight at odd hours in the morning on particularly grueling cases, but the fact that he was holding the hand of a frightened little girl had alarm bells ringing in her head.

"Wha-?" she began but House breezed by her, leading the little girl into her living room. Dumbstruck, she followed them. Frantically she forced her brain to process what she was seeing, planting herself in the doorway of her living room and staring as the man placed the girl on her couch with a startling amount of kindness. "House," she sputtered finally, darting between the girl and the man fishing out his Vicodin bottle. "I wasn't serious about kidnapping someone's child!"

She stared at him incredulously. Was he high?!

House shrugged as he stepped back, seating himself gratefully on her antique coffee table as he massaged his thigh. "I figured you would know what to do with her," he replied casually, eyeing the girl in front of him with unreadable intrigue. "For the record; she found me. I take no responsibility for this stray." He scowled at them both, waving his hand dismissively at Cuddy as she gaped at him. "Take her back to the pound or something – whatever it is you do to stray kids on the streets."

"Maybe give them back to their parents," Cuddy snapped acidly, folding her arms. Almost instantly, House and the girl stiffened; the former glancing sharply at her as the girl cowered deeper into her grubby shirt. She sobered as the realization washed over her, and Cuddy felt her chest clench at the thought of sending the frightened little girl back to whatever type of nightmare she had been living in. Stepping closer to the couch, Cuddy realized how small and weak the girl seemed to be; malnourished and somewhat sickly from prolonged neglect. Her long blonde hair was curled and tangled around her pale and bruised face, clumped into greasy locks covered in God knows what.

She looked no older than five, maybe.

House glared darkly at her, a scowl twitching at the corner of his mouth. "Trust me when I say that she's better off with us," he growled.

Carefully, Cuddy lowered herself by the couch, seeking the girl's eyes with a soothing, if saddened smile. "What's your name, sweetheart?" she asked gently, reaching out with the caution of someone facing a frightened animal. The girl twitched at the approaching hand, but seemed grateful for the contact of the pretty woman's hand against her bruising cheek. It had been a long while since she'd been touched or spoken to so kindly.

The girl stared into Cuddy's face, mesmerized by the pretty woman's gentle touch and warm, bright eyes. "Kitty," she whispered softly, and nearly keened with unbridled relief and pleasure when Cuddy eased down onto the seat next to her. Unlike with the man watching them closely, Kitty willingly stayed in place; there was such a yearning in her face as she regarded the woman that House could feel his cane creaking under his grip.

Cuddy smiled gently at Kitty, seemingly oblivious to the mildly offensive scent of the girl's well-worn shirt. "That's a pretty name," she stated kindly. "How old are you, Kitty?"

Shifting uncomfortably on the coffee table, House straightened up suddenly, startling the pair. "I'm starving," he grunted shortly, and moved purposefully away from them out into the hallway. It wasn't exactly a lie; he was hungry, as he was sure the girl would be as well, but there was something that didn't sit right in his chest at watching Cuddy speak with Kitty so…lovingly. He was out of place there, an anomaly in the space of Cuddy's immaculate living room – even more so than the unkempt girl messing up her couch covers.

Escape was brief; Cuddy appeared in the doorway of her kitchen with Kitty in her arms just as House had discovered the leftover of her mostly uneaten dinner. "You really should reconsider the whole vegetarian thing," he told her, stabbing a piece of lettuce contemptuously before shoving it into his mouth. He crunched onto it loudly, smirking unapologetically at the glower he received from the woman. "This anaconda don't want none unless you've got buns, hun."

There was a faint growling sound from the woman's direction, but it took a moment for House to realize that it was no growl that came from a mouth. Both of them blinked, sharing a look before their eyes settled on the girl now pressing her face into Cuddy's neck in embarrassment. Kitty's stomach growled again. "S-sorry," she stuttered, curling deeper into Cuddy's dark hair.

Cuddy's eyes softened sympathetically at Kitty as she brushed a lock of hair behind the girl's ear. "When was the last time you ate, sweetheart?" she asked quietly, though the weight of her words were serious and concerned. Even in the dim lighting of the kitchen, House could see the pull of her brows low on her forehead and the turmoil reeling behind the expressive azure. For that very reason alone – that someone had done so much to hurt the kid, which then hurt Cuddy -, House wanted to see this girl's 'Poppa' dead and buried in the ground.

When Kitty shrugged, Cuddy wanted nothing more than to drive to McDonalds and buy her every meal on the menu – complete with French fries and toys. Instead though she placed the girl gently onto the counter, and pulled open her fridge for Kitty to look into. "Is there anything specific you want to eat?" she asked, pulling out a carton of eggs as an option.

Suddenly overwhelmed with pressure and uncertainty, Kitty nodded her head vigorously, almost in fear of making a wrong decision as Cuddy moved towards the stove. Left with the man eating quietly beside her, Kitty couldn't help but eye the salad hungrily – even if she found the taste of raw vegetables icky and gross; she felt her mouth water.

"Staring's rude, y'know," he mumbled, pushing the bowl aside and offering the girl his glass of orange juice. "Drink up – you look like you're five seconds away from breaking your face on the marble." Obediently and eagerly Kitty accepted the drink, gulping the sweet, pulpy fluid down so fast House thought she might choke. By then though, Cuddy had made quick work of the eggs and set the steaming plate of scrambled eggs in front of the girl with a piece of toast.

A meager portion of a meal, perhaps, but she was a child long deprived of food. Any overconsumption could push her weakened immune system into overdrive. When Kitty hesitated to accept the proffered fork, House gave an aggravated sigh as he pushed the plate towards Kitty. "Eat, you little virus," he said gruffly. Kitty pulled back briefly, staring at the man a moment before she shrugged, as if accustomed to this kind of talk and began eating the eggs.

Cuddy and House both frowned at her reaction but decided against commenting for the moment. The girl was practically steeping in stink – the source of his sudden loss of appetite, House realized in dismay. "You might want to silkwood her at least twice or the stench will linger," he quipped at the woman beside him – leering at her belatedly when he realized that Cuddy was in fact, standing before him in nothing more than her silken (and rather gossamer) nightie and shorts.

"Might want to be careful with those," he drawled, eyeing Cuddy's ample breasts appreciatively as the low lighting of the kitchen and the moon filtering through her bay windows highlighted the swell of her breasts and the dusky tone of her nipples. "Wouldn't want to blind the kid, now would we, Dr. Cuddy?"

Blushing hotly, Cuddy wrapped her arms defensively over her chest, glaring indignantly at the man before lifting the girl into her arms once the plate had been emptied. "Let's get you in a bath, huh, Kitty?" she murmured instead, brushing past the man as he watched her with that ever-infuriating smirk on his grizzled face. "Good night, House," she hissed pointedly over her shoulder.

House narrowed his eyes at her, moving easily to keep pace even as Cuddy darted down the hallway towards her guest bathroom. Though the man made his displeasure known about being denied entrance into the chambers of all things Good and Plenty, the blue eyed man fell obediently silent when Cuddy cast a particularly withering glare in his direction as she undressed Kitty from her rags. Leaning his hip against the sink, he watched as Cuddy filled the tub appropriately, gentling the girl into the lukewarm water and began rinsing away all things foul and greasy from Kitty's body.

The scent that assaulted him then was a fairly pleasant one, though not one that he approved of. "Christ, Cuddy; what is it with you women and smelling like fruits and flowers?" he groused, wrinkling his nose as the waft of lavender and some nauseating combination of berries began to fill the small space. It wasn't any scent of hers – Cuddy was always more of an earthy, provocative type of woman; more Shalimar and sandalwoodthan Bath and Body Works.

Cuddy rolled her eyes, never once leaving her post by the bathtub as she nearly lulled the girl to sleep with her methodical and therapeutic scrubbing of the girl's stubborn hair. Lord knows what had been in her unruly locks, but judging by the grimy water that the girl was now sitting it, Cuddy didn't really want to know. "Unlike men, women don't enjoy smelling like greasy burgers and beer all the time," she retorted flatly, tilting Kitty's head back gently to rinse off the suds. "Good girl," she crooned softly, and finished the bath off before the water could turn any darker or cooler. Standing the girl on her feet, Cuddy gave her once last rinse down with the showerhead before lifting her out of the tub.

Turning to the man lingering still, Cuddy huffed as she pulled the damp girl closer to her. "Would you mind telling me the full story behind this already, or am I supposed to guess?" she deadpanned. All the man had done since he'd barged into her home was stare and grumble and growl cryptic things at her – if she wasn't so damn tired and had her arms full of a little girl, Cuddy would've punched him in the mouth.

Sighing inwardly, House leaned himself once again against the doorjamb of her guest bedroom, watching as she dressed the girl in an old baby tee of hers that fell down to Kitty's knees to avoid the lack of underwear for the five year old. "I found her in my apartment," he told the woman, making a face at the low buzz of her hairdryer as Cuddy did her best to work out the kinks in the girl's blonde waves. Cleansed from the mess that she had been in, Kitty was passable as an adorable child – young and sweet and innocent; aside from the varying bruises marking her body. With wide bright eyes and long pale lashes, the girl obviously came from at least one attractive parent.

"She begged not to be given back, so I didn't." He shrugged, fishing through his jeans for his Vicodin. Ignoring the look Cuddy sent him, House swallowed two and gestured to Kitty with his cane. "Obviously 'Poppa' didn't miss his personal punching bag enough to come find her – that's a ring imprint there, and that's a belt buckle." His cane followed his words, and Cuddy's eyes followed his cane, as the woman gave a sad moan of grief before bundling the sleepy girl into her arms.

"It's alright, Kitty, you're safe here," she promised the girl, but Kitty was so far gone into the land of exhaustion that the girl could only nod robotically at Cuddy before curling into the pillows. With the girl safely tucked into the covers, Cuddy stepped away from the room, bringing House with her by the front of his shirt as she left the bedroom door ajar just in case.

Hobbling behind her in protest, House wrestled her grip from his shirt, straightening indignantly as Cuddy whirled on his incredulously. "If you kill me now, she'll be the witness," he quipped swiftly, ducking away as Cuddy punched him sharply on the arm. Hissing petulantly, the man rubbed at the throbbing limb, staring at the woman as she paced the narrow space of her hallway. "I didn't deserve that," he whined.

"You deserve a hell lot more for dragging me out of bed in the middle of the night," Cuddy snapped in return, huffing as she turned to face him.

"I didn't know who else to go to," he countered defensively, gesturing to the bedroom door pointedly. "Who was I going to take her to? Wilson? Cameron? Tritter?" The set of his jaw hardened when Cuddy flinched at the name, and he exhaled noisily through his nose. "The kid was afraid, alright? I figured she'd be better off with someone who didn't remind her of the man that beat her bloody." Cuddy's eyes snapped to his, but House looked away stubbornly. "You saw how she fast she took to you," he uttered lowly, leaning heavily on his cane then as he fought between the urges of running away with his freedom and staying for his flawed conscience. "Kitty doesn't do well with men right now, and I don't think I'm the best person to want to have around at the moment."

Palming her face wearily for a moment, the Dean of Medicine struggled to figure out just what they were going to do with the child. Simply finding the bastard that she ran away from and returning her to him was out of the question, but even then – calling Social Services and reporting the abuse wouldn't guarantee any immediate action either.

Sighing in frustration, Cuddy brushed back her dark hair, regarding the man seriously. "Stay," she ordered him, glaring at the man stubbornly as he blinked in surprise. "You can't just dump her on me like some stray you picked up off the streets, House. She's a little girl and she's scared and alone. You're the one who found her; that connection was forged whether you like it or not." She stepped closer to him, thrusting her chin up defiantly – and also probably to keep eye contact. Barefoot, she was hardly anywhere near his height, even with his horrible habit of slouching. "She might need you, okay? If she wakes up and she doesn't remember where she is, she's going to want the last person she remembers to be there."

House's eyes bore into hers in a challenge, bristling on reflex at the proximity as well as the order. "And where exactly, would I sleep?" He raised an eyebrow suggestively, though his eyes burned a sort of insubordinate fire. "You've only got one guest bedroom, Cuddy. Unless you plan on getting nice and comfy with me in bed with you, I'd much prefer my own bed to your antique Victorian divan in the study."

Pursing her lips, Cuddy stepped back with a huff. "I'll put Kitty with me and you take the guest bed," she told him simply, and was gone before the man could protest further. Sighing heavily, House watched her disappear back into the guestroom, stepping back and scowling at the woman when she reappeared with the slumbering girl in her arms. Their eyes met, defiance on defiance and heat on chill. Cuddy was unshaken, shifting Kitty higher in her arms.

"Goodnight, House," she wished him calmly, stepping towards her bedroom. "I'll see you in the morning."

His returning wish sounded to an empty hallway and shadowed doors.

I have never wanted to rip out chunks of my hair as badly as I do at this moment.