Day after day passed. Identical days blending into each other, the lines between yesterday and today are blurring. House found himself incapable of keeping track. How many days had he already served? But then: it was not of any import to him: there was nothing waiting for him outside and he did not expect anything from the world any more. Here he had a place to crash, food and clean clothes – and now even the small Wilson-keyboard.

He could have tried to count the number of showers he'd taken, but is was really not worth the effort. The success Stern had had with the magazine he could not repeat. Either House was fine with this one issue or the man was unwilling to make any more concessions.

Unbeknownst to House, Wilson, House's lawyer – whom he had never met – and Stern had been working on Houses release. Stern had supported all their activities and so they had succeeded after House's second sentence.

It was Wilson who'd come to pick him up. This time there was no way to refuse because one of the conditions for his parole was that he'd live with Wilson to be slowly reintroduced into the world and a new life. He would never get rid of Wilson ever again, House thought. With the duffel-bag holding his few belongings and the keyboard House exited the clinic and limped to the waiting car. Wilson wanted to greet him somehow but it was obvious that House did not want that – besides it would have been awkward with House holding all his stuff.

So Wilson resorted to "Hi. Good to see you." He took care of House's luggage while House folded himself into the passenger's seat.

After a few futile attempts at some small-talk Wilson gave up and the rest of the drive passed in awkward silence. The closer they got to their destination, the more excited became House. Most of the area had not changed too much and he knew all the streets. When the car finally stopped at the curbside, House stared at Wilson. This had to be a joke, right?

"Ah, well", Wilson said with an embarrassed face, "it seemed the most sensible solution. I… you should have a home when you would be released. I couldn't guess that you'd prefer to slink away in the dark."

House was stunned. They were indeed parking in front of his old aparment! Wilson had held the fort here all those years? Why? Really so that 'he'd have a home when he would be released'? What would it look like inside? Ties all over the place? House had to bit back a grin.

It seemed House had entered a time-machine… inside, few had changed. Tidier, yes. A few new photographs on the walls, some new books in the shelves. Wilson had left traces of his life, of course but nothing that had alienated the place. The baby-grand stood at its place, polished spotless. House almost felt dizzy. All those years and in here time, it seemed, had stood still. He could almost imagine just coming home after a long day's work at PPTH.

"Uh, well, I… I ordered a fold-out couch but it hasn't arrived yet…" Wilson pointed at the bedroom, "There's fresh linen on the bed and I cleared out half the closet for your stuff." House looked at the duffel-bag: he wouldn't need half a closet! He limped into the bedroom and managed just in time to lock the door and sit on the bed, shaking like a leaf.

By the time House trusted himself to be thinking clearly again it was already dark outside. He had been sitting on the bed, trying to understand what this all was about. OK, Wilson had taken over the apartment. Made sense because the guy had needed a place anyway. But… why had he not changed the place to his liking? He couldn't make sense of it all. Was too tired to try and generally wasn't exactly in the mood.

Much more pressing was the urge to play the piano. Slowly House opened the bedroom-door and sneaked out as quietly as he could – he had not intention of waking Wilson and start some kind of conversation! The place was dark except for a small lamp in the den. Wilson was sound asleep on the couch. The sight of that was so familiar that House almost suffered a flashback.

On naked feet, sans-cane the man padded over to the instrument and sat down on the bench. Opened the lid and put his hands on the keys without striking a not. They felt smooth and cold and familiar beneath his fingers.

His Hands: they now were scarred and looked siginificantly different than the last time he'd sat here. Gently he pressed down the fingers of his right– a low, questioning chord and House had gooseflesh covering all of his body. A sharp glance towards Wilson told House that the other man was still asleep. Another note and still another, then a slow run. Despite the small electric keyboard, he was rusty.

Wilson couldn't tell what had woken him up but when he heard the soft sounds from the piano he first thought he was dreaming. Then he realized that House was indeed there and playing. Too afraid to scare the man away Wilson laid totally still, hoping House would not notice. Tears of joy were running down his face.