Finally – an update! 

XXXXXXXXXX

The present carries upon it the imprint of the past. This is especially evident in the case of people: their experiences become etched into the fabric of their being, so that one need only study their faces, their hands, their clothes, their mannerisms, and a roadmap of the paths they've traveled in life manifests itself.

The man across the table from Holmes presented an intriguing text for study. He wasn't yet fifty years, but he might seem older to a more casual observer. The placement of the lines on his face showed that he was given to dramatic expressions more than subtle ones, exaggerating the sweep of an eyebrow or the pull of a frown, distracting from the hard intelligence glittering in his eyes. Although at the moment he was fairly comfortable, pain had been his companion long enough and often enough that it informed the set of his shoulders and hemmed in his movements even when absent. A sedentary life did not come naturally to him: his fidgeting was like the bobbing of a balloon tethered to the ground.

Despite the fact that he had consciously dispensed with the trappings of his line of work, Holmes could have picked him out of a crowd as a medical man. The physical signs were not as obvious as they would be in a doctor of Holmes' youth. His clothing did not smell of ointments and medicines, and his fingertips only faintly showed the distinctive calluses that one gets from preparing injections. It was clear that even among physicians of the current era he did not engage in much direct patient care. But there had been a stethoscope around his neck not long ago, and, more telling, he had the clinical gaze of one who understands humans for the biological machines that they truly are.

Holmes was curious about why the doctor wanted to distance himself from his own profession. But he felt his ability to attend to the subject waning and he preferred to shift his thoughts elsewhere voluntarily before his recalcitrant brain made the decision for him. So, he began examining the room into which he'd been brought. A "clean room," he'd heard it called. Well, it certainly lived up to its name: white walls, crisp white sheets on the bed, shiny sterile tiles on the floor. Nothing in the room bore even the slightest scuff or trace of dust; in fact, everything seemed to be composed of materials that were specifically chosen to repel such blemishes. The room was a blank slate, one that would resist all attempts to record its history upon it.

For some reason, this made Holmes feel uneasy. His unease increased when the doctor looked at him and regret flashed briefly across blue eyes . . .

XXXXXXXXXX

A clean room? OK, that makes no sense whatsoever.

Foreman had returned from his field trip to the Stoneham residence to find the team nowhere in sight. A page to Cameron elicited the information that Mr. Holmes was in one of the clean rooms with Dr. House, and that she and Chase were observing. As to what they were observing, Foreman was at a loss.

In diagnostic medicine, clean rooms were most commonly used to evaluate environmental allergies: eliminate all possible allergens, then slowly reintroduce and wait for a reaction. While it was true that Holmes' difficulties coincided with a change in environment, he showed no symptoms that would suggest an allergy. Nor was his immune system particularly depressed – the other use for a clean room. That left the possibility that House planned to initiate some treatment that might compromise the detective's immune system and was placing him in a sterile environment proactively.

'I suppose I should be happy he's taking precautions,' Foreman thought with a sigh, 'At least I'm not coming back to find he's scheduled exploratory surgery.'

To be fair, thus far House had shown uncharacteristic restraint in their diagnosis of the detective. It made sense: Holmes' symptoms were not life threatening, and, at his age, the risk of him dying from a hastily chosen treatment or invasive diagnostic procedure was significant. 'Maybe House doesn't want to be known as the guy who killed Sherlock Holmes . . .'

That thought caused Foreman to smile as he approached the corridor where Chase and Cameron were waiting. And arguing:

"We need to stop this. He's just torturing him now," said Cameron, her voice brittle.

"I think we should wait," Chase countered, "let him finish the test."

"What test?" Foreman asked.

Both of his colleagues looked away uncomfortably; neither stepped up with an answer. Foreman peered through the observation window into the clean room and understood why: House was doing a memory exam with Holmes, an exam similar to one that Foreman had already performed. "What – he doesn't trust me? He thinks I botched the test?"

"I'm sure . . ." Cameron began, then cut off as all three of them were distracted by the sound of House's voice from within the room. Through the window, House and Holmes were visible in profile, sitting with a small table between them.

"And now for the six-million dollar question," House announced with the verve of an over-caffeinated game-show host, "what action did you see me do five minutes ago?"

No reply.

"I'll give you a hint: it involved that cup." House pointed to a plastic cup on the nightstand next to the bed.

Holmes studied the cup and the nightstand, but he said nothing.

"C'mon," House taunted, "How many things could I have done with a cup? Take a guess."

Holmes tightened his already pursed lips and replied stiffly, "I do not guess," spitting the last word with distaste.

"I'm waiting," said House with mock cheerfulness.

"I am not interested in your childish game," Holmes responded, strain belying his attempt at an imperious tone.

House leaned forward slightly and challenged, "Then tell me who came into the room with us earlier. Was it Dr. Foreman, or Dr. Cameron, or the nurse?"

Holmes looked to the door, focusing on the doorknob for a long moment; then he scanned the floor in front of the door. He gazed up at the window through which Foreman, Cameron, and Chase watched, but probably couldn't see much since the lights in the corridor were dimmer than the light within the room.

Foreman, however, was able to see the anxiety, near panic, within the detective's eyes. That was enough to move him to intervene. He tried the door, but found it was locked from the inside. Swearing softly, he turned back to the window.

Upon hearing the doorknob rattle, Holmes had glanced again at the door. House quickly recaptured his attention. Leaning forward slightly, his previously jokey demeanor completely absent, House spoke intensely, "It's not a game. It's not trivial. How could it not be important for you to know who was in the room with you?"

Unable to meet the doctor's eyes, Holmes said nothing. House prodded once more, quietly, "Can you tell me who it was?"

After a long moment, the old man shook his head. His voice a tremulous whisper, he admitted, "I don't know . . . I can't remember."

XXXXXXXXXX

Twenty minutes later, House was in the department workroom, eagerly awaiting Foreman's return. Since the encounter with Holmes, Cameron was giving him the cold shoulder and Chase was pretending that nothing had happened. That covered passive-aggressive and passive; now he just needed aggressive. Judging by the look Foreman had given him when House opened the clean room door, he was pretty sure he'd have that covered.

Foreman was a guy who took pride in his capacity for self-control – equated it with dignity, professionalism, and all that crap. Given this, House naturally found picking at that control, poking at it until it cracked, irresistibly tempting. Now, in one fell swoop, he'd traumatized Foreman's favorite patient and called into question the neurologist's cognitive evaluation skills. Bingo! Way better than even a primo racial jibe.

To Foreman's credit, after the initial withering glare he had completely ignored House and focused on their patient. Holmes had become unresponsive, so Foreman went about examining him to make sure he wasn't having a stroke. He couldn't get much out of the detective out in the hallway, so he went with him back to his room. House wasn't really worried. Contrary to persistent rumors spread by Wilson, it was virtually impossible to talk somebody into a stroke. And House had been monitoring Holmes' condition during the interview – respiration and pulse were elevated, but not dangerously so. In any case, if there were any kind of acute medical crisis going on, they would have been paged by now.

( . . . long gnarled hands crumpled loosely in the old man's lap, not even trying to guide the wheelchair, unresisting as Foreman felt for a pulse, gaze averted, staring vacantly at a world made cloudy by humiliation . . . )

House shook off the memory. Yep, a spat with Foreman would really hit the spot about now. And here it comes: three, two, one –

"What the hell –" Foreman began, coming through the door of the Diagnostics department, but House cut him off with:

"So, what's the dirt on the Hand household?" (A spat deferred is a spat prolonged.)

At Foreman's momentary distraction, House added, "Yeah, you want to talk about him, but I already know what's going on with him, and I don't know what you've learned about her, ergo . . ."

Foreman reported in clipped tones, "The home is meticulously clean and the maid service has been through twice since she was admitted. No mold, no unaccounted for prescription medications. Went to the community center she frequents – again, nothing unusual. But one of her friends there said that Mrs. Stoneham was having frequent indigestion about a month ago. More recently, they had an accident with their kiln in the arts and crafts room and Mrs. Stoneham and some other women suffered respiratory distress from the smoke. All of them recovered quickly, and the others are fine now."

House re-wrote Mrs. Stoneham's symptoms on the whiteboard, in order of appearance, with question marks next to the newly added gastroenteritis and smoke-induced respiratory distress indicating that it was unclear that these were part of the same disease process.

Chase groaned, "That's the problem with elderly patients – too many symptoms. We already weren't sure whether the rash was related."

Cameron rolled her eyes, "Yes, it's so inconvenient when a patient is actually ill. The variety of symptoms spread over time could point to something systemic, like lupus. Or, if it really did start with the gastrointestinal problems, maybe celiac disease. That fits with the rash and the mild anemia."

House followed Foreman's gaze over from the whiteboard they were currently discussing to the whiteboard bearing Holmes' symptoms – where House had changed "mild short-term memory retrieval delay" to "severe short-term memory loss." Foreman pointed at this, fuming, and said, "No way."

"He missed seven of the eight test items. I'd say that's pretty severe."

Foreman shot back, "Yeah, well, surprisingly, he did much better when I tested him this morning. That means one of us screwed up. Unless the patient is psychic or the examiner is grossly incompetent, you can't get a falsely inflated score on a memory test. But it's pretty damn easy to get a false low, if you bully the patient."

"Oh, relax. I don't think you're grossly incompetent," House smirked, "And I wouldn't say you screwed up the test so much as he cheated on it. Then again, the examiner is supposed to prevent cheating, so I guess in a way you did screw up . . ."

"My examination procedure was valid! You, on the other hand, got him so rattled that he couldn't concentrate!"

"Does he strike you as particularly fragile?" House challenged, his voice tinged with sarcasm and something more. "The guy stares down the Hound of the Baskervilles, but I'm a little bit mean to him and he just falls apart?"

Foreman didn't have an immediate reply. In the ensuing pause, Wilson put in, "Um, here's a thought: maybe we don't want to use stories that took place fifty years ago, and might've been embellished for publication, as our baseline."

(What's Wilson doing here? Oh, right – I was supposed to buy him dinner. An hour ago . . .)

House went on, ignoring Wilson, "He didn't flunk the test because he was upset; he was upset because he flunked the test."

"OK, so, why?" said Chase "Why did he do better before, but poorly now? Is his condition deteriorating?"

"The answer to why he flunked now is easy: his memory sucks. Why did he do better on Foreman's test? Like I said, he cheated."

"Which means he was able to correctly answer questions about things he didn't really remember?" Cameron queried, doubtfully.

"Yup," House replied. He went over to their female patient's whiteboard, and erased the "H" from the title, so that it now read, "The Speckled and." Then he sat down at the table and made a show of twiddling his thumbs. The three fellows and Wilson stared at him blankly. House then asked, "What just happened?"

"You erased a letter," Chase volunteered.

"How do you know?"

"We just saw you do it."

"You saw it, and you remember it. Suppose you forgot what you saw, how would you know?"

"He wouldn't know," Foreman interjected, scowling, "That's what forgetting means."

"No. Forgetting means you don't remember what happened, it doesn't mean you don't know what happened. How else could you know?"

"I could ask Cameron," Chase offered, with a slight smile.

"Yes, but then Cameron would know that your brain is turning to mush. Not very attractive."

Chase's smile turned into a wry chuckle, and Cameron grinned, saying, "If you knew the name of the story, you could guess that somebody erased a letter."

"Ah, but who?" said House, "That's the mystery."

He got up and paced, contemplating aloud, "One might observe that the handwriting on the boards is all the same and hypothesize that the writer is also the eraser. Cursory handwriting analysis reveals that the writer is male and right-handed, which eliminates Cameron and Wilson. The height at which the writer wrote indicates a tall person, over six feet. Not bad, but not conclusive, since I could be the writer, but one of you naughty kids did the erasing . . . What else? The ink on the lower portion of the board still has a strong smell, which shows that the writing was recent, yet the erasure must have taken place still later, as some of the letters directly below the missing "H" are smudged. Inspecting the indentations in the carpet, one sees that the most recent ones in front of the board include distinctive round marks about the size of a quarter. Too big to be from Cameron's heels, but a perfect match for . . ." He flipped his cane upside down to reveal the circular base, then concluded, rubbing at the blue ink that had come off on the inside of his wrist, "Caught red – or should I say, blue – handed!"

House's final flourish was met with a resounding "WTF?" expression on the faces of his colleagues. He clarified, "Hey, I didn't say you could figure all this out, but our patient can. Unless we stick him in a clean room where there are no clues to follow."

Foreman was the first to react. He brushed his hand across his face and said, "OK, fine, Holmes uses his incredible powers of deduction . . . to fake out a memory test? What's the point of that?"

"He uses them to live!" House retorted, with surprising fierceness, "Every minute of every day, he substitutes inference for recollection. Lots of old folks do it, to a point, when they start becoming a little forgetful: the teaspoon is in the sink, therefore I must have taken my medicine. But for most people this strategy can't surmount profound memory impairment. Sherlock Holmes isn't most people."

Foreman, now sounding more pensive than pissed, said, "So . . . he doesn't know he's doing it? Or he knows but didn't see fit to mention it, even though we're trying to diagnose a neurological problem?"

"Denial is a beautiful thing," House shrugged, "Or maybe he's embarrassed. Who knows? But it leaves us with two questions: 'What causes severe short-term memory loss, as well as problems with concentration and balance?' and 'What else doesn't he want us to know about?'"

"Neurosyphilis," Chase suggested.

"Answers both for the price of one. Nice. Who wants to go badger the old guy about his sex life?"

"No need," said Foreman, "We have his blood and he gave blanket permission to do any tests we need. RPR comes back positive, then we talk."

"RPR comes back positive, then we treat," House amended, "Treatment's safer than doing the spinal tap to confirm the diagnosis. What else?"

"Drugs," said Cameron, "Long term abuse can cause memory and concentration problems."

Foreman laughed, "Uh, everybody on the planet knows he did drugs. I don't think he's trying to hide that from us."

"We don't know how much or how recently," Chase put in.

"Yeah, we do, more or less," said Foreman, "I took a history." Looking through his notes, he reported, "His drug of choice was cocaine, by injection, fairly dilute, used sporadically – lots for several days or weeks, then nothing for weeks or months. Less often, he used morphine, and on occasion he smoked opium. Heaviest usage was when he was in his thirties and forties. He said that by the time he retired, he had cut back to the point where he was using 'extremely rarely' and he's had nothing for 'almost seventeen years'."

House inquired, "Chase, when was the last time you smoked pot? If you have to look at your watch, you're fired."

Chase grinned nervously, "You're serious?"

"Uh huh."

"Med school. No, it was after that. I don't know – it's been a while."

"See, if you're not an addict, you don't remember. 'Almost seventeen years' seems a little too precise for someone who'd supposedly practically quit three decades prior."

Wilson snarked under his breath, "When did you take your last dose?"

"What's that?" House said, flipping open his amber prescription bottle and popping a pill into his mouth.

"You want to get a drug test?" asked Foreman, then smirked, adding, "I mean, for the patient."

"No point. He's not dumb enough to bring drugs on an airplane, and I don't see the grandson scoring them for him on the streets of Trenton. So we know he's been clean for at least a month. But I want to know what happened seventeen years ago."

"I'll ask him," Wilson volunteered.

House figured that Wilson had some ulterior motive, but he was happy to take advantage of his friend's ability to mollify and manage patients. "Allrighty then: Wilson chats with the detective, Chase starts Mrs. And on steroids and prepares to biopsy her small intestine for celiac, Cameron handles the RPR. Foreman, I want you to track down any MRI, CT, PET scan, or x-ray that's been taken of Holmes' head in the last thirty years. Some doctor along the way's gotta have thought it would be cool to take a picture of Sherlock Holmes' brain. Better get cracking – it's almost midnight in London."

As the others began filtering out to do their jobs, House gloated, "Looks like I've got time to review more of the 'history'." He flipped through some DVDs in his satchel and called out to Wilson, who was almost out the door: "Hey, find out who he thinks is better – Rathbone or Brett!"

XXXXXXXXXX

Against the secure backdrop of piano and cello, the violin soared. Each sweep of the bow drew a whirlwind of sound, flinging notes into the ether with reckless abandon. But, truly, there was nothing reckless about it: every movement was perfectly modulated, shaping the charged atmosphere into a creation of exquisite beauty – all the more wonderful for its impermanence.

Holmes, listening from his hospital bed, no longer had the strength or dexterity to play a violin. Yet, he could feel the music flowing through his hands and arms into his chest, simultaneously invigorating his spirit and setting him at peace. The day had been tiring, to say the least, but his mind was too active for sleep. Alone, at last, he could let the auditory bliss transport him . . .

But he was not alone any longer. A shadow flickered outside his closed eyelids, a sensation of proximity. At the end of the piece he opened his eyes, reached over to the tiny digital music machine in its speaker-stand on the table by the bed, turned it off, and asked pointedly, "Can I help you?"

The doctor standing next to the bed apologized, "I, uh, I'm sorry to interrupt."

This courtesy tempered Holmes' irritation. He replied, gesturing toward a couple of notebook pages (written in Matthew's hand) next to the music player, "Not at all. Should I wish to pick up where I left off, I have rather detailed directions for how to operate this device." His hint of a fond smile quickly turned sardonic as he added, "Though, frankly, I will probably just start again at the beginning. One of the few perks of a failing memory is that I don't much mind hearing the same thing over again."

The doctor quirked an eyebrow at his candor. Holmes did not recall this particular doctor, which was disconcerting, as he'd made an effort to memorize the names of the group working on his case. In his professional career, he'd often had need to commit complicated information to memory, and though his brain no longer seemed inclined to record the traces of everyday events, he could, through concentrated effort (aided by written notes and mnemonics), retain selected facts. There was the neurologist, Dr. Foreman, and the supervisor . . . Homes . . . Houses . . . House. The girl and the Australian, given enough time he could dig out their names. But this doctor was completely unfamiliar. Other than the immediately obvious facts – such as that he was married (but not happily), was on the governing board of the hospital, and had taken some schooling in Canada – Holmes knew nothing of him, not even whether they had previously met.

Of course, simply asking whether they'd met before was out of the question. Holmes put on an expectant expression and waited for the younger man to supply the information. He did, in the form of an introduction: "I'm Dr. Wilson. I've come to ask you some questions about your medical history."

There was nothing of the well-meaning patronization that some people inflict on the elderly in Dr. Wilson's speech, so Holmes discerned that this was, in fact, their first formal meeting, not a re-introduction. He responded accordingly, "Oh. So I shouldn't read anything into the fact that they've sent an oncologist to talk to me?"

Holmes could practically see the wheels turning behind the doctor's eyes: 'How did he know I'm an oncologist? What clues would let somebody figure out which specialty a doctor practiced . . .' He refrained from laughing but couldn't quite suppress a smirk as he nodded down at the ID badge clipped to the man's lab coat. Dr. Wilson chuckled affably, then replied, "No, we've had no indications of cancer. I'm a friend of Dr. House's and I help out the team sometimes."

Ready to get on with it, Holmes prompted, "And your questions . . ?"

Dr. Wilson tactfully broached the issue of whether Holmes had been entirely truthful in his account of his drug usage, explaining that cocaine abuse could be responsible for the neurological symptoms, particularly if he had not stopped using when he said he did.

Holmes was amused rather than offended. "I was, in fact, telling the whole truth: I have indulged in a negligible amount of narcotics in the latter half of my life, and none in nearly seventeen years. However, if you do not believe me, I have no idea how to convince you."

"Perhaps you could tell me the circumstances under which you stopped using," Wilson requested.

"Very well. You may be aware that my dear friend Dr. Watson strongly disapproved of my resorting to the cocaine bottle. He was ahead of his time in this concern, as compelling medical evidence of its harmful long-term effects did not appear until considerably later."

"He convinced you to cut back?" There was something oddly hopeful in the doctor's demeanor.

"More like he motivated me to convince him that I had cut back," Holmes admitted ruefully, "However, I suppose his entreaties did cause me to pay more attention to the mounting evidence. Additionally, while cocaine had been illegal since the early part of the century, it was not considered a 'problem drug' in need of vigorous enforcement until the 50s or 60s. I found, as time went on, that obtaining it required me to associate with elements of society whom I found distasteful."

"You quit because it was illegal and unhealthy?"

Holmes picked up on the skepticism in the younger man's voice and mused, "It is paradoxical, I agree. When I was working, I used cocaine to tide me over the dull patches between cases. One would think that with retirement I would have more need for such artificial stimulation, not less. Of course, I could never abide the prospect of needing anything . . ."

(A long time ago, yet the dull aching emptiness felt oppressively real. Couldn't say whether the void was out in the world or inside myself. The needle would bring relief, would inject color into the cold gray lines . . .

No. Not today. Today I'd made it out to the sitting room. Watson reading the London Times aloud, a litany of predictable acts by pedestrian minds. But every now and again he'd throw in some utterly implausible event as if it were a news article. Face composed, voice even, a twinkle in his kind eyes: 'Just seeing if you're listening, old chap.')

"In any case," Holmes continued, "when I decided to shake off the hold the drug had on me, my comrade was there to help me through the process . . . more than once. Eventually, I learned how much and under what conditions I could imbibe without sending myself into a downward spiral."

"But seventeen years ago you quit altogether?"

"Correct."

At the doctor's nod and encouraging expression, Holmes elaborated, "Watson came to reside with me during his final illness. It would have been inconsiderate for me to indulge during those months . . ."

(Late evenings by the fire. Watson rarely complained, but his tense pallor bespoke discomfort edging into agony.

'Shall I call for the nurse?' – my question a mere formality: getting the nurse would delay relief, remind us both where all this was headed.

At his gesture, filling the syringe from the prescription bottle. Looking for a vein, the familiar jab: 'Have I remarked upon the fact that you are benefiting from the skills I developed through my detestable habit?'

Grinning around gritted teeth, his reply: 'Yes, as a matter of fact, repeatedly.')

". . . After he passed, I found that I no longer had the will to inject myself with anything." Hearing the heaviness in his own voice, Holmes added off-handedly, "With my arthritis, manipulating a needle was getting to be a chore anyway."

Looking into his interlocutor's eyes, Holmes saw not disbelief but dissatisfaction. The doctor wanted, needed, something from him, and he ought to be able to figure out what it was. The pieces were there, he was sure of it – intolerable that he couldn't put them together! But his mind was wandering, being pulled off track by images and emotions from the past, being further distracted by the persistent sensation of imbalance, as if the world were constantly trying to slide out from under him. He tried to force himself to focus, to call up hypotheses that fit the relevant facts, but as soon as he laid one piece of information before him he felt the others slipping away.

Holmes gave in and reluctantly let a small amount of the fatigue and distress he was feeling show on his face. The doctor hastily wrapped up the conversation and bid him good night. Many minutes later Holmes fumbled wearily for his music.

XXXXXXXXXX

The pizza was cold, but Wilson grabbed a piece anyway. House had been engrossed in a movie when the oncologist arrived at his apartment, a far-fetched tale that pitted Sherlock Holmes and a bumbling Dr. Watson against Nazis. House informed him that the plot was considered "non-cannon" – which meant, basically, false. Apparently the detective, his chronicler, and the latter's estate had consistently refrained from either endorsing these movies or suing the producers. Wilson concluded that Watson must have subscribed to the theory that any publicity is good publicity, or else he must've had a great sense of humor, to leave such a portrayal uncontested.

The movie came to an end. House clicked the TV off with the remote. He didn't change his lounging posture, but swiveled his head toward Wilson and asked, without preamble, "So?"

"For what it's worth, I believe him. I think he's telling the truth about when he stopped using drugs."

"Of course he's telling the truth. I wanna know what happened seventeen years ago."

"What do you mean, 'Of course he's telling the truth'? Everybody lies . . . except Nazi-whupping cocaine addicts?"

"Duh. And he quit then because?"

"In honor of his friend's memory, as far as I can tell."

"Damn."

"Why 'damn'?"

"I was hoping for something like 'he started forgetting things and figured shooting up wasn't helping matters' or 'his buddy croaked and, lacking a note-taker, he realized that his memory was shot' – that would give us a timeline on the memory loss, and might mean it's separate from the balance and concentration issues."

Not only would it give them a timeline, Wilson thought, but a long one, which might indicate a static condition or, at least, a slowly progressing one. He might be overestimating House's humanity, but he liked to think that his friend would be rooting for that. Unfortunately, Wilson had no evidence to share that would bolster House's hypothesis. And he hadn't gleaned any information that would help House in other ways, either. He berated himself, 'What the hell did I expect, directions?'

Apparently, he'd sat introspecting too long, because House was fixing him with an inquisitive stare.

Finally, Wilson vented, "It doesn't make sense! People don't just scale back their rampant drug abuse and use a tiny bit once in a while, then quit for good many years later. He gave perfectly sensible reasons for cutting back – reasons that would be perfectly unpersuasive to someone in the throes of an addiction."

House looked at him for a long moment with something akin to sympathy, then smirked, "OK, fine. At your deathbed I'll promise to give up Vicodin."

Wilson snorted, "Oh, right, like I'm going to die before you. Wanna compare liver panels?"

"Jealous husband could come home with a shotgun."

Wilson, unwilling to let House maneuver him into the topic of his supposed infidelity, shot back, "Yeah, I think you're way ahead of me in the inciting-death-by-violence category, too. There's the usual suspects: Cuddy, disgruntled clinic patients. And after today, Forman might start rounding up his homies to get even with you."

House grinned, hauling himself to his feet and limping over to switch the disks in the DVD player. Flopping back down onto the couch, he pointed out, "Know what the great thing about deathbed promises is? Don't have to keep 'em."

"What? Of course you do."

"Other guy's dead! What's he gonna do about it?"

"I could haunt you, you know . . ."

XXXXXXXXXX

Thank-you to all of you who are sticking with this story, especially to my kind reviewers!