So I came up with this cheesy idea for a fic right after the season finale but decided it was too soap opera-ish to go forward with. But then my girl Mel (aka Video Goddess) gave me a version of the same story as a prompt (actually she gave it to me and my fic twin RochelleRene, but I stole it) and I couldn't get the idea out of my head. You always have to follow the muse when it calls out to you, right? And even thought this story IS hella cheesy, it's kind of randomly good (at least I hope.) Was getting long, so here's part I.

At about 10 p.m. on an overcast Thursday night, Missouri state EMT worker Todd Wolfson got a call from dispatch.

"Possible skull fracture, cracked ribs, contusions," he repeated, turning on the siren. "Got it."

He sped off.

"Lemme guess," his riding partner Joe Hernandez said. "Death metal?"

Death metal was their code word for motorcycle drivers who rode without helmets. They usually got at least one "death metal" call a week—often the riders didn't survive the trip to the hospital.

"Bingo," Todd said, shaking his head. "What is wrong with these guys? They're either morons or suicidal."

"Or both," Joe offered.

Ten miles down the road, they arrived at the scene. A motorcycle—a Honda of some sort—was completely mangled, wrapped around a tree.

The victim was lying unconscious off to the side of the road. The cop on the scene had already taken measures to stabilize him.

"How bad?" Todd said, as Joe retrieved the gurney from the back of the truck.

"Guy's lucky," the cop said. "He landed in a patch of soft grass. Could've been a lot worse."

"What's his name?" Todd said.

"Don't know. He's a John Doe. Had a wallet on him, but it was empty except for a frequent buyers card from Bubba Burger and this picture—maybe his wife and daughter?"

Todd looked at the picture. The woman was pretty—with wavy dark hair and an alluring smile. The little girl, no more than 3, was laughing.

"Cute family," he said, shaking his head.

Joe, who had just dragged over the gurney, squinted a bit and grabbed the wallet from Todd's hands.

"Hey, I know this woman," he said, staring at the photo.

"That's Dr. Lisa Cuddy. She runs St. Louis General. "

Todd took the wallet back.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. There aren't many medical directors who look like her."

"Weird," Todd said, as he and Joe lifted the John Doe onto the gurney. "St. Louis General it is."

######

They called Dr. Lisa Cuddy on the way to the hospital, told her about the mysterious John Doe with her picture in his wallet.

"There must be some mistake," she said. "Are you sure?"

"Do you have a little girl—about 3?"

"She's 5," Cuddy said, nervously.

"Cause the John Doe had a picture of a little girl, too."

"I'll be right there," Cuddy said.

By the time she arrived at the hospital, the John Doe had already been cleaned up, X-rayed and bandaged.

The cop and Joe were standing outside his room.

"Hi Dr. Cuddy," Joe said bashfully.

"Hi Joe," she said. She peered into the room. She couldn't really get a good look at the guy.

"So you're telling me that this John Doe who crashed his motorcycle had a picture of me in his wallet?" she said, shaking her head, chuckling at the absurdity of all.

"I know it sounds crazy," the cop said. "But you're already here. Why not come into the room, take a look?"

"Of course," Cuddy said.

The cop opened the door for her and she tentatively walked in. She looked down at the guy on the bed—and turned white as a sheet.

"I. . .I. . ." she said, staggering backwards. She slumped into the visitor's chair, next to the bed.

"So you do know this guy!" Joe said.

"You look like you just saw a ghost, Dr. Cuddy," the cop said.

"That's Dr. Gregory House," she said, staring in disbelief at the motionless body on the bed.

"House?" the cop said, writing it down. "H-O-U-S-E?"

"Yeah. . ." she said. Her mouth was open, and even though she was now sitting, she still looked like she might pass out.

"Can someone run an ID check on a Dr. Gregory House," the cop said into his phone. "Yeah, about 50 years old. Male. Caucasian. . . .Uh huh. . . .Really? Uh huh."

He hung up.

"You sure that's Dr. Gregory House?" the cop said. "I mean, this guy's face is pretty cut up and swollen. Is it possibly a case of mistaken identity?"

"No," Cuddy breathed. As if she could ever not recognize Gregory House. "That's him."

"Cause my desk clerk says that Dr. Gregory House died 8 months ago."

"I know," Cuddy said, still staring, hypnotized.

"And if that is Dr. House, there's an outstanding warrant for his arrest . . .parole violation, destruction of property, and, well, I guess we can add falsifying a death report to that."

Upon hearing this news, Cuddy broke from her trance.

She looked at the cop. Then looked back at the man on the bed.

"Maybe I'm. . . confused," she said slowly.

There was a long silence as she tried to sort it out.

"House was an ex boyfriend of mine," she continued.

"Things ended badly between us. Then he died. . . we had no closure. I guess this was just wishful thinking on my part."

"Perfectly understandable mistake," the cop said. "Under the circumstances."

"But the picture in his wallet!" Joe said.

"Let me see it," Cuddy said.

They had hung the victim's motorcycle jacket—black with a thick blue stripe—on a hook on the back of the door. Joe pulled out the wallet, handed her the photo.

She looked at it.

"That's not me," she said quickly. "I'm flattered you think that woman looks like me."

"She looks exactly like you!"

"You think?" Cuddy said, wrinkling her nose. "A much younger, much prettier me. And I do have a daughter—but she looks nothing like this girl."

The cop now looked at the photo, looked back at Cuddy.

"Yeah, strong resemblance, but definitely not you," he said, chuckling. "I think Joe here was just looking for an excuse to call you."

Joe turned beat red.

"Just have somebody from the hospital call me when Evel Kneivel here wakes up, okay?" the cop said. "I have a lot of questions for this guy."

He put the wallet back in the pocket of the patient's leather jacket and cocked his head toward the door.

"Let's go, Romeo," he said to Joe.

Joe looked back at Dr. Cuddy, looked at the man on the bed, and reluctantly followed.

As soon as they left, Cuddy grabbed the jacket, stared at it for a long time, smelled it. Then she took the photo out of the wallet and put it in her purse.

"House," she whispered. "You have a lot of explaining to do."

#######

First thing in the morning, she went to House's room. He was awake, being spoon fed oatmeal by the pretty new nurse who worked the floor.

"Good morning, Dr. Cuddy," the nurse said.

"Good morning, Catarina—how's our patient?"

"Doing very well. He woke up a few hours ago. He seems a little out of it, but that's to be expected."

"Yeah," Cuddy said, glancing at House's chart.

She stared at House and he stared back, with curiosity, but without recognition.

Some of the swelling had gone down in his face. He had a gash on his cheek, a strip of bandage wrapped around his head, and his cracked ribs were taped up. He was skinnier than the last time she'd seen him; his hair a little shorter. But he still looked very much like himself. And the shock of seeing him alive had not worn off.

"Catarina, I need you to collect some bed pans on the fourth floor," Cuddy said. "I'll take over from here."

She reached for the oatmeal.

"Yes, Dr. Cuddy," Catarina said, puzzled. It wasn't normal for the head administrator to offer to spoon feed a patient.

She left.

House looked up at her—smiled a bit.

"Thanks," he said. He was expecting her to feed him more.

"What the hell is going on, House?" Cuddy hissed.

"I'm sorry?" he said, taken aback.

"Why are you alive? And in my hospital?"

"I don't know," he said. "They said it was a motorcycle accident. I don't remember anything. . . This is your hospital?"

She frowned at him.

"I'm the director of medicine here," she said. "But clearly you already know that. Take me back eight months. Why does everything think you're dead, House? What are you doing in St. Louis? And what about this warrant for your arrest?"

His eyes widened.

"I'm . . .I'm. . .do we know each other?" he said.

She put her hands on her hips.

"Cut the crap House. I've already covered for you. And I will continue covering for you—if you level with me."

He blinked.

"I'm thirsty," he said.

She rolled her eyes a bit, got him a glass of water, and a straw, held it for him as he sipped.

"Everyone thinks I'm dead?" he said, between sips.

"Yeah," she said, lost in thought for a moment. "There was a funeral. . .I didn't. . . I couldn't. . ."

House still looked absolutely baffled.

She regarded him cautiously.

"What's your name?" she said to him.

"My name? It's. . ." Now some fear flashed across his face. "I don't know."

She stared at him, trying to figure out if he was bluffing. If so, it was a command performance.

"And what's my name?" she asked.

"The nurse called you Dr. Cuddy."

"Shit," Cuddy said, squinting at him. "You're really not faking it, are you?"

"I . . . don't think so," he said.

"Wow."

She slumped back down in the visitor's chair.

If he wasn't faking it he was currently a very scared amnesia patient—and she was shirking her medical responsibilities.

"Amnesia is not uncommon when there's been trauma to the head," she said reassuringly. "I wouldn't worry too much. Your memory should come back in bits and pieces. Are you in a lot of pain?"

"I have a headache, it's hard to breathe, and my leg hurts like hell."

The leg hadn't been hurt in the crash. He was talking about his infarction. Oh God, he didn't even know that he was a cripple.

"I'll have the nurse up your pain meds," she said.

"An angel of mercy," he said gratefully, leaning back on the pillow. He looked at her, as if for the first time noticing how pretty she was. "So we used to know each other but you thought I was dead?" he said.

"Something like that," Cuddy said.

"How did we know each other?"

"You used to work for me," she said. "And we . . . dated." She was going to say were in love, but amended it.

He smiled at that.

"I had good taste," he said.

She chuckled: Flirtatious even when concussed.

"You said I worked for you," House continued. "As a . . .doctor?"

"Yeah, as a doctor. Not just any doctor. One of the best doctors in the country."

"I wonder if I still. . . Let me see that," he said, gesturing to his scan at the foot of his bed.

She handed it to him.

"Intracranial injury," he said. "Minor soft tissue swelling. . . No hematomas. . .In short, I got knocked pretty hard on the head."

Cuddy nodded at him, in shock.

Just then, House's attending, Dr. Rayburn, approached the room.

"Listen," Cuddy said. "This is going to sound crazy, but your name is Greg House and you apparently faked your own death to evade arrest. And as I'm the only one who knows you're alive we're going to have to pretend that we don't know each other…which shouldn't be too hard for you, since you clearly have no idea who I am."

"True," he said. "But I like you already."

######

The next day, Cuddy went by House's room to check on him. He was writhing in the bed, screaming in agony.

The nurse hovering over him looked completely stunned.

When she saw Cuddy, she said, "I don't know what happened. His wounds are recovering, we eased up on the meds, and now . . .this."

"Cuddy!" House said between screams. "Help me!"

The familiar way he said Cuddy threw her off: But he was probably just so sick, he had dispensed with the honorifics.
Cuddy looked at him helplessly: How do you explain to a man who doesn't even know he's an addict that he's going through withdrawal?

"He seems to be going through some sort of opiate withdrawal—possibly oxycontin or, uh, vicodin," she said to the nurse. "Get Dr. Rayburn."

She turned to House, took his hand, and said quietly: "You're going to be okay. You had a vicodin dependency because of the pain in your leg. You're withdrawing now. It's going to be a very unpleasant 36 hours—but you will survive it."

"Will you. . . stay with me?" he asked, pleadingly.

Of course. She was his only lifeline at this hospital, the only connection to who he was once was.

And even thought part of Cuddy was angry with House—his showing up in St. Louis was obviously no coincidence. And the motorcycle accident? A calculated risk to end up in her hospital? Or a fuck-you suicide attempt, with that picture of her and Rachel in his wallet to assure she'd be notified when they found the body?

Whatever the case, the man in the bed knew nothing of that. He only knew that he was in pain and scared and that his "angel of mercy" was holding his hand.

"I can't. . ." she said. "I have a hospital to run. But I promise to check on you later."

"Okay," he said, through chattered teeth.

"Just breathe," she said. "Dr. Rayburn is going to give you something—"

"Clonidine," House said.

She'd forgotten. He'd retained all his medical knowledge.

"Right. Clonidine. It'll help. A little. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

She came back a few hours later, and he was doing even worse—trembling, in agony, delirious.

"I'm a terrible person," he kept saying to Cuddy. "I'm sorry. I'm a terrible person."

"You have nothing to apologize for," she said, puzzled. (In a delirious state, had he accessed some latent memory—of their breakup, the car crash, of faking of his own death?)

She wanted to kiss his forehead, but felt the gesture was too intimate. Instead, she smoothed his hair, something she had done with patients in pain before.

"Shhh," she said. "Shhhh. It's going to be okay."

By the next day, he was much better. Sitting up in bed, drinking broth.

The wounds on his face and his broken ribs were healing nicely, too. He'd be going "home" soon—wherever that might be.

"The cops are coming by in a few minutes. They have a few questions for you," Cuddy said. "Just . . .well, tell the truth as you know it."

"Okay," he said. He blinked at her. "Thanks for comforting me yesterday."

"It's okay," she said, trying to make her voice sound casual. "That's what I'm here for."

She started to leave his room, then stopped.

"House?" she said. (Then she reminded herself—she needed to stop calling him that. )

"Yeah?"

"Yesterday you kept apologizing to me. For being a terrible person. . .do you have any idea what that was about?"

"I don't know," House said. "I guess I was thinking I must've been a terrible person to deserve such pain."

######

After the cops questioned House, they met Cuddy in the hallway.

"So?" she said.

"So, the guy's either the best liar on the planet or he's a real John Doe," said the cop from the previous night. "Has no idea who he is or where he came from . . .Must be a strange sensation."

"What happens next?" Cuddy asked.

"We keep running a Missing Persons report—somewhere out there this guy's gotta have a wife, a girlfriend, a family member who's searching for him. In the meantime, we can only hope he starts to get his memory back. There's not much we can do beyond that."

"And the . . . picture in his wallet?"

"Says he found it on the street. Thought the lady was pretty so he kept it."

"Huh," Cuddy said.

"How's he doing, health-wise?" the second cop said.

"He's healing on schedule. We're getting ready to release him, maybe as soon as tomorrow," Cuddy said. "Where will he go?"

The first cop shrugged.

"If he has no money and no place to go, he may have to stay at a homeless shelter. There's not a lot of precedent for this sort of thing."

Crap! Crap, crap, crap. What was she supposed to do—let House wander the streets like a vagrant?

"Thanks officers," she said.

How was it that Gregory House, even when he was supposed to be dead, had such an unmistakable way of screwing with her life?

#####

When Cuddy found out that House had died, she sunk into a rather deep and inconsolable depression. He was the love of her life, even if his selfishness and recklessness had almost ruined her. She told Rachel she was sick—and spent several days crying, moping around the house, torturing herself by looking at old pictures.

The idea of attending the funeral filled her with dread—all those eyes, all those questions, all those people who could never possibly understand the depth of her connection to him.

So she lit a candle and murmured some words for him—not so much a prayer (House would never approve), but an incantation:

"I loved you. I hated you. You were the greatest thing in my life. And the worst thing in my life. I hope in death you find some peace that you never found here. Goodbye, House."

And she blew out the candle.

That gave her some measure of closure, but didn't lift the depression.

"Mama, why are still sick?" Rachel asked. (She hadn't told Rachel about House's death. There was no need to burden the child with this news.)

For her daughter's sake, she had to snap out of it—so she did, faking it until she was making it, as it were.

And now. . .this.

One thing was for certain: She sure as hell wasn't bringing House home with her.

So she came up with a compromise. She found a residential center called The Horizon House—a halfway house of sorts—for recovering addicts, traumatized vets, ex-cons, that sort of thing.

It wasn't the Ritz, but it was fairly nice as such places went. It cost $1,500 a month—and Cuddy paid the bill, anonymously. (She lied to House, told him that his stay was subsidized by the state.)

She drove him there, herself—and felt a pang of sadness the likes of which she hadn't experienced since the first time she dropped Rachel off at kindergarten.

"You going to be okay?" she said.

"Sure," he said unconvincingly, glancing nervously at the door.

"Headaches gone?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, scratching his head. They had removed the bandage that morning.

"And the ribs?"

"It only hurts when I laugh. . . so no worries there."

They both looked down.

"I'll come visit you, okay?" she said. "Once you've settled in."

"I'd like that," he said.

There was so much she wanted to say to him. But not to him, really—not to this stranger who looked and talked like Gregory House but shared none of his memories, of their memories.

"Your memory could still come back, you know?" she said, trying to remain optimistic.

In truth, there were cases of amnesia where the memory never returned—and the longer House went without recovering them, the less the odds were in his favor.

"I know," he said, overly brightly.

She took his hand, squeezed it.

"Take care," she said. "You have my number. Call me if you need anything."

She began to walk away.

"Dr. Cuddy?" he shouted after her.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for everything."

"You're welcome."

"I don't know how he—how I— ever let you get away."

#####